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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
I took her girth, width and breathless.
Dreams in Search of a Poem
part IV continued...
It was the wreck of everything, theft of what was left,
can’t work with anyone who thinks his work is worth
more than yours. They beat you up, take back all you gave, that
glitter & chill of nights long remembered.
You don’t even know what put you in this hospital.
Whatever it was became a white van haul, its load of
pawn scum goods to pile in a bay window, gig worn
gear to be peddled to starry-eyed kids, their turn now.
The girl from Boston goes walking, police want to
know what she’s up to, pedestrians are not allowed
to walk at night even if you live in Tapioca Heights,
its light bulbs strung against the sky like an eternal
Christmas, or boat festooned for giddy voyagers to
sail heedlessly into oblivion. A cautious civility on
stand-by guards your suspect whim to walk, if for no
reason but to grab the air and say, I just came from
Boston to see my guy, what’s wrong with that?
Married to the girl from Boston, soon she’ll take
me with her, stuck in the non-smoking section, a
temporary home in her borderline personality. I
won’t figure this out until I hear she’s taken my
little daughter, my grandmother’s namesake on
down the line, the tracks going to the project in
N. Cambridge where the mass murderers live in
the total serenity of their alcoholic resentments.
Her excuse, she wasn’t allowed to be a teenager.
As if to help, the city teaches you how write a
résumé, excuse my French, teaches you how to
exaggerate your skills and get the job you need.
You climb that mountain in the Bravo Sierras,
begin your rise in some vicious cut-throat game,
electro mechanical layout and design drafting,
and sit in the cold room sculpting the substrate
of a warhead with fierce top secret clearance,
no intention of perspiring until the Claxton
sounds, driving you from the bldg to insanity.
In the art room of your own making, you play
with the leftover shapes of your life until you
discover your true self in wavy lines of peanut
butter clung to the side of recognition, looking
oddly like a rainbow, once the stuff of art you
obsessed over til a teacher shook you awake
yelling, “they’re just pictures, Jim, pictures!!”
Art union exhibition convinces you to show,
so you flip the poster over and paint on the
back a landscape of confident strokes plum,
blue and red, like strokes of wisdom without
words, wilderness unfurled, painted energy
unleashed to fall a musical liquid on staves.
Basement band for burnt out professionals
drones along, tunes of original agonies and
infantile disappointments, poetic words too
poetic for public consumption, curios in a
restaurant bay window crooning their jazz.
The audience whispering please don’t sing.
Back on the road with motorcycle weekend
chicks again, her letters in my hand, just
drop ‘em, now, drop ‘em in the gutter now,
don’t look back, only couple a weeks later
she’s in the ice cream parlor on the phone
with me and I have to call in a favor and
get her a place to stay, straighten her out.
The rest of the tour was no different, can
tab lounges to the horizon and back, no end
to the infantile lessons I have to witness.
The naughty guy confesses all, despite
the derision in the ranks that sent me out
into the night of Watertown diners and
Boylston Street studios, beautiful out-
patients’ secret rendezvous, club lizards’
up-town weirdo joints, street professors in
dire dilemma, women set on dancehall
logic to deliver full impact, a social note,
a Figaro headline, poets’ Tuesday soirée
announcement where dice roll but hazard
continues to sucker me with symbolism.
The wife will never see it that way, she
will only grasp the impractical solution.
Another professional art world lady to
my rescue, digs my art, takes me on as
an artist, text book case of text book
art evolving in text book fashion for
the primary student, learning to read by
shades of ice cream and non-racial
differences, cultural deference to all who
endeavor to leave a mark in the world.
On the way out the door she asks me,
“Have you ever tried greeting cards?”
“Yes, they all said to try illustration.”
Tech illustrator yells “your resume
says you know how to do that and
that ‘expertise further includes the
experience of having done it before’.
Are you shitin’ me? If I didn’t like
you I’d throw you out of here like
the sack of bull listed on your resy.
Numberless fripped spec control
Ansi standards and
military documents up
yang later, I find my self riding
shotgun on documentation, the
interested in ousting
the black, the Jew and
Get ‘em on the rules, the doc
standards they never read, I’ll
back you up
if anyone shouts
fowl. Why me, I think, this
a job, it’s an ulcer on my soul.
home with Gypsies, take Banja Luka wagons.
I took her girth, width and breathless.
A gypsy girl next adored, took her
from all of her jealous lovers and
set her down on my homeland turf.
Put her thru nursing school and
put words in the mouths of her kids.
Learned a little a Polish from her
mom, before she tried to kill me
with a war axe. We got along fine.
Still a shopper, I’m making cigarette
production machines, aluminum
can line monitors, storage dam wire
charts, flow logic diagrams and read
blueprints to myself without need of
interpolation, but if I move my elbow
my head will hit the drawing board.
Soon I’ll stop drinking, say night-night
to the Poles and go back to my music.
part I part
JW by JW
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