words of a people aligned in their perfect order
All figures were either originally drawn by my son or directed by him. He chose the colors, figures, and painted the banjo and trampoline – all the hand prints are his as well. This was a fun project and one that he will get to enjoy as long as he needs a play room.
One photo of him for good measure.
Today, 125 years ago, John Pemberton concocted his cure all tonic which would eventually keep America stoned until they removed the special coca ingredient – probably resulting in the seventies and eighties coke binges and nose bleeds.
I hear my son walking around singing and now I shift from soda products and soda jerks to the woman who everyday makes me proud and reflects a light that comes from a place I am not aware, My wife – the perfect mother and a fine woman. Baby, happy mothers day – I won’t bill you for the pancakes and bacon this time.
It takes a fine woman to raise a boy like Jackson and to tolerate a man such as I.
I love you baby.
My Mother – a woman rarely spoken of here largely of her unwillingness to allow me to share her story which is a hell of a story – I’ll wait for her to perish and tell it, damn her sisters that would probably be eternally upset by its truth. Anyway – Thank you for bearing me into this world and, variously, assisting me in becoming the man I am now.
My secondary mother – my sister. Thank you for never dressing me up as a girl, thank you for holding me in your lap and I bled half my bodies capacity onto your body and lap – you were twelve and mistaken for my mother – this is not the last time that has happened – now I call you my little sister as I am a manly 6’2″, 300 lbs and you no where near it. It was so good to see you recently and I can only hope you take my wife’s offer to stay here on respite from a blissful like in Colorado.
Did I ever tell you that my son writes poetry? I think I have (this post)- I love his efforts, such as:
Stars beneath
Stars are beneath
the clouds
in the sun and rain
– or –
o, dear, O
dear
what shall we do
in the horror
– or –
Rain
Rain falling
from the sky
really, the clouds
– or –
wow
wow
wow
how many candies
are there?
All by Jackson Grey
His favorite poets are Shel Silverstein, William Blake, his Daddy, Bob Dylan, Sylvia Plath, Bukowski, Langston Hughes, Jack Prelutsky, Carl Sandburg, Garcia Lorca, Emily Dickinson, Ogden Nash, WCW, Paul Simon, and so many others
when asked he says – “mostly it’s you, daddy.”
“My poetry is great, but I still need to write poetry in my poetry book that I’m making. I make poetry because my Dad, he makes poetry.” – Jackson
He want’s to add –
“Jhon is a great poet, everyone should read it and tell your friends and they should tell their friends, and everybody should read the poetry, tell everyone is the whole wide world.” – Jackson
“you need to bring an eraser because I think that the pencil can get tired.” – Jackson, 6
the sun hides
– for Jackson
The sun hides
behind clouds &
cold wind
but
wishes
to
shine down on
my garden
for the flowers
– Hoc Scripsi
the platitudes of willful resemblance 