Thanksgiving

The frost was on the thistles

when the whistle of the freight train blew

as it rattled across the access road.

I wasn't sleeping deeply anyway

but I resisted climbing out of my bag

at least until the watery light of dawn.

The frigidaire deep freezer I'd

converted to a shelter did a halfway job

of insulating me from the November chill,

although with the door removed

it wasn't perfect. I’d built a small fire

the night before with some scraps of pallets

and somebody's discarded chair.

It had three coats of paint and childish

initials scratched through the white top coat

through it's earlier skin of green to

the bottom coat of red. It burned okay

once I got it started. The embers

finally ebbed a couple hours before sunrise

but I’d been warm enough before that.

I poked through the ashes with the spine

of a broken umbrella. A lucky day, a few coals

remained and I put the last pieces of the pallet

and the front section of last week's Wall Street Journal

on the coals and revived a nice small blaze.

The black feral kitten with white paws and chest

poked her head out of the sleeping bag and yawned.

She'd decided that it was a better place to sleep

snuggled up against my chest than under

some piece of cardboard or on the abandoned couch

I’d  wrestled down here under the railroad bridge.

It was light enough now to get up and check my snares.

See if any of the wild turkeys had been unwise enough

to scratch through the remains of my squash and tomato plants.

There was nothing left now on the cusp of winter

but a few withered fruits but they still picked out the seeds.

It really was turning out to be a lucky day

-for me. A big hen was caught by her foot

in a loop of plastic twine i'd set the night before.

Kitty, we are gonna feast today!

The turkey tried to fly up when I approached,

but I grabbed her and quickly broke her neck.

Plucking was going to take awhile but my stomach

was already anticipating the succulent meal

we soon would share. The kitten toyed with the feathers

as I pulled them loose. The scent of the sugar refinery

a couple miles up the tracks drifted in on the morning breeze.

It's a sickening smell when it lingers relentlessly

but I guess i must be used to it. At least enough

to stay in this place. I heard a car gun it's engine

down where the county road ends at the tracks.

Joanie was stumbling out the door of a some SUV.

She had on her dirty white ski coat and a one and a half liter

bottle of cheap vodka dangled from her hand.

The van roared off and some local boys yelled

something out the window, and laughed as they sped away.

She gave a limp back-handed wave without turning around.

Joanie hangs out in front of the liquor store

and waits for kids too young to buy. Offers to

score for them in exchange for a bottle for herself

and whatever they want to do with her.

She's only been on the skids for a year or so

and hasn't completely lost her looks.

Not enough to discourage teenage boys, anyway.

I think she's shy of forty by a few years but she's

gonna look like sixty soon the way she's going.

She lurches into my camp and sits down on a crate

by the fire. Takes a swig from what's left in the bottle.

Want a hit? she says. No, thanks anyway.

There was a time when I’d have happily accepted,

but hard as it was getting down to this point,

it's a lot harder climbing out. Six a.m. cocktails

don't make it any easier. She closes one eye

and squints at the half-plucked turkey.

What you got there she says, izzat a turkey?

Yeah. Caught it in one my snares. We'll be eating

good today. Stick around and join us.

That sounds good, I think I’ll do that she says.

But first I need to crash out for a while.

I tell her, no problem, it'll be awhile to get this

plucked and cooked, go ahead and take a nap.

Take a while to get it fucked? you don't have to settle for that,

I'll do you. She laughs so hard she nearly falls off the crate,

catches herself, and wipes the tears out of her eyes.

Yeah joanie, that's a good one. Why don't you get

some sleep. I put your sleeping bag under that tarp

over there last night to keep it dry.

I’ll wake you up when it's time to eat.

Thanks, dude, you're a sweetheart, ya know?

you're a real… a real…. you know what i mean?

Sure joanie. you too. go on. go take a nap.

She gets up off the crate and yanks the tarp off

of her sleeping bag. Sits down heavily on it,

struggles with the zipper of her jeans

and squirms them down to her knees.

Sure you don't want a quick one?

You're so sweet to me, I wanna show you

some 'preciation. She flops back and gets her

pants down to her ankles then passes out.

I go over and take her jeans off, put her legs together

and get her zipped into her bag. She's already snoring.

Sweet dreams, joanie, I whisper, sweet dreams.

The black kitten with white chest and feet

bounces over to her and worms her way down

into the sleeping bag. Joanies moans softly.

Looks like a lucky day for all of us. It's cold

but at least it ain't raining. We got a turkey

and someone soft to snuggle with.

Automatic

Full auto feels like god almighty;

nothing satisfies fanatics

as much as ripping off

a thirty shot load 

on full automatic.

