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Thoughts on roadside stands
ROADSIDE STANDS
by Richard Kenton Harrison
Copyright 1989 by R. K. Harrison. All rights reserved. Permission is
hereby granted for distribution of this ASCII file via non-profit computer
bulletin boards, provided it remains intact and unaltered. The author re-
serves all rights to printing, hardcopy distribution, and commercial use.
__________________________________________________________________________
5/14/83 3:00 a.m.
Sitting in a small roadside diner,
I dreamed I was a truck driver.
I stirred my coffee for half an hour,
hummed along with country radio,
having just seen the Milky Way
(first time?) at the age of twenty-two.
The skin of my left arm was peeling,
sunburned like a truck driver's left arm.
I know that when a driver gets tired,
pieces of trash on the road acquire
frightening new forms: an empty bag
is a tiger, a branch is a corpse.
I blew on my coffee to cool it
and my glasses fogged up. Tried to tip
the waitress but she said, "No, you need
it more than I do." I need it, true,
but I don't want it.
___________________________________________________________________________
headline: BIKER FALLS INTO OCEAN
a small craft advisory has been issued for the leaves dancing on the
pavement and waltzing along the converging lines of perspective toward
the vanishing point from which the texture of the asphalt is perceived
jerkily as the eyes fail to match the speed but catch brief snatches of
detail such as small bits of shattered glass gleaming like stars on the
sweaty skin of the black rescue worker cutting open the wrecked Eldorado
so the paramedics and the breeze could lift you out of the twisted metal
lit by flashing lightning on the horizon where clouds billow up above
the surf smelling of salt and dead fish recalls the feel of hot sand
between the toes and the white glare of sun on another warning sign
ignored as wooden barricades are pushed aside or crunched under the wheels
following the line of white stripes which suddenly trails off into space
over the edge of the broken bridge in free fall push the cycle away and
embrace the water alone as always
1983
___________________________________________________________________________
FUTURE ARCHAEOLOGY
1. INTO THE FIRESTORM
I felt like the object of a blowtorch's passion as a superheated wind
raked across the lake and whipped my ears with half-whispered words.
I made my way across the crumbling concrete quickly, half expecting the
bridge to tumble into the slimy waters at any moment. The air hung thick
and heavy with heat on the other side. The asphalt of the street was
sticky, as if it wanted to melt under my feet, so I walked in the
smoking grass to avoid being welded to the pavement by the arcing sun.
I looked for signs of life but there was only the crackling silence that
the city sang to me.
2. CHILDHOOD ZENNED
Here I am again. I swore I'd never return to these institutional green
and tan hallways. Sunbeams glow on the worn-out floorboards; my footsteps
ring on century-old wood. The ceiling is full of cobweb-shrouded lamps
that will never glow again. Unpleasant sounds threaten to echo from
these walls.
In the kitchen, the gray grimy blades of exhaust fans still spin in
the breeze. Benches and tables are lined up in the lunchroom, waiting for
another crowd of rowdy diners. I think I hear the clash of silverware on
metal trays. I can't recall whether this was a school or a prison.
The shower tiles in the locker room are still streaked with green
where the fixtures dripped and algae grew. This is where the patterns
formed.
Unpleasant sounds break loose and echo from the cracking walls:
hallway fights, ringing bells, morning announcements, pledge of
allegiance, teachers shouting for attention, the cheering of the crowd,
the footsteps of the outcast as he walks away from them.
The footsteps of the outcast ring like musical notes on the ancient
wooden floor, then the door clicks and creaks open and sunlight hits me
in the face. Heavy summer silence returns as I walk through tall grass
and sandspurs, back to the road, empty-handed.
3. WHEN SORCERERS MAY SAFELY RETIRE
_C_ity to me or vice versa said,
_A_ twisted morning, good one.
_M_y legs ached to tell me how far I'd come
_A_nd my disguise was good enough that I could
_R_amble undetected through this virtual Eden
_O_f tinted windows and bolted doors.
_C_oming into the heart of town, I
_A_verted my eyes to avoid my own reflection.
