sunrise reveals what nature has done (4)

Another rumbling convulsion,

more falling bricks and new screams, 

dust fountains from fresh cracks in the street.

The bones in the dice pits in far away Vegas,

tumble from boxcars to snake eyes,

change the fortunes of some all night shooters,

from insomniac winners to broke red-eyed losers.

We oughta get outa here. Where can I take you, Miss Brown?

You really don’t have to, I usually walk. it’s just a little ways out of town.

Not this morning. I’m taking you all the way home.

I don’t want to be any trouble, I’ve already been enough.

From Smith? I can take care of him.

Well so can I. I can take care of myself.

She pulls a horn-handled folding knife out of the pocket of her dress.

I’m sure you can. In normal situations. Gus ain’t normal.

Well what about you? he said he’s got business with you, Mr Henry.

Not the first time, I know what to do. And don’t call me mister.

So where to? mind if I call you Ruthie? where to?

Ruthie is fine. Cottonwood. You know Cottonwood?

Yeah. You walk all the way out there?

It’s no big thing. Sometimes my cousin’s fiance gives me a ride.

He starts the flathead’s growling motor.

The radio’s orange dial lights up:

ain’t no ballads playing on station KUZZ anymore......

….reports still coming in folks, ...heavy damage

in Bakersfield and Tehachapi, officials urging

people to stay calm...Fire department says

stay out of buildings, more aftershocks likely

….call us with any information we can pass on……

Crawling through the streets they see a brand new ‘52

with the roof flattened down to the top of the doors,

a hardware store’s rafters exposed

like compound fractures jutting through skin,

pyramids of bricks piled like spilled apples.

Bungalows knocked off their foundations

sit tilted and sprawled on the ground.

People standing in front yards in their pajamas and underwear.

A wild-eyed dog bolts under a juniper hedge. 

One family has already pulled their mattresses out on the lawn,

but nobody’s sleeping.

Some men in the street pass a bottle of rye,

peer in the window as the car passes by,

get all skinny pig-eyed when they spy Ruthie Brown.

She slumps down in the seat.

Words surely will pass from their snickering mouths

through houses and churches, from bar rooms to the street,

and nothing good will come of it.

She’s sure of it.

California Avenue goes due east,

past the outskirts of town to Cottonwood Road,

where the colored live.

the quake (3)

Fluorescent tubes cast their weary light

on the emergency room’s green sick walls.

The coughs and whispers faded to snores,

now that the predawn excitement had withdrawn.

A gray-haired nurse called, Nalbandian?

Henry waved a hand, that’s me.

Well c’mon, get over here,

let’s have a look at you, young man.

Her penlight probed his eyes,

look left, look right, follow my fingers,

you seem alright. Six stitches

and a dab of mercurochrome

‘s all we need to fix you up tonight.

At four thirty seven in the morning,

it was seventy-five degrees, cool for a mid-July night .

The cool would be gone in a few hours though,

when the mercury climbed past a hundred again.

Henry shook out a crooked Lucky Strike from a dented pack,

lit it up with a Zippo with a dragon engraved on the front,

and Inchon, Korea, 1951 on the back. 

They always tasted best in cool morning air.

A flock of cowbirds chorusing in a modesto ash,

went quiet as he crossed the empty street

and leaned against the door of his

fenderless tracknose ‘34 coupe.

Snuffed the butt, climbed in, turned the key.

The radio was playing a Bakersfield hit:

Bud Hobbs & his Trail Herders singing

candy kisses wrapped in paper…

  4:52 a.m. July 21, 1952.  Magnitude 7.3

With a jolt and a rumble, the Ford bucks like a bronco,

was he rear-ended by some phantom truck?

nothing there in the rear view mirror, so what the fuck?

The street ripples like a swarm of rats fighting under a blanket.

Falling bricks bounce off the pavement and the world roars

like a wagonload of taters on a wooden bridge.

