Treasure Island

Wolf Wandering


Type-Writer Dreams


I walked down jazz alleys rolling cigarettes
and a head filled with typewriter dreams,
silently praying to sidewalk Gods
for the inhaling of coconut rum,
Chicago and Havana,
minds heavy with thoughts of steel and uranium
in the years before cold war, red missiles,
and the rusting sickle of Russian terror,
seeing dusty men gathered outside newspaper stands
waiting, plotting, in quiet conversations about bombs,
and in America, small bankers with obscene mustaches
fingering money with a capitalist fix, primarily out
of silk lined jackets of men who pretended to be middle class,
stuck in first like early model Cadillacs, but blooming
in the 60's like early spring lilacs, violent purple, pink,
and the blue of acid blotter fractal brothers and Grey's
later paintings of cross-sectioned life, where Jesus splayed out
examined in new eyes of a public embracing science and
the sub-atomic nuclear buzz, in the years before computers
and solitary confinement of plastic and lamplight, in the years
before the war on multicolored terror and the human manifestation of the plague,
here the rising fist was a message, not a punchline.

Submitted: Monday, May 21, 2012
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