Somewhere In Camarillo
My father is the sunshine
shining bright in the hallway
inside our house in Camarillo.
He’s waving his class schedule
from Ventura Community College
around, like a charged conducter
in front of a symphony orchestra
describing his afternoon class
which covers the life and times
of three distinct Indian tribes.
The Tongva and Mojave.
The nearby Chumash.
A ticket to happiness
and the people long ago
who called California home.
This college class schedule
he won’t let go of drops
a photograph to the floor.
Cave paintings colorful
inspired by the Datura plant
(the Chumash version of LSD)
grabbed by my barking dog
Buster like a Sunday paper
he delivers down the hall
where I thumb tack it
to my bedroom wall.
The only thing bright
in my overcast room.
Peach pits on the carpet.
The air in desperate need
of a few shots of Lysol spray.
Me thinking about the movie
Island Of The Blue Dolphins.
Happy if you like the Pacific.
Sad because a Chumash girl
alone lives on Nicholas island.
Stranded except for a wild dog
who once killed her brother.
No one to talk to for 18 years.
Dysentery will kill her only
seven weeks after some sailers
out fishing finally rescue her.
If someone calls me today
on my cellphone to ask
how are you doing
I’ll say I’m fine.
I’m always fine.
I’ve never not been fine
but I don’t think they’ll believe me.
There’s Always Someone Who Can Make A Bad Day Worse (May 24th, 2022)
When my down-the-road neighbor
Roger offers to set me up with a lady
stranded at his house with car trouble
you would think I’d say yes, right?
but this generous proposal comes with
baggage in the form of Roger’s father
who prouldly served with the Nazis.
Baggage because Roger is always
outside, fixing his cars wearing
next to nothing on his driveway.
Things go from bad to worse
when he shows me the scars
in his legs from gunshot wounds
courtesy of a friend who went off
on their private six acre rifle range
somewhere in the Mojave Desert.
A perfect location for someone
who loves guns as much as he
does, Roger never fails to say.
So, how should a man like me
respond to Roger’s friendly offer?
Yeah/No is the best I can answer.
Not so different from how other
red, white and blue Americans talk
these days over coffee in Starbuck’s
or shopping for food at Trader Joe’s
or casting news on CNN, speaking
of that massacre in Texas. 21 people
dead from a teenager who celebrated
his 18th birthday by purchasing an AR15.
A strange gift from the Uvalde gun shop
while today finds me wandering in Oakhurst,
a small town between Fresno and Yosemite
wondering if I should’ve said yes to Roger
or should I have just said no? 100% no
but my vague and/or evasive answer
hits him directly in the wrong location.
Roger’s mouth opens wide like a black hole
sucking me into his house where he screams
Do you or don’t you want to fuck this girl?
pushing me into a nightmare, trapped at
the wrong end of a snuff film that makes
Picasso’s painting Guernica look pleasant.
Maybe William Burroughs could show up
for a cameo to happily clean all his guns
in Roger’s semi-rural version of a stockade.
Time to walk away, to relinquish myself
from this bad dream and find my way home,
into my kitchen where I start slicing avacados,
tomatoes and onions to go into my bean burritos
for a late lunch but I stop to look around, nervous
as I count the knives above me, hanging down
from the ceiling on hooks. 25 sharp knives,
which is way too many for a day like this.
In My Room,
there’s my collection of green ceramic frogs who I sometimes see hopping around in their
small aquarium made of glass.
there’s my Tyrannosauras Rex and Triceratops figurines fighting to the death.
there’s my baseball card featuring Doc Ellis who pitched a no-hitter one night in San Diego
after taking LSD with some friends in Los Angeles that same morning.
there’s my Eric Cartman doll, star of South Park all boxed up so he can’t escape to inject me
with the Corona virus.
there’s my Starbuck’s mug full of coffee but the hard-working baristas and the loud-speaking
customers are nowhere to be found.
there’s my Britney Spears bobblehead doll who never shuts up about her soap opera life.
there’s my old friends somewhere who can’t forgive me for my nervous breakdown inspired
behavior.
there’s my feelings that sink so far down when I look at the photograph of my ex-wife smiling
in the rain.
there’s my baseball card of Yogi Berra who survived D-Day and won nine World Champion-
ships with the New York Yankees.
there’s my Johnny Cash figure all dressed up in black who sings about prison but never spent
any time behind bars.
there’s my vase full of colorful fake flowers that make me smile because I never need to ‘
water them.
there’s my heart that stops beating every now and then because I haven’t seen my ex-wife
for 12 years and I probably will never see her again.
there’s my XL Duracell flashlight I always carry to battle off all the foxes and coyotes howling
outside my window.
there’s my Colonel Sanders bobblehead doll to remind me Kentucky Fried Chicken is open
until 10:00 PM.
there’s my chubby Bob’s Big Boy bank full of nickels and dimes but not much else.
there’s my purple Prince Rogers Nelson bobblehead doll whose no-holds-barred musical
talent was shot down by Fentanyl.
there’s my baseball card of Denny McClain who spent the 1968 season drinking an entire
case of Pepsi (which is my favorite drink) every day while winning 31 games.
there’s my book by Jewish philosopher Hannah Arendt Eichman In Jerusalem in which she
compares Israel to Nazi Germany after sharing her mind and body with German philosopher
Martin Heidigger.
there’s my baseball card of Jimmy Piersall who was a genuine paranoid schizophrenic and
once called Billy Martin “Pinocchio” because of his large Italian nose.
there’s my baseball card of Billy Martin who once beat the hell out of Jimmy Piersall for
calling him “Pinocchio.”
there’s my book by Alice Miller who wrote about the evil ways Germans raise their children
when she wasn’t beating her own son.
there’s my drowning-in-quicksand reaction when I realize schizophrenics like me should
consider themselves blessed if they ever find a job dishwashing, anywhere.
there’s my poster of Kurt Cobain on one of my bedroom walls staring at a poster of Courtney
Love on the opposite wall both wondering if either of them can claim a victory.
there’s my Axl rose bobblehead doll portraying himself as Charles Manson but, thank God,
rock and roll will always have room for people out of control.
there’s my feeling you might call dull resignation because I always have been insane and I
always will be insane.
there’s my copy of a CD by the Dixie Chicks who never stop singing about their problems
with a guy named Earl which always warms my heart.
there’s my fear sinking in when someone tells me Joey Ramone spent the last five mornings
of his life in a hospital bed listening to the song A Beautiful Day by U2.
there’s my sack of psychotropic meds such as Prozac, Serequel, Trazadone and Propanolal
among others to keep me from going over the edge.
there’s my book on the Beach Boys that taught me about Brian Wilson, another schizo-
phrenic, who filled his adult bedroom full of sand so he could escape to a childhood sand-
box or to the beach which I am doing right now.
