Chet
Baker
Just
as a junkie would fall
from
a second story hotel window
in
Amsterdam, I once fell from a jungle gym
and
hit the drought dry playground
with
the top of my Oklahoma head.
This
was the autumn of 1936, the blacktop,
my
blood, 1st grade. From this blacktop,
angels
in black suits gathered my body. The fall
was
overlain with blinding fire, my head
was
carried to the canvas cot near the window
in
the nurse's office. Cold, wet playground
coloured
paper towels sucked my eyeballs as the gym
squeaked
with basketball shoes, and the sun
shined
on my soul for a while.
I
was a junkie dead in the red light playground
of
Amsterdam, Friday the 13th, on my head,
May,
1988, dead, dead, dead. The fall
of
living like a warm breeze in the back seat
of
a convertible Cadillac at night on the blacktop
of
jazz, palm trees, toothless trumpet window.
Under
some circumstances, life can be a window
you
fall from. Despite being a junkie, despite the pillow
of
a woman's breasts, despite the musical blacktop,
the
song, playing to my feet, the shadow, my head
on
an autumn day on the sticky tar of a roof
in Los Angeles, that song.
The Muse
She
possessed the magical power
to
restore youth to mortals.
Her
harpsichord accompanied
the
strings, flutes, and trumpets.
A
family of sparrows occupied
the
flue of the stove. It snowed
on
April 16th. I could no longer
read
my handwriting; a small
insect
landed on my nose. My bag
of
paints and brushes was open.
I
created a picture of an imaginary
valley
where no one travelled,
and
yet someone had tacked up
a
general supply store, there
among
the weeds and wildflowers
and under the rose blushed sky.
Juxtaposition in Iowa, 1966
“Now,
who asked you?” Randy darted.
Before
and after the prosthetic eye.
The
children and the rainbow parachute,
the
orange hula hoops, the Zimbabwe
soccer
ball, the ballet of soap bubbles.
Randy
always used his bedroom window
to
leave and return to his home.
The
airport control tower flashed green
and
white alternately, a beam
like
a lighthouse in a sea of grass.
One
hand held a campfire, the other hand
cupped
over an ocean wave. One
half
of his face was white, the other
midnight
blue. He started his Jeep
at
1 a.m. He drove to work like a lighthouse
to
his job as an inker for the Register.
He
dressed like an orange penguin. His brain's tree
was
half alive and half dead. He ate
an
apple and a pickle during his break.
Photo: a whore and a nun sat together praying.
I Buy Some Colombian Coffee at the British
Petroleum Station
I
am sort of dressed
like
a cop today,
navy
blue shirt,
beige
slacks, mirror
sunglasses,
short
hair.
A guy with
a
black beard
and
a Billy Jack
hat
and a knife
sheathed
and as big
as
the cross of Jesus
sneers
at me
and
tacks like
a
galleon past
the green gas pumps.
New Cat
His
name is Fred. He looks a little
like
Finnegan, only Fred's Tuxy is Tabby.
He
knows the drill. I write, he becomes
quiet;
the jazz age plays on FM. Rain
sits
in the sky and flips us the bird.
The
living room is filled with cat toys
again;
our new child. I lay my head
on
Caroline's soft hip as she brushes
past
me. Guess what! It's raining now
like
a lost symphony. The gardens
rejoice.
The clarinet wanders through
the
ruins of a Gothic cathedral;
a
rosette window is bright
with
grey rain, swollen clouds;
croquet balls of hail bounce on the grass.
Belle and JC at the Poet's Barbecue
In
her French beret and tight blue
jeans,
Belle snapped photos of the action.
JC
bit off a chaw
as
the campfire sputtered lard.
I
want you to keep the banjo, he said.
I
saw how your eyes lit up when you
played
it. The poets howled
from
the diamond having scored
another
run. Belle stood behind the umpire
with
her camera, its mechanical whir
as
the film advanced.
You
are cooking rodents, she shouted.
That
we are, ma'am, JC replied.
I prefer the cafeteria, Belle responded.
Rough
It's
roughly 100 F.
I
have a rough idea
what
that means.
The
novelist
paints
a green cat
for
her cover.
My
sister
snaps
a photo
of
where she sits
in
her community
flower
garden.
I
taste garlic.
I
swing
on
a hammock
and
dream
of snails.
Owls
We
burned twigs
in
the park's barbecue.
We
roasted hot dogs.
It
was late September
and
night came earlier
than
it did in August.
We
watched the embers glow.
The
train from Denver
no
longer stopped in our town.
We
sat in the park
with
no train whistles,
but
we watched the embers
and
felt the owls fly
above us.
A Life in the Opera
Groucho
had a cigar
it
seemed good
as
the opera woman
clasped
her hands
and
he wagged
his
eyebrows
I
saw grapeshot
and
she sang one long note
like
a whale
Groucho
hurled over
the
coffee table
in
this whale
of
operas
I
saw war
machines
I
saw Usian Bolt
hurdle
and win
Groucho
rustled
his
newspaper
his
telephones
his
scribblings of Lincoln
and
made his
electronic
bird
squeak
like Hawthorne
and
Twain
pulled
up
from
a drawer
I
heard him
lap
up water
viewed
him
through
a pane
of
glass
virtually
free
from
his blue
ceramic
clock
I
think of my niece
a
new infant
from
Korea
and
just like that
she
will grow up
in
America
with
a voice
like
a cornfield
and
a finch
Groucho
is
on his perch now
living
furiously
with
fire
near
the Mississippi
liquefying
into
souls
glaring
at us
like
owls
filled
with rain
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