Groceries

From the grocery series. Lot's more where that came from (left field).

 Soft and Gentle Aunt Jemima Smacks Quick Wet Ones on Carefree Mr. Goodbar

 Brawny Mr. Clean, Clearly Canadian, Kix N'ice Dr. Pepper

  Dad's Dobie Barqs to Express Joy

 Jonny Cat Snicker & Nips Mrs. Butterworth's Butterfinger

Pam Always Caresses the Suave Chore Boy Just Right

Apples Poem

I wrote this poem in 6th grade.
I think it has really stood the test of time.

I am bananas for apples
When I have an apple, every thing is peachy
and I'm grapefruit for what I've got

1967

Cigars

Cigars

I enjoy a good cigar–about once a year. That's probably because it takes about a year to get the taste out of my mouth and restore my taste buds to their native state. I am due for smoke this Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving is a time to give thanks. Thanks for this great cigar that I am enjoying and thank god I don't smoke them more often.

San Diego has some fine cigars. A few years back Peggy, Wendy, Pam and I attended the conference put on by the American Institute of Architects at the San Diego Conference Center. Wendy and Peggy were speakers and Pam and I got to wander and wonder at the interesting things being done with shelter and materials. In the evenings we strolled San Diego streets and enjoyed not being in Minnesota. There seemed to be a proliferation of people hand rolling cigars in shop doorways. The cigars looked really good. I thought about having one, but didn't. It wasn't Thanksgiving after all.

San Diego has some fine cigar factories including the one listed, the Cuban Cigar Factory. This is because San Diego is so close to Cuba.

Wait, I just looked it up and San Diego is actually closer to Tijuana. It would be Miami that is close to Cuba. They both seem to have dolphins, but I can find no other logical connection. So, why does San Diego have so many people rolling cigars? I’ll have to get back to you on that.

One more cigar item, then you can go. My dad, whom many of you know as Don or Unca Don, used to smoke cigars quite a bit. He smoked a pipe too, but not when driving. More’s the pity. It seemed on many cold days (September to June in Michigan). We would be traveling to Flint or to one of those nursing homes we were always hanging out at. Dad would fire up a stogie and our environ was suddenly dense with smoke. Torn between the need to stay warm and the need to breathe us kids would stick our little noses to a window opening. With three kids someone was always stuck in the middle. The middle child had to claw her (you didn’t think it would be me did you?) way over one of the others to suck in breathable air. This put her in the position of violating the temporary alliance she may have previously established with that sibling, but whaddya gonna do?

Somehow we survived it. Heck, I don't even hate the smell of cigars, but guess who does? Yup. Don goes ballistic if someone as close as Olympia lights up.

Think I’ll go have a cigar.

Alexandra

Pigment to a Pig

Man-Bird Love

How do You do?

Monkeys Would Not Make Good Generals

And Then I Was Alone

When I Wake Up

Even a Blind Dog Can Wag His Tail

El Camino

I see a guy in the parking lot at Lund's. Sun’s up–just. He takes off his shirt and balls it up for a toss behind the drivers seat. The seat is surrounded by a rusty El Camino with a brown oil cloth pulled down snug over the back. The El Camino is not a car or a truck. In-between and confused. Ever feel that way? The guy is thin and sun-darkened skin covers his sinewy arms. He flips his long brown hair back and hitches up his jeans. He’s ready for the day.

I’m standing across the street waiting for a stream of cars and mini-vans to drift by. I’m wearing a tie and I want to be the guy in the El Camino. Cruise to a small town. Maybe work at haying. Can you do that anymore? I would sleep in a town park and listen to the kids promenade in their cars until finally they, too, call it a day and silence creeps in. A couple of days or a month of this and I’d want to be somebody else.

Traffic clears and I cross the street. I’m still me, but I wonder about all the other people I have wanted to be. I see a successful, rich, man full of self confidence and I want to be him. I see an angry street kid who doesn’t even know who to be angry at, and I want to be him.

Throughout by boyhood I wanted to be an Indian. They weren’t called Native Americans then, just Indians. I longed to have that rich heritage and dark hair and skin. I imgined a triumph over prejudice by cunning and self assurance. I would overcome difficulties, but maintain my humanity. I would be respected and admired. That was a childhood fantasy. I can’t change my lineage.

Other imaginings are more real. I could be rich, I could be a construction worker, artist, teacher, poet, businessman, community leader. Yet on any given day which one would I be?

There are others I wouldn’t want to be. The guy who works the parking lot behind my building. He sits in the little red shack and collects dollars and quarters. In the morning he comes out of the back of Annie’s Parlour with a plastic coffee mug from Circle K or some such. He never looks at me and I have given up greeting him. In the winter he shovels paths along the parking lines so no-one will park askew. There used to be a guy who played keyboard in the red shack. He’s gone. This guy doesn’t do much of anything, and I don’t want to be him.

As for the other, sometimes I am them. I’m poet, artist, construction worker, lover, runner, businessman, father, community leader, friend, goof. Today I am wearing a tie so I am a businessman. Is who we are how we dress? Maybe its that easy.

We Don't Want Your Ideas

Don't Drink and Draw

Lizard, Lizard, Fleshy Tool

Ode to a Coffee Urn

A Vegitative Sort

CEO

No Mouse in my Pocket

Kelthan, Regal Eagle