In A Dream I Saved You

In A Dream I Saved You

Scarlet scarab scorch
seeing a sky flutter
in the Summer.

Each in direction to crispy sky
to each the own.
I can see demonstration
against the sky.
Reach the surface,
morning sky crunchy green and gold.
You tired of walking streets
where we waited for you.
Tired of walking streets
where we waited for you.

Cruel daybreak
tortures me with sound
And the memory
of your streetcorner smile.
Dreams reveal
too much to remember.
From black, seedless midnight
To feverish broad daylight.
You never get older,
you never get older.

With a cling and s right to play.
The kid swan
damn near all the way.
And if she was ever there for you,
her radiance was faulty.
And in this Tramp's fate
she is late.
You tired of walking streets
where we waited for you,
where we waited for you.

Dreams reveal
too much to remember.
Black, seedless midnight
To feverish broad daylight.
You never get older,
you never get older.

Hickory Dickory Doc
smoked out,
Sucked to the thug she's clocked.
She... roll away the stone.
Dervish spinning,
stardust & golden, a dervish spin.
Float green sick & crazy...
happy...paralyzed whirlwind.

You tired of waiting
walking streets
You stand in the dark
The dark side of the cold...
Spring is trapped in her crystal.
Spring is trapped in her crystal.

-Will Dockery

High Numbers with Mary and Iggy

High Numbers with Mary and Iggy

It was 1981
and I had
just moved to Atlanta
a few months before.

I immediately landed
a job
just like the one I left
in Shadowville.

I went from
Harvey Lumber & Supply
to
Carolina Lumber & Supply.

So my comfort level was high
entering the new culture.

I caught the bus up
to join my wife and child
in Fall of 1980
as Lou Reed would say
"Those were different times."

Quite a bit different from
my red neck milieu
with newly converted
right wingers
cheering Ronald Reagan on.

That Winter
I listened
as Howard Cosell
announced
the night John Lennon died.

I split up with my wife
and moved into a grim
boarding house
reading Bukowski
getting my poetry tight.

Mary Sloan lived
with her brother Iggy
and Iggy's wife Shelly.

They lived
on a street
with a row of old houses
just north of Piedmont Park.

Their house
not too far from
my boarding house
so I'd hang out there
through many evenings.

Mary's brother
was a punk
everyone called him Iggy.

Iggy was five foot one
a bit of
the short man complex.

A tough character
but we got along great.

Iggy was a carpenter
who was my customer
at the lumber yard.

Every week or so
Iggy would stop in
to pick up materials
for the job he was on
that week.

He'd fire up a joint
and take his time
selecting lumber.

He was my friend
so I told him to
select the best looking
two-by-fours
or whatever else he needed.

After work
Cliff Olivier
my lumber yard sidekick and I
would usually stop in
the High Numbers Tavern
up on Cheshire Bridge Road.

Educational
with a safety net
the patrons were
a varied collection
of personalities.

Have a few beers
chili and sausages with peppers
or a slice of pie
next door
at Johnny's Pizza.

The best juke box
I'd ever seen
at High Numbers.

Everything from Johnny Cash
to the Ramones.
From The Clash
to Superfly.

Iggy would often
be there
as well
shooting pool.

Over on Cheshire Bridge Road
things were
somewhat more laid back
it was somewhat
out of time.

The High Numbers Club
was different
from a red neck honky tonk
or a disco gay bar.

High Numbers was
what they called a mixed bar
both straight and gay
mingled on the dance floor.

And this singer
named Mary.

She was Iggy's sister
a raving
raven haired beauty.

Mary was one of the dancers
who also sang
great Pat Benatar songs
aling with the juke box.

Mary looked
a lot like
Pat Benatar
also.

-Will Dockery 8-30-20

Profile Shot

Profile Shot

Standing at the river
catching a moment of
cool reflection.

The year was 1985
and everything seemed old
ideas and infrastructure
were both crumbling.

Working on old equipment
in the old school way
which some say
my job is now done by robots.

Thinking
of the changes
brought by
this new direction.

