Kenneth has a taste for abstract/prose poetry as well as the comical side of life. 23-years of writing for a newspaper has served him well.
You sneak in my ear—curse my music, waking me up
but you don’t think that you’re not warped?
Look! I have eyes. I have ears and I can feel “it”
when she rolls by those droll-like souls living from crumb
to crumb—just tipping and sipping as “it” rolls by.
— Shaunn “Big Tom” Zeldon, Berkeley
Yeah, you’ve seen her. She loves to tease the hot asphalt and never refuses a look. What an honored guest they are, maybe two this morning, then one at evening tide, ‘afore dinner. They ride. Oh, how they ride. Seemingly forever on silent wings of white lies forging on a highway nowhere to go.
“It,” did not ask for you to create “it.” Pretty much. “it” created “it” and no one, not even the roughest, dirtiest, lowest of breeds, biker and his cheap woman, would are lift a chain to her. “It’s” more like Death on a quick snort of fuel—then in a blurred sound of a screaming woman in the wilderness crying to hide in easier music and softer words, but she has long ago stopped dreaming entirely. She’s been near “it.” And that was not near enough.
One lazy summer morning, that one morning when the alarm clock didn’t work, “it.” What a dream. What a multi-colored dream “it” was—flying on sound alone. Not music. Okay, some music of the heart. But silently, not overdoing one thing or fad, “it” came from a long road from yesterday’s broken tables in a hundred or so filthy beer stops along 66 when we were boys looking for a place to sleep.
Dogs howled that day, yes, sir. And that growl compared to “it’s” hum, I tell you, idiots, that was ecstasy unfolding, line by line by line as the wind shook us by the throat and shot our eyes with sand so hot that I could barely hold on . . .but “it” rolled easy knowing that I had not rode on her road that day. I was not even looking for anyone to hold, just someone to allow me to say one word to them while they slept. I was never one to overplay my hand. “It” was my patience in an expensive leather bust-line so easy, so cute and yet so lethal.
“It” squeals, peels, and without one hint of assailing.
“It” sails, wails, and many times crowds the proper down to humility.
“It” laughs the ever-resurrected pain away—kissing away the foolish lies “It” may someday pay.
“It” relaxes the rider; covets its hands to loosen the reigns that singe, 50-mile memory--poets at firesides binge.
Oh, the silken coyotes have dens, I’ve heard from those old Proverb Spinners, “Max,” “Billy R.,” “Gypsy D.,” and “Shepherd.” They somehow knew “us” when hunger won that midnight play and I just had to rest long enough to eat a bite of meat, that juicy meat, oh, yeah. “It” stood guard and “Shepherd” whispered in “it’s” ear while I became paranoid; nothing in my veins, but breezes in late summer in Phoenix: the very best time to be anywhere in the world, but you have to be at the middle of that busy town and only in late summer—be sure to look up those Proverb Spinners for they are “it’s” friends and you do not harm one hair of their heads . . .I wouldn’t. I would just say wise and walk silently to my room and sleep.
“It.” You cannot compare “it” with any moving machine—comic or real. “It” lives. “It” breathes. “It” knows who you and I are. I think I will grab a cup of coffee . . .”It” needs a cat nap too.
© 2018 Kenneth Avery