Kevan Fuchs died today in his sleep
In a similar way as his father of one
And actually, also my father did too
Of those bitter, big cancer scourges
Which always come in unexpected
In this short enough life, a bit early

I've known him ever since first, when
We were knee high to Dad's shotgun
Throughout our small neighborhood
We would all roam to see and look
For ***** toads and such other fun
Without any known end in our sights

We often, came all together, at once
In his parent's, little Clovis back yard
In the under ground, in our deep dug
Wild little clubhouse of our new pride
Approved by our jealous Dad's stare
Made all by ourselves, with great care

Eight by eight, with three feet of deep
Shagged carpet floors, walls around
And places to hide stuff with those
**** magazines we wished to remain
Unseen by our parents, although they
Surely lived through similar wild times

Black lights , fluorescent mod posters
Fans to cool, while there in the deep
Kept the place comfy, from several
Hot summers in New Mexico's heat
Staying nights over, in conspiracy we
Came colluding, while hoping no fame

This place was our place, of known
Refuge from all of the big crazy, with
Frightening world still yet to come
Giving us our youngest freedoms
And also so much being in trouble
As kinda neighborhood hoodlums

Far up his Dad's, tall, two-way radio tower
One of us in care would climb
With binoculars to see the dark night
With our pair of walkie talkies held
Warn the others, carousing around
Of any plight, in appearing headlights

Kevan's brother, still alive,  Keith
My other brother by another,  Buddy
Also at first, a weird guy, named Chris
One other member, as second cousin
Who actually, was my very first kiss
When it was hard to aim, lips to miss

All bound as one, by made up signs
And part of something called PSO
Which, if you don't know well, what it
Truly means, then you were definitely
Not a part of the so very high bliss
Which we suffered through so often

Kevan's true nature is clearly proven
Finally, most completely, at his end
In the nature of his wonderful loving
All his family, who also so loved him
And all those other parties to trouble
Who also so loved, really all of him

©  2017 Jim Davis

They weren’t all cut from the same cloth
vilified tenders of the iron *****
some were lovers
(or lucid dreamers)
stage romantics
hidden behind jackboots
and skull caps
and switchblade seams

Caste members of a forlorn pack
counting their patchwork and deeds
conjuring up demons
around the console
filling their dreams
with radio reds
and dusted quarries
and faded sepia prints

Brass knuckles
and marches of the few
lightening bolt cracks
from a chilling blood moon
death’s dark specter
cold and ominous looms
the cobalt sea swells
near the nestled, and lost
Clubhouse at Kiusta

The oxygen secreted from the walnut tree,
the snap-pole green beans growing
up the side of the rusty garden fence, and
bags of aluminum cans stored  in the shed
with the old cash registers from the antique store.
These are the golden frames caught and
edited onto organic film, etched into grey matter,
projected from a foggy lens onto reflective marble.

We abandoned the clubhouse because of spiders;
they took the place for themselves after a storm.
Our new abode was the patch of grass between the
walnut tree and the fence in the back corner of the yard;
shady, rough terrain from fallen walnuts, and
the grass always had a slight dew in places.
"The place where the snakes live" is what we called it
when we were sprouts; now we could catch them in both hands.

One night, the wind blew over the shed doors;
flimsy, sliding rail, aluminum thing.
We slinked in and got to play with the old adding machines,
foreign tools, jars full of door hinges, and
rusty hand-crank egg beaters.
Eventually, the roof of the shed collected so many years
of twigs, walnut husks, and foliage fallen that
tiny trees began to pop their heads up from the clutter.

Crickets underneath the gutter guards-
two types; the black singers and the
ones you have to dig for that will draw blood
if they get a hold of one of your fingers.
Sometimes, if bravery was roused and boiling,
we would drift closer to the railroad tracks
in attempts to catch yellow jackets, or even hornets.
One popped their stinger into the back of my neck.

My Father used to buy cars. A lot of cars. Broken down, busted up, P.O.S. cars. Usually VW's. Always on the door of the great rusting field in the sky. He'd park them on the side of the house in a long row. This area was technically off limits, but rest assured that many battles were fought against mythical beasts and imagined armies.

It was a fort, a hideout, a giant clubhouse, and where I saw the inside of my first ***** magazine.

But the landscape was always changing. Evolving. This time line of rust and oxidized paint.

The cars would move forward one by one into the future like plate tectonics and more cars would be added to the past. And each one would make it's way into the garage. The land of curse words and flying tools. It was in the gladiator arena that smelled less like sand and more like grease,  that I learned to be a man.

Busted knuckles and loud music. And these cars would raise up on stands, and my father, like a surgeon would open their insides and make them whole again. Slowly. With the time that he had. And the cars would heal and eventually purr to life. And then, one day, they'd be gone.

Some would stay longer than others. Some would be displayed like show ponies. But eventually, they all left. And all the while, I would watch from my graveyard of cars on the side of the house.

