dave's engaged
my nephew dave,
aka at one time daev,
he used other names too,
founder of THE-HOLD.COM
is engaged to be married
to a beautiful girl named
amber.
they're in love with each
other -- final year of college
tho amber is going
onto graduate school
i believe in milwaukee
so that's where they'll be
heading
to. dave is a computer science
major, he is a whiz with computers,
already has a job in the field,
work won't be a problem
for him no matter where
he goes.
let's hope
not iraq. what
a horrible world
we inhabit along
with horrible humans,
& i am
blessed
with the
love of
family in amerika.
i don't know
if dave visits
this board often
or not, or
at all, but if so,
congratulations.
yr mother sd you flew
in & out in five minutes,
that you & sam & sam's friend
robin just drove to erie
to get the ring
that was done being
re-sized. amber
stayed back at hiram college
doing homework.
too early
wake way too early in early afternoon
james arness is it gunsmoke on the
tv? weird, this might be sleep,
might not be sleep, but i
did hear the cellphone,
now the real phone
is ringing.
dad, i'm at the door,
doug is saying.
i am groggy haze dad.
he's dropping my car-keys
into my hand.
thanks for lettin'
me use the buick dad.
me & mom are going to
get my car now.
then his mother
is knocking at my door.
i ask about the unlocking
lug-nuts & inspection
the dealer promised.
they're doing all that
right now.
we're grabbing lunch first
then headin' out.
oh, i say, then you're
going to teach him
how to drive a standard
5-speed?
WHY? DO YOU WANTA?
IF YOU WANTA
YOU'RE MORE THAN
WELCOME!
no,
that's
ok, i concede.
so doug has
another car,
a '93 black mitsubishi
mirage,
66,000 miles.
the back-seats fold down
into open trunk,
& there will be one of
his speaker-boxes
booming,
pounding,
this white boy trash shit music.
but the old buick
is now in the parkinglot
with more gas in the tank
than when i gave
it to him.
i can hear this very moment
from 10 miles away
a grinding of
gears -- doug's mother's
loud
loud
voice PUT IN THE CLUTCH!
i work again
tonight. james arness
died of lung cancer did'nt
he?
i need a few more
hours of sleep.
later
my nose is all cold & dribbles, tips
of my ears hurt, i'm standing outside
in the parkinglot in jeans & old heavy
shirt wearing sandals but it's FALL,
it's falling away from the sun in leaps
& bounds & here's doug's
new '93 maroon-color'd mitsubishi.
nice. it's been years i've used
a clutch, but take it for a spin
while his mother stands
outside in the cold.
13-inch tires, dealer threw
an inspection-sticker on it
but i don't know if the tires
do pass. 66,000 miles
on the tires, i assume.
but his mother says she thinks
she has new 13-inch tires
in her basement
from rachel's lemans
that shld fit. doug,
meantime, has a continuous
smile on his face.
he likes it.
my face is warming up now.
ann will be home
in about an hour.
there's delicious
left-over chicken
soup she made 2 days ago
for supper.
then it will be
couch time,
nap time,
& work,
then a night off.
each moment
every moment
all moments of mind
is wonderment
& awe
we're all
space
aliens
& in the center
of the milky way
galaxy:
a newly-discovered
certainty
of a black hole.
we spin around
a black hole.
meantime so the fuck what.
i slept terribly today.
terribly.
midnight, i think of mcneilley
it's almost psychic-like,
exactly midnight & i remember
mcneilley outside cat's bookstore
in kent ohio in the alley
in his wheel-chair
smoking cigarettes --
i think jazzbo gave him
one of his cheap southern
generic southern brand,
or the whole pack.
i haven't had a cigarette
in 2 & a half years.
if i hear anything
about nuclear war
becoming reality
i'm smoking cigarettes again
or if i am diagnosed
with a terminal illness,
hell fucking yes,
light it for me.
michael mcneilley,
lost, gone, dust.
look at us all back here
still breathing & trying
for magic:
i see you smile like jesus
christ.
double piss-streams
what is it saturday?
i need ten thousand dollars.
please give me ten thousand dollars.
my grandpa androla,
in his 90's,
humbled downstairs
to his cellar
for the little
door held a pint
of jim beam
bourbon.
he gave it to me,
sd
drive
carefully.
a good
ten
years ago.
i like
i like how i am avoided
at work -- except for amos,
say, press operator like
for 30 years, he converses.
he understands.
i understand him.
his perseverence awes me,
actually. meantime
the supervisor fucks him
& fucks him & fucks him
as other operators drop away
into cake jobs or
light-duty assignment.
we have the tattoos of forearm-burns
from running these dinosaur compression
presses, steam-heated, some electric-
heat, 300 degrees, we reach our bodies,
our arms, our hands, fingers
inside these hot metal molds.
amos sometimes doesn't even wear
gloves when handling the metal
inserts. my own hands are thick
& numb & a workingman's hands
but still too sensitive like a
white-boy pussy when compared to
amos' middle 50's black man's
strenuous hands.
oh, & adrian, of course,
we talk, but now he's
on first shift with amos.
the other 2 operators have
bad hands, carpal tunnel or
something. i'm alone on third
shift altho now puerto-rican
jose former boxer with facial
scars, early 40's, & greg,
32, called back from lay-off
from his previous utility
classification blows off
work to the point
of write-ups,
to the edge of
a job. he might pull
a nosfuratu &
fake viral infection &
various ways to get out
of running the presses
including what seems
to be blowing the
boss -- nothing
surprises me about
the baseness of
my fellow workers.
i don't like them.
they don't like me.
i like that.
a day for art
woke, awake,
what molecular conflaguration goofs
now? i recognize i'm breathing
thru the edge of an ann-odor'd sheet,
& she is at work selling teacher
supply stuff to teachers around
this upper area of things:
erie is a hub, imagine that.
i may easily feel like a bubble.
sci-fi space bubble i
claw trapped inside all clear
& screaming & mute.
me in erie,
that's the picture.
i'd be worse in other
places,
nearer that
edge of home-
lessness &
poverty or heroin
addiction.
we're staying put.
my back is
sore, i am adjusted
by lipitor
& xanax &
herbal enhancements
& beer, or bourbon,
or vodka,
gin. well,
i don't need to
say more.
it's today.
e.e. cummings,
the crazy fuck,
was born today
a zillion years ago.
talk about a poet
abused by required
reading in high-schools.
poetry is
such a difficult
circumstantial
situation:
slice
thru
open
brain.
click to view movie/poem - eggs