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I suppose summer days
along South Boulevard where it passes in front of the elementary school were no hotter than anywhere else along the Bible Belt and maybe no quieter than any other small town neighborhood at noon in July when kids like me were inside away from the white ambient, shadowless heat under which I rode home from Center Street where The Bike Man lived and steered my own up into the u-shaped driveway toward a pile of glossy magazines, and, kicking with one foot the pages while straddling the crossbar looked around the empty school yard at living room windows and the Antioch Baptist Church across the street trying to decide how to get them out of sight to peruse and perhaps to keep a select one or the other. So I raced home and back again paper bag sailing in the wind returning to that same spot even quieter and more empty than before.
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pages flapped and fluttered in the breeze
and all seemed to know clearer than I but only George declared in a loud cry and another down beneath the tracks climbed to where it lay on a concrete ledge against the trestle’s round columns while others looked behind and ahead or listened for a train coming though none did in the time it took for the limp rag to be passed up between ties toward hearts beating and anxious eyes there behind mounds of overgrown sand traps and reedy ponds said to be full of golf balls but I guessed mostly just turtles and snakes Scott was a dishwasher
just kicked out of house and home, and, knowing his rebellious nature we all figured for a good reason --the very fact that he worked a 40-hour-a-week job during the school year said it all --that 150-dollar-a-week pay checks --enough for a whole month’s rent in that old duplex on Donaghey Street where I used to throw papers for that much in a good month-- were all he needed --the rest he spent on porn magazines and the busboys went over to see him on Saturday night --but mainly to see his porn, and there he sat in an old Lazy Boy zit covered face as round as those plates shoved into the washer, all smiles convinced that he was the freest 15-year-old boy in Conway I'd rather leave all
those unfinished novels --never afraid to start I fear one day the story will end so I'll stop where Sue finds her babies from the closet hooks hanging why weren't they more like the neighbor children? smoking strutting, shirts off, confident two cocks and a hen in a barnyard you take away my God and tell me to use the Claude Glass! and let me learn from Wile E. Coyote his example of perseverance A for effort, model Sisyphus put it away for wise crastinus, let be Aner Agathos, sipping cappucino, distracted or concentrating on (though noon auctoritee) his own thoughts and feelings I watched this
backhoefrontendloader being driven by a woman just tooling around digging and piling a giant steel pipe
hanging by cables over the edge of a concrete shell flushes great amounts of water foaming down ten stories like a cascading stream like a slit in the mountain like a humongous faucet that goes on and on running like something very, very small out almost of
the 42nd gate he knows, does or just realized that A.K.A "also known as" means and what he is eats the Northwest Wind clear and bright, crisp it bares itself, clearly revealed in the 42rd period he hasn't and won't learn how to learn, and all occurs afterward all unimportant things in time like train 1-9-7-zero up to the platform on a dime 7 more cars --that makes 50 |
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