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No School Reunion For The Free Of Heart And Soul In The Class Of ‘52
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Open Poetry #47
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No School Reunion For The Free Of Heart And Soul In The Class Of ‘52
| Open Poetry #47 |
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No School Reunion For The Free Of Heart And Soul In The Class Of ‘52 |
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icebox Member Elite
since 2003-05-03
Posts 4383in the shadows 
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Long before he started driving trucks, my old man owned a gas station when I was a small boy, for me it was a place of monsters mess and magic full of grease and dirt and joy from new discoveries, shiny tools and motorcars, but my greatest treat of all were two wheeled thunder horses ridden by the monsters like fire belching dragons to the stars; they were the stuff of dreams for me more than any of those big old boxy cars. Georgia Bette loved the Dutchman, and powdering her nose. She swore better than the men and often when she did she chose to share with me the finer points of her profanities, and I thought that was great, of course that just shows how much I knew when I was just a kid. Bette met the Dutchman in Korea in the war. It was his second war and only Bette's first, but I have the feeling both had seen just about the worst of what humans do to other humans in a war. She had been a nurse, I think but wasn't any more, she left that with the husband she'd had before the war. The Dutchman tracked her down when he got home and mustered out; the story was he bought her beer and a leather jacket lined with down then she just climbed up on his big Indian and both of them left town. Bette was a little slick of leather tan, a breezy laugh and easy smile, but the Dutchman, whoa, he really was a monster of a man; he rode that Indian with style making it look easy with all the basic elements of skill. It was a Chief he'd painted tan and brown like the desert town he'd rant about sometimes when he was coming down from a long weekend of beer and whites, and riding hard, and winning fights; he and Bette died one summer night when he tried to split a pair of lights on what turned out to be a car while racing on the Victory Bridge going nowhere, getting far away from memories and all the burdens life had dealt them. Clyde was a big black man, and the only one I knew, shiny gold earring and a golden tooth or two, he was dark chocolate brown and muscled with some really scary scars, bald head and tall with the fastest hands I ever saw, sometimes he'd grab me as I ran between the cars and say, "C'mere biscuit dis boy's gonna eat you up!" but I knew it wasn't true; it was years before I understood him just being welcome there was social progress for 1952. Clyde rode a flathead Harley and kept mostly to himself. He'd dance and play the fool and sometimes when he pumped gas for rich white folk, he would even waggle both his ears but then they'd leave and we would laugh and cheer because they'd missed the biggest joke. Years later Pa said Clyde died in ‘68 when the riots broke that year, but I was on my own road then and couldn't shed a tear. Chookie wore a deformed bullet on a chain around his neck. Everybody said there were more than a few cards missing from his deck. He rode a Vincent Black Shadow like it was stitched into his crotch, whatever trick the others tried he'd crank it up a notch; he disappeared one day in May and no one's seen him since, I guess he'd run out of things to say and so he had to go, he sure was a joker though and more than a little odd. He once tried to convince a girl that she'd get closer to god by riding on his bike, of course I was much too young back then to understand what that deal was like. Little Stevie Magnets had a plate inside his head. He was the first person I met in this life who told me he'd been dead. His ride was a beat up old Henderson, that someone had painted red, rough and streaky like they'd used a broom, he got all hopped up one night while I was home tucked safely in my room and tried to paint it green by mixing barn yellow with some car enamel blue, it was the other bikers who told me later what he had tried to do. He didn't get it finished though ‘cause about halfway through he sat down to have a smoke next to a can of toluene and he began to tell a joke; Bette told me the next day in her southern woman's way that he was right inside the punch line, and was telling it real well, when he popped his Zippo on his leg and blew himself to Hell There were others in that bunch, they came and went like leaves in wind, though Pa was known as cold and hard he always took them in, found them a little work, kept them from running crossways to the law, helped them get a grubstake when they needed to hit the road again, and I admit over so many years they did begin to run together like poster paints in rain, yet sometimes still I can see every face, just not in every dream, not even every night, but I've no doubt each image waits its turn needing to be seen within its own safe resting place having earned its little niche carved deep down along littered catacombs connecting buried caverns in my mind. When I think about the lessons learned back in that long gone century, about riding hard and meaning what I say, how a man defines himself by what he does, about standing up for what is right and being free, why a brother is much more than blood and what is a highway rule, sometimes I hear them laugh inside me, often at the strangest times, like in a room with suits and silly Lexus attitudes all jockeying for space, or when I have to listen to some fool, stuffed full of platitudes about the human race and I wonder at old truths I learned that were never taught in school. ©2006, 2011 by icebox [This message has been edited by icebox (06-30-2011 09:29 PM).] |
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| © Copyright 2011 icebox - All Rights Reserved | |||
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JerryPat2 Member Laureate
since 2011-02-06
Posts 16975South Louisiana |
I could write a thesis here, but then again, I can't I'm into the sweet lucy and I don't do well with sweet lucy and a keyboard. I loved this man. I saw myself in a couple of different characters you brought out. The Indian. Hell of a ride. Don't know how Harley took 'em off the road. I loved your pa, Georgia Bette, and all the rest. I felt like I was in a hyped-up version of "Guys and Dolls." Like I said. I saw myself there so real that I don't much care to end this comment, but I have to. Kickass poetry, man. ~ Man who wants pretty nurse, must be patient. ~ |
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Marchmadness Member Rara Avis
since 2007-09-16
Posts 9271So. El Monte, California |
Fascinating, Mr. Ice. Ida |
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latearrival Member Ascendant
since 2003-03-21
Posts 5499Florida |
I sort of remember this.Liked it then and like it now.You are one fine story teller and I know that head of yours is full of them. More please. jo |
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Martie
Moderator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-09-21
Posts 28049California |
Charly....there is so much tender hearted in the rough of this. Hugs! |
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icebox Member Elite
since 2003-05-03
Posts 4383in the shadows |
Thank you all for your kind words. I learned a lot in those times about narrow minded pretentious people and how to separate who was real and what was truth from pretenders and lies. This is a re-write of a poem I posted five years ago on another web site that was not troubled by some of the wording. I have re-written it a few times, but this is the first time it cleared the censor algorithm here. I prefer the original as it was closer to the reality of my childhood. This version is childhood lite. |
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JerryPat2 Member Laureate
since 2011-02-06
Posts 16975South Louisiana |
It takes the soul out of certain poems to rewrite to fit certain standards. I understand standards, just saying . . . ~ Man who wants pretty nurse, must be patient. ~ |
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JamesMichael Member Empyrean
since 1999-11-16
Posts 33336Kapolei, Hawaii, USA |
Some good stuff here...James |
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