The Blackwood Press DUB 'log

pulling in to another fill up
further down the snake back
20 cents separates the gas pack
so lines and lines impatient
pulled a maneuver and caused a foray
readjusted and pissed off an old lady
she confronted and took off
switching drivers almost hit a car
out of the blue Rain gave a laugh
and pulled my flips from below her lap
she called me a nut and pinched my butt
and kept on laughing
until the heat got us again
this was right as Cali came into sight
love it love it live this land
green trees and views, lakes and rivers
so much so that we stopped at the Yuba
it was so hot and the oasis
calmed with supple hands to caress our bodies

the water was cool and clear
we walked gentile rapids to a small pool
dipped our bodies
floated in the sun of the evening
reeling in happiness holding
each other a-float
washing the grime of a 3000 mile road

grinding through Nevada
stopping for gas at Winihaha
or Whinimecca

my baby wrapped her arms around my neck
as I supported her weight
and I rubbed the stiffness from her spine

as we were leaving I left
my water on the roof
gently stopped and retrieved it

would’ve been sad to have lost our bottle
baby just passed “Reno with the vitamin D”
creeping back to thoughts last week

my baby Rain asleep on the car seat
stopped for water to beat the heat
got out the car with nothing on my feet

I look and I look and realize
I left my flips standing by
at the gas station forever goodbye

well I suppose I am growing older, late twenties
my name is Joe, balding, wife and three kids, working
in George Orwell’s ‘1984′

at home I rub dry dirty glue off my fingers, bookbinding
glue, I book ‘em and bind ‘em, these
and I think of my children, and I give the
books away to friends and family by the
quarter-dozen

sing-song albums, too, sing-song albums

I write ‘em, play ‘em, make ‘em up, record ‘em
burn ‘em glue ‘em forge ‘em and give ‘em away by the
quarter-dozen

lookin’ to make the books and music a full-time line
of work, I take slow, meditated baby-steps across
the perilous kitchen floor, to approach and stare at the
ladder leaning against the chair in front of my
microphone

well some things some times gotta be left behind
and I guess this old bag and book of bent matches is one
I hope I get a lot of good things done in the new and upcoming
ways of living the revolution of Humanity

yeah, like playin’ triplet songs
on my cigar-box guitar
and toy piano