BLOCKER POETRY

Driving to work
I saw an auburn deer
in a green pasture
nervously looking
around while paused
at a barbed wire fence
separating her from
two deadly lanes of Hwy 101
while behind her the sun
was rapidly brightening.

Easier than witnessing
an emaciated prostitute
in a tattered babydoll
on her last stroll
shielding her blinking
eyes with an unwashed hand
while staggering east
across Vermont & El Segundo
into rude daylight.

On both occasions
–200 miles and a year apart–
jacarandas leeched lavender
into an ebbing wall of fog.

Then at school
I attempted to control adolescents who
believe I’m clueless about living,
only offering them useless minutiae
that must die soon while the sun, outside,
is bouncing upon the top
of the classroom.

Mark Blocker

It takes about 4 cocktails:
misting your mind
freshening, cooling overripe
recollections, and applying
some glistening sheen
to your dull ideas
that remain aboard
your sailing head
after you vacate
this run-down day. But 8,
10 won’t help, they’ll just
thicken the cerebellum’s steam
till you can’t see past
the beam of your voice.

The sun has fallen
for now.
Go home.
Eat dinner.
Sleep. Tend
to your
wife & children if
they’re still
around.

Mark Blocker

Every morning Monday through Friday
and Saturdays & Sundays too
I buy the LA Times and SLO Tribune
and usually coffee from a convenience store
on the other side of the highway
always exchanging pleasantries
I even know the exact price: $1.86 for the papers,
$3.39 with the coffee (price inexplicably changes sometimes
but I never say anything figuring
it all evens out over time).

Yesterday I rode my bicycle because
the morning was sunny & warm
and I wanted to get some exercise
do something nice for the Earth.
But when I leaned the bike against the doorway
the owner starts bitching at me to put it in the rack.

“No. I need to keep an eye on it.”

“It’s blocking the door, sir.”

“There’s plenty of room.”

He presses the issue. I shrug
shake my head
sigh
then roll it over
to the rack
where now
I have to lock
the god damned
thing up or some son
of a bitch will steal it
while I’m in there
giving away my money.

I straighten up
go inside
grab two papers
plop ‘em on the counter
take out my wallet
exhale
and wait.
He gets all buddy-buddy
and offers me a bag.

“I don’t want any bag.”

He smiles “You’re on a bike you need a . . .”

I repeat “Keep your bag.”

He gives me change for the five.

I growl “Thanks, asshole.”

He leaps the counter, chases me out,
barking “For wise man who read two newspaper
everyday and teach school kids YOU BIGGEST ASSHOLE IN WORLD!”

Then he switches tone again,
pleading ”I just try to run safe business, here, get sued by drunk men . . .”

I listen to him while unlocking my bike, “yeah, yeah, yeah . . .”
Then I ride off downtown to the local coffee shop where I had to ask
the waitress three times to bring a cup
. . . and some ice water, too.

*        *       *

This morning I drove to 7-11.
With a stiff and twisted gait I went inside.
“You OK?” the kid asked through a sinister, indigo blue goatee and lip ring flecked with rust.

“Yeah, fine. I rode around town yesterday
on my bicycle and now I’m a little sore.”

He frowned, “Yeah? Well, better park that fucker
down in the rack, man. We don’t need another bum or drunk
falling on his ass out there then suing us. Shit.”

Mark Blocker

It’s lime green stucco with forest green trim
paved over lawn, assorted plastic chairs
set up 20 feet away from the unvarnished front door.

I drive past at 6:30 and 5 week days
more on weekends and ALWAYS
this pudgy fellow wearing hiked up pajamas
and a tucked in dress shirt
is pacing the sidewalk
stepping carefully,
I guess, to avoid
cracks,
pausing
to rub the stubble
on his head,
brow furrowed
staring down
at the puzzle.

Afternoons
two other guys
join him outside,
but they sit
in the sun.
Guy in his 50s
apparently doesn’t give
a shit about anything
he chain smokes generic cigarettes
blowing smoke far across the yard
then he throws his head back, grins,
and waves if you look his way.

It’s a four-way stop at this corner
augmented with deep, chassis-scraping dips.
The city stations a cop nearby, who watches you
stop. Usually he’s parked in the shade
of an oak tree two houses down.

A third resident
with white walls
topped by a graying, brown tuft
sits upright, palms upon his knees,
frowning. His checkered shirt is buttoned
all the way up to his neck.

