July 8

On this day in 1976 I stood
on a rolling deck
on the starboard watch,
and saw Mt. Fuji's peak,
high above the clouds.

In '85 I huddled between two soda machines
alongside a gas station and watched a thunder storm
stampede across the Bad Lands.

In 96 my dad and I came upon
the Silver City Co-Op
on the continental divide
and talked our wounds away.

In 1981 I was sick behind a dumpster in
Baton Rouge, swatting rats off my legs,
trying to remember my name.

Tijuana, 77, Rosario.
Olah! She didn't need hands
to pull a cork!

92. Quit smoking.

I could go on and on.
What matters most, though,
is July 8, 2009.
Today was a good day.
That's enough to make it special.

Long ago, nights like this,
my poison was a shot of Jack Daniels, (which I HATED)
beer, (since replaced by wine)
and repeat.
Ten times or so.

I was young.
I was reckless.
I thought I was having fun.

I remember a poster
that used to hang in Tonnies
down in Menekaunee.
Old Popeye-looking dude
at a bar with a beer in front of him.
The caption was,
"We gets too soon olt,
"and too late schmart.
"Better we should haf another."
Bless you, old man.
And bless you too, Armand.
How 'bout one more for the road...

From the Juke Box

BOOTY CALL


My skin is sweet like chocolate
My voice is Barry White
I sleep the day away cause
I am up all night

(chorus)
Give me a ring
I'm your booty call
I'll give you lovin',babe
I can do it all.

I got slow moving hands
warm and strong
I'll lift you up
love you all night long

chorus

You'll be my little kitty
I'll be your scratching post
Tell me pretty baby
Who you love the most

chorus

Cabby poem

THE BOY WHO DOESN’T KNOW
　
Kid gets in my cab,
headphones on,
thousand-yard stare,
saliva-coated chin.
Four people walk him
to the cab door and leave.
My eye never leaves the mirror.
He sits and rocks a little,
hums softly.
I think he is his own universe.
There are strange stars
in his sky.
He revolves around himself
silent and stately.
I am nothing here.
Maybe a small moon
casting inconsequential light.

city boy

CORN WOMAN


City boy finds himself in the country
finds himself lost in the silence of the corn
in the far misty horizon
in good land rolling away forever

Seeking roots
or a home
or a place
where he can rest

The wide open here scares him
who has loved cityscapes
and cloud-scraping buildings
and the babble of the towers of men

Seeking space
a place to roost
a house of healing
a place to hide

In dreams his soul departs
rides ribbons of power lines
into the restless city
joins in the dance of night

Spirals upward
seeking light
needing love
finding none

His soul trolleys back
along ribbons spanning fields
into the arms of Corn Woman
finding there all he has ever sought

Friends and poetry

Here are two lovely women with their boots round my shoulders. At left is Sharon, right is Ellen.
They caught my reading of Red Boots at the Harmony Cafe in Appleton June 15. It was a blast.

Throwing Open A Life

It was early when I left
left the door open
left the raincoat on the hook
umbrella in the corner
I left in the rain
hands in my pockets
whistling a Led Zeppelen tune
about leaving in the summer time
leaving when the summer comes a'rolling
I heard the road call like it used to
I heard it calling me back home

Home is a heart out there
that is leaving right now
purse on the sofa
keys on a hook
an open face
whistling her favorite leaving tune
rolling towards me like summer thunder