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: