Walking to the Gas Station to Get Chocolate and other poems

Walking to the Gas Station to Get Chocolate

I’m barefoot. The sidewalk’s hot.
I watch for broken glass and bird crap.
Sidewalk’s over and it’s dirt and grass for a bit.
Maybe you’re wondering why I’m barefoot.
I have shoes; they’re at my apartment.
But when I was a kid I didn’t wear shoes much.

How like a dog I was,
Sniffing at things and looking at things
and trotting.

I’m at the gas station now.
The man behind the counter is enormous
and counting money.


Highway 45, West Virginia, November 12th, 1987

I was minding my own business when
Jasper came along and
pushed me some.
Ended up I knocked him smack up against the head with this crowbar I had in my truck.
Looked like he was gonna die.
I done some things,
But I never killed a man.
So I went to a house nearby,
they called the cops and
I went home.

Jasper won’t snitch.
Jasper’s my buddy.


Happiness

Sausage, grease still on and hot,
cheddar cheese,
chopped tomatoes,
drippy red salsa,
chunks of mushrooms,
cold white sour cream,
avocado, sliced, not mashed,
wrapped in a warm thick tan tortilla,
put in my tired hands
by my son.

We’re on the porch.
It’s a nice night in July.


The Movie I Thought Up Last Night

It’s a comedy called Jack and Arnold about this loser
postcard salesman who goes to a petting
zoo one day and finds a talking goat, Arnold.

Jack buys Arnold and they have a bunch of
adventures together. Arnold bakes a cake.

Arnold eats the neighbor’s prize-winning flowers
and the neighbor gets mad. Jack is dating this ugly
lady named Popolou just for her money and
Arnold seduces her even though he doesn’t really
love her and a big romance debacle ensues.

Arnold gets hypnotized to try to figure out how
he got turned into a goat. (It turns out he was
bitten by a scientist-vampire goat.) Jack
and Arnold almost go to church.


Me vs. Tom Waits, My Favorite Musician

Tom Waits is cool in his picture,
the fingers hiding part of the mouth,
the pinky inserted,
fog behind the head.

He must have grown up cool,
in the exact center of a gigantic city,
with late-night early-morning
musicians, philosophers,
gamblers, smoke and bongo drums.

But I have my own self-soul,
and you have yours.

I am not Tom Waits.
I am less photogenic and
I don’t even play the triangle.

I grew up in the outskirts of
a small town, loaded with trees.