Poems Below The Line, Page 3

The other four drank

  from a six-pack of beer.

  I abstained.

  Then the two young women

  took off their shoes and socks

  and walked into the water

  as a perfect South Bay sunset arrived.

  It was one of those rare good days

  when I wasn't worrying

  about who I should be

  and where my life ought to be.

  And it was that other kind of rare day

  where I didn't mind

  not having jobs lined up tomorrow

  so I could float through life once more—

  perhaps at the same beach.

  Painting Brown Leaves Green

  I'm in the Mid-Wilshire district

  sitting in a tenth-floor office

  for endurance of a painful ritual

  involving dyed-brown microfibers

  hardwired to the top of my head

  all while listening to the man say

  how the cost of having faux hair

  is 75 percent off

  if I brought my coupon with me

  and don't I look fine now

  as I leave,

  the man says

  you look 35 instead of 53

  and women in their twenties

  will be texting you more often

  someday,

  I must learn to text

  Illinois

  Here I am in the land of Lincoln where the rivers are wide,

  The suburban homes are two-story Colonial,

  Where teenagers play lacrosse without shame.

  Meanwhile in the former city of Sandburg and Daley,

  Mayor Rahm gets ready to roll out the unwelcome mat

  For those who still think protest is American

  And I go through a series of revolving doors

  And come out somewhere between the Wrigley building,

  the Trump monument to the Trump ego,

  And the Marina condos immortalized

  In separate decades

  By both Steve McQueen

  And the band Wilco.

  There is little wind in the Windy City,

  Only bright sun, heat

  And office workers consuming fast Vegan lunches

  Before finishing the afternoon's work

  To take the Metra train home

  For quaint boutique shopping in stores

  With posters of John Hughes movies

  Plastered on their back walls.

  Play That Broken Record

  here it is, folks

  hops, skips, jumps, warps

  sounds way WAY too analog

  in the age of clean bright digital

  files placed in clouds

  makes lots of noise

  speaks when it should sing

  always goes against the pattern

  of the rest of the vinyl

  plays at the wrong speed

  on every turntable

  don't fling that arcane relic

  onto the floor

  andstomp/smash/grind it

  into indigo powder

  someday it might sound good

  and make sense

  to those who want to listen

  with unplugged ears

  Try To Walk Unafraid

  throw your crutches away

  long enough to breathe

  unfamiliar air

  for at least five minutes

  before begging

  to have your walking sticks returned

  because the obsessive-compulsiveness

  you possess

  makes your brain itch far too much

  without the ointment of

  illusions, alibis,

  dreams too perfect to spoil

  by trying to make them real

  Poem Using Imagery

  Some Poetry Editors

  Might Not Like

  It was a rough night in the winter of 63

  at the club on Fort Worth's Jacksboro Highway.

  The honky-tonk band was in the midst

  of playing back-to-back Faron Young covers

  when a fight broke out in the audience

  causing pieces of Lone Star and Jax beer bottles

  to fly towards the chicken-wire

  wrapped around the stage

  to protect the band from the patrons.

  The vocalist/lead guitarist stood too close to the wire fence.

  His blood oozed through the metal openings

  and blended into someone's glass of Wild Turkey.

  The band kept on playing

  through the bouncers and

  Police and Highway Patrol’s

  ulimately successful effort

  to herd the troublemakers outside

  for a pre-Miranda dose of Texas justice.

  At the end of the night,

  the singer/twanger looked down

  at the dried-up hand wound.

  It was just like the color of a cockroach

  he saw racing down the wall of

  his apartment yesterday morning

  after waking up in the middle

  of a sepiatoned hangover.

  Remembering Rodney King

  In 1992, he asked

  "Can we all just get along?"

  Twenty years later,

  the answer is:

  Yes, we can, a little better than before.

  But we still have miles to travel

  on the Human Highway.

  And it's better to do it together

  than to waste time separating,

  criminalizing and generalizing

  people we don't know.

  New York City

  Subway Serenade

  Don't believe the stereotype.

  The NY Underground was good to me.

  Bought a Donna Summer live album

  At the record store in the station

  Below Times Square.

  Experienced the vocal R&B quartet

  While waiting for the Q train.

  On the way to the Village,

  There was the 12-year-old who

  Moonwalked across our car

  To the tune of Michael Jackson's

  Black Or White.

  And finally,

  Going across the Manhattan Bridge,

  There was the tall New Wave girl in black,

  With blonde, pink-highlighted hair,

  Who gently kissed her male teenage friend

  On the top of his head.

  Don't believe the preconceived notions.

  Rays of light can be found everywhere

  My Sixties

  Here's to memories:

  twelve-ounce ten-cent cokes

  in paper cups,

  the giant-sized Superslide in Wichita Falls,

  a copy of RUBBER SOUL

  my mother bought me

  for Valentine's Day,

  Saturday (and sometimes Sunday) matinees

  at the Grand Theater,

  a rare dinner at the snack bar

  of the bowling alley

  across from the old Methodist Church,

  occasional punishments,

  an older brother I was too young to know,

  teachers who liked me,

  teachers who didn't,

  true friends,

  bullies in both child and adult sizes,

  swimming lessons,

  father who survived

  an on-the-job accident

  and had to have

  a plate in his head,

  comic books, candy and Fanta Orange

  at the drugstore,

  waiting downstairs at the Bethania Hospital

  while my grandmother was dying,

  listening to 45s of "Heroes and Villains"

  and "Sunshine Superman" far away

  from contact with the Summer of Love,

  being loved more than I realized at the time.

  Growing Hair for the Wind

&nbs
p; (title borrowed from American Film Institute video circa 1988)

  I suffer from

  too much of not enough

  as I stand inside a Red Line train

  to emerge at Wilshire and Western

  see new and repurposed highrises

  feeling like an extra

  in Godard's ALPHAVILLE

  with battered fedora

  and grease-stained blazer

  out of place in a present

  that tries to look like ten years later

  needing any kind of work

  after I threw away a full-time job

  because I got tired of the smug boss

  one-third my age

  telling me it's better to be fast than good

  saving for the bus ticket back to Taos

  to create better days

  rather than merely remember them

  and take back my dignity

  for the last time

  Also by Terry McCarty:

  [insert clever title here] (self-published)

  INTERLOPER (self-published)

  YES I DID (PurePoetry)

  IMPERFECTIONIST (Meridien PressWorks)

  I SAW IT ON TV (Lummox Press Little Red Books series)

  20 GREATEST HITS: POEMS 1997-2004 (available in e-book format via Amazon Kindle and iBooks)

  NEVER MET BUKOWSKI (self-published)

  HOLLYWOOD POETRY: THE DEFINITIVE EDITION (coming in 2013)

  In these anthologies:

  SO LUMINOUS THE WILDFLOWERS (Tebot Bach)

  THE LONG WAY HOME: THE BEST OF THE LITTLE RED BOOKS SERIES 1998-2008 (Lummox Press)