UP JUMPS THE NIGHT by John Andrew Durler (the beach read txt) 📖

ask.

She says, “I will, if you will walk the dog

and bring back a bottle of white Zinfandel

and a pastry with whipped cream for two?


After drinking and snacking, we make love, slow

Delicious, done, she holding me, I her, I pass wind,

Loud, as the the dog besides the bed barks.


MY BROTHER

died one dark morning at a mowing
when the sky turned black as blood.

His name was Joseph.

I called him Child of the Sun.

That night the moon hid behind desperate clouds

thundering and lightening until dawn

when rain started rotting the hay in the field.

The old priest came into the room they locked me

in because they were screaming and said I was out of control.

They could not bear to look at my dark eyes no tears no tears.

I asked the priest; Why did God take

a child when he could have a boy?

He answered: God wanted him in heaven and

now you must take care of your mother,

this poor farm with two goats, chickens,

one field’s hay to mow to trade for a living,

and your father who drinks grape all day all night.

I answered in a far away voice like my father’s:

His name is Child of the Sun,

just for your records, take it down that way.

God might forget he gave a child to my mother.

You should walk the field at night--Father,

in your black robe find his soul somewhere under the truck

that must sit in the field to rust forever and remind us where it is.

The priest glared and said nothing.

I went out to the field and asked the sky:

Did you see the soul of Child of the Sun?

The sky moaned. “They are bad luck for you.

Do not look any more or blood will fill your mouth,

seep from your eyes. And avoid priests at all costs. They will lie to you.“


The next Sunday, I went back to the priest

saying mass in the church on a broken altar.

Behind him blood poured from the eyes in the statue of Christ

as the congregation wept and wrung their hands.

The saints were black all black and turned their backs to me.

A cock crowed until first light that night all night and the chickens clucked

annoyingly until dawn. Worms crawled out of red dirt in the field at noon.

So many worms the grass was smothered and never

grew again except under the truck that never went anywhere anymore.


When I was old enough I left my grieving mother,

the rusted truck, my broken father who still

sat in the kitchen drinking all day all night.

He did not notice I was gone until he was dying and cried:


My son, my son, where are you?

I answered across the years, across the barren field:

I will not tell you dear father,

but I give you the entrails of a chicken

to teach you of life and the quickness of death

and of raising yourself up out off the chair each day to walk out into the

field, crawl under the truck and breathe the sweet smell of grass,

and know it is always greener when the sacrifice of blood spills on it.

And while you are there breathing the grass,

look around for the soul of my brother.

If you find it, tell him I’m not looking anymore.


But I still love him and will always love him.


THE FERAL CAT AND THE WINDOW

The Cat smiled and said:"You bring those dogs near me I'll scratch Their

Noses."

I answered, "You try I'll kick Your Skinny ass into the pond."

The cat stuck her head up and pranced away saying" You're not worth a

whisker to me."

Home I looked out the window at a red cardinal, The window smiled and

cracked a joke

Knock Knock

Whose There?

A winsome window shined a ray of light

That's not a joke.

Sure it is it's a window joke

No this is a window joke

knock knock

Whose there?

Winsome.

Who?

Winsome loose some.

The window laughed so hard it cracked.

Damn. I'll never listen to a window again.


PART OF GROWING UP

A sense of snow

Snow man. Strawberry snow cone

shaved lemon flavored

In a cup 5 cents

Charlotte ruse 10 cents

Flavors and scents from

childhood


A belt beating for taking a tool

Rusting in the yard


A turtle caught put in a box

On the back porch.

Box empty

Turtle soup for dinner.

I threw up.

Slapped in the face

forced to eat.


Parochial school

Crush on Sister Michael

I Stared at a starched white collar

Under her chin to her shoulders.

“Why do you always stare at my neck John."

"I wonder if they shave your head."

She laughed. Undid her collar


Shook her flame red curled hair out.

I got hard, blushed brick red.

She laughed again and put her collar back on.