It wasn't until I was older that we talked about it. Those cars. I always thought that this was just my dads hobby. Fixing things. It made sense. Anytime I needed something fixed from a toy to an angry heart, I'd take it to my father. And, I suppose, in a way it was.

I asked him about those cars once. Why he did it? Did he miss it? Why didn't he keep them?

He told me that he never intended to keep them. That in his eyes, they were not cars. They were insurance policies. Rent. Food. Emergency house repairs. Peace of mind for my mother.

And it all became clear. My family struggled in my youth. A young couple. A hairdresser and an airforce airplane mechanic. With two kids. Trying to make ends meet.

It was this line of rusted cars that made those ends meet.

It was ****** knuckles, loud music, curse words, and air heavy with sweat and grease that made those ends meet.

And any time the ends would not... quite.. touch...

One of the cars would go.

My father doesn't work on cars anymore. He doesn't have to. He and my mom are successful. Comfortable. They worked hard to become so.

And I am proud of them.

He has traded in his wrenches for other hobbies. Traveling. Collecting military memorabilia on ebay. Watching movies.

But that row of cars will always live in my heart as the example of what it means to be a good man.

My father loves his wife. He loves his family. His knuckles have healed. And the cars have gone.

And he is still my hero.

My dad is a husband, a fighter, a survivor, a mountain man, a war hero, a father and grandfather to dozens who didn't have one of their own, a firefighter, a medic, a collector, a wicked good shot, a teacher, and a friend.

He is also a mechanic.

And he is a good man.

Iridium fastball pitches
from Zuni serpent mound,
bottom of the 9th walk-off homerun
over 30ft diving moai.

Slide to home base in volcanic lava
to congratulatory ***** Gatorade bath
from Kubla Kahn forefathers,
chanting psychedelic clubhouse anthems.

Levitate from home plate
and land atop Pyramid of Cholula for victory dinner;
for since we’re all artists in our dreams,
true dreams never come true.

I wish the world
banana seats and ***** bars
chariots of childhood
transports to imaginary kingdoms
erasers of boundaries
freedom makers
brother bonders
vehicles of the delegates of peace
a better way.

Bolted to a heavy metal frame of
metallic green with
ape hanger handlebars
the playing cards clothes-pinned in spokes
making siren noises with our mouths
rope-lashed weapons aboard
discovering creeks
woods
forbidden backyards and
never-before-known games with
barn side lumber and pop cans
double-dog daring inedible things
teasing girls
riding to secret clubhouse meetings and
the playground.

I wish the world
our playground
summers of innocence
bottomless wells of laughter
center of the universe
June to September
ages 8 to 18
bean bags and ringers
tether ball - hand and paddle
basketball and baseball and
box hockey
(where it was encouraged
to give children axe handles and
a softball
to beat through holes
in a 2 x 6 board
defending a goal
with their life and
busted knuckles).
We liked it that way.
We lived as legends.

I wish the world
a bike ride with friends
ending at the playground.
For there has never been a bad day
on a banana seat.

Meet me in the forest,
what passes for one here.
Tell me your secrets and I
will tell you mine.
Over flashlight and
blood pacts we will
save our bottle caps
for our whispered projects.
In a notebook we keep the
page for decoding the
language we invented.
Each night we’ll bring the latest
chapters of our story.
In the morning we’re strangers.
We don’t talk, we don’t laugh,
we don’t look.
We’re each others best kept
secret.
One day we’ll decode love,
without the help of invented
language or spiral bound
notebooks.
My god, I miss the illusion
we had built around our
“Love.”

I take my time
as time takes me.

Life is wildfire
For roots of the soul.

The flames will
eat the fossils.

The sea cooked
To perfection embodied.

Night's purple marrow,
Is ours to feast,

The meat is for
The shadow of a flower.

I've broken both knees
Building this fortress so

Sleep deep dandelion,
Dreams can't burn you here.

Larissa Lou McCasky is hurting relapses needs Clyde Eli Moskowitz to stay at her side and more than anything he wants to help her through this difficult time yet there is nothing he can do but watch his most precious angel be devoured in her own flames at first it is drinking he can not keep up with her she drinks until she feels oblivion next drugging she goes back to old destructive ways she practiced after divorce 15 years ago Clyde will not go there with her Larissa stops writing reading her sewing machine sits dormant hairs around her ******* grow long she makes demands he is not capable of giving Clyde is *** addict he reads to Larissa from Yukio Mishima’s Madame de Sade “the more exalted the man the more refined his pleasures” Larissa learns from Clyde then she insists on more goes beyond him buffalo meat is tough Clyde shows her how to cook it with water little lime juice Larissa repudiates his coaching she prefers to chew the meat tough sometimes she hears war drums beating in her heart Clyde owns 3 guns in his house 2 pistols and a shotgun he keeps them hidden from Larissa

