There would be a rock, a quiet kind, painted with a heart and names enchanted. So where are they? Who said stop the illegal bombing in Cambodia? That mantra over nicotine haze? Thousands of cocktail glasses on round trays, momentarily silent? Half beer barrels carted and pierced, a cacophonous ritual, like limitless buckets of ice, they listened and he did not speak, he flew; his were good business shoes at one time. Open toe hop-along cassidy sandals.

Or the guy rail thin- who mentioned thinking is bad enough- ordering only mushrooms with brown rice for his taciturn soft gums; starved as he became, one more scarecrow, as vivid as rain pillars at the edge of the sunflower sea.

Of course the waitress was threatened, anticipating only the odor of a stale denim shirt, motel soap, petiole oil, the last winter steam from the radiator.

Suspicious of Canadian nickles, a dollar's worth, over a two dollar bill, as we fled, blustered without escape. Smoke in an old attic.

Okay she would think, a flower halo on her. No. That was the girl crying screaming. The dead she held just off camera.

Years later they're possibly yet searching, a kind of compassionate nervousness. Another would eloquently hot-wire your Porsche, a gold amalgam from her last husband, a curious pendulum on a faint silver chain.

Even then her shoes were black high top canvas, her feet bare through her own manufactured slits aside the shoes, how she stood then squatted at my booth, writing the order for calamari, Muscovy artichoke, or ordinary broasted rabbit, mushrooms and brown rice, and a side of the vegetable of the day, sticks and carrots?

I made her laugh and she loved me. I loved her.

She asked if he thought the interior fancy eh? He said this ain't nothing, high ceilinged and superfluous, bade for whisky, with three fingers, while her mouth composed a subtle sadness, or was it so? Had she decided then? Had she acted well all through this?

And Tuesday would roll, like a hubcap mirror, me focused and unburdened confessing my working class ethics, more working than class ... or she never really liked how I tried to teach the boy to box; don't play rough --- and I thought I was good with the kid, even one time concealing a ketchup packet, fallen, lolling, cornered, rope-a-doped, I feigned unconsciousness, my mouth and nose covered red. The kid scared, a momma's boy.

Indeed where are they now? You can hear how cold the rain is after no time listening at all, a catacomb now wondrous; that cabbage moth at dawn, freed from slumber, clawed a screen.

I had a ton of splaining to do, a great distance to drive.

***

When they come for your genes,
take them off of the clothesline.

for my futuristic book of poems:

*Corners* (c)

HART

...

Views: 28

Comment by J.P. Hart on April 21, 2019 at 6:20am

What Walter Brennan's Uncle Said After Fasting
RATE: 2 Flag

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
green framed door

then loudly the setting sun aureoled (wd)

darkening his face he said right back to little barefoot sleepy children including young Thomas (spiky straw hair)

im-ah gonna walk over there and see whats on fire

Rex the shiny Blue bounded afta-em n much later on Auntie Selma's dinosaur: pale green: was all this-away and lonely as Sauk City;

the translucent mothership disembarked Dead Rockers

tuned unseen

yet euphonious

And the eloquent elephants flapped their ears to shield the rain as the barefoot sleepy children cried in it.
Dot org, spot oy
Sometime toward midday they waited for the caboose

after great peppermint pinatas rolled by

seemingly sorry, some frowning with irrevocable sadness,

like that base

when three wounded strong men though wounded

walked amazingly well

off

toward the burn hofsophal

for fresh bandages eyes left

know they-d better hurry

He read ten other poems and decided not to write about it.

***

I think it would be wonderful to have Johnny recite this in Caribbean 4. (Oblique reference to the google ad that appeared under your bio.)

Damon E Walters
MAY 16, 2010 01:15 PM
I think it would be wonderful to have Jane Krakowski recite this in my bathtub, actually.
(Reminds dear reader that this is a family blog replete with, shucks, old songs like: * In Hurley There is No Beer* *What Made Milwaukee Famous has Made a Hoosier Out of Me* and that late-hour hootenanny classic, *Running Bare with No Outpatient Bracelet* or the ever popular, *Chestnuts Roasting on a Steno Can* ... or maybe, when the leaves are fallin 'n gold, that forever classic deer lodge melody, *I'm Sorry I Shot Your Guernsey, Mister*)...

J.P. Hart
MAY 17, 2010 10:36 PM
I search for you I really do
type author after your name
still you are gone
suppose you went
hidden like a frog
toward the bookfire
where white birch
sound katydids
magnets electrify
earth
for you to
recompose
rain
gaff hooks and
odd names
too many consonants
where you knew what
you meant to say
imperfectly
a cheap bent fork
swivelling red Naugahyde
stools
chrome pedestals
where the waitress slaps
the horse's rump
the TV
from
the
news

J.P. Hart
MAY 20, 2010 08:04 AM
I think I caught a typo. You meant, of course, "In Hurley there is MoreBeer." You a cheesehead?
Beer." You a cheesehead?

Chicken Mãâàn
MAY 23, 2010 08:49
...

Comment by Robert B. James on April 21, 2019 at 6:29am

I slept well. The porsca had to be jumped...green 63 356, traded for a bicycle and stereo 1977. Never had another...one and done. Come to the Cabaret. 

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