read me that passage once again
you know
the one about the guy
who’s got his finger
stuck where it shouldn’t be?
spinning it all the way to the top
and shocking anyone within his view

sammy was his name
and his friends called him
the swami
you would see him often
biting the wing of his chicken
(and shaking his head)
the captain would ask
“you call this a pastime sammy…you call this a pastime?”
sammy would say
“it’s fine…it’s fine…yes…yes…it’s what i do”
and no one seemed to mind
(save for the chicken)

he was a descendant of the eastern block
a shipol they’d say
fingers pruned
eyes red (and full of hope)
toss me one of those medicine *****…and let someone else call the show!  today’s line up; boulder dash and surfboards of death! (for they always seem to keep the captain amused)

a big belch
from the little man
has sammy grinning
ear to ear
un-kept teeth
and blackened nails
do not cross his mind
(for he’s all about pulling compliments from the day!)

hey wait, he’s stomping now…and mad!

hey wait…it’s passed (look at that, he’s already moving on!)

catch you on the rebound swami!

catch you there indeed!

nostalgia
as soft sun filters through palm leaves
and the clouds purple, the skies painted pastel pinks
surfboards stand seven feet tall
the salt water glowing, sparkling
a dark watercolor blue hue
i am reminded of the spring and summertime
of happier days
as I drive by the sea that glints waves to me

Scrounging local garage sales... near ten years past... I had found a flat, welded iron, rusty seahorse... 3 feet high... with a good seahorse shape and poise... edges welded and cut... after the haggle... twenty-five dollars..... perfectly added to my estate... covered rust in gold sheen... mounted upon a tree... to greet all comers... with a seahorse kiss!    
     Seller said it was made by the same artist... of the turtle lady statue... to be found in Corpus Christi!  Asked if I had seen it... my reply... No, but I liked the seahorse piece! He expounded... the artist... only had one leg... but was a surfer... well known for this trait... in Corpus Christi!  
     After I had mounted the seahorse... upon it's tree...I did an internet search... looking for anything about the one-legged surfer artist of Corpus Christi!  Found... nothing!  
     End of May, 2019... visiting my sister, Donna... we were wandering Corpus Christi!  She guided us to the surf museum... not knowing the story... of the one-legged surfer artist... creator of my mounted seahorse!  
     Girl at the front desk... Kyla... real nice and friendly... told her about the seahorse and questioned her... she didn’t know... she never heard of a surfer with one leg or the turtle lady statue!  Looking at us just a bit strangely... one legged surfer???
      Donna and I... started our stroll through the small museum!  Along the right side... stood a long row of surfboards... I’ve never surfed... but I was imagining trying it with just one leg!  
      Anyhow... I didn’t really stop to read or look in any detail at any of the exhibits until I reached the back... there was a glass case... which had a piece of simple letter paper...  8.5x11... taped to the front of the glass cabinet!  I started in reading the last paragraph...

     “Welch, 53, and his wife, Chelsea Louise, 23, died September 15, 2001, when their car plunged off the edge of South Padre Island’s Queen Isabella Causeway, which partially collapsed after a string of barges crashed into the bridge’s support pilings!

     Thought to myself... Wow... Who is this guy???  I jumped up to the middle paragraph...

     “Welch lost one of his lower legs in an auto accident in the 1970s, but he kept surfing with a prosthesis.  He wore a peg-like prosthesis at first, then got one with a foot.  He won the prosthesis division of the United States Surfing Championships on South Padre Island in 1998.”

     In the glass case was a welded metal sculpture of a beach scene... with waves, palm trees, and all!  The piece did have some resemblance in style to my seahorse sculpture!  Also, there was a picture on top of the case... of Harpoon Barry... striking a muscular, no shirt pose... in his tattoo shop... his torso covered in tattoos!  
    
     “It is said... he was on the verge of suicide after losing his leg. In one interview with the San Antonio Express News in 1992 he said;  "I may not make it to heaven, but you can be sure I made no deals with the devil to get where I'm at now, "  Looking down at his false leg stretched out in front of him, Welch said quietly: "It is a real empty feeling when you put one of these on for the first time, especially if you are an adult on your own. And your mama'a not there and your daddy's not there, and the people in the hospital tell you, 'This is the best it's going to get.  I made my first leg myself, out of Hi-C cans. I couldn't wait for my leg to get finished. I wanted to walk. I guess I got the idea from the Tin Woodsman in 'The Wizard of Oz.' That leg actually worked pretty well!”

