.......... Bill Campana
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for a moment i wish i was a kid again
a cup of minnows and the leeches on my legs. dragon fly. bull frog. rolling up pant legs walking through a creek. tramp the neighbor's dog getting loose. finding him at the end of the street locked in a dog dance. walking barefoot through clover. stepping on a bee. baseball until it's too dark. from the corner of my eye a shooting star slices through the sky. lightning bugs in a jar. gasoline saturated cat tail torches. a camp fire. four boys in a two man tent. cigarettes, beer---neither tastes good but it is ritual. i miss summer. THIS POEM IS COMING OUT OF A DRIVE-IN THEATER SPEAKER this is the feel good poem of the summer. this poem is one dimensional. it is fun dimensional. it is stuffed into a wafer cone so it's easy to lick. it will make you smell like chlorine and turn your skin a second-degree of red. you may hear surf music but it's all in your head. the grand canyon is filling up with film canisters and observations. it is raining beach balls on the midwest. there is a foursome playing through at mt. rushmore. there is zinc on lincoln's nose. washington is thinking about a game of frisbee with roosevelt. jefferson is thinking about just feeling good. fishin' pole fishin' hole picnic...parade a stroll over charcoal ice cold lemonaid. gettin' hit in the face with a foul ball gettin some first aid. roller coaster. making your own ride by jumping out of their's. skeeters. making wee wee in the woods. poison ivy. this poem has loaded springtime into a station wagon and is dumping it somewhere in eureka. i've put the top down on this poem so we can drive up the coastline turning our hair into knots. we feel good. next stop--the fourth of july. this poem is coming out of a drive-in theater speaker. half of this poem is written in chalk across a hop-scotch court the other half is carved into the bark of a tree. this poem feels like kicking off its shoes and feeling the stars and stripes between its toes. that last line is written in yellow mustard on the charred skin of a coal burned hot dog. there is a bottle rocket in its pants and a sparkler sticking out of its ass and i feel like you feel like this poem feels good HOLD MY CALLS WHILE I WIPE THE SMIRK OFF OF THIS TOWN it's mannix reloaded! hard-boiled and coiled like the spring of a clock that's only function is to let you know it's time to straighten up. hard-presssed to give you the time of day unless it's ass kicking time at the corner tavern. big shot saxophone theme song. hot babes and tangy scotch drinks. giant roulette wheels with bowling balls. swarthy armenian eyebrows and late '60's sideburns accessorize a hounds tooth blazer running down a cessna on a blistering tarmac. crime can't pay the gigolo bar tab but mannix ain't askin' for charity. he's got his P.I. certificate rolled in the barrel of his luger and your stale alibi freshly scraped off the heels of his wingtips. there is no room in his files for your half-assed whereabouts so make your presence known someplace else or become a better person. joe mannix--chronic tough guy spells his name on your face with the blood running out of the corner of your mouth and he writes it with his fist. larceny, embezzlement, black mail, doesn't matter, he'll crack this case faster than a lead pipe will crack your skull. hear those saxophones! joe's hearing sirens, and this town is just dangerous enough to keep him driving in style... and fast but if these skid marks could talk they would say, "ERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRT! PEGGY, HOLD MY CALLS WHILE I WIPE THE SMIRK OFF THIS TOWN!" mannix reloaded. Main Page
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