A black exposion of cowbirds streams from the ash trees,

the needle on Bud Hobbs sad ballad jumps and skips

candy kisses, candy kisses, kisses, kisses,

mean more, mean more, to you , to you , than me

The bandaged and damaged, patients and staff,

gowned or in greens, limping or running,

pour down the stairs of the hospital,

spill out the doors into the street,

looking skyward where the stars

have yet to dim and a sliver of moon

still hangs in the west,

the rational ones doing their best

to calm and to comfort the rest.

Is this heaven’s revenge?

A disheveled doctor, with a stethoscope

dangling forgotten in his hand,

stares at one of his patients hustling out the door,

the baker’s cardiac wife gripping the arms

of a wheelchair as her flour-dusted husband

gives her a ride down the cracked stairs.

Broken bricks and window glass

dot the street and the grass,

ghostly shards glittering in the settling dust.

Ruthie Brown, still clutching her mop,

doesn’t see Augustus Smith

sneaking up ten paces behind her,

a short length of pipe in his hand.

Hey miss! look out behind you! run! get in the car!

She splashes through a puddle flooding the street,

jumps in through the open driver’s side door,

slides over the worn leather to the passenger side.

Henry grabs his old bulletless six shooter

stashed under the seat, points it at Gus.

Smith skids to a stop in the street.

Okay shithead, you win this morning.

but this ain’t the end of our bizness,

cuz I’m gonna be lookin’ for you.

that little jungle bitch too.

better fuck her while you got the chance,

‘fore I put this lil pal of mine up her snatch.

I’ll keep that in mind, I got a pal o’ my own.

try anything and I’ll shoot your dick off.

Gus steps back, holds the pipe in front of his crotch

rubbing it like an erection.

Yer gonna need it chief. When I’m done with her,

I’m gonna use this to piss on your grave.

Turns his back to show he ain’t scar’t,

joins the rest of his crew watching the scene

from the hospital lawn.

Let’s get out of here, miss.......

what’s your name anyway?

Ruthie. Ruthie Brown.

Are you really named Bandyman?

No. I’m Henry. Henry Nalbandian.

I’m real pleased to meet you, Mr Henry.

Likewise I’m sure, Miss Brown.

the wall begins to crack (2)

Let her go, Smith, she’s just trying to do her job.

Wha’d you say, Bandyman?

Keep yer fuckin’ nose out of this.

You heard me, Gus, let her go.

Ruthie got real still as Gus snaked his hand

out of her drawers, but kept his other

tight around her waist.

Brought the molesting paw

up to his nose and sniffed.

wiped it on her skirt,

smeared a greasy signature

with his oilfield grime

on the pale blue cotton.

You want some of this, Bandyman? 

Smells like nigger ass,

I think she farted on me.

Henry got up slowly,

walked across the room.

Took the mop from Ruthie,

stood just out of Gus’s reach.

Stuck the handle in his chest.

I’m not asking, Smith.

Well, well, well,

I think ole four-eyes

Bandyman’s in love.

Why ain’t I surprised?

Gus sniffed his hand again

licked his finger, blew a kiss.

Shoved her into Henry

with his boot.

Go ahead ‘an take her.

Why’nt you take her out

to your piece of shit jalopy

and stick that mop up her ass.

Then you two shit birds

can have a shit party.

Henry staggered back

as Ruthie fell against him,

she’s just a little thing,

don’t quite reach his chin.

With a sheltering arm

light on her shoulders,

he led her out

of the emergency room.

They heard the hawk and splat,

when Gus spit on the floor

behind their backs.

You ok, miss?

Maybe you should go clean up

somewhere else for a while,

these boys are used to livin’

with a lot worse than

what’s on the floor here.

I’m sure this mess can wait a spell.

Ruthie quietly said, thanks.

Looked up from the floor to his face.

To see if he’s the other kind,

the ones with all their sweet talkin’,

thinking colored girls are easy.

He’s got nice brown eyes,

like a puppy she once had.

