scrunchymacscruff

Big Grand Daddy’s rolling, “Tic-toc! tic-toc!” he watched Grandmother, she went; and he watched Mom, too, “Tic-toc! tic-toc!” she’s gone now, I guess – finally – it was her heart (tic-tic-tic-___). In my dream we meet. We’re back at the old place, nothing but strangers, people I don’t know milling around, working/not working out front..a re-model? more road-work being done on the main drag?? (Caltrans gots traffic backed-up all the way to Sugarloaf). I put my key in, it’s unlocked, loose..different door I don’t remember made out of glass. I go in, they follow me, “Tic-toc! tic-toc!” Shawn’s squareback’s sitting up on a lift, down a block across the street getting fixed or, something about the carburetor..I went to get him smokes (nerves). I have to have my sax serviced. It all happens right here at the old homestead..nobody’s seen O’Brien all day, “Tic-toc, Tic-toc.” Tell him The County’s looking for him about his fork-lift he’s gotta move it, or, –“Tic-Toc!Tic-toc!Tic-toc!Tic-toc!” I’m s’posed to come back with cigarettes from the store I can’t find it (the store). Where’s Uncle Ken? “Tic..” (He) went to get North Shore Debbie’s car started, “-toc.” she overheated trying to get to Blythe. Who said? Russian Debbie, “Tic..” Oh. The Russian. K.P.’s buying everybody beers, “Tic-toc! Tic-toc!” Can I buy a nickel? No..Anybody gotta cigarette? Here..Gotta light? There, want me to smoke it for you, too? Listen up! hey everybody, –Listen, cops are on their way doing the warrant-sweeps, just went out over the radio, they’ll be here, in about five..8-balls into pockets, Klickety-klick! beers getting gulped. Everyone splits (everyone, except Firewood Bob coming out of the rest-room didn’t hear it, got pinched and speeded off to the local lock-up, jukebox in shadows now silent..stillness). Meanwhile, back outside by the shop in full daylight and less smoke, tourists are making demands on me for lower price-quotes..What! for this fabulous stuff?? No. Sorry. I won’t budge, –here comes the Fire-chief. “Tic-toc!” Grabbing the rail I, “Tic-toc!Tic-toc!” pull myself up the stone steps, turn my key in the dead-bolt on the side-door, its lock disintegrates instantly and spills in my hand like a bunch of odd-size B.B.’s..I can only locate a few of the parts they all migrated. SOUTH. Tic! tickety-toc! Just then this banged-up white, big delivery-truck tears out of the old filling-station lot next-door by the Fire-department that still had its gas-pumps planted on the islands until only recently (because somebody whispered something to somebody with The County; which leaned on the new owner), –white, wide-open empty van with its door rolled up, barreling out! rear wheel comes loose, it’s dragging it by a chain, SPARKS, –Tic!Tic!Tic! bouncing down the boulevard teeter-tottering, heading west into the sun; everybody’s running behind including the mechanic, chasing after it to flag the guy down he’s probly illegal, or just a plain idiot, –Oh well! some local color. “Tic-toc.” I get told my saxophone’s ready, now..here it is, on the counter, –my counter! where’s my wallet? I have to go back out in the parking-lot where I last saw it somewhere around all the new people I don’t know and find it, there, in the middle of the valley of junk. It’s July, haven’t seen burros for about a week..road crews rolling asphalt, traffic’s jammed, a wedding’s in progress..under that tree, smell the cherry blossoms? “Tic-” I’ll need my sax to, –“toc!” to play a song I wrote for Grandfather Clock, “Tic-toc-Tic-toc! Tic-toc-Tic-toc!” he’s watching me now..record the dream “Tic-toc! Tic-toc!” like he watched Dad, writing sermons and reading the Bible; and Mom..and Grandmother crocheting, reading their Bibles; like he watches everybody “..Tic” You follow me? “-toc!” “Arrivederci!” “Tic-toc! Tic-toc! Tic-toc! Tic-toc! Tic-toc! Tic-toc! Tic-toc! Tic-toc!”, Italy! yeah it does, it kinda does feel that way, like the Swiss Alp’s in It’ly all covered with snow; just like Ol’ Smokey..on top! Si, Signores? Oh! and next week we gain an hour, too, because of fall so don’t forget to change time’s, it’s “Tic..”

~c. P-s. “To dreamm, the impossible dream..” Hi, Mom.

(Poetry’s for my president:) Living..people (living) in glass cubes, –silhouetted against sunrise walking, icily, in muted squares seen by neighbors through portholes, behind shades of krinkl’d rice-papers drawn up tight..Kabuki plays in every den (coming out of typewriters), lions roam the streets chasing butterflies..”Nurse! Nurse!” Where can one go? Overseas, peoples converse, like in public meeting-halls wearing TV-screen hats for crowns..cathode-ray tubes flicker as sun swallows ocean, “Hai.” overheard in V-formations – on their course – shrieks of cranes gliding south..Blue! enemy coasts, visible through binoculars on the bridge and periscopes below, making decisions for lost worlds, and sailors – in them,mm!mesmerized – in dreams, dreaming fealty’s to solemn oaths in underwater water-tight compartments slowly digesting navy meals ahead of the expected nuclear winter, nod..agreeably. Down in the engine room it is much the same, –murky steam+no windows..0H-4-Hundred, –“ZER0! to report SIR.” (?) “People’s IS peoples” (=). This means YOU. “Weigh anchor. Sayonara, suckers!” “Sir! volcano dead ahead, Your Excellency..Sir.” (!!) “Rook!rook!Gojira!!Gojira!!” Royal wedding (by invitation). Send in geishas, no samurai to accept. Blow them kisses, kisses and bombs (flower-power). Peace..baby

~c. P-s. Poet-trees: Worms, swimming softly, in solid lumber cores, strike the purest expressions..in wood; after ages of process, they petrify, and become suitable for framing; and entering thee poetry contests (wood, for paper, to make stacks of hundred-dollar-bills for winners’ poems).

The taste of JELL-O with bananas and pineapple, suspended..is on y0ur lips! fresh-ground coffee aromas are in your hair; the smell of crowded cupboards – stocked for years with every spice unimaginable and periodically refreshed..when, when their ages give them away – is hanging out-chore armpits. Shall we go for a drive? I think I probably would like to get out of the house. Yeah..that would be good.

~c. PS: Desert? mountains? ocean?? Dessert!

I guess sometimes it’s better to just let the poem write itself, and then leave it alone. That, I am sure, is how a lot of people feel about it..”Yeah, leave it alone! it was bad enough the first time.” Let go (of the poem) and let God (throw it in the circular file). That is one of the amazing things about discipleship, it leaves a trail of really great wadded-up notes in its wake, to be swallowed by the eternal..forgetfulness; and mercifully so. Why am I writing this? A fair question, and brilliant!, for anyone reading it. A better question is WHY IS SOMEBODY READING IT..did I share something worth considering? If so, then I broke my stylistic convention and all is lost! and that’s a good thing..hopefully, a God thing. I was reading a small book about how to put on the person of Christ, by Thomas Kempis, –question: Am I more Christ-like today than I was yesterday? Am I more perfectly yielded to the will of Him who made me? sent, with a purpose and obligation to show others the Way to Truth? fullness of joy? Life, everlasting? for the love of Jesus?, yes. Yes, Sir. Thank you Lord, for the cross before..all, forgiven; and no fluff. Time is short.

~c. Ps: So the last question is..do I actually want to sue San Bernardino County, and the greater government at large; or give a thirsty soul to drink?