Cogent reactance: holly holy. Cyber letters, H photographing the green, green sliding green door outside Zeidler Park, his bracelet dangerously wet with tuff nuff fescue, emboldened drake and mallard, calm, natural magnificent web feet neath the mulberry. There ought to be a honed blade, button pressed, that carbon sputter whirling zero radius perfectly etched circled, cut, slashed. Intrusive rhyme, that street lady with known worldly goods, chain smoking, smudged glasses, words to her invisible kids, scolding, losing her religion, yeah sure, a sensory overload, too wet and damp to walk, ceaseless her talk. Gone too, Mr. Fisher King. Constant smile old tattered clown earth day slip-on shoes, the circus on rusted rail. No daydream to fail. Just boys, drinking all night. The tattoo parlor in need of clean glass, home of the square mirror chair. Toward the sunrise. Another bascart person silent. Full hip perfunctory stride, maybe thinking of King Lear. A young Sicilian with raven black Great Lake wet hair, strongly on his 34 hundred dollar bike, the shadows just so, A big jaw yawn, the century aged tall and wide downtown buildings, glorious no wind morning. Too early for the street sweeper. The gutters as clean as rapid river rocks. H saw her. Startled. It was her. The waitress from 1969. Ageless. He'd a lunch counter pattern that unforgiving summer. Who's the Marine? In the dress blue portrait...afore the coffee cups. He's mine, she hugged the golden frame. Not sure. Where. Daily waffles, blueberries, half and half. Fried crisp spuds. Whole wheat today? Until that rainy July afternoon. She was not there. Boss was sad, sleepless. Where's...? H started in. Boss with his pencil poised glanced where the portrait had been.
Only that trifold flag.
H heard 21 shots.
Banged: 3 X 7.

Views: 79

Comment by J.P. Hart on May 23, 2019 at 6:35am

RBJ: just don't call me Betty
What 4?
I can still break a sweat with no regret.
No kidding the rush is on...
I am compelled to include Ferlin Husky's DOD Died: March 17, 2011, Westmoreland, TN
And, you know what?
We are not afraid!

Comment by Robert B. James on May 23, 2019 at 8:37am

the long blue line, bowline tied behind my back, Jack. A dozen green bandannas from uncle Amazon. 

I tie the maroon dinner napkin square knotted, after the 34 dollar halibut came out dry, anyway. The coleslaw was awesome, and the, amazing. I over tipped. The room was filled with those who knew it was a who’s who, and I spoke to no one but the waiter. 

I did not volunteer to die, I volunteered to shoot pictures, to avoid death and poverty. My killing days were over by fifteen, I was all for a draw , and then a beer or ten.  In the end, if a show would do, then Soviet. 

Comment by J.P. Hart on May 23, 2019 at 9:13am

Hey RBJ well said. Wit's end, just around the bend. Toads and codes. Koi ponds, black limousines, mind echoes, those young canyon girls. Valley tally too.
The tireless good Sisters of São Paulo. MLB expansion Havana, San Juan.

Julio Iglesias
Mi verso es un verde claro
Y de un carmín encendido
Mi verso es un ciervo herido
Que busca en el monte amparo
Guantanamera, guajira guantanamera
Guantanamera, guajira guantanamera
Con los pobres de la tierra
Quiero yo mi suerte echar
Con los pobres de la tierra
Quiero yo mi suerte echar
El arroyo de la sierra
Me complace…

Gloria and OM a tad earlier piqued my little attention span with one of those sometimes-synthetic photo ops with Mickey & Minnie...voice over (in unison)
'Don't forget your alphabet soup Gally...!'

Comment by catch-22 on May 23, 2019 at 10:08am

Speaking of Havana, it was José Martí who wrote what became ‘Guantanamera’. Your pal Julio did a cover, along with muchos otros. Hers’s to a proper breakfast, made with true love.

Comment by J.P. Hart on May 23, 2019 at 12:19pm

Of course dear catch-22!
José Martí

José Julián Martí Pérez; January 28, 1853 – May 19, 1895 was a Cuban poet, essayist, journalist, translator, professor, and publisher, who is considered a national hero and an important figure in Latin American literature. Wikipedia

Also-always a pleasure, hon...don't be such a stranger in paradise~por favor~I just gotta get out of sooooooooo much of my arrested schoolyard adolescence...No question noir doubt that I, along with your legion of fans here on Our Salon await your unique poetica. And here's to the best canna grower east of Ol' Man River. Hope all is calm, you know throttle back~~ I saw dat near foot of snow in Duluth last week or so. Duluth where the ships roll away, again, those good shippin' crews...swinging carpenter square-like bridges...but a yard dart toss from Thunder Bay; wren in willow wood...

