there was a time, some time ago

when some said

that my son “looks like me”.

nobody says than anymore.

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 variety store to buy eggs

and a gentle, yet reasonably fast-acting laxative.

I miss the jingling bells

hanging atop the doors

of the old, common variety stores.

they carried a pleasant tune of welcome.

the guy behind the counter seems

uninterested in everything; everything on Earth.

he looks at me like I’m from Mars.

if he had a stone back there he’d throw it at me.

maybe he thinks I’m up to something.

what I’m up to 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 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, like love should 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.

 

                    old age and rare devotion

while slipping into teeshirts

screened with messages

there was never a sense of mediocrity.

the messages were the medium:

front: “Champagne don’t make me crazy

back:  "Cocaine don’t make me lazy”

“Write-in Eldridge Cleaver for president”

“Unite Ireland!”

and so on.

with an approaching birthday many years ago,

my father, the liquor salesman on the road,

sent me a teeshirt 2 times my size with a message

because he knew “I liked that sort of thing.”  It read:

“Kiss Me I'm Italian” and on the back,

voluptuous, cadmium red female lips.

now long gone.

so stupid. so typically naive. so fundamentally department store.

try as I have over the years, I can't find another one.

                     the “permission slip”

if you leave the classroom

you have to have a “permission slip”––

a pre-printed 10"x 8" sheet of paper

which will travel with you.

for example:

“this allows (blank) permission to use the restroom.”

(blank) is filled-in with your name.

your very own, personalized “permission slip.”

there were 23 kids in the classroom.

there were 6 kids in the hallway carrying “permission slips”

and another 8 standing at the urinals.

at the time there were 151,325,798 million people in the United States.

there are billions of us in the world and

near half-a-trillion stars in the home galaxy, although

they told us "Andromeda" is bigger.

as a 12 year resident on Earth, I took that as an insult.

estimated wait-time for an open urinal was anybody’s guess.

also, It was required that the “permission slip” be returned

to the classroom "Unadulterated and without Creases";

quite an accomplishment while standing at a urinal.

(imagine 8 schoolboys standing in a horizontal row at the urinals.

now imagine them with 10"x 8" slips of paper protruding from

their rigidly closed lips.

the archives: Hugo A. Dubuque School.

                     southbound in southern Ohio / 1971-1973?-1970

the sign read:

“last stop for 20 miles”.

surely I can go

20 miles without incident.

what’s 20 miles

when you’re driving

a fast car?

after 10 miles another sign read:

“death awaits in 10 miles”.

what's the driver

of a fast car to do?

so, I traveled on fearlessly

into Kentucky.

inside, the sign

above the counter read:

“We reserve the right

to refuse service to Anyone!”

I ordered the meatloaf plate.