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Poetry from the novel, Quiet Desperation by R. M.


There should have been more. More comfort . . . more happiness. If only the effort to overcome gravity were fair. If only the outcome of our choices more clear. We mostly travel like Coyote; our causal path toward chaos randomly affecting both rise and fall. At some point it becomes inevitable that gravity prevails and we crater below depths we previously could not consciously conceive. Harmony happens only because the desire to be better is buoyed against all those realties anchored in the past. Here then lies our happy hell. Every decision, adventure mistake, loss and unexplored opportunity. In the end, the place we chose to be.

The very next breath is how we accept the wager between chance and destiny.


No one can say for certain where a waterfall begins or when the consequences of revolution first give way to cascading change. Even so, anyone paying attention knows governments lie to their people. And in their lies we find seldom spoken truths no matter how hidden or how hard we strive to avoid what cannot be unseen. These truths, like traces of water in snow, ultimately reveal the derivation of destiny.

Poetry of Nicholi Olinski, 1960 - 1982 From Quiet Desperation, a novel in three parts

February 13, 2014 Published with permission

Its difficult to escape the dealer of darkness only to be back in his hold. Death is an illusion. A desire to find peace and no longer be afraid. To step one last time beyond the numbness thats become normal. But even that requires believing there exists a line, somewhere near infinity separating darkness from light.

Counting cards can be done But it usually cant guarantee You win.


In the absence of clairvoyance We gamble through decisions with as much insight as a miner underground when the lights go out.

Infinite are lifes roads; often past fields laid fallow in the sun. The quietness of sparrow. The softness of cottonwood. How did we get here? Avalanches are born in unsuspecting screams. Gently nudging change until gravity takes over. Breathing is not living. Fighting does not define heroic. We ignore whispers in wind with the same peril we disregard Coyotes cries at night. Wind swirling at our feet is not ours, yet it takes us captive. Brightness and light belong to others, yet they beckon. The world has burdens that cannot be detoured around our carefully crafted confines. God listens to the lost in Spanish, their suffering is muy sympatico.

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Poetry of Nicholi Olinski, 1960 - 1982 From Quiet Desperation, a novel in three parts

February 13, 2014 Published with permission

There are always those who came before. Surviving at least until what happens next. Tomorrows destiny determines today provided you permit your soul to listen with the wisdom of the Ancients. We seek solid footing in a world of unstoppable momentum. Attempting to overcome memories that somehow still provide the twitch in the pull of our trigger. We see patterns and rhythms, doomed by our own infinite recursion. Worried to weakness about what happens next.


Everything fades, requiring coming to terms with just how hard it is to establish a new normal. Like late harvest grapes turning in the sun were all damaged goods. Decisions made in haste. Desperate to delineate the fine line separating heaven from hell, the wise man culls what he no longer needs a humanly impossible undertaking. May you always be poor and devoid of complexity, whispers the weary wind as we pass the place where he rests. At least then youre interesting.

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Poetry of Nicholi Olinski, 1960 - 1982 From Quiet Desperation, a novel in three parts

February 13, 2014 Published with permission

I am the farmer who like my father and his father before dared to imagine a day when things could be more fantastic. I am the Maidan who never considered the consequences of corruption or the cascading way cause and effect implicate life until it brought me into the cold. I am the priest alone on Independence Square quietly asking God the only question that matters . . . . . . . . . .why? I am the Mom worried about my son and now my daughters and the logic of homemade shields against government propelled bullets. I am the world waiting to groan. Wondering how the cold of Kiev and the chaos of Caracas provide a framework for what happens next. I am a patriot devoid of context. Standing small against the darkness that persists in every country at every time. Tell me please so I can understand what is it you fight for?

Stillness at dawn, like quietness in snow, escalates the souls yearning for something. Frustrations so deep they cannot be isolated. Those who fear, drink to forget. Those with loss drink to remember. Men build their lifes mosaic on scars caused by both. Bourbon embraces the finality of our past, accepts right now with dignity and possesses the courage to alter events long ago cast by forces seemingly too powerful to overcome. Like life, Bourbon needs to be experienced straight on and undiluted.

Memories, like an angels share cant be touched. They are both real still the same.

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Poetry of Nicholi Olinski, 1960 - 1982 From Quiet Desperation, a novel in three parts

February 13, 2014 Published with permission

As is quiet darkness and all those things that should have been. Love is a cradled burst of brilliance followed by gravity sending sadness into the cosmos. Moments ago he felt her breath the very first time all over again. Even now his skin holds traces of her touch. A lifetime. . .an instant. Aromas and regrets escaping measures of time and context.

You feel the trigger twitch in determination even though its still a long way from completing the cycle. In a world divided by death and reluctance the dichotomy of commitment is final. How old is your soul? the armadillo quietly asks the hawk hunting in downward spirals. Old enough to have tested the emptiness of desperation, he woefully answers. Yet vital enough to resist the consequences of change.

A butterfly flaps its wings in Albuquerque and a romantic feels this could be his moment.

Gravity is an honest broker even if its burdens are at times bizarre. Angelica was first, which is always special. As are promises desperately flying in defiance of the unlikelihood things end well. We hide bruises as a consequence holding us back more than is probably fair. We take the very next breath without regard to what happens next. The Black Madonna of Czestochowa and Saint Marys Dawn are examples of miracles turned to legend. Or is it, vice versa?

