VIN SCULLY

Mind you, I’ve never been

west of the Mississippi

but each night this summer

in my bed I’m listening to

a strange bedtime story-

thanks to modern technology.

There’s a light blue glow

on the ceiling of my room

as I lay still and soak in the

lullaby of each Dodgers game

especially if it is his voice-

the sound of seasons past.

I imagine drinking Coronitas

in the parking lot while radios

blast the songs of Sublime.

I wonder if there are statues

to honor the great Sandy Koufax,

Jackie Robinson, or Kirk Gibson.

I dream of sitting in the bleachers

in Chavez Ravine without a jacket

or hat knowing the chance of rain

is just small talk, a bit of rumor.

I’d eat a Dodger Dog as the sun set

over the infamous Freeway traffic.

Without fail, after a few innings

I begin to fade away to sleep.

My wife come up to yell at me,

“Turn that off, you’re sleeping,”

she says and I roll over knowing

I’ll check the score in the morning.

Tennessee Education, 1992

To think that I could forget windrows,

why it’s important to put hay up dry,

where to hook a chain on the truck

when you’re pulling it out of the mud.

To think that I could forget tobacco barns,

how to sort the brights, the lugs, and tips.

The sweet smell of it hanging in the rafters,

a need for moisture and the foggy mornings.

To think that I could forget black coffee,

the taste of JFG brand, no milk, no sugar,

Family seated on tall chairs at the counter,

when they got up, they’d say stay with us.

To think that I could forget winter evenings,

the heat of the fire from a Franklin stove,

the laughter of Papaw in his big chair telling

stories about logging camps and driving trucks.

To think I could forget how biscuits are made,

soup beans, slab of onion, chunks of cornbread,

the squint in Granny’s eye when she spoke of

the one’s she despised or told of their stupidity.

To think I could forget how crops and seeds

must be planted during the full moon or as he

used to say, “when the sign is in the head”

Sixty eight days from planting to picking.

To think I could forget about cows in the field,

Black Angus, Charolais, classic red and whites.

riding the fence line, doctoring a sick heifer,

gathering young bulls in the barn on the hill.

To think I could forget about the hunting,

how running rabbits made the old guys

lament a pack of beagles and basset hounds,

how sadly men spoke of the long gone dogs.

To think I could forget which exit to take,

how odd roads run north to south and even

run east to west or the names of the rivers to

cross over, the Pigeon, Nolichucky, or Holsten.

To think that I could forget those words,

when you come here you get that dirt in your shoes.

No matter how far away you go or how long you leave,

you can always come back home to these mountains.

JUST PASSING THROUGH

Tonight I sit inside a noodle restaurant

it used to be a Mexican burrito place and

before that, in the 90’s it was a Wendy’s.

It gives me the same feeling I have when

I sit in my living room in my big brown chair

a place I’ve lived for about a dozen years.

Others lived there before, sat in the same spot

watching TV, arguing about paying the bills,

raising kids, putting up Christmas trees,

painting the walls their favorite colors,

rolling out carpet to make it warm and cozy.

In another twenty years, someone else will

call this place their home and they’ll paint

the walls their favorite color and buy a new rug.

They’ll be out front watering the hydrangeas

that I planted along the driveway and raking

up all the leaves the way we used to each fall.

One day, when I’m gone, the postman will deliver

a piece of mail with my name on it, somebody will

glance at it, read my name, toss it in the trash

and say, “must be the guy who lived here before”.

Forgotten Muscle Car

thunders by on Route 18 South,

neurons fire, my 50 year old brain

searches for the word on the car.

Look close, a metallic logo confirms.

Drive on, beside him, behind him

remembering an old guy’s lament-

back in the days before computers,

street legal, slant sixes, big blocks,

4 barrel carburetors, a story always

laced with numbers, V8, 383, 426,

street legal, slant sixes, big blocks.

Secret codes for those who lived it.

Never saw these, even in the 70’s,

Chargers, Firebirds, Mustangs, sure.

Something ugly about this one, long

in front, squared off grill like a mouth

of the fish a Detroit guy named it after.

This one’s dull gray with a white roof.

I’d paint it purple, make the roof black.

