Monday, January 20, 2014

busker


stravinsky on a banjo
in the subway.

mancini. metallica.
no one pays attention.

the dudes in jeans
or power ties and suits

toss quarters
with a smirk.

teasing chopin with
a joplin rag to no effect

louie louie mashed
with louie armstrong,

the earbud heads trudge
towards the escalators

wrapped up in their
personal cocoons.

except for she, who
hangs back against

the white tiled
station walls

feeling every strum
and string that's plucked.

Friday, January 17, 2014

gravel watching


edward crouches between a honda
and a mazda on amazon street

picking through pea-sized pieces
of gravel, examining each for color

and crystal structure with a twenty power
bausch & lomb hand magnifying lens.

maria, who lives across the street,
comes up behind him and says

what are you doing, dude? looking
for diamonds or magic rings? frodo ain't here.

edward flips his long gray ponytail
over his shoulder and turns his head.

no, these are better than that,
these are pieces of history.

really? just looks like gravel to me.
no diamonds or rubies or emeralds, right?

exactly. it is gravel. gravel with a story.
want to hear it? here, take a closer look.

edward slips a couple of pebbles
onto his tongue and then drops them

into the palm of his hand, holds it out
towards maria. she leans closer. cautiously.

see how the color jumps out now?
red and yellow and blue? and sparkles.

that's gross, you put them in your mouth.
she makes the finger-stuck-mouth-gag gesture.

edward laughs, holds the lens over the stones.
i know, probably shouldn't but it brings

out the color. here, look at them with
the magnifier, tell me what you see.

maria takes the lens and peers at the pebbles
in edward's outstretched hand.

ok, they're pretty i guess, but so what?
what's so special about them? are they precious?

nope. not at all, they're just chert. however......
they do have a story. one that goes back

over a hundred years ago. the old jail
was just down the street and there was

a quarry just up there. the prisoners
were sent up with sledge hammers

and picks to break up the chert on this hill.
then it was sprayed with tar to pave the street.

ok. but why do you care? it's just a bunch of old rocks.
not even worth anything and look, the colors

are already gone, they only looked nice
with your spit on 'em, now they just look like shit.

well. i suppose you could look at it that way,
to me they are a reminder of what was once here,

when the city was young. and going to jail
was no joke. not that it ever is, but back then

it was worse. working all day breaking rocks,
not as funny as old silent movies for sure.

oh i've seen those, with the men in those
striped suits like a zebra, running all funny

and jerky. was it like that? right here?
now they have those orange overalls 

and pick uptrash by the freeway. my cousin had
to do that. he got drunk and crashed his camaro.

right down there, see that laundromat?
he went right over the sidewalk through

the front window. some old lady was there.
she didn't get hit, but her laundry basket

flew into his car, and he passed out
under a pile of sheets. when the cops

got there they thought maybe he was dead
and that someone had covered him up.

that would make a funny scene in a movie,
don't you think? more than your jail house rocks.

Wednesday, January 15, 2014

at the rancho ninety nine motel


there was a warning
written on a paperplate:
beware! rattlesnake seen
on frontage road sixty eight.

it was underneath
the cracked naugahyde
seat cushions of a couch
left on the curb outside
the rancho ninety-nine motel.

the big snake was coiled up
on the dimes and nickels
left behind by sam,
the regional sales rep
for mega-bio-petro-
pharma-globa-ceuticals, inc.

the coins fell out of his pockets
while he was sleeping off
his greasy evening freaking
with tammi, a local gun dealer's 
meth-addicted wife, who
traded tricks for drugs

as soon as he was
snoozing and snoring,
tammi snickered
-so long sam, you slug,
and smothered him
with a motel towel
drenched in the ether
she had scored the night before
and stole his black corvette.

they didn't find him for a week.
couldn't erase the reek,
even with a quart of
mega-bio-petro-pharma-
globa-ceuticals-all-purpose
deodorizer/moisturizer/
babyformula/artificial sweetener.

so the couch was hauled out
to the curb. where it attracted
a family of mice. quite a snack,
for a big fat western diamondback.

the six-foot rattler bit
the county health inspector
when he stopped by the motel
to pick up his monthly bite.
not exactly the kind
he had in mind.

so mister grayson grayman,
rancho ninety-nine motel manager,
quickly penned a sign on a paper plate
from the breakfast lounge
and frisbeed it onto the couch.

the rattlesnake was gone by then,
had slithered up the street
to digest the dozen mice he'd eaten
and found a cozy spot under the seat

of a black corvette previously owned
by a certain regional sales rep,
recently deceased.