     I had found my one-legged surfer artist!  I walked towards Donna... who was already half-way leaving the museum...  I hollered to her... she just had to come see this ... “I think I found the one-legged surfer!”  She had recently had partial knee replacement... and was hobbling!  She said if I was fooling her... she better not walk back all that way for nothing!! She came back to the glass case... we read through the letter in it’s entirety!  
     Then we went... and told Kyla at the front desk... she again looked at us again a bit strange... but then reluctantly left her post to go with us to take a look... she was then astounded!  Said she never knew about the one-legged surfer... although she had worked at the museum for several years!  Said there were also a couple metal sculptures... at the front of the museum... she thought were also done... by Harpoon Barry!  We took pictures of those also!  

In the letter we also read...

     “Welch had numerous tattoos and body piercings.  He wore a tiny 14 carrot gold harpoon through one ******.  That is how he got his nick name according to a friend, Scott Gangel.”  

     "I am a unique, self-made sensation!” he said matter-of-factly... in the interview with the Express News!  
    
     It's been 18 years since eight people died when South Padre Island's Queen Isabella Memorial Causeway collapsed... sending 11 people into the water below... four days after the 9/11 attacks!  A string of tow barges had struck the supporting pilings!  A section of the roadway had collapsed...
     I promised Kyla... I would donate my seahorse piece to the museum upon my death!  I only hope my death... is as grand as Harpoon Barry’s plunge into the Gulf of Mexico with his young wife!  Wonder what they were doing during the plunge... what was Barry doing... yelling Yippee Ki Yay... or Surf’s up... Dude!!!... maybe???  
    
Surfed waves on one leg
Young wife... crazy life... grand death
Harpooned by Barry

©  2019 Jim Davis

Question for you, chicks and dudes,'
What is an ironing board to you?
Did you know they were surfboards,
Yes, they grew up, surf did bore,
Surfboards got a day job,
Being ironing boards is their lot,
Nonsense I do compose,
Only a joke in an ode!

Jack and Jill
Went up the hill
With Bill And Ted
To buy two bottles
Of mineral water.


Jack and Jill
Came tumbling down
Fatally cracking their heads open
And the local council was done
For corporate manslaughter.


But Bill and Ted
Came down on their mountain bikes
With the mineral water
towed on a skateboard.


And having buried Jack and Jill
At an environmentally friendly funeral
They headed for the Amazon
On solar powered surfboards.


Thus they concurred
This was yet again
As vinegar
Bed and
Brown paper-free
As there ever could be
Excellent Adventure.

i found them
while i was
digging
through old boxes
covered in dust
hidden
in the shadows
beneath my bed

i'd been searching for LPs
Lost in the Sound of
Separation on vinyl
record
its sentimental value
binding memories of
my favorite band
countless shows
a myriad of friends

it was there that i
found exactly what
it was i wasn't
looking for

who knows
maybe i hid them
because they
reminded me of things
best left forgotten

the blue sticky note
read in purple ink
"my favorite prints
for my favorite person.
thanks for believing
in my work."

in every photograph was a
little bit of you
dead friends
broken homes
dark rooms with
hardly any light
a child looking for love
the beach palms
skateboards and surfboards

in every photograph was a
little bit of you
shot in black
and white
refined in their
aesthetic but
only one photo actually
had you in it

three windows
light filtering through
closed blinds
an air vent in the bottom
right-hand corner

you stand in the center
and it is evident that
you are shirtless as you
look over your shoulder
at the camera suspended
in the room

what thoughts crossed your
mind when the shutter
shuddered shut

in every photograph was a
little bit of you
and if we’re being honest
there was a little of
me too

Flabs upon *****
of excessive skin
flock towards the sands
to soak up the rays of
the day light hours
and delude themselves
in the roped off
safety zone waters
of the seashore.
Benched from lack of participation,
sober and observant,
you can't help but overhear
a conversation about the salty tastes
and textures of boys *******
between four teenage girls
who look like they just entered
the early stages of middle school
and should not know anything,
at that age,
about that topic of discussion.
Seagulls slowly glide overhead
waiting for the perfect moment
to bomb white droppings in the
******* mouths of the hodads
and steal their bacon while they
quickly scurry off and guffaw
on the inside.
Young ladies *****
hang proudly out of their
skimpy bathing suits and stare
into the sunken eyes of perverse old men. Socks and sandals roam the shores
like tyrants to detect metals
in the sand with their hiked up baggies, buttoned up blue Hawaiians
and fisherman hats.
They'll find god before
they find these treasures.
Unsupervised children puke peaches
and use plastic shovels
to pour buckets of sand
down the backs and cracks of rubbernecks with discourtesy and no remorse.
Adults shaded, relaxed and
nose deep in books
leave the responsibilities
of their parental duties
with inexperienced lifeguards
to babysit their youngsters
while they doggie paddle
and submerge in the undertow
along the waves of the oceanside.
Concession stands serve
delicious yet unhealthy,
deep fried grotesque of
appetizers and entrees
to the potbellied roly-poleys
as they wash it all down
with a fountain of syrup
and carbonation.
Bare footed beefy **** diesels
and their skinny minis
walk hand and hand
over the broken beer bottles
and sharp rocks buried in the sand,
unscathed and luxuriate
in teenage love
and summer fun.
Dorks and dweebs
play sand sphere
with bunnies and honeys
while Gremlins and grommets
hunch like Quasimodo
on their surfboards
and ride the ankle busters
and pounders til the end
as they hit the bone yard
at point break.
The sun shines down on all of us
leaving that warmth and radiant glow
as you watch the mythical creatures
and sea serpent shaped clouds
slowly overpass.
What a lovely day at the beach.