Takes me back
on another
visit to things past
a reality
that has passed.

Events like a chain
from Mockingbird
to the mill village
in a short space of time.

Time passed
and things are gone
and gone still again
from that point in time.

Took a walk
to the north
up the river
for a few blocks.

Walked across
the new highway bridge
being built.

Every thing had
some significant
difference from
the last time around.

What was once
houses and
an apartment building
now were
other structures.

Things continue
to reinvent
and adjust
some go back to nature.

I'm sure there are
many other changes
that I have yet to see

as the big bridge
is being built over
the Spiderweb.

The Spiderweb
is a collection of
neighborhoods
and businesses
and so many other things.

The sign painter
and across the way
was the farmer's Market area
the bridge over Bell Creek.

There was a day
my car stopped running
right in the center
rush hour
and maybe
backed up by a train.

I and two friends
pushed the car
out of the traffic
somehow.

People in traffic
let us pass.

Up the hill
was Madame Butterfly
a restaurant
up on Saint Mary's Road.

Back down by the
Bell Creek
where the GED night school
used to be.

Men selling newspapers
on the corner there
on the edge
of the promenade.

Hilton Trailer Park
sprawled
for what seemed like
a mile or two.

It sprawled
back around to Joy Road
and the battery factory
lead smoke in the air.

He was a mad cult leader
looking for
a congregation
performing baptisms
in the river.

He was
drawing on the energy
of every capsized tug boat
on the river.

Who was the man who
tried to jump
actually did
right into the river.

They led him away
he was soaking wet
but very much alive
the headlines said.

I was
standing by the bridge
having a smoke
looking down at Bell Creek
roaring south
the the river.

I tossed
some pages down
from the bank
into the creek
jumped back on my bike
and rode on ahead.

Coming along
down Brennan Road.

Past the trailer park
across the street
that came up
as the road curved
around the bend.

More pistol shots
crack in the wind
from somewhere
down in the park.

I rode on
around the bend
in crosstown traffic
they said look out now.

Lady Galatea
she sent for me
she was at the front gate
with a taxi cab.

I clocked out
and took her home
where she stayed with me
for the next ten years.

To tell that story
would be
bringing you down
so we shall leave that
for another time.

On up the other side
of the creek
up the hill
into Carver Heights
a row of houses
now gone
was a friend named Grant.

It was thirty-five years ago
none of those houses
exist now.

I was
standing on the street
talking with Grant
about yesterday's storm
a near tornado.

A tree came down
from the yard behind his
knocked down his fence
nearly hit Grant's house.

I showed him the huge
pecan tree
across the street
that came down at the same time.

Three pistol shots
rang out
in the distance.

He strolled on around the bend
headed home
I said look out now try not
to get hit
by a stray bullet.

In this long boost
of serendipity.

There was a time
down on River Avenue
there were duels
in the alley.

I could hear the
car horns
gunshot sounds
people yelling sometimes.

Down at the Riverwalk
just after dark
I could hear distant gunfire
sounds from
across the river.

-Will Dockery (8-9-20)0

Fountain of Youth

Fountain of Youth

Smokers sat outside on the porch
wit, wisdom and conversational drift.
Watching the parade
of tourists, buskers and artists.

I'd sit with the painter
sketching my notes.
A truly perfect street
to compose jazz poetry.

Saint George Street
leads straight to the Spanish fort.
Now a tourist attraction
of Cosplay settlers.

On to the Fountain of Youth
down a long road
of cotton fields and peanut patches
as far as the eye can see.

Take a sharp right
down into Florida.
Over the black water
of the Suwannee River.

Over the blazing miles
the shimmering white light glows.
The red clay country roads
become white silver sand.

Down south on Saint Augustine Beach
near the oldest city in America.
Crumbling coastline on 1997
before they paved it all.

Sand lions
snap up ants.
Minnows eat
mosquito larvae.

Cut across some dry yards
to the beach.
Stop and look
at the abandoned sailboat.

This happened then
and I expect it happens now.
Wrapped a bandanna around my head
to ease my feverish brow.

