Tim with the yello scooter - a poem

Take the good with the bad.
10/28/09
By: Will Jackson

Ol' Tim walked with a limp,
said he got if from breaking horses
back in his day.

swearing it was Sinclairs fault, tim said,
son of a bitch didn't tighten my saddle right,
damned horse nearly dragged me a mile.

Tim loved talking about those things.
He lived in the old Hollywood hotel
about three buildings down from mine.

The boys from the Hollywood hotel would
walk all around my parking lot,
with their cups of drink and looks of defeat.

Tim had a gnarly scar beneath his left eye,
real deep, looked like it hurt.
How'd you get that one, I asked,

Oh man, this big boy named Tim too
caught me messing around with his sister,
and well, he beat the life out of me.

He hobbled over to my desk and leaned in
pulling his eyelid down exposing the red, and said,
Tim was a big sucker, real athletic, a delinquent marine.

He beat me down and then told me to get up, he said,
and I did, and then I laid one right on his jaw.
Tim's eyes were wide, I always get mine, he said.

Gotta get it in where you can, I said.
Yea, but you know the crazy thing, Tim said,
that very next morning my income check came it.

Aint that something, I said,
you gotta take the good with the bad I guess,
said Tim, and then he hobbled right out into the sun.

as he was leaving he said, aint been to jail yet,
hope I never have to go either.
Good with the bad, I thought, and waved him out the door.

Meeting up with Christian

Unedited, first draft - for fun.

I felt fucking warm this morning. The rays were shooting through my blinds and onto my naked body as soon as they made their way around the south end of my building. It felt nice as I grabbed handfuls of sheet beneath me and shoved them away. I was warm, for once in a long time.

I think that it may have been the absence of her body beside me. My legs were allowed movement during the night and that felt nice. I could kick and run and flail throughout the darkest times of night and could do so without the slightest or smallest sound or movement aside me. Again, I felt good. Relaxed. Ready.

This morning was to be a grand one and not due souly to my morning greet from warm sun. A true smile slid over my face. I was to be visited by my friend Christian, a gifted sculpture maker and thinker of fine thoughts. We had gone to school together, lived in a myriad of homes and apartments, and grown into the men we are today all due to the experiences we had shared. He was a few years younger than I and had grown into a fine round form over the years. When last I had seen him his dirt blonde hair was scattered in all directions and his cheeks had been much more rosy than I remembered. You see, we don't really get to see each other that ofter, Christian, Clay, Evan, or any of us fine minds of the OTN. Secret. Special. Supreme.

OTN was a group that, in fact, did not fit into the criteria of a group at all. There was no selection or stipulations at all. This group was based on happenstance and the now. We were joined be a common understanding of life and love and happiness and misery and heartache and want and need and grime and grit and rainbows and color and the like. OTN was infamous in life and even more infamous in our minds eyes.

The telephone rang about ten thirty that sun kissed morning and I ran on tip toes clothed only in a simple brown towel to receive the caller

. “Hello, this is William.” my voice crackled in want of a morning cigarette.

“Yea, hey, ummm...Will.” The static sounded and I knew it must be Christian. It seemed that no matter how nice a device he bought his words always found static and hung tightly to it. Classic.

“Brother! How goes it, how far out are you?” I was excited, it had been far too long since the potato gun incident.

“About fifteen, maybe twenty man. Did you get the wine and provisions?” the static soared and I laughed softly to myself.

“Gottem mate. Now get your ass here. Just come in the front, it's unlocked.”

I had the wine and beer and cheese and peanuts and mota and pencils and charcoal and pads of paper and a small can of olives and the last bit of Nejames Basil and Garlic crackers id been saving all laid out for the day. The plates and knives and napkins and smoking devices were already packed neatly into my grandmothers picnic basket that she had left me upon her departure from the living world. What else? I thought as I stood up looking at the array of items in front of me, all laid out on my light green kitchen table; another of my mothers found object furniture creations. Finally I said, fuck it and just crammed it all into the basket and then taking the worn, dark brown handles in hand and pulling them upward towards one another until they clicked, I placed it by the door and waited for my friend.

Christian came barging through my door about an hour later. Always late and always awesome. His heavy body came in with large arms full of booze, scraps of metal, a seemingly heavy-as-hell piece of iron that resembled a loaf of bread, and some other stringy types of things. The sun that was still ruling all things outdoors sparkled behind him and cast a great big shadow of his presence.

“My man!” I shouted at the site. “Drop that shit and get in here.” my arms were already extended and I took bare footed steps towards my old friend.

We gathered all the things he had brought and laid them in front of my fireplace to the right of my television where an old Mark Gonzales video part soared on the television. I believe it was from his days when he was sponsored by Plan B skateboards. The good ol days, I thought.

Christian immediately took his shoes off and followed me into the living room. I had already been smoking and he followed suit with a large toke from the hollow glass siloh donning the coffee table atop a Lillian Bassman photo book.

“So, how was the drive, that old truck of yours still holding to the road?” I asked, carefully examining the metal loaf in my hands.

“Same ol my friend. Although it seems that my struts are giving in the the wear a bit now. Shouldn't be that hard to fix.” His eyes never fixed on me yet flowing over my entire home taking it all in.

“Sounds good man, now, let me get some clothes on.”

I had moved into the old house on Willow Street about three months before he had phoned and said he was going to be swinging through me area. The rent was cheap and the neighbors left me be with my tinkers and writing and music making. It was a quaint little one bedroom two bath which never seemed to make sense to me. But who was I to complain having never taken an architectural course.

The sight of an old friend can do wonders to someone who is working through a massive depression and living on wine and cigarettes as daily sustenance. That was me, over her and over life. Living to write and never finish a thing.

Chilling in Europe

-comprised of statements heard in the background-

Let's just move to Amsterdam.
Tried it, HELL NO!
They just think they are
better than everybody,
because basically half
their country is underwater.
Been there for a while.

10/24/09