Must be headed down the shore with

Historic QQ Jersey plates. Bet he plays

that old “Heart” song as kids walk along

the rows of cars with parents and say-

It’s kind of cool, what’s the name of that?

LESSONS LEARNED

(AT AN EARLY AGE WHILE LIVING IN LOW INCOME HOUSING, 1974)

Sometimes in life

it’s a good idea to hide in the corner behind a red naugahyde chair.

Sometimes in life

you have to pound on the steering wheel and shout, “you know I wanted ice cream”!

Sometimes life tastes like

Swanson pot pies, Campbell’s soup, Quisp cereal, a packet of Wyler’s juice

Sometimes life feels like

the shot gun blast that killed the old guy who was the apartment manager.

Sometimes it’s like

an across the hall neighbor out of her mind on acid running in with a butcher knife.

Sometimes in life

you have to push the furniture in front of the door before going to bed.

Sometimes life is about

lawyers in the living room and toys you’re forbidden to play with.

Sometimes it’s

your cat having kittens in the closet, but you can’t keep one of them.

Sometimes life

burns like shampoo in the eyes or it cuts like a broken water glass.

Sometimes it sounds like

a Carpenters album, a Gilligan’s Island laugh track, the Banana Splits theme song.

Sometimes in life

you want Mrs. Beasley with her polka dot dress, not the red heart shaped pillow.

Sometimes life is like

pulling GI Joe’s string and the only thing he ever says is, “I've got a tough assignment for you”.

FINDING MYSELF

Sometimes I go days without looking in the mirror.

I get a good look when I decide it’s time to shave.

In front of the sink, shake the can of Edge, lather up-

I wonder when the wrinkles start, been lucky so far.

My left eye, no- right eye is bloodshot again, stress?

Notice more white hairs than dark, there’s a blemish.

A few spots here and there, never had them before.

My wife insists I should go and get them checked out.

I look tired after a full night of sleep and why does hair

grow faster in my nose, ears, on the back of my neck?

Somewhere between the last razor stroke and splashing

on the cold water, I remember the friend from college

who always joked about having a Talking Heads moment

while shaving. All of a sudden you stop, stare at the mirror

and say “You may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?”

INSTRUCTIONAL VIDEOS

In the dead of winter, I get up early to

find my house too cold, the heater runs,

but it’s blowing cold air out of the vents.

The thermostat tells me it’s 63 degrees.

I think about what to do as I know the

serviceman won’t come out right away.

I’m bad at fixing things, I never know

how to start, I don’t have the right tools.

I go to You Tube and look for free advice,

and I know what that’s worth- nothing.

I type in- my heater is blowing cold air.

Each guy talks too much with their hands,

they all have mustaches, slight accents,

they wear khaki pants and polo shirts.

They look like they’re somebody’s Dad.

They say the same things, be sure to check

the thermostat’s batteries, the breakers,

the filter, change the filter and make sure

none of the vents are  blocked by furniture.

Look for flashing lights on the bottom, then

count the number of flashes, it’ll tell what’s

wrong with your unit, read the panel door.

Perhaps it’s the thermocoupler? It’s probably

dirty, they show me how to properly clean it.

Be careful as you could damage the sensors.

Be careful as you might get yourself electrocuted.

The last word of advice from them all is the same-

if you’re unsure, don’t attempt to repair it yourself,

consult the yellow pages, call a licensed professional.

And after an hour, that’s the advice I chose to follow.

HOUSE HUNTER

It was the third week in February.

I remember it was President’s Day.

In Jersey it’s usually cold and gray,

we had sunshine and warm weather.

It was a buyer’s market, they said.

A realtor showed me houses here

and there, only ones I could afford

with my minimum down payment.

When we drove up to this one, I knew

it was what they called a starter home.

I didn’t care if it was small or very old.

I wanted a yard for my son to play and

a place for flowers and tomato plants.

I wanted him to have a decent school

and a safe neighborhood to grow up in.

I worried about taxes and a mortgage.

but when I saw the color, I wanted it.

Earlier, before I left, I’d asked my son-

What kind do you want? and he said,

I want a blue one, get us a blue house.

