we
left
jerry’s
after
the
bar
closed
in
bulldog’s
eldorado
headed
to nichol’s
lunch
when
murdouch
pulled
a .357
spun
the
cylinder
& shot
a hole
through
the
backseat
floorboard
at 39th
& main
when
my
ears
quit
ringing
we
were
halfway
through
our
brains &
eggs
my mother died in 93
after too many years
of tareytons and
viceroys
my father a year later
they found him in the shower
after a couple days
he hit his head
water turned cold
still running
i never asked
if he was drunk
if it was his heart or
he just slipped
facts didn’t matter
it was a slow motion suicide
that took 73 years
one can at a time
they divorced in 1975
went their separate ways
but their hearts never did
they never talked about
each other after that
but you saw them pause
that light flash in their eyes
if you mentioned the other
if only for a second
faded love by patsy cline
i miss you darlin
more and more everyday
played at his funeral
it was his song
B3 on a dusty
jukebox at the hangout bar
just off raytown road
where he hung his hat
bob didn’t know
facebook or believe
in poets
but thought in terms
of clevelands and windsors
of fastback mustangs
of busted knuckles &
greasy coveralls
he never got thoughts
and prayers posted
online but before
he died
wild bill brought
him a carton of
lucky strikes
that lasted him
to the finish line
i etched tally marks
on yr tombstone
you strung miniature
skulls on jute twine
across my crib
an early lesson
a tiny abacus where
i leaned italian math
by subtraction
you taught me
i was only as good
as my last scribble
my last etching
as i take my next
transfusion
with archival
ink
i cover
the holes
in the wall
with
dreams
of the
dead
jill may
followed the wrong dream
traded family albums for cardboard
and crack pipes
alcatraz fog
slips in steals shadows
surrounds her
turning tricks
on jones street
scoring the next fix
of crack
or smack
You know I’m gonna clean up soon
she grinned
huddled
barefoot
in doorways
wrapped in mist–ragged blankets
she slides the needle
in her neck
the best place to relieve
the cold shiver
the crack hunger
the throwing up
of dumpster food
dealers see her
talking to cops
debts unpaid
trying to clean up
yesterday
they found her
doused with gas
dead
clutching
a burnt cross
casting a shadow
on a black wall
–2007
https://www.sfgate.com/crime/article/Woman-who-burned-victim-alive-convicted-of-murder-4937262.php
i had a dream last night
that johnny cash and me
were kids together
before the black clothes
folsom prison blues
i walk the line
& martin guitars
we wore low top converse
and caught crawdads
out of the creek with paper clips
string and bacon
we smoked viceroys by the tracks
ya hear that train a comin
he whispered
i hung my head
and cried cause
the good dreams
never last long
enough
all children are a gift from god
all children can learn given a chance
even the so called bad parents
want the best for their child & some teachers think they are god
because they walked across a stage
but college degrees have nothing to do with
supreme beings
all children in kindergarten
have a natural curiosity to learn
& little by little we make
them color inside the lines
paint the sky blue,
the grass green
when maybe on their block
it isn’t
eventually we mold them
i learned that the k12 system can suck
that innocent curiosity
the willingness to please
right out of their bones
right out of their soul
until not much is left but
walk on this line to the
caferteria
i learned along the way
that caring is absolutely
the most essential
the most important characteristic
a teacher can possess
and that trait will be remembered
long after the facts
long after the formulas
have been forgotten
that teachers concerned
with how much they make
will never know the child
who cuts to relieve the pain
will never understand the who
what when where or why
of the abused
and if they abandon the lecture
and listen
they just might
make a difference
they just might
be the difference
brautigan never
wrote a haiku love sonnet
and nailed it to a
street lamp in downtown
san francisco so you would
walk by and see it
on a moon beam night
just like this one—a poem
a bay breeze moving
it just enough so
you will notice before turn
ing on market but
on this night it will be rain
ing in love just like he
said
Sometimes I am Brautigan at Bolinas without a word to my name
