“Get some spice in your life, baby!” he says to me
As I top off his cup with hot java.
I see how he eats those bloody eggs,
Slathered with salsa and jalapeños.
And how he shakes the black pepper and iodized salt over them.
And how he, down from oil fields, grins at me,
Ogling my big bassoons.
I sit here with coffee mug in hand, surfin’ the net,
Checking FB, fabricating another alter ego.
— the sounds of Macy’s T-day parade streaming through the walls of our pier and beam house.
— the smells of grammas sweet potato pie.
Outside a crested cardinal perches on a mesquite log, the log laying in sunflowers.
Logging off the buzz of the binary universe, I hear the syllabary of his song:
He sings: sweet, sweet, sweet. Then, he – chip – chip – chip – chip like a refrain from an antiquated typewriter.
I hear him addressing seeds saying: pretty – pretty – pretty.
I watch from my office window, the movements of an albino squirrel; he is as scrupulous as an ant.
He silently buries his pecans, pitilessly.
Softly laying aside his store for harder seasons; quietly caching his life.
The voice of my grandson is like this: bababa — some sort of indefinite pronoun. When he cries, grampa; he re-invents me.
At breakfast he feeds me cracker; I reciprocate with juice. Once he sips, he utters a manly ahhhhhh, like my daddy used to utter while sitting in front of the tube washing down pork rinds during Sunday’s game.
This is rancho Marquesas; 9000 miles from mayhem. Just a speak-easy bar, 3 bamboo huts, lashed with Huka line.
We are fueled by liqueur.
Bacardi is our friend and all the Gauguins and Conrads throw one or two back; some get drunk and dance. Fata Nuka envisioned sainthood; I passed out.
Others sip on pineapple daiquiris; some eat mangoes atop tikis, keeping watch, as tramp steamers glide by.
Detached from the earth and its dream of life, the steamers sail to Papeete, Tahiti, passing pink coral beaches disappearing into the Polynesian evening.
Her voice is the staccato of a German burp gun —monosyllables flowing by me at the speed of sound.
She halts, pedestal – like, talking into eternity, I gaze deeply down into her gaping mouth; Her tongue — quicksilver suspended in static space.
She utters diphthongs in a thong; I’m dumbfounded.
Her syllables hover in the heavens.
The tapering perspective down the alleyway:
The angle of the alley
The rigid alley
The alley’s straightness
The backdrop of blues
The withering weeds
The rotting boards
The pallid privacy fences
The prickly hedges of holly
The invading kudzu
The high-pitched telephone poles
The decomposing mesquites
The mysterious rattlers
The black garbage urns
Dotting the alleyways like angels of
Death, waiting to collect
the refuse of dead dogs.