Babylizardville

The scent of tar weed

hovering over the trail

signals summer’s end.

When baby lizards

soak up the warm

late September sun.

Sights and scents

that fill my senses

ever since I was six

climbing up the tawny

flanks of whatever hill

is local to my feet.

The green sticky leaves

of the monkey flowers

have withered to a dull

version of orange

that tempts no battling

hummingbirds nor I.

And the poison oak

has changed like

a stoplight from

April’s deceptive green

to late September’s

menacing red. I was

warned when I was

five and our house

perched on a hillside

beside a poison oak

choked ravine and

a neighbor said

that the man who

rented the house

before us had cut

the blister-inducing

vine and set a bonfire

which filled his lungs

with caustic smoke

from which he nearly

died. Smooth-edged

leaves in clusters

of three, the colors

can change from

green to red or white

sometimes a bush

sometimes a vine.

Don’t stick you hand

into a place if you don’t

recognize the plants

trying to grab bluebelly

lizards. They’re easier

to catch on the rocks. 

Black feather circle

I dreamt of a pile of black feathers

circling a few gnawed bones,

one lone foot.

I’ve seen this before.

In ’62. Backyard lawn after dawn,

everything else was gone,

carried off in the mouthes

and bellies of the raccoons

who ate my pet crow.

Why does that vision

return now, in a dream?

Even fragments rarely last

for more than a few seconds

after waking and then falling

back into orphic meandering.

I knew of death at the time,

I was nine, but this was

my introduction to deep grief.

News of a friend’s death

reached me this week,

I don’t know which came first,

the dream or the message.

Doesn’t matter, I embrace

mystery wherever it emerges

from the shadows. Carved into the wall

of an ancient ruin. In a cloud or a tree,

or even a random social media post.

Grief and sorrow sit like a cyst that

resists the body’s efforts to absorb it.

Waiting patiently to break up

the everyday, every night cycles

of every year’s yesterday’s happy

memories and tomorrow’s promises.

Still there, like an old acquaintance.

Not a friend, but it remains just a cyst

not a tumor.

The Gaza Surf Club

Rawand don’t surf -anymore.

Neither does her brother

Abdullah or her cousins ’cuz

the Gaza Surf Club doesn’t get

out in the Mediterranean Sea

anymore. Hamas don’t like

girls participating in sports.

And the IDF don’t like Gazans

who might participate in Hamas.

Or get in the way, so the Club

is living in tents on the beach

beside the sea they dare not enter.

Lieutenant Kilgore’s famous line

in the movie, Apocalypse Now,

“Charlie don’t surf” was inspired

by Ariel Sharon’s comment after

winning the battle for Aqaba in

the Six-Day War. He took some

of his soldiers spearfishing and

boasted after roasting a few,

“We’re eating their fish”

When Abdullah was ten his first

surfboard was a refrigerator door.

Seventeen years later, the boxes

those appliances come in might

serve as a bedroom under a tent

a shelter from the swelter and

insects that plague your huddled 

masses gathered on the shore

of that wine-dark sea of yore.

On the 52nd anniversary of the 30th of July

It’d been fifty two years

and a day since the last time

I was at the Frankfurt airport.

But here we were, on the final leg

of our journey home from Africa

I never miss noting that day

on the calendar, July thirtieth.

Because that was the day

in 1973 when I left the Army.

The journey started the day

before with a dozen of my pals

gathered along some tables

shoved together at the base

snackbar to see me off.

I had my final Davy Crocket

burger. That’s a cheeseburger

with a slice of fried bologna

on top of the cheese.

I’d had many of them over the

previous seventeen months;

the chow at the mess hall 

lived up to the the military’s

reputation for mediocrity.

This was in the early 70s and

the Army had a lot of discontent

within the ranks, with an unpopular

war still grinding on and still quite

 a few draftees. So they wanted

to make some regional and

ethnic-themed menus. Most

of which were predictable.

Like spaghetti and meatballs

on Italian night. With that

dry Parmesan cheese that

comes in a can. Mexican night

featured chili beans with

ground beef and taco shells.

Southern night did not feature

fried chicken. The prime entree

was chitlins, black-eyed peas and

cornbread. The mess hall smelled

like hog piss from the chitlins.

I tried them. Once was enough,

so I stuck to black-eyed peas

and cornbread forever after.

Or headed to the snack bar for

a Davy Crocket and iced tea.

Some years, when July 30th

rolls around, I make a Davy

for old times sake. My final 

processing out of the Army was

at Ft Jackson, South Carolina.

We arrived at 4:30 on Friday

afternoon, so they said it was too

late to start processing, go find

a bunk in these old wooden WW II

barracks and come back on Monday.

It was 98 degrees and steamy.

No air conditioning, no breeze

no fan, no nothing, no relief for

two days and three hot nights.

Where’s the snack bar and the

bowling alley and the movie theater?

Maybe I could stay cool til midnight

between those three locations.

The movies were a double bill:

Enter the Dragon with Bruce Lee

and Soylent Green. I saw them

both four times. It occurred to me

that we might have been eating

soylent green back at the mess hall

in Germany. Just a feverish thought

at 3 a.m. in the stifling barracks.

Yesterday I was at the store looking

over the meat selections and picked up

a sealed package that was labeled

“flap meat”. I was pretty sure it was

beef but I never knew that cows

have flaps. Is that like Buffalo wings?

Decided to try it, it grilled beautifully

on the barbecue, very tender and

flavorful, kind of like my other recent

favorite, hanger steak. I don’t know

what part of the cow that’s from either,

something that hangs?