The bell rang. Time for recess.


Money Talks

A quarter, a nickel and a dime and a penny

Rolled down the asphalt street complaining about loss of value

When a silver dollar rolled even to them.

Why complain when no one listens

And you can do nothing about anything.

Keep a positive attitude and you will not tarnish.

It's all right to you to say that, wealthier than I

said the penny. They are going to do away with me

And start with a nickel. All the kids at school

Will not pinch me or put me in a piggy bank.

I'll be forgotten, never existed. I want to cry.

Don't be sad said the dime, shine like me

You will be worth more than any coin, even a

Hundred dollar Bill. Rare is what you will be.

After a number of years, you will have more fame

Than any other currency, revered by collectors.

All over the world you will be bartered and bought.


The penny said Thank you dear friends. I will shine

Like the Evening star And the rising sun. I will shine!

SHINE! SHINE!


A young girl ran into the street, scooped them all up

Ran to a soda shop, bought a Chocolate ice cream soda

A triple Strawberry, Vanilla, and Butter Pecan waffle cone and

washed it down with an egg cream

Finished, she wiped her chin and burped.


She ran outside and threw up all over herself.


Let Us Go now, you and I

in the dark November cold to the old house

on Fish Hollow Road, do not say the distance is too far.

We've spent three hours thinking of what to do.

Please don't say there is no time, or this is not the time.

No time is just a shadow of our fears. Places we go through,

hills are painted to take your breath away.

Maple sap boils in copper pans, milk cans full on smoky outdoor fires.

It fills the air with sugary aroma’s

that will make your mouth drip.

Skies are luminous with the fire of leaves,

and a scent not ever designed as the smell

of that celebrated harvest.
Insects all, drunk with heady aroma,

none would bite or sting,

mellowed out in lazy muttering

buzzing in slow motion,

gliding in air, on ground

iridescent as in a precious museum collection.

As we go, we must be careful of the deer.
They bolt across in day, by night,


freeze in headlights, and no way to die

is by fear on deserted country roads.

The white mist that swallows the road in valleys

descending, then upward rolling

will take us down to twenty miles an hour

and oh, what things to see, so calm the road

or a Jack-O-Lantern night that might surprise

and thrill--us too, as we drive by.

We've spent three hours thinking of what to do.

We can make up slow-downs in the hills

where moon and stars cast a silver eerie day-like night.


But shadows are connected to something.

A sense of unusual--phenomena, uncertain.

Her body English spoken quietly, said I was not right.
Your eyes said something else

before you turned away, I said.

“I cannot listen, this is strange, this trip and your story.”

What is strange is that it is not the usual. It is

change, a movement out of a pattern, that restricts and chokes.

"I am not choking.” She said with disdain.

You know. You know what I'm saying, in the
sense of breaking habits, all our life they deny us.

“Yes, yes, but now? The cold, icy roads, mist to rain and storms?”

If needs be, we'll rent a truck up there, or hire a horse and buggy.
She laughed. “Like Central Park? Frozen champagne, fingers?”
And body heat under piled blankets,

hot chestnuts and brandy in crystal glasses.

"We were young then, in love, innocent, daring.”


I feel younger than I am, and daring in my way to seek

changed directions, as an extraterrestrial--quick and sure--

moves to new worlds on horizons.

Oh, do not let me pass this by.

I feel the season in my heart beat burning,

but not forever, I think, as it goes with me.

Please, Please, do not be the denier of my desire.

Not you. Not you. Not now.

“All right! We will go! I must have time to prepare.''


No. No. That's the point. To go drop all thought except our purpose

to be on the road in a half hour time; enough to throw together a bag of warmth, ,a

thermos of coffee and off to adventure.

The point is---of--not--caring. God we've planned enough in life

and now to glimpse our youth through direct confrontation with habit


that cranky apathetic hum-drum dreary flight from imagination--

This is a time I may not get again.

Or you! Or you!


We stop and have breakfast at a roadhouse

watch the dawn chase