what am I thinking

historically, the wife and kid moved away, separately

and for different reasons long enough ago as to smear

clarity with the fog of remembrance.

yesterday, for no good reason I found myself

wanting to beat someone up; some loudmouth,

the crackpot across the street, the Witness at the door

hawking reservations to Kingdom Come.

but the last time I simply yelled at someone I got dizzy

and stumbled backward into another entirely different room.

occasionally, I consider buying a small calibre handgun

justifying the acquisition as a self defense mechanism

although it's not likely that anybody's out to get me.

I saw myself standing at the counter looking guilty.

maybe the guy behind the counter will give me instructions

on how to properly load and clean the workings.

I might even go out back to shoot some paper while I’m there.

of course none of this will ever come to be.

christ.

another white old-timer with a gun?

christ.

 

                     when I’m out and about

when I’m out and about

the busy cars on the street

travel east and west each

in its proper lane in single file

at the same speed.

some are moving forward

to take care of business.

others snatch people from

the sidewalks to parts unknown.

the older cars speak to their identities.

the newer ones keep me guessing.

none are Nash Ramblers

and may they rest in peace.

It’s like another world out there.

the hum of rubber wheels.

the occasional horn.

some cars have two doors others have four.

they stop and go when

the traffic light tells them to.

all of them stop on red.

even the maniacs stop when told

to do so by the mighty traffic light

which hangs from a wire swaying

in windy conditions like a crazed Wallenda. 

the people seen out and about seem to

keep to themselves and to be in a hurry

but are silent when I, too, am out and about.

                 

the people in the audience

want to laugh when Bukowski

reads his poems from the stage.

they anticipate the language

as Bukowski readies them.

they laugh.

they laugh because Bukowski

wants them to.

they laugh because they’re

uncomfortable because

their mothers might hear

because they’ve got kids

because some have vaginas

and others have dicks, I guess.

who knows why?

Bukowski doesn’t even know

they’re there.

                 

there was a time long ago

when some said

that my son “looks like me”.

nobody says than anymore.

my son is young enough

to move the entirety of his

physical life from location to location

and his skin is wrinkle-free.

I look like a pasty raisin.

a pasty raisin Sunkist

tossed from the box like the weakest

nestling from the home weave.

I’m convinced that kids are deciding

whether or not to throw stones at me

as I walk to the 24 hr. convenience store to buy eggs

and a gentle, yet reasonably fast-acting laxative.

I miss the jingling bells

hanging atop the doors of the old, neighborhood stores.

they carried a pleasant tune of welcome.

now the guy behind the counter seems

uninterested in everything beyond his nose.

he looks at me like I’m from Mars.

maybe he thinks I’m up to something.

makes sense. each morning mirror

thinks I'm up to something. but

what I’m up to in the immediate 

is clearly defined in my brain. a dozen eggs

and a gentle, yet reasonably fast-acting laxative.

 

                    my geographical plate

harsh sunlight from the northeast.

traveling northbound the sign reads:

“dead end”

southward the sign reads:

“dead end”

westward, entering the apartment

from the balcony glancing toward the south

the futon is acting as a couch collecting laundry.

glancing northward finds the music chamber

a bookcase and a table filled with disposable papers.

glancing west, certain notations and general

inquisitiveness area, concert hall and table

reserved for the execution of everything.

farther west the sink, the microwave,

salt and pepper shakers, sugar bowl,

coffee maker, cabinets holding dry goods.

a measured left turn finds the gas stove and fridge.

at west’s end the doorway leads to the grand

hallway running north to south except when

cordoned-off for waxing.

rotating eastward a walk-in closet, a doorway

deepening southward leading to sleeping quarters

and farther inward and points west, the bathroom and

soon enough a week will not go by when I don’t

lose my way navigating my geographical plate.

                      Judy Johnston of Del Norte, Colorado writes:

Dear William,

I saw a photo of you standing alongside

your bicycle when you were kid.

do you still have fun riding your bike?

Dear Judy,

no. and certainly not the bike you're referring to.

but your question got me thinking about

the circumstances of bike riding.

we rode mostly out of necessity.

I include exploration with necessity. 

we had no notion of health benefits, or pleasant

rides through the countryside on summer days.

we road to the variety stores to nab cigarettes for our fathers.

we rode to snag loaves of Italian bread from the bakeries.

we road with the girls side-saddled across the top tubes

for the sake of their scent in the wind. 

we road to the dump to secure rare items discarded by man.

we road to the park, our gloves threaded through the handlebars

ready to play the game.

we rode for the utilitarian necessity of it, each time

an adventure, the way true love should always be.

                    how it came to be.

the graphics department was consigned

to the windowless basement.

It seemed only painters needed natural light.

but outside, in back of the little

art school, the light belonged

to anyone who would see it.

I began drawing a near dead white birch tree

which in closing was by my definition, disappointing. 

the following afternoon I wandered into the light again.

there stood an old spruce tree, somewhat weathered

but majestic nonetheless.

a heavy-handed compressed charcoal stick

moved frantically over the paper hinged to its pad.

this drawing did not disappoint.

the Swainsky. the year was 1966.