A new way to measure wealth in other than accrued on paper or cyber systems of increasingly artificial intelligence might be in the satisfaction of status postponed until a guy or a girl or the ghost of either or even neither runs the express check-out 12 items max only please No checks. No chokes No bad puns. So much fun So little time
The Line Formed On The Sand Where Waves Feathered The Shore Are Littered With Bits Of Haste And Waste And The Broken Shells Of Broken Animals At Once Bathed In Foam And Salt And Silent Screams Of Meaning And The Ears And Eyes Of Innocent Children Yearning To Be Free Of Boundaries Under The Sun And Within The Music Of The Night Echoing Off The Open Sky And Reaching Down To The Bottom Of An Empty Well Called The Ocean Of Denial
Under the tortured memory tree I saw you; you saw me Under the stain of pride and grief Trust is slain by rusted teeth Being hunger; bade the strife Beyond the tender breath of life For the love of tatters and broader shoals Wading the textured waters...
He comes to the feast every day fungal eye and matted crown His red feathered body bleached by disease His beak deformed and flaking Quietly I watch him struggle to crack sunflower seeds and listen intently to his joyous cheeps Marvelous the sight, I fret knowing he is not long for this world
The weeks passed since those words He thrives Appearing as a miniature vulture, red feathered and completely bald now the growth from his upper beak at least an inch long he tips his head to the side and scoops sunflower seed, and ever so gently places it in the mouth of a female companion How? Why? Marvelously so
sick sad been had words and rhymes freedoms chimes lemons limes empty trains and empty talk acids rain on stammered walk a glancing blow a timing light four in the floor good Friday night based on not much these mud pies stick to gather the eye bone a tell of the trick...
Like riding a bicycle, playing card clipped to the front forks with mother supplied clothespin. Like Steve McQueen's great escape; suddenly tangled in a barbed wire fantasy of freedom. Must have been the Joker...
Yeah I'm a bad boy, but I coulda been worse. Coulda scuffed your shoes, and wrecked your hearse. Coulda soured your wedding, and forgotten a verse. Just waiting for the ax to fall; that birthday you fell from the sky.
It goes this way; then darker. Then dark. Death on a street sign, then hitting the mark. Shadows of children; the sign of a spark. Three suns down, just under a stall. That birthday we fell from the sky.
Like stick shifts, hubcaps and service station bells; Esso, Union '76, Pure...
I see them from a boy's keen-eyed viewpoint.
I study their look and speaking voice; worn out hands and worn in faces.
The junkyard visits with my Father where Greasy Gene stood larger than life, wearing Red Man stained bib overalls, one giant hand holding a wad of money and another taking money from younger guys like my Father; buying brake drums or sealed beams or thin strips of chromed moldings.
A T rex named Rex sitting silently, obediently and knowingly by his side.
"Don't ever call Mr. Cheek Greasy Gene to his face" my Father would say. "Why" I asked. "It's disrespectful', he replied. I puzzled. "And don't mess with Rex".
When you're a little boy a magnificent German Shepherd taller than you is quite the heart locker. Maybe even if you're not a little boy.
No shepherd like a good. shepherd...
I'm there now, on the way home, clunking along in my Father's 1948 Dodge pickup. Flat head. Wooden bed.
The feel of that bench seat, The smells and the sounds...
My Father double-clutching and grind-shifting gears.
"Why", I ask. "What would happen if you didn't shift gears"?
"Then your engine would blow up" he replied, "and you won't be able to get anywhere."
My Pop had his way to express things. They passed along with him. Right through me...