Today that cop
pulled me over
said he didn’t
see my tires
stop rolling.
He blew
a bubble and cracked
his wad of pink gum
while I pulled out
my license
registration and proof
of insurance.
After about five minutes
he came back and said he
was letting me go
this time.

Mark Blocker

Father clenched his fist
slugged me in the gut
beneath the aluminum tinsel
while Alvin & The Chipmunks
sang Silver Bells
and outside in the buffeting winds
lights blushed and flashed together
but burned out alone.

I was about 8
and at that time I believed
his shouting and bad words caused his breath
to smell like kerosine
and skin to redden.

I ignored my presents just
to spite him, and besides, they weren’t inviting
anymore. Instead I wiped boogers throughout the house,
got caught stealing candy, his cigarettes,
bags of green plastic Army men,
and little Matchbox cars
further enraging him.
Good.

Nevertheless, after the ensuing beatings
I’d curl into a ribbon
of pain
upon my white bed.
Mother entered
to remind me Father was
right. He,
standing behind
out there in the darkness
his anger smoldering
forever.

As I grew I became
more jealous of our dog who
finally just ran away.
So I tried at 13,
but a stranger in an old van
pulled over and through the
passenger window
persuaded me,
first, to get inside.

Christmas time again.
I am 20 now, throat
once again coated
with the swimming
offspring of a judge
with money
to burn.

Mark Blocker

Rusted grape leaves
fallen dead upon the vineyard’s dirt
will not compost;
instead, an army of mojados
armed with leaf blowers
herd them into a pile at rows’ end
to be raked & shoveled into waste bins,
then rolled to the edge of Hwy 101
where the trash trucks
lurching north
and south
feed.

The vintner is on that hill,
busy in his basement,
pouring shots of Red Eye
into casks–
built in China
out of laminated particle board–
beginning the fermentation process.

Hundreds of miles,
on opposite ends of this highway,
in two cities
clerks stack bottles
containing last year’s
vintage. It wasn’t a very good year,
but BevMo! is offering competitive discounts.

While you’re reading this,
I am in New York City.
Backstage in the Green Room.
Waiting to go on The View.
The next guest, Bette Midler,
will be late.
She is allowing me
to touch with the tip of my tongue
the spot where she warms her song.
She is holding me tightly
while I become her human microphone.

On the other side of the light,
a make-up technician applies
a raw steak to Sean Penn’s eye.
He is now silent
but moments ago
was a brash actor
who dared question
this poem.

Mark Blocker

Waiting for a green light
under the blazing high-noon sun
at the intersection
of King & PCH
where
this skinny
& saggy
woman in her 30s embarks on a
stark-naked stroll
right out there among the oil stains , skid marks and man-hole cover.

At first, she was smiling. It is the first time.
Usually she frowns
sadly holding up a cardboard sign
wanting money I seldom give because
the bums outside Eddie’s Liquor take it all.

The free hairdo was the same: tangled straw
but it wasn’t the hair on her head
the college kid in the next car observed
as he yelled “Braid it or shave it.”
His buddies briefly howled
before getting really quiet
while she searched for
the source.

Our eyes met.
She scowls
approaching
I frantically shake my head no
pointing to the car filled with young men.
So she went over there
and pulled out the wrong one
raking her nails down across his face
while I stepped on
the accelerator.

The light was green
now.
Even the rear-view mirror
lied ahead.

Mark Blocker

Every Sunday morning for 3 hours
“Jesus” hosts a talk show
on the same radio station offering
Monday thru Friday 7-10
a prick who ridicules the African-American
dialect of an ordained minister
who also is an important Civil Rights leader.
This son of an accomplished comedic TV actor
also berates, mocks and directly insults folks living in poverty,
the chemically dependent,
people who were born overseas,
and domestic minorities. His goal:
exacerbate an uneducated audience’s
unfounded fears of what they don’t understand.

It’s also the same 50,000-watt station
where mornings at drive time
for the past 15 years
the same asshole
has been cracking hackneyed slurs
about Blacks, Mexicans, Iranians and southern Whites,
while also stridently spreading lies about organized labor.
This schtick is scripted to resonate with grayed businessmen.
Appropriately, it’s jammed in between commercials
for “Reputation Defender”
a software or boiler-room of web watchers
that will, for an exorbitant fee, alert
abusive bosses and con men when
employees and ripped-off customers
describe on blogs, Yelp or e-zines
their demeaning exploitation
or the worthless shit
they were suckered into buying.

I love, though, the “Jesus” Show.
I listen every Sunday.
He teaches Scripture,
and I’m just an aging sinner
who needs to hear a kind word
about my destiny.

