You might expect something a
bit more from a guy
that has won an NEA, and six or more Ohio Art
Fellowships, something with a bit more substance
than stories of no-holds-barred love making with
a plumbers daughter whose names slips just past
memory.
You would imagine the need
of some notebook,
so you might capture the thoughts of a man that
sees things that you ignore, and holds a rough
love for those things that you deny.
Instead it's the kind of conversation
you could
pluck from the crowded air of any old bar,
boastful stories whose validity will never be
totally proven.
Its Rolling Rock and Columbus
Pale Ale,
hamburgers and pasta salad, and the need
to sift through the stories as if you knelt before
some stream pan handling for gold.
Then right before he leaves
its in the parking
lot where he shifts towards a more somber
mood, pulls from his pocket a white piece of
paper, like a magician pulling a rabbit from
his hat, passes it to you mentioning 'this is
new', and chuckles as he says 'waitress bait.'
And it's a story of Harry Houdini
in a straight
jacket and his jump from some bridge, or a
revised poem of a boy mouth pointing towards
the clouds asking for water and/or something
a bit more than wanting.
And with the last lines of
the poem still hanging
in the air he pulls his Sicilian wife onto his Harley
like some knight in a too bad for the theaters movie,
and rides off leaving you wishing that you could
do something like that.
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