by Terry Watada
but
I get all next week off.”
“With pay?” don’t know actually.
Gladys begins
singing a song
from somewhere deep in her past
rasping like sandpaper she
can’t carry a tune in a bucket as i
do a twist and turnout
into
the darkly streetlit night.
closin’ time
The Game Nears Its End
characters
in a waits scenario
like Subarus in a dogbreath
street
limp, slump and slouch
towards a Bethel-night of
night clubs
dives
and jam sessions
closed-down in concupiscent
curds of flaccid afterglow
the extinguished smoke
from
candles (almost
to 100)
rise up into the faint light
like
ghosts
suspended in the still coughing
air
it’s nearing the time
just
a few more stories a touch
more ghosts
and expect a visitation
in
total darkness and cloying fumes.
the flicker of the past
will enlighten
100 Ghosts
The Michael Poems
For Mike Shin
Vanishing Point
Mike, his name is
Mike. Not Michael
though
his mother, girl-
friend then wife
gave him that name
as an affectation, out of
affection.
i know you’re
out
there
riding the highways
while the blue-meanie wheels chase
you
want you hate you
but I knew him as Mike.
and
Mike it will always be
get thru ‘em, baby,
get thru
‘em
he
was
a working man
worked his father’s
warehouse at least, his father
was the manager
Mike did every-
thing:
took
deliveries, did inventory
got coffee moved racks
around swept up
mostly he drove the Econoline van
a Dodge Challenger belched
and revved at
a standstill flat on the screen
deep
in
the darkness
of the theatre
the car squealed and
peeled
out like
a soul out of hell seeking
the
good grace
of God
“gotta get moving”
cigarette
hanging
perilously from the lower lip keeping
the cancer away
leather jacket and shades
even
in sub-zero weather
he was cool like
Kowalski
leaning on
his 1970 Challenger
Colorado plates OA5599
looking at
the end of days sneering and not caring.
the ethos of the highway; the philosophy
of the open road
we rode the freedom freeways of
California
the last American hero
the last beautiful free soul
on this planet
a blind
dj
finding self-acceptance
in being black
on
the airways
reaching out on
the currents of the
Santa Ana
winds to
find the ghost Kowalski
and
the kindness of counter-
cultural strangers
an old jagged prospector a
bangled
beaded
hippie a
free, naked spirit of love
on a motorcycle
Delaney & Bonnie & friends
Rita
Coolidge Cherokee
Nation refugee
singing like a Jesus-freak
we followed
a Stingray at 100+ mph
on Highway 101
Mike
[Fuzz-buster to avoid
radar-traps
by the highway patrol]
the light extinguished
and Mike pulled over
a cruiser
swooped down
from
its
mountain perch
and nabbed the Vet
jailtime in a speed-trap town
Mike and his sixth
driving sense.
Cisco CA Ruth’s
66 Café
Ethel’s
Café two countertop dives
more
than the town needs
rusted car carcasses
beneath the
Chevron Supreme Mobil Gas
and
shell signs
he smiled and ran
head-
-long
into those bulldozers.
he knew, he knew he
had reached the point.
California sun reflected
on his
tinted glasses
but never penetrated
he’ll always be Mike
we gotta get moving we gotta
get moving on
on
towards
our own cinematic vanishing point.
Playing Pool
On a hot Saturday night
in the air
-conditioned reek
of sweat, day-old alcohol
& mental work-a-day
stress
playing
pool
with Mike the AC pings,
clangs and chirps
like a Chinatown shopper
looking
for a bargain on
west Dundas
at the intersection of immigrant &
Huron
with the Lee Family Association above and
Ka Hee noodle house at ground level,
the ol’ time Spadina
Pool Hall moulders in the basement
but Mike
and me swim through the humidity &
around speedbump tables with
warped cues
studying the
position of
reds and colour’d. Lookin’ to score a run or two.