_M_y stomach growled, mocking the
_A_bsence of traffic on the street and in my belly, as I
_R_an against the light, against the grain,
_O_pening my mouth the gasp or grasp the heavy atmosphere.
_C_ity to me or vice versa said,
_A_fter you've lost almost everything and given up the rest,
_M_an alone standing in expanding universe,
_A_ll these injuries will heal and leave you stronger.
_R_elax, release, let go of anger. As you have seen, we've
_O_rchestrated coincidences to accommodate you.
1976-1989
___________________________________________________________________________
SCANNERS
tuning in tuning out basket case the joint smoked down to a roach motel
clerk working on the skeleton crew cut down in his prime rib me about
the construction sight for sore eyes it greedily agreeing _oui_ all live
in a yellow sub-tropical storm trooper asks are you a heterodyne whining
and dining room for the long and short circuit breaker breaker one nine
lives wasted days and wasted nights in white satin never reaching the
end so you must travel on
1982
___________________________________________________________________________
ROUTINE FIELD INTERVIEW
Probing the shadows with a spotlight,
a police car prowls the street,
hoping to catch a rat nibbling on society's bait.
I curse my heart for missing a beat
and keep walking, hoping he didn't see me hesitate.
The officer spies me and shouts; I stand and wait
for his car to crawl across the concrete.
My drums are getting louder,
an electric guitar is beginning to play.
Suddenly standing next to me, the officer says
"Isn't it kind of cold to be out walking tonight?"
The brown eyes, the moustache, they seem familiar.
"Yeah, we could use a few more degrees of Fahrenheit,"
I reply, playing semantic games that go over his head.
He asks my name and if I have a place to stay;
I give him an alias and make up a birthday:
February 29th of a leap year.
He radios the data to his dispatcher and I smile;
the electronics won't betray me. He asks if I know
where the Salvation Army shelter is.
"Yes, yes I know." He's wearing a coat and our words
become little clouds when they leave our mouths;
it must really be cold. I'm only wearing a T-shirt
and jeans; wonder why I'm not shivering.
The guitar in my head plays "21st Century Schizoid Man"
while we wait for the computerized gossip network
to decide if my alias is wanted.
1978
___________________________________________________________________________
URBAN THEME
I'm a hunted nameless drummer
from across the burning river.
I rode through the billboard jungle
many miles to be forgiven
and unburdened of my sins.
Many people say they seek me,
those who read my words on walls,
those who heard my airborne preaching,
those who served as victims too.
Some of them would like to teach me,
some of them would want to change me,
and most of them would blow my mind out
if they got their hands on me --
but in this city I am faceless,
sheltered from the coming storm,
living formless, moving traceless,
with no license, with no dog tags,
waiting here to be reborn.
1981
___________________________________________________________________________
8/5/87
alternating
current
affairs
of the heart
attack
___________________________________________________________________________
THE RING
I am puzzled by the pride with which
you wear the symbol of your slavery.
The golden ring around your finger
marks you like the shackles of a prisoner.
In momentary passion you consented
to a promise you should never keep.
How long will you desire to wear that
fetter, that reminder of mistakes you've made?
If any trace of justice lingers in this world,
I will be the one who gently pulls it off your finger.
10/20/87
___________________________________________________________________________
UNDELIVERABLE TELEGRAM
You're a ghost now, a moment of multipathed image,
a flicker of faulty video wrongly perceived from the corner of my eye.
Desire projects your face onto the heads of passers-by.
Through foggy windows and rained-on glasses,
every wavering human image is incorrectly interpreted as your specter.
I jump when the phone rings,
although there are no lines between where you've gone and where I stand.
And when the mail comes (every day for the rest of my life)
I'll be shuffling through the envelopes,
still expecting to see your handwriting.
I recall the left-handed slant of the signature,
the open 'a', the curl at the top of the 'c',
but there won't be any more notes coming from you,
not for a long time beyond measurement.
I wish I could master the proper attitude
toward the powers that separated us.
To resist the gut-wrenching centrifugal force of the wheel of Dharma
is to be torn apart.
11/24/87
___________________________________________________________________________
<end>
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