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.

recycling

On a block defined

by high concept design studios,

law firms and and art dealers.

on the fringe between

the Financial District

Chinatown and Broadway,

a familiar elderly

Chinese couple makes

their noontime rounds.

They wear non-matching

nylon windbreakers

and baseball caps.

She's got floral pattern capris

and he's got off brand khakis,

both of them in bargain shoes.

She fishes in the corner trash bin

with chrome salad tongs

retrieving aluminum cans,

hits a lode of half a case

of Diet Coke. unopened.

She passes the cans to him.

He pops the tabs and

pours the soda in the gutter,

scoots the empties back to her.

She smashes them under

her pink and white

generic trainers and

loads them into a recycled

Nordstroms shopping bag.

The gutter flows

with a sweet stream

of artificial flavor.

Ignored by a set

of young professionals

with their twelve o'clock

double shot espressos.

Five minutes, twelve cans,

sixty cents. Lugging bags

up past the sleek reflections

and chic receptions

across Columbus Avenue

to a hot plate walk-up room.

the garbage artist

Winter wasn't through with March.

The vernal sun at lunch time

at the missile base warmed

the dark bare fields and my face.

Demoted now

from Battery Commander's driver

to garbage separator at the mess hall

separating the edible from the inedible

into a battered garbage can.

I stood outside the doorway

to the kitchen listening to the men inside.

No words distinct enough to know

what anyone was talking about,

Just the mush mouth vowels of Alabama

and the twang of Texas in their voices,

boasting, boisterous, no doubt

full of conquest and bullshit.

Then they tumbled out of the dining hall

bearing their stainless steel trays

and pebbled plastic glasses

and half full mugs of lukewarm Army coffee.

And I began my task:

stacking cups and glasses into dishwasher racks,

scraping the remains of that day's Southern-themed cuisine

off the steel trays sectioned like giant tv dinners.

Clods of mashed potatoes, dotted with black-eyed peas.

A swash of succotash, gray shreds of over done pot roast

slices of white bread stained with pale country gravy

corn kernels floating in pink pools

of melted strawberry ice cream.

It all went in the can,

an ever-changing three dimensional construction

as I pretended to be a culinary Jackson Pollack.

A splay of wilted collard greens accented

with a scattered splash of corn.

The chitlins which had proven to be

less than popular with their pissy scent,

now a shiny beige to bomb with peas.

A magpie perched on the eaves above

screeched a complaint, beseeching me

to toss a crust, some morsel.

At thirteen hundred hours,

I stacked the trays and racks

of cups and glasses on a cart

and wheeled them into the kitchen

where Ahmet and Emre stood at the sinks

and pointed to the spot where they

wished me to leave the cart.

They were friendly now that I shared

the status of Turkish gastworkers.

I was free of duty til Taps would blow.

Free to bask out on the steps

and read my book.

If it hadn't been for Samuel Beckett

I don't think I could have done that gig.

Farmer Herzfeld drove his grumbling tractor

plowing the field beyond the base, 

awakening his sleeping soil.

Waved a leather-gloved hand.

He'd be back after evening chow

to collect the can of slops

to feed his hungry swine.

Girls night out

The drunk girl at the ball park

sits down with a thump

on the sidewalk next to the player's lot.

She's yelling, what? what?

with a smirk.

Like it's the soul of wit.

Claws through her bag

looking for a smoke.

Her girlfriend tries

to hush her before

the ball park cop comes over.

they've already been ejected.

Too late. He stands over her

leaning slightly forward.

You ladies have a problem?

She's still braying,

what? what?and laughing

becauseshe can't decide

whether she’s mad or not.

She lurches up on tiptoes

tries to kiss the cop.

He lets her.

Tastes her liquory breath,

puts his hands on her shoulders,

and turns her around.

She bumps her plump behind

into his equipment,

gives it a shove and a wiggle.

She stumbles forward saying

what? what? and giggles.

You gonna cuff me?

Maybe. Come back later.

Her unlit cigarette

falls out of her mouth

onto the pavement.

Her semi-sober girlfriend

fetches the cig off the ground

lights it, takes a drag,

slips it between

her drunk friend’s lips.

But she can't hold on to it

and it falls out again.

C’mon, let's try the back entrance

if you think you can act straight

for a minute, okay?

Okay. but I need to pee.

Now? Yeah, now.

Go over there, behind those bushes

and try not to go on your shoes.

You wanna help me?

Alright, c’mon. I still want to find

that cute guy in the bleachers.

You can come back for that cop

after the game.