Jackson Street, 1977

i actually remember 1977, not carter or kiss, but jackson street, central arlington, the old old house, long hair, skinny skateboards, sparkly banana seat bikes, good humor man, walking to see the jungle book with older kids at the buckingham theatre, before milk cartons with missing children, air bags, & tv remotes, my big wheel ruled the sidewalk, i was evel knievel, bushy blonde hair, kool aid, summer sprinklers, bee gees on the radio, deep childhood days, ocean island of memory.

(Note: This is a recent image of the house, we moved in 1978)

Music of Bearded Angels

he always wanted to
tell people how obsessed
he was with music
piano like mozart endless
dreams before sleep, he
heard his mother in
this sound night after
night, and the doo
wop voices on street
corners like his father
snapping fingers in a
tight white t-shirt, could
have been the fonz

it all surrounds him
these memories of morrissey
sweetness, he was only
joking, gosh that was
poetry when poetry was
supposed to be just
robert frost, maybe dickinson
and these memories are
just his, his ventura
highway in the seventies
summer of bushy hair
and bee gee bearded
angels, like endless youth
living in the air