But, “Jesus,” when you take off the hippie wig,
the fake beard, reducing yourself back
into the mortal shaven-headed marketing director
of the most dangerous blow hole of hate
erupting inside this sadly polarized city,
how do you nail down the best
rationalization when you’re privately
seeking forgiveness for your
dual lives?

Mark Blocker

For more than 10 years
I loved, fed and medicated
a trusting, neutered cat
who made the mistake of not
running away from my older brother,
ironically named Tom, who is
a sociopath and coward
who tossed him into a bag
and drove him off to
only God knows where.

Five years have passed.
I’ve never adopted another cat.
I failed to protect the last one
from scum once embedded inside my youth,
then foolishly accepted as an adult.

These days a feral stray comes by my
3rd-floor apartment
in the urban core of Long Beach,
and I feed him,
but I will not let him inside
nor will I ever pay a veterinarian to
cut off his balls.

Let’s hope one day the L.A. police truly
serve society by clubbing that dirty
bastard brother until he is rendered
a drooling, diapered quadriplegic who
can’t hurt anything
anyone
anymore.

And let’s hope this independent cat napping in the shade outside
the door remains
a step
ahead
of
Animal Control.

Mark Blocker

At the Marina Breeze Car Wash
in east Long Beach
where the big red sign says,
“Let Our Experts Hand Wash Your Car With Care!”
every morning the wealthy owners hire the first 30
who show up desperate enough
to wipe cars all day under a blaring sun
for less than minimum wage
and tips.

These men are homeless or illegal as all hell,
and the survivors are sinewy and limber
from stretching across hoods and roofs,
drying and buffing to the limits of their reach,
from 8 to 5 everyday
except when it rains.
And it hasn’t rained since April.
It’s mid-August and their grimaces
and smiles are shielded by Yankee caps
because that’s the only team
that doesn’t stink this summer. 

I concentrate on the one individual who is
finishing my car.
He’s wearing a black t-shirt with a white portrait of Hitler.
Why would a Mexican wear a t-shirt with Hitler on the front? Must be Charlie Chaplin. Cantinflas?

Across the back:
               “! RECONQUISTA AZTLAN !”
in all caps.

That ain’t Hitler.
It’s Pancho Villa
without the sombrero and bandolero.
He’s all dressed up
like a Roaring 20s dandy.
Hitler never wore a handlebar mustache, you idiot.

You’ve got a lot of balls wearing that shit around here my friend. 

As if on cue, here comes the same blonde surfer dude
who wrote my ticket back at the vacuums.
He’s attired in a green Billabong t-shirt and Oakley shades,
khaki cargo shorts and flip-flops.
Dark tan, too, but no ball cap,
just a crown of twisting, saltwater washed blonde curls.
He’s pointing at the shirt while
the Mexican turns as if he’s modeling.
The manager shakes his head, says something.
The Mexican shrugs, removes his cap,
pulls the shirt over his head, turns it
inside out and puts it back on.
Meanwhile, beaded water is drying into lime stains
upon what could have been an immaculate finish
on my metallic midnight blue Nissan.

The owner’s son walks back inside
The young Mexican immediately returns to buffing again,
but now his eyes are narrowed
and down cast.
He seems slower,
more deliberate.
He pauses often,
to refold his rag
and gaze across the parking lot
where a seagull is ripping apart
a discarded sack of El Pollo Loco.
The bird strutting around the growing mess
as if he’s found a five-star banquet,
squawking loudly to scare the rest
of his flock away,
but they’re arriving in multitudes
now to raid his bounty.

Oblivious to it all, car wash patrons just stare at their cell phones
or hold them against an ear while their cars become pristine again.

Finally, mine is done,
the embarrassed worker
steps away from it
and half-heartedly flaps his towel.
When I arrive
we are both so ashamed
we can’t even look
each other in the eye
when I mumble, “Gracias”
and he responds,
“You’re welcome.”

I tip him.
He hands me the keys.
Driving off in my fresh car, I check
the rear view mirror.
He’s discreetly slipping my
last $20 into his pocket
and with a grin, pointing to me.
All I’ve got to do is go by the ATM.

But first, I’m heading down towards Huntington
and maybe as far as Newport.
I turn on the radio. A right-wing loud mouth
is bitching about how illegal Mexicans are taking over.

Perhaps one car wash one lawn at a time?

I switch it to the country music station.
A good ol’ boy is singing about how he wishes
Heaven wasn’t so far away.

Mark Blocker