mn
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poetry
Portrait of the Young Man as an Artist
No ideas but in things.
Paul put the book down and
steeple-tipped his fingers
under his nose. Words pressed in
a tight line between his temples.
He picked up his journal and wrote
in large square words
NO
IDEAS
BUT
IN
THINGS
taking up a whole page.
Very small at the bottom
I like this
and an exclamation point, followed by another,
and then a third.
He'd have to tell Molly about it.
Outside, in Berkeley,
trees were breathing sunshine
a loud little man yelled at a UPS driver.
You stupid fuck!
Where's my package?
Who's your boss?
I'll have your job!
I'll have your balls!
Bill, angry, sat down in his truck.
Molly played her Ramones tape
and jumped screaming on her bed.
Hey. Ho. Let's. Go.
Paul lit a stick of sandalwood
and put some dirty clothes into a bag.
On his desk, a halfroll of quarters
burned and glistened heavily,
their coppery-silver grooves straining
the dull plastic sheath.
Paul put them into his pocket with
a plastic baggie of soap.
They felt funny against the inside of his thigh.
Smells like Zen Buddhism
reincarnation, Ravi Shankar.
Molly, panting, rewound the tape and played it again as Bill
goddam shit
made a right turn from Dwight onto Telegraph.
The truck swung, one tire bouncing in a pothole.
A guy ran across and Bill braked hard
Fucker.
Paul walked past Uncle Ralph's with a bag of dirty clothes
no ideas but pagers only in things ninety nine dollars.
Molly's voice hurt.
She turned off the tape and opened her window to
the noise of traffic on Telegraph.
Paul was crossing towards Bing Bong's Laundry.
She yelled his name. He looked up with
one hand in his pocket and five words in his head
stopped to take his hand out and wave.
Bill saw tie-dye.
I've had just about enough of this town
and pressed the pedal down hard, shifting into third.
Paul heard the truck and stared
Dude -- UPS truck?
No ideas but in things.
Last modified: Oct 24, 2008 2:28 pm.
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