AMERICAN DREAM

they always said how you need to buy a house,

a big deduction, it’ll never lose its value, besides

paying rent is just like throwing your money away.

high mortgage, a home not worth what we paid,

property taxes go up every year, too many repairs

just keep taking all the money that we both make.

Now we look forward to the apartment we’ll rent.

PRICE PLUS

Did you find everything you were looking for?

Are there any items on the bottom of your cart?

Do you have any coupons or a Price Plus card?

The 3 questions cashiers always ask at this store,

they must train them to say it before they start.

Did you find everything you were looking for?

Shopping for groceries shouldn’t be this hard,

displays and selfish customers block the aisles.

Are there any items on the bottom of your cart?

I spent $200 without a single package of meat,

the lady with food stamps buys T-bone steaks.

Do you have any coupons or a Price Plus card?

TWO YEARS PASSED

before I called an electrician.

Tired of fumbling with keys,

trying fit it into the door knob.

Tired of eating in the dark and

hearing too many complaints.

I put it off as long as I could,

no one likes spending money.

Now lights shine brightly by

both doors, a ceiling fan hangs

above the dining room table.

The outlet in my son’s room

is updated for 3 prong plugs.

No more tape over his switch.

They spent all afternoon here,

two men working on the list.

With more money, it would've

been longer, 60 year old homes

always need something fixed.

In a few years, I might call them

to come back to finish the list.

CHINANSKI, MISUNDERSTOOD

“What matters most is how well

you walk through the fire.”- Charles Bukowski

Mention your name and they smirk, grunt, or groan.

They say that all your poetry is about getting drunk,

getting naked, getting arrested or all of the above.

Dirty old man addicted to whores, whiskey, horse races.

But I know you better than that. I've read your books,

took the time to find out about you and when I heard you

explain how hateful your father was as you took the film crew

to your boyhood home, into the hallway by the bathroom,

I cried as you, in your sixties held back your tears describing

how he whipped  you with a strap, all his anger put on you.

What he left on your heart, what you felt your entire life.

To be degraded, belittled, insulted. It stays with you forever.

And when I picked up your book from the shelf one night,

I felt your pain, your suffering. I consumed your poems,

your books, the films. I wanted to find out everything

about you. Your work turned me to the poetry of others.

I wrote too, I never stopped and I walked through the fire.

AN ELVIS SIGHTING ON MY WAY TO THE NEW JERSEY TURNPIKE

“Can you believe it’s been thirty five years?”

says the DJ as the song Suspicious Minds ends.

He wants us all to call the station and answer-

“Where were you back on August 16, 1977?”

Driving along Route 18, I think back to that day.

I was with my cousin. I hardly ever see him now.

He’s bald. I’m gray. We’re old. Last time I saw

him was at a funeral, we stood and talked a bit

and he asked if I remembered the day Elvis died.

It was hot,a humid day,like today,it was back

in the days before so much air conditioning,

We slept shirtless and shook on baby powder.

It was back in the days before we had cable,

DVDs, video games, i-phones and the internet.

We had cards- Old Maid, Crazy 8’s and Go Fish.

We played with flashlights and told scary stories.

We made forts out of sofa cushions and sheets.

We stayed up all night listening to Elvis music

on a beat up General Electric radio. In between

the songs crying fans called in heartfelt eulogies.

I stop at a red light. Love Me Tender is playing.

I look to my left and there he is driving a hot pink

ice cream truck-Elvis at the wheel,big sunglasses,

rings, wristbands and his black hair,now receding.

I ‘m shaken, out of breath and overwhelmed.

I try to figure it out; he cuts me off, he exits.

I read his menu of banana splits, milk shakes,  

and a big slogan- King of Rock n’ Roll Treats.

There’s a photo of fat, old Las Vegas style Elvis,

a cartoon character in a red jump suit and cape.

And a bumper sticker that says-Thank you very much. 

TEST QUESTIONS

Last night I dreamed of long,

rectangular plastic pill boxes.

Seven little lids with black letters

for each day of the week to make

sure you’re taking the right ones.

His phone call had me worrying

about my test results, my future.

How much can you tell about me

from two vials of dark red blood

and a Dixie cup of my warm piss?

Would he be able to predict that

I have just a few months to live?

Could he find testicular cancer,

a diseased liver or kidney failure?

