The other four drank
from a six-pack of beer.
I abstained.
Then the two young women
took off their shoes and socks
and walked into the water
as a perfect South Bay sunset arrived.
It was one of those rare good days
when I wasn't worrying
about who I should be
and where my life ought to be.
And it was that other kind of rare day
where I didn't mind
not having jobs lined up tomorrow
so I could float through life once more—
perhaps at the same beach.
Painting Brown Leaves Green
I'm in the Mid-Wilshire district
sitting in a tenth-floor office
for endurance of a painful ritual
involving dyed-brown microfibers
hardwired to the top of my head
all while listening to the man say
how the cost of having faux hair
is 75 percent off
if I brought my coupon with me
and don't I look fine now
as I leave,
the man says
you look 35 instead of 53
and women in their twenties
will be texting you more often
someday,
I must learn to text
Illinois
Here I am in the land of Lincoln where the rivers are wide,
The suburban homes are two-story Colonial,
Where teenagers play lacrosse without shame.
Meanwhile in the former city of Sandburg and Daley,
Mayor Rahm gets ready to roll out the unwelcome mat
For those who still think protest is American
And I go through a series of revolving doors
And come out somewhere between the Wrigley building,
the Trump monument to the Trump ego,
And the Marina condos immortalized
In separate decades
By both Steve McQueen
And the band Wilco.
There is little wind in the Windy City,
Only bright sun, heat
And office workers consuming fast Vegan lunches
Before finishing the afternoon's work
To take the Metra train home
For quaint boutique shopping in stores
With posters of John Hughes movies
Plastered on their back walls.
Play That Broken Record
here it is, folks
hops, skips, jumps, warps
sounds way WAY too analog
in the age of clean bright digital
files placed in clouds
makes lots of noise
speaks when it should sing
always goes against the pattern
of the rest of the vinyl
plays at the wrong speed
on every turntable
don't fling that arcane relic
onto the floor
andstomp/smash/grind it
into indigo powder
someday it might sound good
and make sense
to those who want to listen
with unplugged ears
Try To Walk Unafraid
throw your crutches away
long enough to breathe
unfamiliar air
for at least five minutes
before begging
to have your walking sticks returned
because the obsessive-compulsiveness
you possess
makes your brain itch far too much
without the ointment of
illusions, alibis,
dreams too perfect to spoil
by trying to make them real
Poem Using Imagery
Some Poetry Editors
Might Not Like
It was a rough night in the winter of 63
at the club on Fort Worth's Jacksboro Highway.
The honky-tonk band was in the midst
of playing back-to-back Faron Young covers
when a fight broke out in the audience
causing pieces of Lone Star and Jax beer bottles
to fly towards the chicken-wire
wrapped around the stage
to protect the band from the patrons.
The vocalist/lead guitarist stood too close to the wire fence.
His blood oozed through the metal openings
and blended into someone's glass of Wild Turkey.
The band kept on playing
through the bouncers and
Police and Highway Patrol’s
ulimately successful effort
to herd the troublemakers outside
for a pre-Miranda dose of Texas justice.
At the end of the night,
the singer/twanger looked down
at the dried-up hand wound.
It was just like the color of a cockroach
he saw racing down the wall of
his apartment yesterday morning
after waking up in the middle
of a sepiatoned hangover.
Remembering Rodney King
In 1992, he asked
"Can we all just get along?"
Twenty years later,
the answer is:
Yes, we can, a little better than before.
But we still have miles to travel
on the Human Highway.
And it's better to do it together
than to waste time separating,
criminalizing and generalizing
people we don't know.
New York City
Subway Serenade
Don't believe the stereotype.
The NY Underground was good to me.
Bought a Donna Summer live album
At the record store in the station
Below Times Square.
Experienced the vocal R&B quartet
While waiting for the Q train.
On the way to the Village,
There was the 12-year-old who
Moonwalked across our car
To the tune of Michael Jackson's
Black Or White.
And finally,
Going across the Manhattan Bridge,
There was the tall New Wave girl in black,
With blonde, pink-highlighted hair,
Who gently kissed her male teenage friend
On the top of his head.
Don't believe the preconceived notions.
Rays of light can be found everywhere
My Sixties
Here's to memories:
twelve-ounce ten-cent cokes
in paper cups,
the giant-sized Superslide in Wichita Falls,
a copy of RUBBER SOUL
my mother bought me
for Valentine's Day,
Saturday (and sometimes Sunday) matinees
at the Grand Theater,
a rare dinner at the snack bar
of the bowling alley
across from the old Methodist Church,
occasional punishments,
an older brother I was too young to know,
teachers who liked me,
teachers who didn't,
true friends,
bullies in both child and adult sizes,
swimming lessons,
father who survived
an on-the-job accident
and had to have
a plate in his head,
comic books, candy and Fanta Orange
at the drugstore,
waiting downstairs at the Bethania Hospital
while my grandmother was dying,
listening to 45s of "Heroes and Villains"
and "Sunshine Superman" far away
from contact with the Summer of Love,
being loved more than I realized at the time.
Growing Hair for the Wind
&nbs
p; (title borrowed from American Film Institute video circa 1988)
I suffer from
too much of not enough
as I stand inside a Red Line train
to emerge at Wilshire and Western
see new and repurposed highrises
feeling like an extra
in Godard's ALPHAVILLE
with battered fedora
and grease-stained blazer
out of place in a present
that tries to look like ten years later
needing any kind of work
after I threw away a full-time job
because I got tired of the smug boss
one-third my age
telling me it's better to be fast than good
saving for the bus ticket back to Taos
to create better days
rather than merely remember them
and take back my dignity
for the last time
Also by Terry McCarty:
[insert clever title here] (self-published)
INTERLOPER (self-published)
YES I DID (PurePoetry)
IMPERFECTIONIST (Meridien PressWorks)
I SAW IT ON TV (Lummox Press Little Red Books series)
20 GREATEST HITS: POEMS 1997-2004 (available in e-book format via Amazon Kindle and iBooks)
NEVER MET BUKOWSKI (self-published)
HOLLYWOOD POETRY: THE DEFINITIVE EDITION (coming in 2013)
In these anthologies:
SO LUMINOUS THE WILDFLOWERS (Tebot Bach)
THE LONG WAY HOME: THE BEST OF THE LITTLE RED BOOKS SERIES 1998-2008 (Lummox Press)
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