Jim Reyland - Author - Playwright

The Chainsaw

-- You knew there’d be danger when the mattresses parted; the troubled ran for cover, the decibels started. -- The weak only wondered, the strong stood round in awe, he was ripe and ready to rumble, he was the chainsaw. -- He bore his crackle, sneeze and angry striking lashing sounds, four months sleeping in an abandoned building sounds, under a towel and some plastic freezing sounds. Jarring, startling, desperate wheezing sounds.

-- The ripper came from nowhere, a massive gentle man; telling stories of depression as most afflicted can. Of hunger and of loneliness, of cold unending strife and how two guys jumped him in the middle of the night. -- His pain loud as suffering, keener than thought, he just kept on coming with unbridled rage; and there we’re all sleeping in the fat lion’s cage; it was like laying on the floor of your garage while your cousin cranks a lawn mower in your ear every thirty seconds for eight hours.

-- It came from a place no one dare go, from a depth so deep so quick so slow. He choked and rolled, capitulated and flatulated, a deviated septum, a loose fitting rectum. A cat, a growl, angry buried beneath mounds of girth, rolling side to side, tossing, falling, helplessly forward, taking every sound, keeping nothing down, every urge delivered, every pulse displayed.

-- Tonight it’s all boiled to the rust in the bottom, stopping time, bending dimes, the son of a bitch has been cranking since 10:30. Now it’s 3:15 am and the room is pissed! After years under the bridge it was like he was trying to climb out. “If you don’t know me and my rock riddled journey then nobody and I mean nobody gets to sleep!”

-- It stops as it starts; there is peace with the dawn. His momma named him Dan the man; his friends still call him Chainsaw.

By Jim Reyland
© Reylandwords/2007

The Writer’s Heart

I would sooner write one million poems, ten thousand plays in a hundred days; a basket of sonnets to please your ear, a commercial a day for a thousand years; regular and irregular verbs and participles, conjugative paragraphs that harden your nipples. Dazzle you with pronouns enough, with being verbs and possessive stuff. I would dig a hole with a rusty shovel and then fill in a hundred pounds of novel. I’d fill blackboards with diagramed sentences; make you silly with compound tenses. I’d prefer to pen some endless story with platitudes of hope and of glory; conjuring non sequiturs offering diatribes, with redundant clauses from reluctant scribes; prepositions and dangling admissions, subjective compliments without your permission. I’d reveal to you the end of my thriller, drink with Hemingway, and dance with Miller. I’d strum my guitar loud and strong, hell, I’d even write a country song. I would rather gather a million vowels, a trillion letters; a billion words count them backwards till I reached the end, say them forward and begin again. Say them with nominative case and capitalization, commas and periods and direct quotations. Content with past and perfect precision; dizzy us all with perfect revisions. Write fire and gall and hell and heck and I’d do it all without spell check. I’d do all this gladly to spare the indignity; to escape the hurt, to borrow the majesty; should I carry the sorrow or endure the pain, to bear the query or to suffer the rain of bringing my words, to market.

By Jim Reyland
© Reylandwords/2002

"GRACES' WAY'

Say friend this church is grand but I'm not sorry, I'm not here today for the hope and the glory, it's cold outside and I'm alive and so the law it says that I must eat. Can you spare some change or a dollar or five, cause this hunger haunts me deep inside and my cup is crumbling in my hand and my legs are frozen to my feet? I know you think that I'm a scam like aluminum siding or Green Eggs and Ham. That nothings honest and nothings real for a man who begs for every meal. But the fact remains and the law is clear that the pure of heart will shed no tears, and the man who stands in the furthest line, will be the man that the kingdom finds. You can't know my heart or where I've been and how no comfort leads to sin. As my bottle pours it's endless pain to a mind that's filled with constant rain. Can't you help a man who lives despair, with broken teeth and matted hair? Can't you see me with my social tag, with my whole life inside this bag? I'm tired here and forgotten and this hurt behind my belly button grows stronger by the days and hours until I lay beneath the flowers and all my sorrows turn to stone and mark the spot where peace will grow. I'm counting on the will of many, to share with me their horn of plenty. Am I right that you are kind and free? Am I right that you are right for me?

I'm a little lite today Johnny; I've got some troubles of my own. You see the wolf has climbed my ivory tower and pulled the pedals from my flower and picked it clean and swallowed it whole. I Don't know if I can make the Beamer payment Johnny, cause today's the day that never comes, when pocket twenties turn to ones and I'm counting on my ashtray change for hot dogs at the driving range. And while you've caught me less than flush, I'm looking at your paper cup and hoping that the markets up and praying for a magic wand with funding for my last dot com. Can you catch me later then Johnny, we'll see what tomorrow brings and when it comes and you're still hurting, if it's still cold out here and the heats not working, then it must be fate that I am stronger and you are weak and here no longer for nature wields a mighty sword and it's cruel in choosing it's rewards. So suck it up and then you'll know that I'm above and you're below.

Johnny knew just where to go, where spirits fly and blessings flow and the faithful come each day to pray, for peace on earth and graces' way.

By Jim Reyland
© Reylandwords/2002

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Who Will Play Santa Clause?

There were orders to fill, a family, a home.
Weekends to work and nights by the phone.
He took all that his life could throw in his way
and still when the time came he had time to say:

"Sure, I'll play Santa Clause," the car salesman said.
"How hard could it be, a fake beard and a sled?
Some pillows and black boots, a turn with a glee.
I'll be home by Christmas and I'll be home free."

