poetry and poets

Thursday, February 03, 2005

dreaming out loud

dreaming out loud
tony gallucci

Okay. Okay. It was 10 p.m. I was on Sycamore Street just up from the brick house, still new to us, still new period. Angelina met me there and we ran to 6th, where Andy and Mario waited in that '67 Ford Galaxy, only one in town with an eight-track tape player, waiting, then hurried to get Deb, herself escaping the stifling room-no room of her father smoking and sweating and doing crosswords, and listening-not listening to nothing on the TV. We drove to La Grulla. To our place near the mission, convent now, and sat there on splintered railroad ties, dreaming out loud about ghost engineers and nuns after dark, and whistled to the elf owls and spit gum in rusted Pearl beer cans so it wouldn't soak up the sweet grape of the Mogen-David and bitter metallic alcohol stuck to our tongues. And held each other. Sometimes not sure who was wrapped around who, didn't matter cause we were there for the holding and the crying, not the hiding, though the hidden, the illicit is easier to explain, the more likely to be believed, the more quickly punished after midnight no permission. It helps too to be something you really aren't. Reputation's the word old folks threw around. It keeps the soul, the real down-deep-inside soul, breathing to know you are far purer than anyone could imagine.