(For M)
A Perfect Stranger and Other Remembrances
I remember an imperfect night in a Tokyo bar
Crowded with Marines
And exotic women wearing flannel and black leather
Hoping for God knows what
My best friend screwing a woman with bad teeth in the only bathroom
Causing a line out the door
And much desperation
We missed the last train to Yokosuka
Had to sleep on the train station sidewalk
Waking to the buzz of a Tokyo morning
Gazing up meekly into the bewildered eyes
Of an old woman selling magazines and trinkets
To weary morning commuters
I wish I could remember the face of that fleeting woman
Surely ten years my senior
If it is possible to fall in love in a single embrace
Dancing to “You’re So Vain”
In a sailor bar in Memphis
I remember tipping a buck to some rough hombre wearing white gloves
The kind chauffeurs wear
Just to take a piss
In a rancid Tijuana cantina bathtub urinal
Every wall decorated beautifully
With hand painted Saltillo tiles
Just like the ones celebrities have in their bathrooms
In Santa Fe
I wish I could remember more about my grandfather
Who from whiskey and work lived hard and died harder
But all I remember is the oily smell of his tools
The sweet scent of blooming magnolias in the Arkansas heat
And his smoky subterranean voice
Picking out songs on an old Gibson
The voice of Johnny Cash
Train songs of Hank Williams and Jimmie Rodgers
I’d like to forget the time I tried with a friend
To hike across the Mexicali borderline to the Sea of Cortez
Nothing but a backpack full of beer
And a pocket full of dreams
We were of course turned back by a driving rain
A hive of pickpockets
And youthful lust
Not getting any farther than the first whorehouse bar
Sometimes I pretend that I remember my great, great grandfather
Captured at Cassville during Sherman’s march to the sea
Shot by a guard at Rock Island POW camp
Suffering from dysentery he was an easy target
Down at a fetid privy near the perimeter fence kill line
A world away from his sweet Mississippi home
And I’ll never forget the cosmic grace
Of sharing my soul with a perfect stranger
Over coffee
And other unmentionable things
NASA Wanted to Blow up the Moon to Impress the Russians
But it’s still here
A full moon as beautiful as it was before nuclear weapons
I see it now
Brilliant and “bigger than Dallas”
As I drive by overgrazed pastures
With thickets of rusting red cedars
From a summer of extraordinary drought and wildfire
And past a signpost advertising “Bob White Quail for sale”
A once sleepy Canadian River bottom farm town visible in the distance
Permanently awakened by a colossal illuminated casino sign
Herds of weary drilling men in white pick-ups race past
Riding ass all the way to fracking boom sites
In Hennessey
Calumet
Tonkawa
There is the occasional thought
That writing this all down while driving in traffic
May not be a recipe for longevity
Friends have died along this highway for lesser infractions
I’ve seen dozens of full moons like this one
On countless morning commutes
To a soulless job in the big city
Working on third cup of black coffee
Radio off
Trying like hell to keep attentive
To insignificant wonders along this lonely highway
I saw two satellites meet in the Tulsa sky
Blinking the way satellites blink
The sun reflecting off their solar panels
As they twist through space
One from the east
One from the west
Then they descended
Delicately
Drifting between the stars
A thousand feathers falling
Disappearing into the Tulsa night
I followed them
Walking for three hours
Through dimly lit back alleys
Along old sycamore-lined streets
Until I heard the call of a whippoorwill
Surely out of place amongst the concrete city
If it weren’t for a deserted, overgrown field
Next to the railroad tracks
That’s where I found a path of feathers
I followed them, picking up each one
Putting them in my pocket
Over a bridge
Across the tracks
To the Brady Arts District
Shimmering in newfound splendor
I followed the path
Collar up
Hands in pockets
Caressing the soft feathers
As I passed by a familiar pub I saw them
Sitting in a corner
Trying to be inconspicuous
But illuminated
Sparkly and bright
Their feathers touching
They were wondering how could it be
That they were part of this cosmic miracle
For a brief moment in time
Bathtub Bukowski
There is something embarrassing
About a man
Fuzzy with the apprehension
Of approaching middle age
Naked in a hot bathtub
Reading Bukowski
The room otherwise dark
Except for burning candles
Alone
A cabin at the water’s edge
The cold lake below
Tourists never come here in winter
On hands and knees
Praying to some god
Please tell me how
To wash the shampoo
out of my hair
Only a woman would know such things
There is something embarrassing
About a man
Naked in a hot bathtub
Reading Bukowski
To hell with it!
Visions of . . .
Clear trout streams
Sensuous feathers
The turquoise sky
And the retched man I left standing
On a country highway
As he leaned into the driving sleet
Holding a sign that said “Jesus”
For Arnie
Pho 69
I had lunch the other day with some chain-smoking “rocket scientist”
In a Vietnamese noodle house in Oklahoma City
In a whisper he told me he used to play in a rockabilly band
In Los Angeles in the seventies
His eyes went far away
And I could tell he was back there
In some forgotten sunset strip nightclub
Living a dream long since abandoned
After 40 years designing the most ominous combat airplanes
This world has ever seen
Then he pushed his bowl of noodles aside
Saying food was pretty much a formality these days
Then he stepped outside for a cigarette
I thought about the name of this place
And how it didn’t translate very well
Chris writes from small town Oklahoma, amid clusters of prairie and blackjack oak thickets, where he lives with his wife and daughter.
FASCINATING