Memories are made of Ash

 Memories are made of Ash

Aaah Me!

All woebegone is me,

dreaming, reminiscing

of age-old youth,

and lost glory.

On the road to

Holy City.

Long walk in the burning sun,

from Santa Cruz

to the summit, and,

“All You Can Drink”

Apple Cider.

Fuzzy, youth-time memories.

A diary scratched

in lemon juice script

on crumbled paper.

A gopher, mad from the heat,

or too many mad poets

walking the highway,

chased me down the road

till I turned

and kicked it,

end over end,

down the hill.

O time, that ultimate trap.

I’m snared,

like a hedge rabbit

caught in a fine wire noose.

I sometimes wish they didn’t -

but my fidgety youth pants still fit,

after all these years.

Little rust coloured ball

 Yet another strange interlude between short episodes of sleep. 

Some say it’s a dream, but have no definition, nor plausible explanation, for what it really is. Neither do I.

 

It is southern California in the mid 1950’s, I think. I smell sunshine, orange blossoms, Eucalyptus and promise.

 

No! It’s not memory, I’m smelling, seeing. The scent is formidable, tangible. I am there, just as certainly as I am here.

 

But what I remember, with all my senses, most clearly is a little rust-colored rubber ball suspended on the end of a piece of wire attached to a metal plate that is screwed to the upper open corner of our front screen door. It is free to swing back and forth as the screen door closes against the jamb. The door bounces a few times, off the rubber ball, before coming to rest against the jamb. It is summer always in my fondled memories, and I think of Ferlinghetti.

Johnny Nolan has a patch on his ass

Kids chase him
thru screendoor summers

Thru the back streets
of all my memories

Somewhere a man laments
upon a violin

A doorstep baby cries
and cries again
like
a
ball
bounced
down steps

Which helps the afternoon arise again
to a moment of remembered hysteria

Johnny Nolan has a patch on his ass

Kids chase him

I chase him too.