Maybe he’s okay, but even

puppies bite sometimes.

He handed her the mop.

She stood it up in the pail,

rolled it through the swinging doors

that didn’t block out the catcalls,

and whistles, the barking laughter.

Hey lover boy, big hero, got yourself a new gal?

Gonna get yourself some dark meat?

Better give’r plenty of gravy

before you give’r the corn.

an’ don’ forget to give the little monkey

your banana for dessert.

It was just like back in Oklahoma,

nothing ever seemed to change.

She’d come out here with Daddy and Mama,

Just like these men had.

Hoping for a job, a chance for something better.

No jobs for Daddy in the oilfields though.

They said they didn’t hire colored,

he should stick to pickin’ cotton.

Just like back in Oklahoma.

They had a little shack up in Teviston,

with outdoor water, and a beat up old stove.

So when her cousin Loretta

told her about this cleaning job

at the hospital and place to stay with her,

she jumped right on it.

MIght just be the stepping stone she wanted.

Anything was better than chopping cotton up in Teviston.

sometimes it's a cat's world, sometimes it's not

that black cat slinks across the street,

flows under the pontiac like spilled ink.

the sloppy woman from around the corner

in the 49ers t-shirt with last night's party

stains all down her chest, yells at her son

-just shut the fuck up and get in the car.

the cat scoots from the beater 4-door

to the juniper hedge beside the driveway,

turns around and glares a yellow death curse

at the noisy slob scaring away the sparrows

she was stalking. the sparrows perch

on the rain gutters of building 1420

and lob their tiny shit bombs into

the foul-mouthed mother's dirty hair.

she doesn't even notice but her son does

and he tries to hide a smirk behind his hand.

her party partner from the night before

shouts from the balcony, where you going,

get me some beer and a pack of newports

while you're out. she turns and hollers back

i only have ten bucks and you already

owe me twenty, you cheapass fuck.

the cat crouches under the junipers and

i could swear she's wearing a cheshire smile.

truth or consequences

he can smell where she's been today,

it's in her hair. underneath the french

conditioner, the funk of his hot spew.

she said she'd rock climbed devil's knob.

he's pretty sure that she had polished it too.

now she's riding tears and violins,

strolling the imaginary halls of her soap

opera palaces, waiting for her mountain

prince to rescue her from boredomville.

another evening in the living room which

might as well be two grottos side by side,

staring at the wedding portrait on the wall.

he just wishes he was a catfish

swimming up the muddy Rio Grande

past El Paso where there ain't no dams.

til you get to Truth or Consequences.

his shadow hand

his shadow hand traces

her thigh. while she sleeps

in the poppies and rye.

in this moment of bliss,

he stills tastes her kiss.

ten minutes before

she'd held him inside,

unaware that high tide

was receding and leaving

just seaweed, driftwood,

and glass.

description of a semi automatic dream generating contraption

There are two mechanical

typewriters bolted to a table.

with forty seven pairs of wires,

each pair connected to a key.

An execution requires

two passwords typed

in perfect synchrony

to close the circuit,

which sets in motion

a blissed out hippy chick

in a tie dyed camisole

twirling on a ten foot

plastic wedding cake.

Batman hoots and whistles:

hey baby, take it off and shake it,

show us what you got.

She reaches under her skirt,

pulls out a tambourine and shakes it.

Batman laughs and chugs

the rest of his Bud Light.

At the foot of Market Street,

martini-guzzling grizzly bears

dance on schooners

abandoned in the mud.

Black-haired children sell oysters

and strips of venison. speckled eggs.

A team of chestnut horses tow

a gutted cadillac coupe de ville

with a rope of braided bed sheets

and patriotic bunting.

A troupe of monkeys riding dogs

follows close behind. Their queen,

a former governor, blows a red kiss

to the plaid flannel-shirted crowd.

A baby in a bamboo stroller

giggles and points a pudgy finger

at the jalopies, horses, and army trucks

festooned with candy characters

fresh from the evening news.