Sid Miller

 

Apples

There are apples everywhere, apples and No Trespassing signs.
There was chain-link fence, but that's forgotten now.
There are apples and the three of us, cross-legged
in a triangle-specks of light through the yellow leaves.
There are apples and a pint of sweet liquor circling,
the car resting on the side of the highway
under the sign that told us that we had arrived in Gonzales, California,
home of the migrant worker and of apples.
Apples that we pick from the ground and wipe on our dirty shirts,
apples hard and green, void of the sweetness
all fruit should own. But the apples are everywhere
and we rise to our feet and stuff them into our long pockets
and hide behind the old trees. We throw the apples
as hard as we can-at each other's heads and bodies,
against the branches they fell from. We prowl the dry earth
stealthily, arms cocked as we hide and wait for each other
to expose our positions. There's ammunition everywhere,
apples everywhere, flying through the red and orange
of the now setting sun, juice running down the trunks.

 

Having Never Ridden a Horse

Under the hot sun of Concord, California
we rode on donkeys.
Seven animals tethered together,
my band of travelers riding in circles
beneath the heavy weight of carnival song.
We were told to use our imaginations,
to make believe we were inside
one of the storybooks our mothers
read to us late at night,
but even my five year old imagination
wasn't strong enough to compete with
the reality of an A & W drive-in
and miniature golf course
in the lot next door.
I couldn't do it.
It left a bad taste in my mouth.

Once I headed to Montana,
trying to change my luck,
hearing there were lots of horses to see,
but I only made it out to Needles
and I sure didn't find any there.

And so now I talk of hay and horses
like a skinny kid with acne
about baseball, knowing the game
from box scores instead of the thread
that stitches the cowhide.

 

A Jew Sets Out Walking Christmas Morning Through Orange County

Leaving the cul-de-sac of my home
I set out walking.
A T-shirt, shorts, Chuck Taylor's
without socks -
The seventy-eight degrees
heats manure from the horse stables -
I take in the scent.
The sidewalks are wide and clean,
the streets empty.

Ten miles to the ocean.

I walk in steps that I've seen before,
like Moses through this disguised desert
past palm trees and mirages of smiling faces.
I don't have a staff,
only a pocketful of joints,
a disposable lighter
and the image of waves breaking
in my head.
I walk past black cars shining,
giving off my reflection every ten feet -
past sprinklers making
rainbows in the winter, color on top of color-
past ghosts of old friends
and enemies that bark
like dogs behind metal gates,
past rows of shaped hedges
and brown wrapped packages on doorsteps.

Eight miles to go.

This road is like Las Vegas Boulevard -
the end always in sight,
but hours to come
Every strip mall, every McDonalds,
is an oasis -
veering into empty parking lots,
I slap my shoes and sing
to the geometric beauty
of white lines.
Lying on grassy islands,
watching heat rise,
I fill my nostrils
with the warm scent of asphalt.
But being too restless
I leave comfort for blisters -
take to the sidewalk.

With five miles to go

El Toro Road ends,
sidewalk ends.
My shoes land on real earth,
this land too rugged,
too jagged to bulldoze.
I remember these hills -
wandering with the thoughts
that there might be more
to this world.
Hiding in caves of rocks round
and drinking whiskey,
covering myself in cattails -
now I walk through the center of it,
sweat under my arms
and in the well of my chest.
Salt begins to fill the air.
I crawl under barbed wire,
walk through long grass,
over classified ads, potato chip bags
and shards of glass.
Three miles pass in a minute,
as I retrace the steps
that have brought me back.

With two miles to go

my feet feel lighter,
back onto sidewalk,
passing art galleries -
pictures of whales,
sculptures of dolphins
and dark little bistros
with signs hanging from doors
that read:
"CLOSED FOR XMAS."

With one mile to go

people emerge, tourists from places
where Christmas doesn't exist.
With the stores closed
we are forced to look
into one another's eyes -
a silent feeling of comradery,
all of us on our own walks
with our own staffs in our hands -
nobody saying a word,
not even coughing.
And at last the beach comes,
the sun beginning to set.
I take off my shoes
and walk in the sand,
my footprints
my only gift.
I sit and watch the sun fall,
the smog creating colors more beautiful
than God could ever imagine

 

A Blessed Man

Sometimes I think of you, Ken Giddeons.
When my day was like a cactus
and when my night is its needles.
I think of how you'd tap your Lucky Strikes
against the face of your gold-plated watch.
You made me feel like the second hand of a clock,
slow and rhythmic.

Whether while walking away from your car
with its transplanted hood and side door
or during our discussions
about the day job and the fish
that died of old age in the White Mountains,
you where always tapping.

You were my Carey Grant of Tucson's lower class barrio,
my definition of grace, machismo and Buddhist-like patience.

The tapping against the glass,
the way the tobacco would bounce,
back, again and again, tapping and tapping.
And not just a cigarette, not a GPC
or some stinking menthol,
but a Lucky Strike,
a cigarette to match you, Ken Giddeons.

And you'd tap and you'd tap.
You could influence a nun to smoke with that routine.
And nobody and tell me after watching you .
that smoking isn't glamorous or chic.

Because you, Ken Giddeons have self admittedly
not much going for you:
a prison guard in the day
a fellow minor league beer vendor by night;
two ugly kids, a fat wife, tendencies to ramble
two fingered eating habits, clothes rebelling against your skin,
but God, with that gold watch and that cigarette,
Ken Giddeons, you are a blessed man.

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