TURLOCK

WHERE THE HELL IS TURLOCK, AND WHY THE HELL WOULD I WANT TO READ A LONG-ASS POEM ABOUT A GHETTO VALLEY TOWN?

Digging through my garage looking for that lost poem I found an old journal that contains the long unfinished poem, TURLOCK. It's been at least a couple of years since I added to this thing. The entries are not dated. The last one is about Vern Olson, the old man plummer I met while working at the Cheese Wheel. He died in late 2004. So, it's been at least that long since scratching any lines. Regardless, it has been pretty cool to look it over. There's some pretty good stuff in it. Lots more to go. It isn't even close to being done. Here's a sneak peak....

TURLOCK
unfinished

WEST SIDE:

I. Lantana

– a fireworks shrub –

a million clusters of color

Vibrant bursts / explosions

and ever blooming – yellow, orange, and red

backed by a deep green leaf

and swarmed by butterflies

– small orange and gray flutters

reflecting the sun –

American Coppers

with their own little butterfly lives,

their own simple butterfly universe

– The Camara Universe –

– The Planet Ingelsheim –

Taking their nectar

finding love

Leaving their homeland unscathed

Fiery and overgrown

Passing it

one would nearly need to step

into the gutter

– The sidewalk was swallowed

– consumed –

Like the others

this universe was expanding –

filling up the tired West Side space.

We would stand at the pungent shrub for hours as kids. It grew out away from the side of the shed on Vermont Street. We would be sent out with clippers and trash cans to cut it back, but we were always sidetracked by the butterflies. There were thousands of small Coppers on the bush. We would scoop the butterflies into our hands, let them flutter about in our cupped palms and let them go. Sometimes we would shake our hands about to daze them, then laugh as they swaggered away like a drunk after last call – no longer smooth, their flight was topsy-turvy.