Monday, January 13, 2014

bombs and waffles


i saw the bomb
go down the chimney
like santa claus.

clicked on that
and watched a cat
playing a piano.

the bay is stuffed
with herring,
gulls and scaups

feasting on roe,
and the sky is stuffed
with empty blue.

a robot crawls
across the waxing
gibbous eye above,

sending postcard
views: hi, how are ya,
wishing you were here?

no. i wish i was
in bangkok.
smelling belgian

waffles grilling
at the victory monument
skytrain station.

Wednesday, January 8, 2014

the lawn


the unmowed lawn
has stories to tell:

the whispered ones
the neighbors like to savor
with a glass of ice tea
or a budweiser.

sitting on patio furniture
in the back yard
brushing gnats
off clammy arms.

dogs barking down the alley,
a single engine plane
moans towards the sunset.

the eight-year old twins
across the street
are shrieking about

who took what,
what's not fair,
who is going
to tell on whom.

nestled in the
eight inch lawn,
a limp blue and white
football.

a spiderman t-shirt, size small,
a picnic plate with
a smear of dried velveeta
that the ants are determined
to ignore.

page two of a visa bill
two months past due.
black panties trimmed in lace
with a dandelion
sprouting through the waist.

a wedding ring
that a sharp-eyed magpie
spots and snatches
to adorn his nest.

Monday, January 6, 2014

even though she knew


clay heart,
cardboard face.

coat hanger bones
and chewing gum sinews.

cerulean persona.
as posted.

slippery encounters
in the twenty-third floor

broom closet
memorialized

with stains.

she knew 
he was a liar.

Friday, January 3, 2014

the stacks


I'm in the stacks saving books
and magazines headed for the shredder:

A short history of Lollapalooza County
Butterflies of Argentina,
Radio Play Digest of 1939.

I keep them in six self-storage units,
shelves and boxes, floor to ceiling.
All the yellowed words and pages
even Google has abandoned.

On Saturdays I hit the stalls and canopies
at all the region's flea markets and yard sales,
scrounging Look, Life, and Fortune magazines.

instruction manuals for obsolete appliances,
service station road maps, faded travel brochures.

My scanner is a time machine.
for rendering the ephemera:

the orphaned playbills,
going out of business coupons,
twenty-five cent detective story grit.
..............and so........
At three a.m. in August '53,
I'm on the Santa Fe Southwest Chief
passing through Topeka on my way to LA

to catch a liner bound for Bora Bora.
Wearing the straw fedora I found in the margin
of page 98 in the May '52 issue of Argosy.

With Lana Turner cuddled against my shoulder.
She's sleepy from all the oysters and champagne we swilled
down in the diner. and she's oh-so-grateful

since I rescued her from the Russian saboteur
who had tied her to the bed in that flop house in Chicago.

She whispers some intriguing possibilities in my ear
and we got a lot of miles before we roll into Union Station.

Lights are flashing red at some lonely crossing,
and then......

the scanner's whine awakens me,
and I send the file of Argosy page 98, May 1952
to the server in the closet.

It's 3:47 and time to grab a couple hours of shut eye
before it's time to head back to the stacks
in the basement of the library.

No wait, it's Saturday!
Got a few more hours to sleep and then, the flea market.

where I hope to see, Lana, that semi wilted flower child
from the sixties who has that booth with old copies
of Life and Look and Fortune, and brochures
for South Pacific cruises.

She winked at me last week, perhaps she'd like to share a drink,
take a trip in my time machine and explore the possibilities.