memory
grandma always had fresh baked cookies
ready for me when i came racing in
from playing outside,
at least that is how i remember it,
before Parkinson’s set in,
before grandpa died of a self-inflicted
gun wound due to his brain cancer.
i remember long days of summer running
around my grandparent’s apartment
complex. grandpa had a work shop out
back filled with tools and gadgets. some
of them he let me look at, others i
could not touch. and i didn’t. ever.
my garage is filled with tools, and gadgets.
some i know how to use, others i do not,
i just look at them. they are talisman’s of
memory. back when times were simple,
back when i didn’t watch the news, before
Facebook and Instagram and fake this and
fake that. before any of us knew how
to wake up.
my grandpa used to yell at the TV. sometimes
at the news, mostly at Dodger’s games.
he never trusted the government, not since
Kennedy, he’d tell me. he was a good man.
i am guessing my grandpa didn’t know
any of the Kennedy secrets.
there are a lot of things that should
be kept secret, and, most days,
i wish i could just go back to being
a kid running around my grandparents
apartment complex.
old age
i have a hard time
understanding the world,
that is, the world around me.
when i was a kid
i lived in a much
larger world.
one filled
with voices and smells
and other people,
pushing and shoving,
people with wants
and needs and
colorful rock concert
tee-shirts.
now my world is
small.
only a few people
remain, and
they are old
and dusty, burnt
from the inside
out.
my mind is ablaze
but there is
no telegraph or
TV, there are no songs,
or reflections in the
big mirror down the
hall.
i went to Beijing, once,
where all the people
seem to gather to
scream and shout,
a city filled with strong
smells and factory smoke.
i ate a deep-fried scorpion
purchased from a
street vendor.
there are no deep-fried
scorpions where i
live, only living ones
that stop and stare up
at you, before moving
on.
stereotype
they leave at first light,
sometimes sooner,
and i watch them go,
indifferent.
some days i wish
for them to linger a little longer,
but the ones i want
never do.
last night i found another,
roaming through the blue-gray flicker
of a ‘hey let’s fuck each other’ web site.
he arrives full of questions,
intelligent conversation
and nervous hands.
years ago, i knew apprehension,
hesitation,
fear before knocking on a stranger’s front door.
we undress slowly, tentatively kiss.
he relaxes as i make my way down.
it’s a common reaction.
men are so simple.
he loses inhibition, lost in desire, lust,
sudden want. we do not sleep
until a weary sun makes its approach
across a distant shore.
we talk over coffee. kiss in the shower.
he checks his cell phone.
the missus is calling.
i watch from the shadows
as my front door
closes
again.
los angeles
some mornings
i walk long
gray sidewalks
in downtown
Los Angeles,
before the pigeons
flutter down from
high perches
and police cars
chase black men
for no apparent reason,
before the
bustle and hustle,
before the homeless
go into hiding,
before trees
begin to tremor
from Santa Ana Winds.
a dewy night sky
democracy died
a long time ago,
before you were born,
before any of us
were truly alive.
when we lived in
houses with unlocked
doors and open
windows, when we
lived on the cover
of Life Magazine,
even Jesus smiled.
now we live in a
world of collapsing
lungs, undefined
sorrow, and bones
that ache for no
reason.
i watch fireworks
over the horizon
light up
a dewy night sky.
someone might
be writing a song
about a battle
in progress.
some day we
may have our
children sing it
in classrooms
or before baseball
games.
or maybe we will
tap out Morse code
in our cell blocks
as we struggle to
rebuild monuments
to that which we
held dear.
rage
i am angry
today
enraged
today
willing to strike out
at those
that unwittingly
cross my path,
today.
those carrying
fascist flags
and throwing white supremist
hand signals,
Proud Boy antagonists,
clueless to reality.
today.
you’re not the only ones
willing to fight, willing
to ‘stand by.’
the current occupant
of the White House
needs to go, needs
to pass into history
as nothing more than
a footnote, eradicated
by those that remember
freedom, democracy,
and making Amerika
great meant something
more than a marketing
tool,
today.
BIO: jck hnry is a writer based in California, out in the high desert away from most living things, except snakes, coyotes, and scorpions. recently jck has found acceptance in venus in scorpio, fearless 72, throat to the sky, dodging the rain, bold monkey, madness muse, and others. in 2021 punk hostage press will release “driving w/crazy.”
jck also edits and publishes Heroin Love Songs and 1870 Press. for more go to www.jackhenry.wordpress.com.