Would he predict clogged arteries?

Maybe he’ll give me pills, like on TV-

Zocor , Plavix , Lipitor, or Avodart?

Maybe he’ll tell me buy a treadmill,

use fish oil, eat Honey Nut Cheerios,

or to take a little orange baby aspirin.

Would I understand what I had to do

or would I just break down and cry,

regretting all the things I’d done or

would I be angry at myself for all the

things I could’ve or should’ve done?

ESCAPE TO WALTON'S MOUNTAIN

a sudden storm put the power out in Charlottesville

sent us on our way, no UVA and no Monticello either.

We left town for another famous American’s home,

winding roads, backwoods, the Blue Ridge Mountains,

we planned this trip as we watched “Season One”.

Won’t be what you seen as a boy on Thursday nights.

You’ll come upon a factory, never heard about that.

You’ll find the house close to the road, only a few yards

from the church, it’s real small and makes you wonder-

How’d they all fit and get along in such a tiny place?

There’s a gift shop modeled after John-Boy’s shed.

The man who bought the family home spends days

shipping books and DVDs to his online customers.

Told us about Earl Hamner’s last visit and how Audrey

stops by now and then. $10 will get you a quick tour.

Down the road is a school, nothing like the one on TV.

A spacious brick building, high ceilings and tall windows

turned into a museum, run by locals to honor the show

and the family who lived here during the Depression.

Each room recreates a scene with props and furniture.

And when I saw it all, I wanted to sneak past

the red velvet ropes and chrome stanchions.

I wanted to hear the Fireside Chat on the radio.

I wanted to sit at the long dining room table and

have black coffee and Olivia’s applesauce cake.

I wanted to write a journal entry at John- Boy’s desk.

I wanted to smell the sawdust from Daddy’s sawmill.

I wanted to go fishing with Jim Bob, Ben and Jason.

I wanted to help Elizabeth feed Reckless and Chance.

I wanted to listen to Grandpa’s stories on the porch.

I wanted to go to swimming with Mary Ellen and Erin.

But they weren’t there and never were. Yes, finally I

understood- it was just a show, based on a writer’s family.

Even the names were different, James, Paul, and Nancy.  

It was then that I realized how the family I knew and loved

were characters played by actors in California in the 1970’s.

A short drive brings you to a new store built on the site of

Ike Godsey’s place that had burned down. And of course-

he’s not there, just two ladies organizing packs of cigarettes.

They made us hot dogs on the grill. We ate at a picnic table

and compared the real family story with the fictional family.

And at the age of Forty two it gave me the same feeling as I’d

had when I found out about Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy.

We took 64 West to 81 South and after a few hours we stopped

for the night to rest and as the lights went out, we both knew

we just had to say it to each other- “Goodnight  John-Boy”.

BOONDOCKERS

On Saturday morning I jumped out of bed,

put on my husky Toughskins, tube socks,

a Flyers ski cap and a red plaid flannel shirt.

I laced up my boondockers and headed off

to the woods of my youth in South Jersey.

I heard men laughing, the chainsaws buzzing,

logs clunking into the bed of an old Ford pickup.

I found my Grandfather with his teacher friends

on the edge of a soy bean field, near the pond

I’d fallen into more than thirty some years ago.

I ran to the forest, stopped to exchange stares

with a whitetail deer, found the brook where

the scared muskrats scurried and an otter swam.

I climbed trees, crossed streams, chucked rocks,

took cover behind maples, charged a hill with sticks,

breathed in cold fresh air and it made me invincible.

APPALACHIAN WINTERS

The smell of barbecues crept over backyard fences.

Kids found their baseball gloves, played in the street.

Mothers threw open windows to air out the houses.

Families flocked to parks, ball fields and boardwalks.

Others drove with tops down, turned the music up.

After a few days of flip flops and sleeveless shirts,

the sunshine and warm weather began to fade away.

Cold weather returned, bring in the plants, find your

wool caps, sweaters, sweatshirts, maybe even a coat.

“What’s going on?”  “What happened to the weather?”

And when I looked out the window and saw the tree

loaded with blossoms, I remembered what he said about

Dogwood Winter, Blackberry Winter, Whippoorwill Winter,

moments in spring time that remind you it can still be cold,

don’t try to rush the seasons, it’ll be summer soon enough.

