old, wild poet

That’s how I thought of myself earlier. Old (got proof), wild (we’ll get to that) poet (four, count ’em, published books). So – I think about being wild a lot. I really do. In my mind I see everly-more-wild me. Wilder by the minute, son, not so someone would chide, “Too damn wild for your own good”, but, within the guise of old poet, pretty darned wild.

Sometimes, actually exactly four times every week, I drive between San Diego and San Marcos, both Californias, some 35-40 miles each way, there and back, back and there again. And back. Let me tell you, you’ve got to be pretty freakin’ wild indeed to make that drive and still be alive when the gear slips into ‘park’ to tell about it. And four times? Dude! – humming a little Marvin and Tammi here, kids – “Ain’t nothing like the real thing, Baby.” Interstates 15 and 5.

But, yup, I know, you crazy mofo, it’s those other five days when the going gets all-out spectacular. Like, dig this, picture some young runaways all dirty and shabby and living free and large and for that matter all sorts of wild themselves, and see them sneaking down to the building edge and crunching up on tippy toes and peeking a look in my window and – Bang!!! – there I am, back in the recliner all propped up on coffees and sweet literatures, cause – talk about ‘the real thing’ – books, Baby. That boy and girl, out on the streets and never again having to say “Here” at some fascist 10th grade science class roll call – the truly hip clear school’s a drag and ominous time-waste, anyway – they look in at me there, my mind electric with words and sentences and rainbow’d parentheses and every good word I haven’t written yet, but I’m about to, and they look at each other with the best grins and say, “That’s one wild old poet – damn!!”

And they giggle and head down the road, and I giggle and slip on my walking NB’s and head out, yo, you seen that movie, “Wild in the Streets”? Do I need to say it? That’s me, children. F’n A wild.

Old, wild poet.