when the world,
was much younger
and i was a stupid-crazy
girl-ly-chick, enamoured
with her youth.

i drove, a sunshine,
lemon, yellow bottomed, white pith on top combi van. coyly, cloyingly named Mello Martha.

it was...surfboards and swimsuits,
egg and bacon sangers,
early morning breezes,
after a blitz at the breadbox.

before... changing into
the structured, tortured baby, bank teller blues,
in the back,doors left open.

it was... rockin, knockin,
***, on credit,
to a promised future,
alluded to, but postponed,
for the moment.

it was... bruised back and
grazed knees,
harder, deeper oh god!
oh god! please... faster, fucken frenzies,
on a saturday night.

it was....running away to nowhere,
to find myself,
then finding me,
running away from,
the self i didn't want to know.
noway, nowhere, nohow.

it was... a barrel of monkeys, a barrel of laughs,
a keg of beer,
a box of wine,
under the crowded stars.

it was.... a roadtrip,
up the coast,
midnight bonfire,
midnight munchies,
playing hunches,
exploring reefs and reefers and such.

it was...far from family
and church rules,
a friendly rebellion,
of loud, proud youth.
totally and brazenly,
uncouth
it was... wham! and m.j.
cindy and boy george's culture club ,paperlace,
billy idol and the beach boys.
sung with abandon,
at spinal tap level eleven.

it was... peaceful, quiet, sleeping grace.
insanely in love with...
i forgot his name.

it was.... the birth of bodaciously me.
all brass hair and bosoms,
wild and carefree.

it was ....so long ago,

it was... yesterday night,

when i saw... Mello Martha's identical twin,
stopped at a traffic light.
it was... sunshine and lemon, bitter and sweet,
as she sailed off, down the street.
i sat and watched,
wist, full of recollect,
far and away, from my presently minded place...
sitting in, the driver's seat,
of my mom-blue subaru.

Broken glass mosaics in gutters and sidewalk cracks
Endless nights of glowing screens and quiet music
Long haired children with surfboards and cigarettes
I flick the ashes off mine in greeting to hollow eyed friends
Shaking from early morning hangovers
The clouds settling in low places among scrub hills
Ocean crashing reminds me I’m still human
Sand castle dreams viewed through broken windows
Pulled a thousand directions in a moment, comprehend none of it
Smiling for no reason when fingertips meet and eyes cascade radiance
Laughing in deep places with no expression
And out of our togetherness, there is profound silence
In dark concrete rooms with the smell of detergent
Unfolded clothing on the bed and empty bottles of gin
Words on the page, meant so much more last night
Now just scratches in ink and pencil, another idea to discard
Sparrows scatter from high lines and we take our first
breath

The billionaires tend to their garden
at the expense of the forest,
whilst landlocked towns
invest in pine trees and surfboards
to sell a notion of escape
against the cell of a poorer tomorrow.

Religion lost its claim to G-d
once the churches locked their doors.
The homeless started a choir
on the park bench by the chapel
once they grew tired of food;
fame now the nutrition of the masses.

The baby boomers are a dying breed
set for containment and greed
and rapacious war;
the dreadful threat of a next door neighbour-
their extinction amongst
a millennial wantonness.

Heiresses brush their hair in vanity,
as does the poet to his white-noise
crowd of lunatics and alcoholics.
He crushes diazepam into his whiskey sour,
then lifts a shaking hand

to find the power he is preaching against.