This was the scene
the reality.
I was soon welcomed in
to the party.

Connected to a scene
but it did not last.
A complicated dream
too heavy to transcribe.

Went down South
near the Fountain of Youth.
Where the gypsy lady
told Ponce the truth.

Once they met
and he looked into her eyes
Ponce was interested
in finding the surprise.

I'll see you
I'll be seeing you
if I use my head
I could make
more changes.

You need more than luck
in this rank affair.
Out of the blue
straight from thin air.

Going back in time
back a little ways.
Back to 1997
and those glory days.

I'll be there
watching her on the rocks
an angry old man
in a motor boat.

He was there
we were all there.
Working in the little store
seemed to suit him.

I have a role
looking into the past.
Those days I thought were over
since I knew they wouldn't last.

Ever since
I don't know when
she was getting the habit
smoking cigarettes again.

Don't take your heart away
such inclimate weather
in your charm.

I poured us both
a Captain Morgan.
We toasted each other
sad and warm.

Rode down with Danny B.
in a U-Haul truck.
With a few extra dollars
feeling filled with luck.

Going down to see the
Fountain of Youth.
To look around
for the slightest bit of truth.

Interview with the poets
on Flagler radio.
The reading for the deaf
with Miranda signing the poems
as I read them.

The school or the deaf and blind
was down on San Marcos Avenue.
Miranda had been both
a student and a teacher.

I walked by any times
but never did go inside
the Ripley's "Believe It Or Not!"
which was also on San Marcos.

Riding down
that old country road.
Danny B. pointed out the window
and gave a quick history lecture.

Between 1513 and 1763
Florida was a Spanish colony.
No place better displays
that lingering reality.

Across and then down
through the blood soaked fields
reminded me of Manassass.
Killing fields
man's natural occupation.

Where a seasonal battle
was fought.
Once a year one side
would attack the other.

As we rode past the field
Barfield explained the history.
English against Spanish
control stayed intact.

Don't make confusion
change of weather
comes a change of heart
now take a new space
don't go away.

Never decide until
looking back on it in hindsight.
Laughing crocodile
least of his concerns.

There begins a psychological
brow beating.
Not many can or will accept this
life is too short.

The walk to the beach
was just a few blocks.
Passed through every day
like a youth in the dark.

Up to watch high tide
up on the deck.
Writing down the scene
the sea a crashing wreck.

Back at the reading
liberal hearts were bleeding.
Nag Champa and weed smoke
floated in the breeze of the deck.

To look for miles across
the Atlantic Ocean.
Watching for the high tide
to come in.

Then he describes the
avaricious predators.
Listeners in the tent
feverish in the Florida heat.

Spacious daylight
in the courtyard
in the center of town.
First sight to be seen
crossing the Bridge of Lions.

On top of the world
watching high tide.
The world started
so when will it stop?

Back then we lived
down on the beach.
Music from the seaside bars
drifted across the dunes.

I used to walk by
the wax museum
walking over to see the
blind painter
Sherwood King.

Sherwood could turn out
about two oil paintings a day.
Sometimes three
when he was hyped up on whiskey.

His lovely wife
was quite a muse.
She drank and swore
was a lit fuse.

Down a few side streets
to the poetry gig.
At Behind The Forest Pub
hippies laughing
dancing a jig.

Sugar Mama
set her sights on me.
One more way
to make it happen.

Too much of the drink
and too much debate.
Brought an end to the scene
it was a matter of fate.

They had the big volume of poems
up on the shelf.
Carl Sandburg in the combat zone
poems about that toddling town.

Sipping slumgullion
on the porch of the pub.
Just over the hill
we could see the lights of the town.

I got a telephone call
that was undelivered.
It was an important message
that was not brought to me.

This was 1997
my first year in town.
I left with my tattered suitcase
on the bus
homeward bound.

-Will Dockery 2020

Some Superstitious Morning

Some Superstitious Morning

Some morning
it will be all right.

Some mornings
it still seems
like pitch black night.

To see my beloved
almost in pirouette
down the side walked street
we were then in reality.