[Break]
the Shooter looks
to sell fake Rolexes in the washroom
dark in there with rust rings around the
thrones
at the bottom of urinals the ammonia
smell covers, cleans & seals the deal
(there’s no works inside—don’t buy it)
[cherry in the corner—set up for the black,
settle for the pink in the side]
Sally
holds a cue like a man’s penis delicate-like
sits on a stool
like
it’s her latest castoff boyfriend
shows off her legs in nylons enmeshed
her sunken cheeks crepe-rippled skin
and
eroded eyes
makes a man think but
he has a go
what else’s he got to do
with a half tank of gas and a paycheque
barely cashed in his pocket?
[sold out the 2-ball combo, pot the blue ball
as a prize]
a fight breaks out between the owner Doug
and
a regular, too drunk to fight effectively;
a swing of a 20-weight cue
catches a corner
of a head—crack—down he goes
rolling under
a table, blood leaving a slime trail behind.
the drunk recovers eventually stands
and stumbles to the stairs
“I’ll get you, you cocksucker . . . I’m
coming back with a gun . . . ”
[run the colours: yellow, green, brown blue, pink, black
hooked & scratch] Mike
wins
Mike & I
talk about girlfriends
his folks his job the community
we laugh he
spills
his opinions on
the table and I listen pick
up the
pieces of the conversation
and give in
to the idea that marriage
ain’t
for him that
Springsteen is the greatest
that
moving out isn’t a good idea
“Who’s a better cook than my mom?”
and I listen; and i agree;
that’s my part in all this
and I don’t mind
because
we’re good buds
and will stand together until the end—
it’s tragedy that goes on living
•
and the evening does end as
every Saturday does
steaming our faces
above a bowl of
wonton mein
while the beef & greens on rice is
prepared in the open immigrant kitchen
“Man, we could eat in those days.”
me and Mike chew over
life
as life flows in & around
us
on wild Saturday nights
in
the darkest
parts of a fragrant Harbour of dangerous
China-
town.
Babies in the River
turning upriver from
where the DVP
drains
into
the lake,
where
Jilly’s bumps and grinds
to Hall & Oates in the grimy
din
and dim lights of
alcohol and treason
driving up-river
with Mike’s
ghost looking for a Mac’s Milk for
June’s
breath-mint
the suburban-girl’s shield
against
embarrassment.
Pretty Flamingo
on
the radio
La-la-la la-la-la pretty flamingo
reminds me of a time when
bop turned to pop
to make money.
Who could blame ‘em?
teeny boppers sweating to the beat
as opposed to
cigarette-filled clubs
with needles
going into
arms and betrayal on the lips
of
women with cracked teeth
and alcohol eyes
swimming in dreams
in
the asphalt current
that
sweeps into
Chinatown duck, chicken and pig
carcasses hanging
on hooks with expressions of
surprise,
agony and still death
on their faces but
their skins are crisp, their meat succulent
as cooks
take ‘em down
to slice and coat with
jewelled oil and spice
Mike lights up
a favoured cigarette
from
his flip-top
box of Player’s the smoke
co-mingling
with his ectoplasmic
film
making him visible
to the mind’s eye.
“Soba?” he suggests.
and there we were sittin’ in the Congee Star
in
a suburban strip-mall outpost
- his voice edging softer
towards silence with every puff
and slurp
and me wondering]
how long’s he got? can’t believe
he’s dying won’t believe.
That cigarette dangles
from his lips as
the raw news streams into the car
By the Jersey shore:
2 men
and 3 teenaged boys
were charged with gang-raping a
7-year-old girl who was sold by her
15-year-old
step-sister during a party
in Trenton, New Jersey the Rowan
Towers
the step-sister went to a party
and the little girl tagged along
because she was worried about her
sister’s safety
the sister had sex for money
and then took money to let the
men
touch the little girl
touching turned to forcible sex
boys conspiring
crime on
the 506 Carleton Car screeching past
the
Don
swearing with their ignorance
and wearing their 59-Fifty caps
sideways
to demonstrate their stupidity
indifferent passengers
gazing at the grocery store
killing fields where an immigrant
was gunned down for who-knows-what.
where masked men broke into
a midnight
meal at the Jun Jun and
opened
fire
like the Law & Order theme
just for kicks.
But quietly flows the Don
as Dr. Sun Yat Sen
waves optimistically to