2

spirit dog is dog that stays long after dog dies sometimes spirit dog needs to be fed or water left out in case spirit dog is thirsty spirit dog makes you question did you do enough when dog was alive spirit dog dogs you with faint sounds in house dogs you in dreams in bed at night dogs you when you look in face of other dogs spirit dog does not ever leave your side

3

the artist is will always be at odds with him/herself society the system when his/her work becomes viable commercially it becomes corporatized part of the system imagine Nine Inch Nails song Closer lyric “i want to ******* like an animal” becoming elevator music

4

concerning creation establish location characters then sit back let imagination go wild take your time think it through the weirder the better there are no mistakes just pure improvisation

5

what power did her dog Sweeny sanction within Larissa that Clyde could not fulfill? was it Sweeny’s absolute dependency that brought out her nurturing instinct? Clyde needs Larissa yet wants her more than he needs her when spirit dog inside Larissa gets hungry she indulges him

6

Larissa takes to the streets and that’s where real damage commences slow at first old man with worn out $20 bill then young punk who shoves her out penniless with mouthful of *** then biker dude gives her lift unto back of Harley rides her back to clubhouse feeds her rohypnol 13 men pull a train stub out lit cigarette butts on her face and ******* then crack 2 front teeth shoving shotgun down her throat another up her *** and take bets on where the shots will meet they decide instead to leave her naked with no water in the desert Mexicans sneaking across border rescue her escort her to Tucson she finds her way to Clyde’s house begging he stands in doorway sees missing teeth scars on cheeks chin above left eye damage beyond his understanding how to fix feels both fear and tears welling up lies to her tells her he has new girlfriend she knows he’s lying wanders off gets arrested for vagrancy then disorderly conduct then prostitution

7

every author faces the dilemma of how to fix what they have broken if the work is to be original then it must break from convention

8

Larissa Lou McCasky has an epiphany in Pima County jail when she gets out she will find a job sewing or writing or proof-reading maybe all 3 then she will find a dog and after she is settled Larissa will look up Clyde Eli Moskowitz and try her best to win him back and regain paradise lost yet knowing it is unlikely she will gratefully accept whatever comes her way and remember to honor respect spirit dog and vigilantly at times keep him on leash

9

Larissa keeps promise to herself she and Clyde meet at Sky bar it is 3 years since their first meeting she has more gray hair than he her teeth are patched up

LARISSA i’ve missed you Clyde and thought about us a lot

CLYDE i’ve missed you too Larissa you look lovely like good things are happening around you i forgot how beautiful you are

LARISSA chill on the flattery Clyde i’ve found a new dog and named it Eli after you he’s ******* outside see him

CLYDE wow that’s your Catahoula hound that licked my hand on the way in wow where did you find him

LARISSA animal rescue hey Clyde if you don’t mind i’ll just cut to the chase you know i want to come home with you

CLYDE slow down girl one step at a time let’s order some drinks and talk and yes i would love getting back with you

BARTENDER may i help you

LARISSA yes i’d like a Shirley Temple and my friend here can have whatever he wants my treat

CLYDE guess i’ll have what the lady is having

LARISSA you quit drinking too

CLYDE yup starting now with you

LARISSA i love you Clyde i really truly do

Where buses still elapse with Time
Down straight Dame Street
The Trees are satellites that allow Children to look up
and let the pavement breath.

Earthen Columns that gate the Boombox Clubhouse tint
Flanked by the Yeoman Guards of Hollister
but forget to pay the same compliment
outside of American Apparel
Where Teenagers dream out fantasies
of lamp-lit, flash-shot
worship-worthy objectification
in a converted loft in the real New York
Their headphones spring streams of bright optimism
as they cradle knitted knee-high socks.

Take the curve round Trinity College
and laugh past the rumours
that it may soon float on Dow Jones
and dodge past the charity advertisers
Strutting over campbags of sleeping homeless
to Lemon Cafe for an overpriced Mocha
Which regardless deflates the sheen-covered hollowness
of green-comfy Starbucks

and learn the subtleties of speaking lightly
to dark-jaceketed Blonde girls
Whose eyes seem to sparkle "Yes, we have sipped
on Veuve Clicquot at reserved tables on Graduation nights
at Cafe En Seine"
-"Where Oscar Wilde might have drank"
- "..Had he been alive."

Then speculate on the best Festivals and whose
Films and Books are over-hyped and under-appreciated
and the after-College Gossip on who broke-up or stayed together
or who hooked up even though they shouldn't have
or regretted it

and who's doing a paid internship and who's moving abroad

and afterwards charmingly tease their superficial attitudes
as meanwhile they secretly take photos
to upload on Instagram
and later you'll fake-admonish them
for how they did this behind your back
while you were staring into the lake
in St. Stephen's Green.

When the moon no longer glazed the water
and had receded its contrast to the farthest grass
and you decide to take the last bus home.

Throughout
Caution Glints The Vowels
and Brands them too.