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Poetry of Nicholi Olinski, 1960 - 1982 From Quiet Desperation, a novel in three parts

February 13, 2014 Published with permission


Predawn shadows hover over the deserted field like an anxious executioner not necessarily eager for the task at hand, just ready to be done. Wind dances along the stark stubble wondering where life and beauty have fled. Broken stalks, like pipes in an organ, create a crescendo response to Coyotes mischievous serenade. Inside men sit serious, eyes fixed on their unspeakable future. The silence doing more to debate the issue at hand than any discussion to follow. For a nation, for its people, for the serious men in silence, the dawn of discontent has arrived. Bearing down with the intensity of a high mountain storm scraping across an unimaginable tomorrow.

Es la noche de caressing embrace that holds her like a lover dancing from distance in nearly the same consuming way yesterday blinds tomorrow. In any crowded club true beauty shines even though competition for love, like winning the West, depends equally on context and content. Memories are as much an anchor as a lifeline. This why little girls who become lonely ladies forced to dance with strangers, so admire their heroes.

No one sets outs to be a hero anymore than someone strives to be forgotten. Yet in between the calculus of causation and the variables we pretend to control lies all the churn providing drama as much as struggle. Walk down any random isle of any grocery store, turn the corner and you just may come face-to-face with fate. Kismet is as much a bitter truth as it is a romantic distraction. As are the variables we once were so confident we controlled in a calculus of our own causation.

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Poetry of Nicholi Olinski, 1960 - 1982 From Quiet Desperation, a novel in three parts

February 13, 2014 Published with permission


Old oaks yearn to yield more freely to the Santa Annas. Dust blows through tracks as rapidly as theyre laid the same way our past cascades over a collision of words left unspoken and moments allowed to pass. Easy memories are seldom retained, which is why we grow hard in the throes of time. What some call luck, others call fate. Others still say its the curse of our ancestors. Badness comes in bunches; or so at least it seems. Love is an understanding acceptance that where you are is where youre supposed to be. Which is why the question remains, as it always has, how are we supposed to know here is where were supposed to be?

Chance wanders west hoping to simplify and find distance. Its a difficult and often desperate journey to right now fraught with fear, uncertainty and a need to find balance between moving on and letting go. Sympaticos journey is much the same only imposed by the will of wicked men. Risk is an instinct to survive measured against a willingness to move all in. As emptiness pursues night Chance retraces the cause and effect of attempting to manipulate fate. Sympatico long ago forged a barrier between right now and whats been taken. By themselves they are incomplete. Even together they are at best pieces of a broken whole. There are no words to capture pain. No language for loss. This is why God invented silence.

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Poetry of Nicholi Olinski, 1960 - 1982 From Quiet Desperation, a novel in three parts

February 13, 2014 Published with permission

We are all preprogramed to attach emotions to sounds and images. An unexpected song. A forgotten photo. A voice we have not heard in years. All memories waiting to be touched. Love is an instant of clarity followed by a soothing calm that empties the world of everything but you and your other soul. Emotions betray the person we strive to be quicker than snow covers the well laid tracks we expected to follow. Only a trumpet playing Priest from Venezuela who attended seminary in Poland could pull off performing the Hejnal Mariacki with Latin passions in a way that brings an Italian Bishop to tears. But thats the power of Saint Marys Dawn. Just ask the Mongols at the gates of Krakow or the Germans at Monte Cassino.


Celebrating life through wine. An age old affirmation of what it means to enjoy essentials like empanadas at dawn with well-made coffee, or a properly produced late evening Port. Layers layered within layers; a lot of life is a lie. There are always souls unsettled. Like a protesting Priest or a quiet craftsman making Sangria infused with his own spirit. In a competitive world is there any way to measure the value of cooperation or are we compelled to consider each other with trepidation as we journey on alone?

Security comes with peril. Those who protect and serve sometimes dont. Truths we actively work to conceal find ways of breaking away. Think of it as Newtons Second Law applied with human entropy. The long pull of our past is difficult to escape and for whatever reason seems to confront us when we feel most safe. With a joke gone bad you can be mad but what the hell. If you havent experienced Gods humor it just means youre not out there as much as you should. Its probably also true that before shadows start to grow, youre already securely stationed on the shady side of the street.

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Poetry of Nicholi Olinski, 1960 - 1982 From Quiet Desperation, a novel in three parts

February 13, 2014 Published with permission


Its an indecipherable dichotomy; how shadows deepen as we naively step into light causing even the most optimistic to conclude evil is inevitable. You build over a long and often painful process. Steadily inching toward a perfect outcome amazed how simple life seems when viewed through a window. When we can just get past that very first step. We may traverse the plaza counter-clockwise but the brutal truth is that the world comes at us head on causing us to forget in moments of peace how in an instant things easily evaporate to shadows and darkness. While there you come face to face with the most unchangeable law of nature; you absolutely cant change change.

Moving with unalterable momentum and decidedly disastrous direction toward what can only be described as inevitable. Thats how pieces of our life race through the solar system of our soul.

It really is that simple. Which makes agonizing over decisions of little practical value.


He left Casablanca convinced everything was over. Its so hard to try when the result is forever unchanging. Love is that brutal reality of standing small in front of a wall that has no top, no side, no end. Play it again is not how things really work but at least it seems it never was. A snowball rolling down the mountain fills with fury but is destined to stop still the same. And that lonely hearts is real reality.

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