Eldorado Gallery
A little east of Coronado High School
is Eldorado Park where
my dog and I walk and ponder
It’s where Rusty’s just trying to figure out
who has lifted a leg as he sniffs the trees
Dog’s version of Facebook
but less odious than the pee soaked internet
I try to figure out everything else
Every year beginning in the Fall
there’s a strange happening at our park
Pieces of art appear
A plaster of Paris sculpture
smashed on the pavement
Paintings laying face down in the grass
or propped up against trees
Others sitting on benches
as if waiting for someone to
stop and take a look
It took some musing
while visiting this outdoor gallery
but after multiple discussions with Rusty
we finally had an oh! moment
Eldorado is the path students trudge
on their way home from school
Kids forced to get a fine arts credit
sign up for studio art
Likely thinking
I can't dance
I don’t appreciate their music
Maybe I do have a talent
for something
Maybe art
They complete their assignments
in the chaotic art room
hoping the acrylics on canvas
will express just a little
of their guarded inner self
The frazzled teacher will sigh and say
You made an effort
You'll pass
Friends look at their art and
nervously ask
What is it?
Artist becomes traitor saying
It’s nothing
It’s stupid
After seventh period
they trudge back through Eldorado
carrying their insecure self-expression
A gauntlet of critical voices in their heads
How do you defend something
you don't understand
Something that scares you
Adults will call the piece
artsy-fartsy and add
You know artists are weird
Freaks
Look at that Warhol guy
Others are quick to say
Artists never make a living
They starve
It all sounds like a threat
So the art makes it to the park
Where it’s dropped to the ground
to be hosed down by sprinklers
speared by the groundskeeper
scraped into a dumpster
eventually leaving in a garbage truck
Eldorado’s Graveyard Gallery
Where art and dreams go to die
Painting saved from the Eldorado Graveyard Gallery.
Woman in the Park
I walked the park with Rusty
my three legged dog
Breathing deep the cut grass air
Trying to ignore the
Church's Fried Chicken funk
saturating the breeze
Should be only good feels since
I was reveling in new found freedom
After thirty years and
two exhausting attempts at wedded bliss
I was living a woman free life
Women are wonderful
endlessly fascinating
filling life with exhilarating confusion
But they are
a lot
of work
At the end of our walk of freedom
a woman stopped to ask
as people always do
about my three legged dog
I told the cancer story so many times
for a change I wanted to say
he lost his leg in Nam
but that would be inappropriate
and not funny
While we chatted, I thought
This woman is interesting
smart
fun to talk to
Maybe . . .
just coffee
or share a Colt 45
The beer not the gun
A screaming in my head distracted me
It was my voice of reason
Who due to lack of resources
just worked part time
What the fuck?
Five minutes ago
you were wallowing in freedom
Now this?
Oh yeah
Freedom
Woman free life
Happiness
After I said goodbye to her
Rusty hopped and I walked home
with conflicting emotions
He was pissed we were leaving
I had regrets
That woman seemed a little more sane
than others
We made a connection
and
she had some really cool stuff
in her shopping cart
Castillo Sat in a Place of Honor
He didn’t want to sit next to the open grave
He wanted to stand in the back with his family
But there was an empty chair waiting for Castillo
His eyes fixed on the dirt and rocks
The crowd parted as a woman led him
To the place of honor
A hundred white people
Struggled to find footing on the rocky ground,
Trying not to step on graves
They felt superior to the Mexican
Some pronounced his name Kuh still oh
Rhyming it with Brillo
But because the body in the box was his friend
Because that good white man in the casket
Loved that good brown man
Castillo sat in a place of honor.
Bobby Downey
They had him.
It was behind Woolworths.
They had Bobby Downey.
He was retarded.
He was a child.
He was in junior high school, but he was a child.
One of the teachers in our God-awful school,
filled with hostile rednecks,
had committed a crime.
She bought Bobby new clothes to replace the filthy rags he wore.
Bobby’s new clothes had given him confidence.
Someone cared.
He mattered.
But they had him behind the Woolworths
in his new clothes.
He was retarded.
Nobody wanted him confident.
He didn’t matter.
They circled him.
They were smarter.
They knew exactly what to say.
Within seconds, they had him.
Coolly manipulating, they made him furious.
He did just what they wanted.
He attacked.
But they were smarter and stronger.
They beat Bobby.
How dare he wear new clothes?
How dare he be confident?
How dare he be retarded?
I stood there in my seventy-pound body
with my pencil thin wrists
dying for Bobby.
Hating my world where Bobby Downey
couldn’t just wear new clothes.
Hating a world where Bobby
couldn’t just feel good.
Standing behind the Woolworths
watching Bobby cry,
I knew I’d never feel okay again.
A couple times a year
I see a lone Canadian goose
floating in the pond at our park
I used to think it was sad
left behind by the flock
too old to keep up
Retirement gave me a different perspective
Maybe the old goose just had enough of
frantically migrating a thousand miles
twice a year
with a bunch of assholes honking at them
Just maybe, the old goose said
in goose speak-
You guys go on without me
You’ll be fine.
I’ll stay here.
I’ll be fine too.
Then it lives out its days floating in the pond
No assholes honking