I keep seeing big wheels with blocks on them.
Or big wheels up on blocks.
Or big wheels with blocks for wheels.
The details are hazy. But I see it.
Somewhere. Dressed up in primary
Reds
Yellows.
Blues.
Listening to the cars drive by,
Drinking coffee, eating sausage,
Decompressing privately.
The street is wet.
The tires make a nice sound.
My mind is wet.
And finds comfort in the muted sounds
Of Saturday morning radio
With show folks that mumble with voices
That pop like cream of wheat bubbles
As the tires roar like the seashore
As some kid pulls a flat fish from the pier
But is too disgusted with the slime
To squeal with victory
Because he doesn’t
Want
To
Touch
It.
The image has changed.
The kid is standing on the deck of a boat.
All dressed up in blue with a puffy jacket.
It is cold. The fish is bright red and blue.
A big wheel on blocks. Or a big wheel with
Blocks for wheels.
But his face is still and the same
And the fish is still and the same;
Slimy.
+
(As a side note, I am going to call this one, “Making Nice with Happy.”)
My mom and dad are adopted brother and sister.
My dad’s dad was a missionary.
My mom has a brother.
They had great horror upon the conclusion of the Korean War.
The missionary came.
My mother sang in a choir to thank the white folks and brown folks –
All the folks for helping all the little orphans swapping checks for
Snapshots of the kids they fed with rice with black eyes
behind closed doors.
Life was such that they ate it and didn’t know that the way they lived
Was aching.
Until it was much too late and impossible to really notice.
Quite a presentation. Country to country.
None to the less. Orphan to orphan.
Snap shot to fondled.
By the shot that went
Snap.
I digress progressively.
+
Here comes victory!
+
Bare with me as I try to reach
current.
+
I was going to tell you a story about the time
My grandfather told me that if I wanted to eat
The goddamn fish I caught . . . .
(we were at a family reunion in Oregon.
I caught the prize fish.
The night before the ‘activity’ was
Frog Spearing.
He slept in a Silver Gulfstream.
On frog night I caught nothing.
As I stood there with my prize in the bucket
With a big smile on my manly face he said,
“If you want to eat it you are going to have to clean it.”
The smile left.
The fish went splash.
And still swims into this story up from
Some pond in Oregon to this page as I listen
The the tires and contemplate
Victory.
+
I feel like drawing.
+
I do not feel like writing Mr. Bainbridge but
This is why I came here to sit all dramatic like
To quiet the mind and bridge the gap between
Combustion-able mechanics and seal-life.
+
Side note:
Dear Los Angeles,
Be nice to smokers.
There aren’t many places where we are welcome.
If you are someplace and you see ashtrays outside
And there is a whole section with no ashtrays inside
Or out in back shut your fucking imperialist trap
And suck it up or go inside.
Some of us are working it out.
To douche is divine.
God bless you.
+
Too many people.
My perception of their thoughts
Drown out everything.
So, it is over.
Leave it for later.
If you feel jilted, read the title again.
I’ll be there in a second.
