Poem Hunter
Dairy In Time

Dairy In Time

Billions and billions of colors race
ahead of the twenty foot rope
tied to a tree and me;
my little sister always telling;
the name callers who throw stones;
the teachers who think I’m stupid;
the class bully waiting after school;
the basketball star who chooses me last
and never passes the ball;
the redhead who carries torpedoes under her sweater
and won’t let me carry her books;
the family car and cow licked hair that takes all day
to clean and comb for a date;
the pillows in my bed to fulfill playboy fantasies;
and the preacher who declares roller skating is a sin;

no time for friends,
no friends with time.
I stretch my Air Jordans
and bolt out the door over cliffs,
hang the gorge by a bridge
to trade hobos soap for rotten apples,
and steal the rail where freedom rules
“The Cove”, and Hispanoli waits till dawn.

I swim from shore to climb her deck
as Captain Flint sets the sails
to catch the Galapagos wind,

and plunge through waves with icy foam
pass the Straits, and around the Horne
where albatross rewards us land to mend.

Heavy waves surf my phantom ship
over whipping kelp to the Barbary coast
and Cervantes plank in Timbuktu
where men are sold to Hellish moors
who brand their backs to mark their claims
in cesspools of bodies riding whores in heat.

Earthquake waves undulate
as fire and ice yearn to kiss
pictures of mother with shiny black hair
and her shoved-up tits
fading in distant miles
as my roots sink
like a struggling colt in quicksand
yearning mother’s nipples before death.

Got to end this scared search,
cut my hair and tip five dimes,
be somebody with student loans,
wear brass button blazers
on front row seats where gods of tenure
live in dark musty closets
and rule my query
then grade my rage
to graduate in cap and gown
as the king credit counter
counts the credits jerking from line
the guy credit short in front of families
by Pink Floyd’s wall
sitting in rows to hear Paul Harvey
tell the rest of the story
while fathers thirst for any celebration,
and mothers feel proud of being a mother
as I count my credits like sheep
reliving each missed class and nights of cramming
until the tenure god smiles and says,
“welcome back”.

King Counter checks my name and waves
me through, and I know he lost the count
in my head as I run home to hide my degree
under the mattress where I screwed my way
through school, and Uncle Oscar doesn’t show,
but substitutes Elbert Hubbard’s Scrapbook,
while dad drinks his gin and tonic
reading playboy in my bathroom,
and mother cuts the cake
where proud is relief.

School is out and all dues paid.
I hale a cab New York style
circle ads and wait in line
to start a job with Delbert’s crew,
and fantasize big bucks
to touch home plate first time up.

I marry next door the preacher’s girl,
praying she’d wash me clean
as I paint her smile and give her pups
to nurse and grow on her shore of bliss,
while I stand on my shore of woe
beckoning her to search a way
to cross my torrent river.

She hollers back,
Not in here!
Watch the kid!
Raise the lid!
Put it down!
Stash the trash!
Not on the floor!

Find your fucking self,
phantom sock!

The dust devils of my desert
cut me blind, and I crawl
in blazing dirt to Hotel California,
where cut mirrors spin on the earth
radiating moment flashes on polished goblets
as nipples dance on bouncing titties
with varmint pelts deceiving my touch.

I am the candy man parading
my foolish bounty through crowds
in a counterfeit dance
around this burning man
in the desert where only ice
is sold to naked artists
wilting in the searing dust.

I bask in hallucinations
of pompous rights, wondering
what the poor folk are doing
without diamonds, pearls, Aliante’
convertibles in three car garages,
fifty foot yachts, and top cabin cruises.

The mother of my son and daughter
becomes a stranger I bump into
and can’t remember,
while all my trophies
are archaically waiting
to be bought
by the next want-a-bee’s,
and I’m exiled
from my “be somebody” throne.

Lost with all eyes closed
in a teary taste like men shelved
in nursing homes with liver spots
camouflaging their touch of love,
and one tooth eating baby food
wetting diapers waiting for someone,
anyone, to call and remember
what they have lost living
the nightmare of that final cruise
in a heavy fog where faces in life
fade in distant sounds
and roots lose their caring.

My ship is a drifting mountain
on a moonless night with rudder down,
while the wind hides from my sails.
My power is drained by a simple light,
left for peeing alone in darkness.

Baron fish bones are dry and white
with only my ghost written
in billions and billions of colors.

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