Rounds spitting out the barrel,

hot brass ejecting out the side,

the stink of cordite gasses

more enticing than the spicy scent

of virgin asses.

The rapid recoil of the rifle butt,

a staccato slapping faster

than a rabbit fucks.

And when the magazine is spent,

the would be warrior is impotent,

he masks himself in verses

defiled into vile curses.

A false allegiance to flag and word,

his true credo, a fervent hate,

his climax, a weapon's ejaculate.

His seed spewed on the world

to propagate more generations

who find their ecstasy behind a trigger.

Bar Talk, Opus 65

Sindbad's sits on a pier and is soon to be evicted.

The Port of San francisco wants the space for ferry service.

I went in and took a corner stool with a view out the wide windows

of the Bay and Yerba Buena Island and the swooping arcs of the bridge.

It's the last week of their tenancy and I had some time to kill after work.

One of the regular's sat on the stool right up against the window.

Hey Mike, he says to the bartender, time for Plan B, Plan Budweiser.

His pal on the stool next him say's that's a good one, Plan Budweiser.

The first guy says you should of been here yesterday,

Mike was on fire. I came in yesterday morning

after a big night- you don't want to know.....
and I ask him for a menu.

and Mike says, you don't need a menu,
you need some Eggs Benny. So I go, Ok, gimme some Eggs Benny.

That Mike, he was on fire.

Yeah.

So I'm waiting for my eggs Benny
and this couple comes in off the ferry and sits right over there.

and the guy was a real douche, so I say,

You're bothering me.

But he keeps going on.

So I ask them where they came from,

and he says they came in on the Vallejo ferry.

A couple of real Val-lay Joes, huh?

Yeah. So he keeps on shooting off his mouth
and I tell him again he's bugging me and he acts like he wants

to get into something so I tell him he really doesn't want me

to have to handle him. You know?

Right.

And Mike tells the guy that I'm a trained martial arts master

but the guy won't give it up. But his girlfriend is telling him

to shut the fuck up. But he keeps running his yap.

Then he puts his hand on my arm and I take it off like this

and tell him again that he really doesn't want me to handle him.

And his girlfriend keeps telling him to shut the fuck up.

So then he tells Mike he wants a Coors with a Jack poured on top of it.

And Mike gives it to him and he chugs a bit.

And starts running his mouth again.

So his girlfriend reaches over and slides his glass

way over here where he can't reach it. And Mike goes,

Looks like you been cut off.

I'm telling you, Mike was on fire.

Just as the guy was finishing up his story, a well dressed lady

well past a certain age sat down on a stool and Mike brought her

a Vodka Cran without her even asking.

He says how you doing hon, and she says fine, Mike.
asks him what he's gonna do when Sinbad's closes in a week.

He says he's gonna get surgery for his bunions,

been working on his feet for forty years and it's tough

when you got bunions. Hard to find shoes that don't hurt.

She says yeah, she had them too, which toe is his on?

Big toe. Same as hers. She had the surgery three years ago,

and the doctor told her that if she did exactly

what he told her to do for a year, he promised that she'd be fine.

And she did. Says she can do all the things she likes to do again,

like dancing.

Mike says so you had to take it easy for a year? stay off your feet?

Yeah she says, fortunately there's things I like to do that don't require

being on my feet.

Mike says yeah I guess, but it's nice to have the option

if you know what I mean.

She snickers into her glass and says, yeah I  do, hon, now I can do

all the things I used to.....all the things. I followed his directions, it was worth it.

Mike says Terry should be here soon for his shift,

maybe you could show me your techniques, when I get off.

Techniques for doing things on my feet? You wouldn't

stand a girl up now, would you Mike?

Actually I was thinking that's exactly what I'd like.
to stand you up. know what I mean?

My bunions don't bother me so much with my shoes off.

How about another Vodka Cran for the road?

Regular guy in the corner says, Mike you're on fire!

The radio in my head doesn't google.

I started up the car

at our little island market.

Dropped a sack of avocados

white beans, ginger root

and tomatoes on the seat.

Almost forgot to get a bag

of Friskies original for the feral cats

who climb up to the porch

in the evening. They would not

forgive me.

The sky over the bay

was stained like amber.

As I slowly drove along

the Avenue of the Palms

listening to the radio,

some scientist on NPR

was talking about an ice-free world;

about how alligators used to live in Alaska.

He meant 70 million years ago

when the tyranosaurs were roaming

the forests of Wyoming

and Hell Creek, Montana.

Underneath the crowns

of monkey puzzle trees

and ginkgos. Dawn redwoods.

