JERRY GARCIA
FATHER’S DAY
They climb up the slide
and down its stairs.
Buzzing children
chant half-songs and whines.
They play while I lie,
eyes sandpapered raw
stubbled cheeks
shirt stained.
I dream of the cold sea,
milky stars above
black depths,
floes and bergs.
I scrape ice crystals off the bow
ice flakes onto black water.
Nose cold, I drop my oars,
my teeth clenches under bitter sky.
a child’s tune chimes too loud.
The parents wince at my
depression on the grass.
They pull their children away from me.
On top of the slide
a 4 year-old girl calls
“King of the hill!”
I lift up my body
to be her father.
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*** ** ***
ON THE NIGHT THE STARS COLLAPSE
As our world compresses into stone
fires undulate her rim
like a red remnant of coal.
I just want to feel you slide
over my body like a silk sheet
weighted with sugar and salt
splattered by tropical storms.
I just want to entwine our fingers,
knuckle to knuckle,
and let our joints resolve
to one heavy piece of universe.
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*** ** ***
BLARING SUMMER SKIES
TAKE SILENCE AS MOOD,
NOT DREAMS
We piled into brother Joe’s
’57 Bel Air,
Sea Foam and chrome,
two-toned with white fins.
Vinyl seats, fluffy dice.
A large steering wheel
counterturned to the boulevard
away from our house and its
white calla lily hedge,
its finely edged
lawn.
Green like Easter,
straw swayed
along the roadside
in vacant lots
of abandonment
and undermined growth.
We drove 27.8 miles
to the San Fernando Mission.
Parked among pilgrim cars
pitted by dead gnats of travel.
Quietly entering adobe brick,
mother put a white-lace doily
on her head
sprinkled me with water
from the fount of sinners
and asked God to bless
her gloomy child.
Then she supplicated
on cold stone
at the altar
of Junipero Serra.
Beeswax and shellac
touched my senses
like a sneeze
while the mission bells
tolled redemption.
Through funnels of light
dust motes fell.
A fidgeting boy in short pants
pointed a Michelangelo finger
and called me
the devil.
When it was time to go in peace,
we left under a roost of pigeons
begging from terracotta tiles.
I saw that boy stumble
and scrape his knee
on jagged mission rock.
Wings fluttered
with a turbulence foreign
to the everyday repentant
in Sunday go-to-meeting clothes.
When I laughed, the boy showed
real tears and a crow cawed disharmony.
That is when I understood
the holy water.
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*** ** ***
STREET WITH GEEK
Intoxicated Mort
times his steps
but not in dance rhythm.
A fastidious man
of no emotion
pocket protection
plaid button-downs
welder’s mask glasses
Sheila thinks he is
cool.
Leggy Sheila
too much with the frenzy!
Tattooed
hairdoed pink
Seriously
breaking wind
at Emily Post
Sheila tempts Mort’s time
from circuit boards
and digitization.
Mort watches
Sheila demonize
city streets
and rage at pretty girls
in pink satin dresses.
Stupor, trance and hard-on
masks Mort’s sense of dread
They dance
her black polish
tapping against his chest.
He waves
her fishnets
like a flag.
Tantric fascinations
glow from toes to horn rims,
as the waveforms
that were
his only existence
flicker unattended.
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*** ** ***
IN CASE OF CRITICISM
Let all the air
out of your lungs.
Let a Spanish Guitar
arpeggio from your head.
Let it counter-beat the voice
that assails you.
Scribble on paper.
Make eye contact
to show that you care.
Nod as if to agree.
Rock on your feet.
Pretend you are on a yacht.
Make a mental grocery list.
Don’t look at your watch.
Think about Gina Lollabridgida.
Envision butterflies
surrounding any person
who passes judgment.
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JERRY GARCIA
Jerry Garcia is a poet, photographer and filmmaker from Los Angeles, California. His poetry has appeared in various journals and anthologies including The Chiron Review, Askew, Lummox, and Slipstream Magazine. He has written two books of poetry, the full length collection On Summer Solstice Road (Green Tara Press 2016) and his chapbook, Hitchhiking with the Guilty (GND Productions 2010.) He is a past director of the Valley Contemporary Poets
and former President of Beyond Baroque’s board of trustees in Venice California. He has been a producer, editor and post production supervisor of television commercials, documentaries and motion picture previews. Jerry lives in Studio City, CA with his wife Becky and their poetic dog, Japhy Ryder. For more information visit www.gratefulnotdead.com.
To download a printable PDF version of this page, click here.
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A Dozen Nothing 