Comment by Maui Surfer on May 23, 2019 at 1:44pm

Just do not wear red in LA, please.

Comment by catch-22 on May 23, 2019 at 2:23pm

All is calm, hart. All is clam.

Maui Surfer, that’s facts.

I’m gonna keep my focus on tomatillos, bees and willow trees.

Comment by J.P. Hart on May 23, 2019 at 5:38pm

Maui Surfer, catch-22: I'm in a sad mood tonight... Beulah and me are down to one smartassphone and so I'm conferencing fessin' the grounds with one of Gloria's MSOE landscape architects--and carrying the sa-ph even though she's been anxious for incoming 'word' from the Blue Northerns. Loudly, out-of-nowhere, 1984ishly OM yipes or skypes? over yelling: Be blank blank sure you get afta' those miniature ants 'neath the Apache stones...sure enuff and good grief boss...geeze they're so conscientious! High stake detailers or howdyya spell picayunish? For Pete's sake!

Beautiful day otherwise. So then i dwelled & snapped several odd photos of a lumbering GIANT yellow jacket weirdly crawling on the concrete. Big as Giannis Antetokounmpo's thumb nail. Wounded, stunned...I just don't know...seemingly searchin' for where the pavement never grows...queen bee I seem to recollect. Simultaneously BUZZ FEED NEWS...vare am I?

Yeah no red in LA? Please explain.

So I finally daydreamingly snuck a web peak finding your comments.

Holy smoke land's sake alive catch-22 mentioning bees and willow trees!

Yeah no red in LA? Please explain.

.A Syrian GF once told me that 'red' is my color though my kerchief was well faded.

I've vivid recollection of driving through WATTS early summer 1968. All the dudes pumping heavy bars in those project yards. No problemento como no. Certainly neither of you are referring to Joe McCarthy's Red Menace Inquisition-like Bircher-heavyweight heat lamp in face of alleged besmirched 'fellow travelers'??

As well, you're not referring to BIG POLITICO Red v. Blue Green GOP v. DEM hollerin' ad nauseum, right?

One must not wear red even in Orange Co? Leave home without my red Speedos? Is that why Arnie was drop-kicked in South Africa...?

What up? Red nowadays reserved only for Mars? What up?

Comment by catch-22 on May 23, 2019 at 6:09pm

Sad nights are rough, even when the air is still near bursting with rain. It can be a nostalgia enhancer and we know what that does to story-telling.

Red in LA mean you make bloody moves, like with Bloods...Maui Surfer will correct me if I wrong. Blue is for the Crips. But I dunno, that’s just me, outside that world trying to front like I do.

Outside of that, el rojo is up there with Black and Brown = Bello.

Like the burning carmine in Marti’s verse.

Mis saludos, comrades. May your moods and the weather be full of light and the right kinda waves. 

Comment by J.P. Hart on May 24, 2019 at 9:56am

Thanks again dear catch-22...although that 'midnight train' is lookin pretty good nowadays (apparently sobriety has opened more than several compartmentalized long-dormant regions of my brain here in the round ball capital of the world) I am compelled to note that yesterday I'd intended to imply 'the best canna grower WEST of Grand Dad's bluff...oh! Mississippi...!

Please allow me to point out the imperative of aggregate 'people's money'-- municipal/education budgets so as that we not lose focus on dedication to more and more adequate funding of music, drama, debate, athletics of course, sculpture, architecture--dance, you know we all got up to dance, gymnastics, choir, clowning, there ought to be clowns. Alas, you know what's been said, fiction flash.

On the other hand, maybe the Military Industrial Complex is self-coding and doesn't know IT?

I mean what the FARMAID!

OM and Gloria are AMtraking up from Key Largo...I've just uncrated two exquisitely carved mahogany cats--they want everything 'just so' in several days. Windless buckets of horizontal rain. And rain. Gloria's taken to using one of those antiquated 'stage prop-like' cigarette holders. REALLY!?


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