White Christmas in store for some
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A few days after my modest attempts to get in touch with Gene had failed, Nick warned me about a vehicle entering the driveway. At a distance, the clear morning light painted a pleasant union of people and a shiny blue dirt bike. Suzuki or Kawasaki companies could build advertisements with the appearance of Gene.

Further observation showed the same guy who had not turned up the week before. He seemed to be getting smaller as he stepped down and approached me in an uncertain corridor.

“Hello there, Gene. I missed you last week. “

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He muttered something like undertone for my fake good cheer. –Whatever he muttered, added to “Work still available?” money for work last week. I’m not doing this week. “

My lie bothered me.

He fell back and we looked at each other. He started to switch from foot to foot and gave me excerpts from a story … actually from different stories … while trying them out to the rhythm of his shifting weight, looking to see which story worked:

… I think I should have …

… to here, went …

… buy a boat …

… don’t buy a boat from a buddy …

… ‘at night …

… from a buddy …

… from an ex-buddy … – He hopefully smiled, shrunk a little, started again,

… saw my mother …

… sick … went on

… no more of this …

… dope business …

… to tight …

… why my son …

… we fight …

It was terrible. I felt icy in sunlight, Gene seemed to be looking for a black hole.

Then he straightened up, borrowed a pen and wrote something on a piece of paper that he had turned into his hands and gave it to me when he turned around and left. He gathered some dignity as he walked, put on his helmet, and rode the shiny blue dirt bike into the driveway.

I wish he had thrown some gravel.

His twisted paper was a drawing I made of the grunts that I should have done in the tight crawl space under my house. Gene had written his name on it: Jean Bel Stewart and a phone number that I doubt I am calling.

Randall Jarrell wins the gold in the competition between my 3 poetic sages (“You are very human / … But my mind, left in tenderness, / shrinks from the object with a thoughtful sigh”). –I, JM, think more compassionately than I act. Sir Philip Sidney (“look into your heart and write”) takes the silver – unadorned – to engage in what writers do. Yeats takes the bronze and comes, very decorated.

He looks at himself (“Maybe only a broken man / I must be satisfied with my heart”) and his aftermath of poetic achievement, “Those masterful images because complete / Grown in pure spirit but from what started? / A mound of waste or sweeping a street, / Old kettles, old bottles and a broken can “- I feel a joke coming up, to spread regret: it all includes trash along the BBTrail road -” Old iron, old bones, old rags. .. Now that my ladder is gone / I have to lie down where all the ladders start / In the dirty rag and bone store of the heart. ‘

Over the top, but true in heart and soul. Yeats is the favorite of the audience.

JM is not happy with my relationship with Gene, whoever he is, whenever he is.

Wherever he is, I wish him and son Raymond the best as they travel through their neighborhood, which sometimes occupies the same topography as mine.

–Metta: “May I be healed … May you be healed … May X and Y and Z heal …” Isis teaches me that prayer, although I am not a suitable student. I try to say, meaning: ‘May all beings be free from suffering. May all beings live in the heart of healing. May all beings be at peace ‘… but a certain president releases himself from my prayer.

JM lives on a ridge between Hither and Yon, above the valleys of Potter & Redwood, where he watches the neighbors, pilgrims, roadkill, vultures, America and welcomes baby Poppy Butler too late, for whom this world has every possibility. – Itsallgood1776 @ gmaill.com

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