THE JOY OF SHADOW PUPPETS

Those were the days of record players,

View-Masters, filmstrips, and projectors.

Watching a movie in school meant it had

to be set up carefully, ahead of time by a

teacher who knew how to thread it over

loops, metal frames, rollers, and spindles.

We watched filmstrips and felt honored

when chosen to be the one to turn a knob.

We listened carefully for a narrator to stop

and heard the “boop” from a record player.

At the end of each filmstrip or movie viewing

we’d fall all over each other, like little moths

wanting to get to the screen to try and make

shadow puppets on the wall. It didn’t last long,

as the teacher ended it quickly with her usual-

“All right, all right. That’s enough. Settle down.”

Thirty five years later it’s a new age with 

iPads, X-box, internet, DVD players in cars.

I’m the teacher now and present each lesson

with a laptop, Power Point, and LCD projector.

Strangely,after the advances in technology and

all the time that’s passed, kids still find magic in

trying to make barking dogs or soaring eagles with

their hands, a bulb’s glare and shadows on the wall.

And that's why I pause before shutting off the light.

APOLOGY TO A HOUSE

I meant to give you a new roof,

have the tree branches trimmed,

and add on a big deck in the back.

I wanted some stylish front doors,

insulated windows, brighter lighting,

central air, a new hot water heater,

hardwood floors in the living room,

another toilet, a better shower stall,

and ceramic tiles for the side room.

I planned to paint the foundation,

pave the driveway, fix the doorbell,

power wash the siding and shutters,

and put up a white stockade fence.

I talked about more counter space,

bigger cabinets and a dishwasher in

the kitchen we rarely use for cooking.

I dreamed about a finished basement

with a party room and flat screen tv.

I thought I’d plant a dogwood tree,

a row of forsythia, and a lilac hedge.

Here we are, it’s twelve years later,

I have to say I’m sorry for the little

I’ve done for you, to help you improve,

to make you stronger and better too.

Someday I promise to make it up to you.

SUNDAY IN THE PARK

The best way to succeed in life is to

act on the advice we give to others. ~Author unknown

Sun on my face, birds on every branch,

bulbs sprouting, green grass emerging

before our eyes in this patch of nature

wedged between busy state highways.

All feeling the same way, the same joy,

blessed by whoever we pray to, but today

we worship blue skies, and magnolia trees.

Here together, but alone, not a word said,

barely a nod as we stroll past one another.

On days like these, I wish we could talk to

each other. I would tell them what I know

what I see, what I think and how I’m feeling.

I’d tell a Dad, be patient with your boy as

they try to fly a kite with not much wind.

I’d tell a Mom in tight fitting jeans to go slow

on her bike, don’t worry about your weight

from where I’m standing, you look mighty fine.

I’d tell a guy walking with headphones to take

them off, listen to children laughing, jays calling,

the swings swaying and the little dogs yapping.

Turn off your phone, walk a trail, read the signs,

identify the trees, admire them, know their names.

I’d tell young parents- let the kids shed their coats,

let them run wild across the fields in the sunshine.

Let them pickup sticks, turn over rocks, look for bugs.

I’d tell another guy by the swings not to say it’s time to

leave and keep pushing until they say they want to go.

I want to ask them all to not scold their babies about

muddy sneakers, grass stains on knees or torn shirts.

I’d remind them how cheap band aids are and how

soap and water is most plentiful in this great country.

I want to offer to take a picture for the one family,

because Dads need to be in some of the photos too.

I’d tell an older couple it’s cool how they still hold

hands after all these years as they walk the path.

I want to tell a lady she’s reading an awesome

book and how it’s much better than the movie.

I’d like to tell the elderly couple that I know what

they’re thinking as they watch a girl dig in the dirt

or when they smile as a boy throws his football.

I wish I could advise the teenager under a scarlet oak

not to worry about what she’s writing in her notebook

or what people will say if they read it. Write it down and

always have some extra pens with you is what I’d say.

I want to wave to a Mom with a plaid blanket spread out

for a picnic lunch. I’d tell her that in forty years her kids

will remember days like this one and they’ll miss it too.