I like the smell
of pavement
after rain.

It reminds me of camping trips
from when I
was a kid.

I would lay awake
listening
to the rain hitting the tarpaulin roof.

ping
              (pong)
ping

A symphony of raindrops
sounded like golfballs
to my childish ears.

I imagined a barrel
tipped over
with those dimpled spheres cascading

into the
           air and onto
                           the roof of the camper.

But in the morning
I would step outside and
would only be met with the smell of the rain.

The ancient tacoma grainery,
Stands in a corner of its own now.
Tne dark tunnell still has leggs when
she lets go.
The dock street rail yard fills up the city like a
loaf of hotnsteamy bread.
Farther down our ambitious tycoon
Stacks up condos, wheat pancakes,
Is his breakfast of choice.
They demolished the old elks club.
Which sprung across the street
like a walmart super store.
Blue and yellow is workers vest
perks and all.  Their members still
grase for golfballs off the ten million dollar tees.
There isnt much enjoyment, they'd rather drink.
Last month my two foot clarks walked through the sliding dorrs hospitality.
Wanting to see the high mountain of sucess,
I looked for organic oats.  
My minds to random.
I inch up to the screen and see the faces of migrant workers,
Hang like meat.
After six months in america half the under employed,
Are giving up.
Deported with their children.
My hope still goes out to the college students.
And their first morgage of inflamatory dough.
They all buy up every job still hoping for change.
No marrijuana in public,
Get away while the officers turn their backs,
With their guns to pepper a face.
In the taxing store.
Im afraid we smoked heavilly.
Love to the workers,
Love to their vests.
Everythings devoliping to quick.
My new bike slices by cars of ritz crackers.
Everthings been built to last.
There nothing left to buil on,
Only a few vacent lots that wait for tresspassers.
One man dives through a trash can and isnt scared.
He picks out a hamburger bun and eats his lunch.

The dreamer can see and understand how the mountain may hold out a welcoming hand to the climber who wishes to get to the top
and as the dreamer sees this he also looks at a flat piece of land and sees castles with shimmering towers made from sand.
But the dreamer becomes the dream that's within the fin of a fish that swims by
and the tortoise that sits high on the hog
or the dog with a tick.
Take your pick
there are so many dreams given free
what dream do I see as I look in the toothpaste?
A wasteland and more towers growing out the sand with fingers that tickle me
another fish swimming by in the sea
and golfballs where nobody dances
A room full of romance where the lights all burn dim
one more fin on a fish
I wish it could last
but the best is what passed on the wings of a shirt
or the long flowing skirts of Victorian dolls.

Gangsters and Molls and big Packard cars
Jelly tots that play on the moons circulating like blood round the planets and Mars which is red(so it is said)
even in dreams can't get that into my head.
The dreamer and know it alls
and poets that fall into fantasy and wander free through the white picket fences
offending no one
and offering scope only for white horses and unicorns in freeforming ballet scenes with Jack and his magic beans
have seen but a part of the heart of the matter and that's no matter at all.
Drop off the edge and take a fall with me into a meringue of sheer lunacy and let us see what we see and if it isn't really there
why should we care.
To be fair some people can't understand how a castle made out of sand stands the test of time
with the tide that eats at the feet of the chair but we know it's not there
just imagination and the patience to look and like the words in a book that can conjure up a genie or Jack with a beanie hat or a cat that never sat on a mat but a throne.
These things I have seen and have known and have grown fond of the older I get and the mountain I climb is even yet getting taller
or perhaps it is me getting smaller.

I ramble so slightly
twice nightly
and three times on Bank Holidays
at time and a third.
One day I don't hope to recover my senses
leave me to the horses and white picket fences
I'm happy.

drain full of peelings
broken plunger & unwashed dishes
drops sprinkle from the sky
yesterday hail
leached peas and golfballs cracked
hitting windows
perhaps reflection
back to the hills
to find freshness somehow
crusts too old to chew the grains
birds quiet in the autumnal wash
preparing for another outing of art
therapy.
ginger, shallot, chilli & chicken
rice later
something for the blood which
pumps & beats & never stops
till words release and a
semblance of peace arrives

You're giving me ideas
Know what I mean?
We say "it's in the genes."
Then play before lunch

I've been dreaming of you for years
Drunk on the seesaw
Neon salt water taffy
It's checkers for me babe

Clara Bow movie star looks
But, prettier than that, fairer
Dancing at the celebration
I grab your *** like I own it

You in pictured pigtails and me
Not ready to chase golfballs just yet

pop that cork
let's celebrate

cheers

sometimes i'm bewildered by
the fact that i can roll tobacco
like a habana native rolls
a cigare for export -
     i think that would be my dream
"menial" mechanical line
of work,
         rolling cigarettes...
tried to teach this english lass
once, climbing across a fence from
a darkened park...
    eh... didn't work:
   but we did find her friend,
    lying stiff, almost dead on
the pavement after they had
an argument...
                    and the black cat...
god...
             when i put my jumper onto
her to keep her from shivering,
flicking the roof of her cap
asking: alright?
              it's as if seeing a snowman
melt...
    i sometimes forget that
there are people... not exactly
                                  6ft1 proportions...
oh ****... rolling cigarettes?!
   ah, ****, the industry is mechanised:
no foreign saliva necessary
             to glue the "parchment"...
so one for myself then,
  and the memory cinema...
   akin to that memory, just described...
don't worry, they finally got home,
after i interacted with
her father over the phone
(when i still hand one) -
    she took a "selfie"
              just when her black cabbie
father drove to the bus-stop...
come to think of it...
    besides my youth...
   i can only remember 4 girls taking
a picture of me...
    
    hebrī: panie -
         r(ye) = the macron above
  the iota -
     no wonder the past few nights have
been "weird":
   sniffing a belt without a buckle,
  wrapping it around my right arm
thinking of a boxing glove,
when in fact i was unconscious
  imitating the practice of tefillah...

ha ha...
    a 15 year old girl suddenly drowning
in a borrowed jumper
  to stop her shivering
   while being escorted home...
much like a dolphin "laughing"
of a seal giving applause for herring...

that's not the point:
    i really could roll you a decent cigarette,
almost like a shamanic ritual
encounter...
        you roll the perfect diameter,  
**** at the **** of the filter to check
for the proper air flow,
   then fiddle around with the shaft...
gently heat the shaft with a lighter
   to dry the wet tobacco a little...
   then wait...
    get an idea...

"my" people? sorry, my generation?!
surely we can
   have our martyr...

      aaaaaaaah.... jim morrison...
we've had these people,
     james dean: sure but we have a clone
replica in the form of james franco...
only one contender...
   no, not: kurt cobain...
                         heath ledger!    
that's me ******* golfballs standing
over his grave, trying to say:
                                             fore!