Self  Made Man

I had the look,
girlfriends, money, drugs…..
Cool black guys talked to me.
A self made man through the
sale of twenty dollar bags of Mexican;
later, Colombian at $25, then $30 an ounce.
I blew it though,
because I only kept enough
money to buy another pound,
another hundred hits of microdot,
another ounce of coke

I had enough sense to never wear a marijuana leaf,
Better Living Through Chemistry, or Kiss t shirt.
Strictly obeyed all traffic laws in my
nondescript hunter green 1970 Ford Ranch Wagon,
8 track blasting “Kashmir”
through two huge living room stereo
speakers nestled in green shag in the back.

I worked as a dishwasher in various
seafood restaurants to maintain cover.
You probably knew someone like me
if you were a teenager in the ‘70’s –
attempting the look of an English rock star,
the American caveman/cowboy equivalent.
Also, you know it’s all downhill
when you peak in high school.
No one becomes a rock god.
No one stars in the NFL.

We go to jail,
pay for abortions,
work construction,
develop habits difficult enough
to require twelve trips to rehab
but still fail.
Our kids become
just like us,
live in trailers,
buzzer-doored single hallway apartments,
in basements, in tents, under bridges.

Some might write down their thoughts.
Some might see this.
Some might remember
the self that made a man
like me.



May 8th, 1980

Asked to leave the Zappa show
for drinking. Security guards
confiscated my flask of Jim Beam.
We drove around in Ronnie’s Mustang –
young, drunk, stupid – yelling at people
for no reason. It rained hard
the night before, and streets were flooded.
The perfect chance – a girl with a bag of groceries
walking home on the sidewalk. Ronnie
gunned it, swerving into a puddle, sending
a wave of water over the girl and her groceries.
We cackled like fools, the greatest score ever!

That was the night
I met the woman who would become my wife.
A bar called The Dixie.
She claimed I was barefoot.
Asked her to buy me a drink,
and she did. Gave me her number
in lipstick on a napkin.
So many things happening back then,
untouched by the future.

Yesterday I was taking the trash out to the curb.
I picked a crushed beer can out of the grass
with thumb and index finger.
Holding it like that, reaching toward the garbage can
when a Mustang roared by, window open.
Geriatric fuck! the driver yelled at me.
With real anger, it seemed.
Random, misplaced.
You don’t know me, my first thought,
after the shock. You have no idea
what I’ve done.
That’s what I’d like to say
to the driver of that Mustang.

But he was young,
so many things happening in his life.
He might soon, even today,
meet the woman who would become his wife.
Things slow down to memory.
Some random stranger yelling at me for no reason,
bringing it all back like that.