Up on over the path's hill standing and riding along the cliff's side, the thick limbs of ash trees and beech drawn sideways for dark trail shade grown huge from the earth below and higher finally than the hawk who lived nearby powerfully gliding its shadow crossing the boy's route, the bicycle's speed wonderful yet perilously close to the graveled edge --- you had to lean into it and squint into the wind going down as it was too steep for nothing but out--of-gear coasting --- and leaning away from the cliff-side as grasshoppers could pelt you like sparks, the water for his minnows already half gone, no matter, you'd need to know that the turn below, when the path dipped not gradually enough away from the lakeside back into the darkness, you had to take your chance there as you travelled more like a diving bird suspended a realm solitary falling beautifully LOOK OUT he yelled before him that full-lunged adolescent bellicose warning while the lovers in swimsuits turned their faces in, their eyes started wide, frightened and simultaneously they just jumped and fell out the way HEY WATCH OUT YOU LITTLE MOTHER FUCKER the guy burst grabbing dirt but the girl clawed the tattoo of a stretched panther over his forearm and he dusted his hand on his ironed pants, the speed demon and splashing minnow bucket careening-then-perfectly balanced gone disappearing swiftly as though an apparition, while not before yanking the handle bars back toward him for an instant only on the high back wheel and then silently down the power and grace of his baseball heroes motorizing his flight, the curved trail banked, angled just so toward the final right sloping traverse before the beach: an oiled man in pantie-like trunks with his thumbs stretched on the small of his back; the boy braked and then ran briefly then walked alongside his bicycle as the promenade was nearly as crowded as the Fourth of July, the sun worshipers already reddened playing volleyball, a dog, like a greyhound only thick, its tongue lolloping, the boy with his rod and reel carried parallel stationed on the bike's seat, he laid it down drinking like a thirsty goat at the water fountain after the girls his age meandered away looking back at him, want to giggle, turning away, the gulped water as cold as a handful of crushed ice, and then he held the fountain's button tight with his knee, drank from his hands and then doused his minnow bucket as much as he could from the glimmering stream of water through which you could see the entire curvature of the earth, the clarity swirling washing over the rust-chipped silver drain enclosed in grey and tan composite marble.

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Comment by catch-22 on May 26, 2019 at 8:50am

No problema, j.p. hart. 

‘Homage to what or whom’...I’m stealin’ that one and adding ‘why’ and ‘what fer’ (depending on the audience)

Anywade—here’s a translation to El Wanabi. Jose Clemente appears at the end, although he’s foreshadowed beautifully in the very beginning. Raul Julia gets a callout as well...say, the sun’s out.


It’s been awhile 

Since we’ve played just to play.

Exchanged the baseball glove

for a poker hand.

Since I waited 

to be grown

so that they’d let me go out alone

Across the city.

To discover that new world

of almost finished buildings

where stars come out in movies

and in the sky there is only gas...

And so we leave everything behind,

the family and the friendly,

exchanging our known and simple soil

for studio time,

working in restaurants

being messengers, being anything

waiting in a holding pattern

On opportunity

hearing stories about others

Who were once just like you,

Busboys that got lucky

And now live in Hollywood...


---- Chorus ----

Give me a moment to see

what I’m made of, heh, heh, heh

I am the one hustling,

I’m the one on the lookout heh, heh, heh...


Maybe someday I’ll understand

what really matters,

Maybe what matters in this life

is something that has nothing to do

with what I’m chasing

with everything that I ever dreamed,

but I need something, hey, I have to believe in something,

maybe my dream isn’t worth anything,

maybe it's something that I made up

as a map as a guide,

as an excuse to promote something

dreaming Has its way of tricking us into

to becoming someone more than yesterday

When we were ungrateful with what we had

because we’d rather find out 

What it would feel like on the other side

If they they would hear you just once,

If they would applaud the odyssey 

they criticized the first time you spoke it

I know it sounds selfish

but I say this without negativity.

If none of this means anything

There would be no Clemente,

There would be no Juliá... 


---- Chorus ---- x2


But I want us to understand each other

No need to doubt me

I’ll keep trying, keep going

The struggle is a habit now

Maybe the intensity is less

maybe the luster has faded

but I’m past half way there

and I’m not going back

empty handed, with regret

And a story without an ending

I don’t want to leave having given up

another victory to this city...


---- Chorus ---- x2

Comment by J.P. Hart on May 26, 2019 at 11:30am

thx yeah catch-22 O you
Hart is having a fantabulous bright-sunny in his KC Royals MLB cap as a floater, UFO-like, leaves-flits his right iris and darts through his verdant
Jerry Garcia specs mysteriously the miniature blue halo almost finds freedom toward yesterday's high noon moon reflection upon the pond. He warms only his thumb and finger prints in that cat's cradle as he studies the cones of that long needle pine; jay and cardinal-apple blossoms anew, all because. Wondering again what became of the boy who swam ashore, all that dank sand, those footsteps of lore...

Everyone Goes Away

I grew up with Jim..we both lived on Sunnybrook Dr. I remember when we were in first grade, we would walk from Martin School to the Vanderkauf's house to play on their huge (at 6-7 years old it was huge!) yard rock.. I fell off crying so Jim walked me home. He was so sweet & kind..as teenagers we both worked at Highland Park Market.
In heartfelt sympathy to his family, partner and friends. A good guy lost..

Shelley Sadd

January 22, 2016 | Travelers Rest, SC


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