He was the best there could be at playing the part,
the perfect perfecter of this North Polian art.
Of Kringledom there was no doubt he was king,
cause really this Santa Clause deal was his thing.

His beard was all white and his whiskers all fluffy.
His belly was jolly, his cheeks red and puffy.
No single Kris Kringle could ever compare,
putting frosty like stuff, into thin frosty air.

His Ho's were so deep, his Ho's were so strong.
His Ho's Ho's were rounded, and so extra long.
His Ho, Ho, Ho's were deep strong and round.
This Santa Clause truly was coming to town!

So year upon year it became his great duty,
The red suit, the sleigh the endless toy booty.
Spinning lollypop pictures to tells his tall tales.
This Santa Clause thing really comes down to sales.

The peace and the joy that could never be counted.
He bore like an army that gathered around him.
And shone like a banner of white string and cotton.
That lived in the hearts of the poor and forgotten.

But alas now a sad story this tale does become.
When Santa felt funny and ask for some Tums.
His heart was the strongest for all children's dreams.
But weaker and mearly just human, it seemed.

So they rushed to the doctor in his bright red regalia.
Poorly and poor from the bill that they mail ya.
And so still he sat quietly and gave up the ghost.
He gave up the laughter and the life he loved most.

Salesman Santa was gone now, the greatest lead player.
Like none come before him and none to come later.
The greatest of all those great merry fellows.
Hidden by wool thread and Velcro and jell-O.

Now who will don winter with satin and leather,
and stand outside Wal*Mart regardless of weather?
Who will man kettles, ringing bells through the night,
and watch out for slugs, all while shining his light?

Now who will brave parties and playgrounds and malls,
with a lap for small people, below four feet four tall?
Who will hold court with a smile and a bellow,
and laugh with the tune of a song soft and mellow?

Who will risk chimneys with fire and smoke,
to slide across rooftops as kind of a joke?
And who will remind us of thoughts on our shelf,
like thinking of others instead of ourselves?

Though it's sure he is close, this dawning new hero.
A champion to all of us older than zero.
Please hurry and find us, for time it draws near.
Bells will start ringing, it will soon be next year.

And though we will miss him, our Car Kringle friend.
Our voices will rise up, our elbows will bend.
And toast to the moment when silence will pause.
And bring us the heart, who will play Santa Clause.

From 'We're Each Other's Angels,'
a collection by Jim Reyland.
jreyland@msn.com

Registered with the writers guild of America.
1-800-726-3612

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A Cookie
By Jim Reyland

Forget what you know forget how I sound,
don't even make eye contact you better look down.
I'm not what I seem this young teenage girl,
with sleepy blue eyes and a mussed head of curls.
A lavender print garden on my cotton mill jammies,
a picture of kindness so real it's uncanny.
I'm not all those things not at all my dear friends
it's time that reveals me my nature that bends.
So look past my sunflower smile and you'll see,
your perceptions have missed by ten miles of me.

It's well beyond dark it's early for morning,
and I have awakened with this early bird warning.
Stay out of my tree and clear of my branches,
stay off my cloud or you'll see what the catch is.
For I have awakened in a mood so disgusting,
an outlook so vile and a manner untrusting.
I have awakened without much good latitude,
I have awakened with a mighty bad attitude!

It's a daily occurrence this bitter pill swallowed,
each morning I wake in the muck and the wallow.
I roll from my bed and I crawl through the door,
and climb to my feet just to see past the floor.
My temper is manic my manner is sour,
I could stay this way for at least two more hours.
I do no one favors I do nothing gleefully,
and whoever approaches I dislike them equally.
My passion for humor is lacking ambition,
My Karma and character in dirt-poor condition.
So all that is visible and all that is clear,
is all that I need for an angry career.

I can't stand my clothes their tailors and cobblers
I rage against alarm clocks and babies and toddlers
I don't like this room it's pictures and curtains
I may just start screaming or crying I'm certain
I won't wear my coat or my boots or my mittens
I don't like gold fish or puppies or kittens
I don't like your friends or their cousins or crew
But most of all really I don't like you!

Does anyone have a cookie?
I could use a cookie? Or a Danish,
a Greek with a salad, a knock worst,
a brat worst, a warm spaghetti ballad.
A pizza with Toppings, a steak with potatoes,
a muffin, some stuffing, a fried green tomato?
Anything sweet or anything salt or anything shaken
with pineapple malt. Anything food I'm not really
picky But most of all I could just use a cookie.
Thank You. This is good it's chewy sweet
and delightful. It warms my demeanor with every new
bite full. My tummy is wondering what else could
there be, chocolate and nutty and crispy and free.
This cookie has started a brand new emotion
I'm feeling like everything's fast in slow motion.
What a wonderful day this is planning to be,
it really is lovely here out of my tree.
The sun is much brighter and I'm even thinking,
this is the day my little sister stops stinking.
I love my clothes their tailors and cobblers
I fancy alarm clocks and babies and toddlers
I just love this room it's pictures and curtains
I may start singing and dancing for certain.
I do like your friends and their cousins and crew
But most of all I really like you!
It's great and it's grand and really quite super,
to discover the healing power of sugar.

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