Unrelated topics strung together with valuable gems.
A needle in his haystack-loony thinking.
Bowel movements to sexcapades-rednecks to intellects.
Daddy never shut up.
Diarrhea of the mouth he aptly called it.
It ran on and on and I learned to float away before I was literate.
Turn it up tune it out or find yourself crawling out of tight-skin
to escape the verbal assault my own thoughts unable to seed or blossom.
Cigarettes dangling from his lips, driving joint rolling,
And never once pausing from the word bombardment.
They flow in and out, up and around with his smoke.
He answered himself, laughed at himself, and often checked to see if I was listening.
Information useless and priceless left me in tangles.
"Too Much Information!" I would shout at him.
He'd apologize repeatedly to which I'd say, "Daddy, stop apologizing!"
Drove me crazy. He drove me everywhere.
I rode shotgun most of my life sitting, sleeping, and reading in cars.
Where outside car part stores, general stores, feed stores and junkyards.
He would talk, incapable of ending a conversation with another human to drive home.
I often sat till way past dark. Slept- cold vinyl against my cheek.
He loved drama, problems to fix. Unable to fix his own.
Attention deficit? Attentions defecate.
Only some of his stories, pieces of them stuck.
Mostly hot oil running out my other ear.
But some lodged there, are even memorized. Immortalized.
Cut outs from the collage of his mind.
A kid I rolled my eyes and faked attention.
My desperate, embarrassed wails "Dadd!!!" To get him to stop
telling people so many inappropriate things!
There were stories I loved and now in his absence-
the great quiet he leaves behind-I try to recall the
Jazz clubs- the village-the beats-
Thelonious Monk live back in the day-
the infamous nuthouse-Man interrupted-
the women-so many women
descriptions of sweaty encounters-
the busts- the weed-
Ronnie Mau Mau and a rich white boy in 1959-
gracing the pages of Life Magazine-
Eating phone numbers in the holding cell-
the hitchhiking adventures rolling down interstate embankments-
horseback riding out west-hand rolling cigarettes in the saddle-
prepared him for a life time of rolling a jay speeding along at 85-
talking 95 mile per while pointing out blurring landmarks and-
wildlife-the parties- the artists-
he met with his mom at the Met-
the books, the people, poets from New York to California-
Joan Baez's bungalows to acid frying-
flaming poison oak under redwoods-
just missed shock treatment-
but couldn't escape therapy-
years of it his only childhood friend his shrink-
Belladonna hallucinations at age six-
winged garbage cans and pig feces leered-
Baptist churches on San Pablo-
and funky parties in Berkeley hills-
he turned green from hepatitis up north-
and "high tailed it" back to Harvard Square —
stole the keys to flee the nuthouse but got busted again-
a roach one little roach picked up by a detective snooping-
through his famous sandal shop- Cambridge in the 60's-
a hip scene and that detective dug through-
leather scraps, cat shit, toxic dyes, incense smoking-
heads hanging out discussing big ideas-
Buddhism and whole lot of talk-dig it-
Uma's father and - Bobby Dylan the day he was signed-
Andy Warhol at the bar, Nikko made eyes at him-
I bet she did he was incredible on the eyes-
certainly entertaining on the ears-
I know now that all his places were like ours-
the weed smoke, leather mold smell-
antiques and wooden boxes-
boxes of every conceivable size shape and substance-
a collector of things-all things-books, writings, photos, paintings, cards, magazine-
clippings, junk, car parts, and their hulking dead bodies littered our yard-
music and people gathered wherever he was-
He collected them too hillbillies and hippies, beats and cow farmers-
kept conversations going into the wee hours around the crumbling kitchen table-
I often slept beneath-
His stuff as pervasive as the words-
everywhere and always accumulating-
Mom came with homemade you-name-it-
pies, breads, music- she played guitar and sang-
self taught like al she does- she sewed leather clothes-
to compliment his sandals and belts-
made pants and vests hippie psychedelic-
some ended up in Vogue-
she gardened and grew-
and hummed her songs while clearing a tiny space in the chaos and filth to crank out a
feast for thirty stoned bodies at the drop of a dime-
Her quiet songs background to his noisy crowded ways.
People are still talking about your talking Daddy-
I will try to record at least the bits
I didn't push out of my exhausted ears.
The jewels I find and chuckle after, your third grade jokes
and love of children's books, Your women,
who loved you back through their exasperation,
and us, your kids
trying to sort through it all.
