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Jimbo
a name that conjures images of
warm tobacco spit-filled soda cans
and back pocket circles worn into
ill-fit
slide down blue jeans with,
a loud slurred cursing voice,
and a violent streak, as big as Texas.
The last
I heard he was a police officer,
but in the haunted memory of youth he
still invokes the image of a
vicious
Darwinian redneck archetype
that never fades away.
Although his bile saliva had graced
the back of my
head on
more than one occasion and
I had seen him beat others rather badly
especially Chris Cooper,
whose
flat back crotch face crucifixion
had seemed particularly humiliating
in its homo-erotic overtone,
I had escaped
his wrath.
Due mostly, to an absence
of both pride and reputation
that allowed me the freedom
to run like
a frightened child
(which in fact I was)
seven houses down
from the corner school bus drop off
to the
relative safety of my front door.
Far from the most athletic
kid on the block I could still outrun
Jimbo,
whose lumbering Neanderthal-ish
ape like frame, put him at
a disadvantage, at least in speed.
Mostly,
I remember the aluminum
foil that he had inserted
in and around the ass
of his pet Douchhound, and
the
discomfort it caused the
weenie dog, as it
rolled around in the grass
while Jimbo slurred a threat to
beat
the living shit
out of any kid that dared
to offer aid to HIS dog.
Despite vast oceans of both
time
and miles that
separate us now and
despite myself, with
all that I aspire to,
I wish him only ill
whenever
I think back.
That son of a bitch.
The worst of everything.
Jett Black
There we stood, players
in a potentially violent farce.
Our stage, the roadside
by the park.
Our antagonists, two sports car
steroid shaved ape archetypes.
Jett Black sort of hung there.
Looking
right straight into my eyes, wondering
what my reaction if any, would be.
Although asking, he wasn't
pleading
for assistance. He was
always brave, blissful
in his delusion born confidence.
He wasnt a graceful
dancer.
He wasnt a ladies man.
He only believed himself to be
these, and a host of other things.
This
was the man who had suffered many beatings.
One from a female skinhead that he never quite lived down.
One from a
camouflage clad weekend warrior theatre patron,
an unnecessary challenge
that had earned him massive reconstructive
surgery.
This was the man who had inadvertently provided
free pizza, a mirthful managers reward
for making
the "annoying guy" wait outside.
He was kind, possessed of a good heart
and a faithful friend,
but he didnt
have to scream fuck you
at the passing car.
He shouldnt have.
It was only a leisurely stroll down the street.
He could have kept his mouth shut.
He should have.
The words I heard while mighty hands
squeezed
chicken
neck, two foot Mohawk
standing at attention,
were ridiculously deliberate like under rehearsed
Film Noir dialogue.
Do you have a problem with this?
a cartoon voice barked,
half smile on tan face.
There was a long
pause.
No man, not me my only response.
Moments later, slapped around and tossed aside
once again alone
in our half-real world, a disappointed Jett Black,
couldnt comprehend
the lack of aid.
The only words I had
to offer,
although I doubt he understood, were:
Some things just have to be what they are
In that moment
standing there
a truth had become suddenly clear.
Jett, and many other things in life
would simply have to
be
what they are.
An Oak Cliff Tale
Possibly the wail of a drunken Banshee
or
that of a desperate man with
a freshly broken heart, not sure,
but it was definitely anger
loud defiant anger,
thunderous.
Not just everyday fuck this or fuck that anger, but
balls to the wall hating the lord God, vibrating
tonsils,
punching holes in the dark
anger.
And so close.
Out the window on the street some
plaintiff screamer
cursing fate
or a woman, or his own failings.
These vocal bullets could
have shattered the window, drawn
to
the lamplight
striking my pregnant wife.
(I fear)
Or come like chaotic bricks,
smashing the world falling
defiant to the floor.
It could have been me
fourteen years ago, spitting into the sky
demanding more of
life, and love,
little realizing that the worst
was yet to come.