Triceratops munching ferns.

T. Rex.

A favorite monster of ten-year olds,

and a glam rock British band back in the 70's.

Big guitar lines that felt like smooth

and powerful pelvic thrusting,

oh, oh-oh. oh, oh-oh.

And it took me back to a summer carnival

in 1972. On a ride called the Hully Gully.

and the singer was crooning:

-you slide so good

with bones so fair

you've got the universe

reclining in your hair-

and I was thinking about

those dinosaurs

and the stardust in my bones.

And that other song they sang

called 20th Century Boy,

and how that fit me too

like a well-washed tee.

Summer seventy two

or was it seventy three?

I've got no way to google that

back into memory.

I can see the jolly dancing pig

on the marquee over

the entrance to the beer tent

and recall the scent of

chickens roasting on a spit.

But it's as long gone

as Gondwanaland,

the ancient continent

south of the Tethys sea.

Gondwanaland always

sounds to me like some place

in a Tarzan novel.

And I read every one of them,

more than once or twice,

blind to Edgar Rice Burroughs racism.

It was all cliffhanging chapters

that ended just before the girl

was about to have her blouse

torn open. I could almost see

the buttons pop.

I waited in the driveway

to hear the end of the scientist's story.

We are closing in on halfway

to that ice-free world

when alligators could bask

comfortably in the midnight sun

on the banks of the Yukon.

But meanwhile, here's an idea

free of charge:

blouses with buttons that pop off

and are easily snapped back on.

Betcha could make millions,

go ahead, no charge.

craps

sometimes you roll

a lot of eights and sixes

sometimes all you roll

comes up craps.

we were rolling up

interstate eighty,

in clear blue late october

in a forty foot motor home

called a beaver contessa.

laughing about trips

from many years ago,

disasters rendered now

to stories of bad luck

and narrow misses.

looking out the window

at the granite bones

of the sierra.

til we hit the long climb

up to Donner summit

and the water temp

climbed past boiling.

the oil pressure dropped to zero

and the engine trouble

warning light lit up

it's angry little red eye.

so we pulled off

on exit 155 at blue canyon.

no services, just a gravel

pull out beside the ramp.

the dealer's son who

was following us to nevada

parked his hot little sedan

behind us, says what's problem?

no oil pressure, man.

and the temp is almost pegged.

the dipstick looked a little low,

we hoped that was the cause

left the beaver beside the road
and drove back thirty miles
to colfax in the dealers car

to buy a couple gallons of oil
and a funnel that would work to top it off.

because we had to improvise
with four feet of tubing from a hardware store

and a cheap funnel. stand on a couple

of folding chairs to get the oil to flow.

the engine cooled down

and we resumed our journey,

the gauges reading fine

-for about ten miles.

off the highway once again

to the parking lot at boreal ridge

this time it was going to need a tow.

the sun went down and two hours passed

trying to get a big enough tow truck arranged.

we were cold and hungry and the tow

was going to take an hour

so we rode up to the next exit

to get some food and heat.

triple A was supposed to call us with an estimated time,

but failed to warn us til the tow was up at the parking lot

which now was barred by an electronic gate.

too late to get the contessa out of the lot,

and the tow man wasn't inclined to wait

while we tried to get somebody to open it.

the motor home was trapped.

we called the highway  patrol

and an emergency number on the gate

to no avail. finally the fire department

at soda springs took mercy on us

came up and punched in the code.

towing a forty foot motor home

is not a simple matter.

the drive axle has to be removed.

pressure in the air suspension

has to be maintained.

which requires the engine

(which was the problem)

to run the pump.

it felt like we were screwed,

but big wreckers are resourceful 

and two hours later the rig 

was finally ready for the long haul

down to big truck repair shop in Sparks.

by the time we arrived in the RV dealer's car

and the tow truck dropped off the motor home

it was past midnight so we needed to find

a hotel to stay the night.

decided we might as well go to a casino,

they claim to have the lowest prices,

so we got a room at Circus Circus.

and went down to the bar for a night cap.

i've never played craps,

but my brother knows the game,

so we found a lively table

and he tried to explain.

don't think i really grasped it all,

-so many ways to bet,

but watching and listening to the players

was amazing.

they were talking to the shooters,

talking to the dealers, calling out their bets

on eights the hard way.

fire bets, and come lines, pass lines,

backing bets or letting them ride

when a shooter is hot and the chips

start stacking up. and everybody is smiling

-til someone throws a seven

and all is swept away.

sometimes you hit on boxcars

-and sometimes the bones

just come up craps.