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.
when I’m out and about
when I’m out and about
the busy cars 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 with two doors
others with four.
they stop and go when
the traffic light tells them so.
even the murderers stop
when told by the traffic light
which hangs from a wire above
swaying like a crazed Wallenda.
the people are silent when I’m out and about.
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.
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.