But this voice is foreign
possibly Spanish
or indiscernibly intoxicated,
not that of an existentialist being let down
easy, possibly that of a killer, an executioner
human in form only. Challenging life.
While we that are aging, fragile
with responsibility and very small
fears,
lamplight mannequins, poised
reading poetry in bed,
simply do not answer.
There is no answer.
He
screams outside the window.
He screams on the street corner.
He screams down the block.
He screams until barely
audible then gone.
Only one in a series of unknowable
passing tragedies,
late, on an Oak Cliff Monday
while
cats roam the streets
and wives are asleep.
Samsara Afternoon
Its not
like walking
sock-footed
feet dragging heel on pant leg
wrinkled sleeve rolled worn blue flannel
and 3rd day blue jeans, through
two beep badge doorways
toward blur shiny break room
I was feeling swell
to begin with.
But, it wasnt
until
the young, normally cynical
long dred spike hair thing guy
liberally soaked in mens cologne
pulled his
4 unidentifiable but certainly
dead, cube like chunks of previously
charred animal flesh from
the often utilized
microwave oven,
poking at them slightly
in their Tupperware coffin bnefore
sending them in for another round,
sort of intruded on my space
while I was trying to stir my
steaming Styrofoam cup of
rich steaming powdered
hot coco,
that it hit me.
Sometimes,
Its not the things we hear,
or have to say
or the disappointments
and tiny
daily heartbreaks
that make life so
hard to take
late
on a workday afternoon.
Sometimes,
It is the smells
or the combination of smells
that make one wish to be
far far away in a
drastically different
place
all alone
under the comfort of the sun.
Cretans & Cretins
You movers and shakers.
You goal oriented achievers.
You are not the sentinels of modern
prosperity
that you imagine yourselves.
Rather, you are the catalyst of entropy.
Anemia to that which is good.
Your pontifical cellular symphonies, unnatural.
Your attempts to redefine your collective realities
to conform
with current paradigms and business buzzwords,
doomed to failure.
And while your culturally predominant self made
success stories
may seem the stuff of which dreams are made,
your philosophy is one of fools.
I strongly suggest;
that you pay more attention to your children
(they need you)
also, that you sit quietly for a time
contemplating
the nature of death
its finality, and that it awaits you.
I suggest that you visit a museum
experience what
remains
of long dead civilizations
ancient Egypt
Persia
Babylon
Sumeria.
There are no traces of
those that managed projects
facilitated communication
or administrated training initiatives.
Its the poets
who survive.
The writers of words,
The singers of songs.
The creators of things, great and small.
While
you worshipers of currency
the managers of time
and resources
will be even less than the dust that begat you
when
all is said and done.
Motherfucker was
on my
toothbrush.
Saturday morning,
seemingly typical
Saturday morning.
Who would have thought that
simply rolling
out
of bed with
the intention to throw
on some clothes and
take the boy out for pancakes,
things could
go so
awry.
Motherfuckers little body parts were all moving the way that they do.
Why the hell are these particular
freakin monstrosities so
intensely appalling as opposed to say,
the cricket
or the dragonfly,
who although
they may share some outward similarities, both seem to be a natural
part of the evolutionary path of our normally charming
little planet,
not like these slimy deviant freakin aberrations of nature.
And the boy is screaming;
daddy killed
it, daddy killed it, daddy killed it.
And the wife is handing me
the biggest ass shoe in the house screaming;
get
it, get it, get it, get it, get it, get it.
Holy shit!
The hair tie and little Brett things are on the floor and
the little white sword toothpick-ish thingies with the dental floss hook ends are
in the sink, somehow the hot water
is running and
3 tubes of toothpaste, 2 deodorants, a bean derived facial scrub
and some blue bottle of bath spray
are
taking a beating with the shoe and
not even the half of a gallon jug of rain fresh Clorox bleach applied
liberally,
passionately, and with a seeming madness
can wash away the memory.
Can wash away the motherfucking memory
of that
cockroach on my toothbrush,
disgusting
sick
little bastard.
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