The View from Mt. Forgotten
by klipschutz
Charles Potts, his anti-government blood
Generations strong,
Does not hold his breath for the center to hold.
He unleashes an Edgeman’s song —
Rises at five to consider the sun,
Robs himself blind while he naps,
Retraces his own lost interiors
For names washed away on old maps.
Climbs Mt. Forgotten to drop death a line,
Family and weather permitting,
Misfiles the time he’s making up for,
Daydreams a book in one sitting.
Generations strong, anti-government blood
Runs through Potts River, his veins
Transmit their Edgeman’s cry in the key
Of What thou lovest well remains . . .
Denny’s on the Corner of Garnett & Mission Blvd.
by Geo. Staley
Early one morning,
several lifetimes ago,
I sat on the seawall in Pacific Beach,
one hand on my shopping cart,
and stared at the empty ocean.
A shirtless runner came up to me,
handed me two twenties, said,
“Have a good one, brother,”
and ran on.
I pocketed the two bills and headed north,
found Lorenzo and Sally,
then Penski, too,
and we enjoyed one fine Christmas breakfast.
Sadness on Grabhord Rd.
by Geo. Staley
The morning after he died in the car crash
on an out of the way stretch of Grabhorn Rd.,
his friends erected a two foot high white cross
with his name and dates written in red paint
Tim Atwaters 1990 –2007 R.I.P.
They left a yearbook, several cans of beer,
flowers, notes, candles, and pictures.
Someone — his best friend? — left a skateboard.
For some time, they regularly returned,
tidied the make-shift shrine on Grabhorn Road,
added new notes, pictures, and flowers,
made sure there were a few cans of beer,
kept the memory fresh.
They knew it could’ve been them.
Now, after 9 years, perhaps their lives have intervened
college, jobs, marriages, babies, divorces
even a few more early deaths.
And the memorial site?
Overgrown with brambles and weeds.
The red letters on the white cross barely legible.
Photos, flowers, notes — long gone.
The beer cans gone, too.
The skateboard — maybe some kid is still riding it.
What do these friends remember
if they drive along Grabhorn Rd?
Has their grief — or guilt — eased enough to preclude stopping?
Or have the memories of their friend also been
overtaken by time, brambles and weeds?
Closing Shift at the Liquor Store
by Adam Valentine
A man was complaining
to the manager about another
man cussing in front
of his kids. One fellow kept
saying this other guy looked
familiar. Finally, someone
said this other guy was a jailer,
and nobody said anything
else about that out loud.
The boss came in and asked
me was the store busy. I told
him yeah we’ve sold a lot
of beer. He said he would
rather sell liquor and wine,
and I didn’t know: was
I supposed to apologize?
One night I scraped ice off
the new girl’s windshield
and pretty soon she sent
me to Wendy’s with a few
dollars and said she trusted
me to pick something out.
I brought back burgers
and put on a CD, and the boss
said I could listen to it
at home. Somebody bought
a six-pack of O’Doul’s,
and I said I don’t understand
non-alcoholic beer, and the new
girl said it takes a while.