To begin this poem
maybe a section
on the stashed away
silver dollars.

How there could have been
so many
is surprising.

But in 1979 money
many different perspectives
could be observed.

I can remember
before they built
all the
old folks' homes
along there.

We'd cut down
the hill
for groceries.

Or a gallon of beer
from
Little Brown Jug.

There was
a big pile of dirt ad gravel
there on the empty lot.

I remember her
sitting on it
proudly posed and aware.

They are looking for her
one dark morning
as she wandered in the snow
singing a bristly melody.

We were there
now we
simply look back.

From a Cloud Coo Coo Land
to that
undiscovered country.

We are of the future
we are
the dead.

-Will Dockery 2020

The Barefoot Contessa

The Barefoot Contessa

Ashen grey
all the memories in a can.

Involvement
under the liquid blue evening.

Midnight tries
I called my mom and dad.

They had heard no news
everyone seemed to be in the dark.

Moving around these city streets
new tennis shoes bounced me.

Springing on to somewhere else
now and then.

Thinking about my friend
who I should have killed.

Thinking about my
artistic failures.

Wondering about my
pretentious involvement.

Speaking to some
well known people.

Thinking about some who
have fallen in stature.

After the fall
there golden silk
and her sweet red lips.

Bluest evening falls
over lighted Atlanta.

On her lips
I tasted the wine.

Afterwards
I made love to her
under the oaks
facing the lake.

Blue numbers of recall
her hair was golden.

She sipped a beer with me
in the warm November evening.

The stars were glistening
the weather was crispy and right.

Barefoot Contessa in the shadows
she remained out of sight.

Spindles of her legs
so long and brown.

Thinking as I type this moment
out of the past.

Feeling the heat
we lay between the sheets
as morning cut through so blue.

As I walked with her
barefoot in the dew.

After a nap
sitting with her on my lap
smoking a cigarette or two.

Later
when she read my poem
she cried her prayers to all the world.

I watched
as into the parking lot
my amulet she hurled.

Water drip in the sink
seems to echo over Ansley Square.

There on the edge
shattering the silence
in this vacant room.

So much subterfuge
to make love to her.
Under the oaks
facing the lake.

-Will Dockery (11-26-81)

Key Characters

Key Characters

He tried to see himself
through the mediocrity.
Fullest memories
of moments of intuition.

Unhelpful
perhaps
we both see.

The incurable superintendent
he has prominence.
He walks around
and you probably fuck him.

Empty out your ashtrays
before he licks them.

You have designer jeans
and brand new teeth.
I noticed that your eyes are still
so very full and blue.

Watching the money
collect on your bed.
There's a movie on the television
about Kansas City Jazz
in Technicolor
although the TV is black and white.

In the film
there is a woman on a balcony.
She has a pretty nose
but her eyes are not real
and neither is her mouth
she talks really funny
like imitation South.

I couldn't care less about her,
or you,
or anyone else who lies
about giving a damn.

I'm there
going in
incredibly high.
You gave me head
guaranteed for wandering.

Standing alone
someone is there
a military man.

Her husband of the stairs
lying
mending
stared apart from
the cracks in the sand.

Assure your heart
way downstairs
with its audience.

I thoughtlessly locked the door
then noticed
rather sadly
that I was out of keys.

On the hill
evening is falling
and I'm crying.

Beyond Piedmont Park
I can see the tips
of multicolored lighted buildings
over there.

Romance in the city
it seems so nice
as I sit in my room
in the boarding house
watching a movie about Kansas City.

You're with Mike Sherry
a nice Jewish kid
just out of college.

While I've been shouted down
so worthless to you
that I've been
wished out of existence
forever.

Living in a boarding house
right out of some film noir
pulling the night shift
without a telephone.

Suitcases standing in a sandy corner
a non-entity
exiled
within a city
filled with carbon monoxide, murder and fear.

For dinner
there's candy bars and beer.

Isolation
is an irritation
to my eyes.

Fuck you forever
for causing me these tears.

As the soundtrack blares
with drum machines
and synthesized elements.

-Will Dockery (April 1981)