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JIMMY WARNER DESIGN,
Any Resemblance to persons living or dead is purely
I rarely reveal the name of anyone who may or may not be my
Lucid Dreams in Search of a Poem
For want of
another girl next door, another black eye
Dreams in Search of a Poem
part II continued...
made of chicken and sugar, wafting along the halls
of my dreams. She drove a cardboard car and always took
me with her to buy our modeling clay groceries which we
made together on granite top treatments of her front porch.
Playing mothers and children (& dads) we taught ourselves
the game of expectation that many people drive into a ditch.
Thinking back how the girl next door wanted me to have
dinner with her folks and watch TV cuddled on the couch
made me want more, different folks, newer TVís, closer
cuddles to raise eyebrows with. The girl next door was
eternal, forever teaching me what she wanted me to know
but in later episodes, totally deny the validity of its heart.
ďThatís not it, not even romantic. Yí call yourself a poet?Ē
Making overtures that defied the playbook, music lessons
of learning by rote and yearning by note, I found stuck in
the very throat of my song, a voice with chaotic jazz, low
as a steamship horn and high as jungle canopy, rhythms
more sexual than written rhythms could ever convey.
Transistors would change our tribal tune for all time.
Transistor: the a/v component that made music portable.
For want of another girl next door, another black eye,
an eye for an ear full of gossip over backyards and patio
chairs, musical chairs interrupted by patio bands or den
music gone pimply fed by potato chip warriors on lost
weekend nocturnal quest for sock hops and girl cheer,
the very last thing any other girl next door needs to hear.
Working while other kids play, bright or gray, the grind
pulls muscles into shape, turns all boy and no paper into
business frustration, all bike and no sale into hatred on
wheels, all dog and no defense into rabid madness, all
mud and no road to success into hoodlum status, kid
without cause into summer drunk, going out for a smoke.
Came for the first time and didnít know what it was. She
said all boys do that, donít worry about it. What can you
give a girl as kind as she, wearing anything you give herÖ
kissing your best friend, the gossip when least expected.
I give you bragging rights, fantasy, the stuff of dreams.
Like saliva running down a culvert, the saxophone invents
new imagery and a tragic bent for musical metaphor novelty.
Study hall teacher digs it, coaxes you to read poems and
play music in the coffee house uptown, wine and diners on
dead end trips to the Cary Street crossroads of alcohol art.
The only way out is a labyrinth of altars and hallelujahs,
the private epiphany not advertised by any known faith.
labyrinth of altars and hallelujahs
part III continued
JW by JW
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