I am dreaming of a white Christmas
I say stop, cause it's too **** hot for that
You see instead of skiing and skating on ice
We are having barbecues and swimming in the pool
And instead of Santa coming down the chimney he goes through the computer screen and uncle robbie and jim bob
And Jacob lying on the beach getting a tan and if they are dreaming of a white Christmas well stop cause in Australia
It's too **** hot for that
You see kids are riding their surfboards
On Bondi beach and santa will join us
Everyone is having fun
And robbie pulls out six pack
And said lets get out backpacks
And hike through the kangaroo island bushland
If you dream of a white Christmas
Well stop cause in Australia it's too
**** hot
You see we go off the Queensland and sere the big pineapple and then go down to Coffs Harbour to see the big banana and mum is sweating in the kitchen cooking the Christmas bird
And we go to jamberoo to slide down the waterslide
And uncle Freddie said ** ** ** look at me go
I am dreaming of a white  Christmas
I should stop cause in Australia it's too **** too ****
Too **** hot

There's a dead silence
surrounding me
& I see the babes hanging,
all of them girls,
they lie on surfboards,
trapped for an eternity
& under the mist of a cool jade,
I spot my ruination day,
the winged serpent
with her eyes made of pearls.

Give me back my kisses, give 'em back
Give me back my 501's give'em back
Give me back my pride, give it back
Give me back my tooth brush give it back

And I'll give you back your loving, 'cos all it was to me was a heavy backpack

Give me back my future, give it back
Give me back my polaroids, give'emback
Give me back my friends, give'em  back.
Give me back my peace of mind give it back

And I'll give you back your loving, 'cos all it was to me was a heavy backpack.

And keep your temper to yourself
Try to control your psychotic reactions
Try not to ruin, everybody's life around you
And get yourself a life

Give me back my car keys, my boots and my DVD's
My **** films and all of my LP's
My hair loss treatment shampoo, and my old spice aftershave too
And the photograph you keep in your wallet where I'm kissing you

Give me back my tools my guitars and my skateboard
My surfer mags and all of my surfboards
The time we wasted together, the waves and the sunny weather
And keep the toys we had hid in the first drawer for when there's another.

And keep your temper to yourself
Try to control your psychotic reactions
Try not to ruin, everybody's life around you
And get yourself a life

In the blue distance, gleaming, painted with glorious patterns
reflected in the refulgent sunset,
come the surfboards amidst
the swell
the froth
the crashing waves
that rise and fall.
Crashing, rushing, babbling in tune that
echoes and re-echoes in the evening softness
to dance in joyful harmony.

And this, this crystal world that I have seen
in patchwork majesty spread wide upon the shore.

Just a few reasons I think we really might work.
Well first because who else will fix your rogue eyebrow hairs?
Because I like your thrifty style, and I'm pretty sure you like mine. Because you scream, "AUTUMN!" like I fell off a cliff when I'm simply "lost" in target.
Because in the morning, when you turn to kiss me, I'm captivated by your sleepy eyes.  
Because you are hilarious, and most of the time know when it's best to be serious. Because I crack up at your relationships with Russians named Andre and Andrew.
Because I swear, you're perfect for me.
Because of your obsession with pugs, and my love for pugs on surfboards. Because you make wooden creatures.
Because we met in creative writing. Because you like to write creatively. Because you like to climb up a specific set of 45 stayers.
Because I'm scared of howler monkeys. Because we have a guardian angel named Calvin. Because you went to Nicaragua and that was brave, daring, and tough.
Because nobody else will do celebrate hands. Because we Skyped for 5 hours.
Because geese we think are swans are so lovable, even at 3 AM. "Tim" "I hear them."
Because you were tardy Tim to ol' chem.
Because you have an adventurous heart.
Because you get it.
Because you like early morning fiestas as much as me. Because you'll turn my head into a biscuit.
Because of how dang good you look on your long-board.
Because you fought for me and now it's my turn to fight for you. Because I know it's truly funny when you laugh so hard there's no noise and I love it. Because sometimes you laugh at me and I don't know why. Because I could stare at you forever and still not believe you're there.
Because we blamed Hisky for being naked. Because Hisky said he thought we were "it"
Because you ran cross country.
Because you love veebs more than me.
Because casio.
Because you have strong opinions about sensory loss. Because you freak out about Thursdays and groundhogs day. Because you enjoy the little things. Because you love mountain biking.
Because you'll dance with me even though I know you don't really like it.
Because if it weren't for my stupid self, we would've conquered long distance.
Because I get sick of everyone else.
Because I could sit in a coffee shop with you all day, even if I never beat you in chess.
Because there's a huge market for corn-dog holders.
Because you believe in ridiculous dreams. Because you like to be ridiculous.
Because you have soft lips and awesome hair.
Because you're different----
Because I fell in love with you, and don't wanna get back up.