The Too Close To The Of Season Blues

 

 

 

The Too Close to the Off Season Blues

 

Football Sunday, Orange Crush sucks!

No more, Reggae Music on the Deck Days Mon!

Roger the Mexican restaurant owner, spins drink trays and I,

I juggle my red and white Klutz bean bags with white stars

that I use for the Beaver Creek Children’s Theatre

where I play a clown for Children’s Birthday Parties

between bean burritos and jalapeno less nachos.

 

Jimmy Cliff croons over the outdoor speakers

as I gaze up Vail Mountain

that there is, “ a pie up in the sky.”

 

The cheap couple with the screaming kid,

at the end table, at the end of the deck

150 steps from the kitchen,

wants a pot of tea with lemon, wants a side of sour cream

and the rug rat’s grilled cheese sandwich.

 

I stare absently out at the blue Born Free Express

and the carrousel of blue chairs

into the cloudless deep blue sky

powered by its blue General Electric Motor.

I think of an article I read in the Schenectady, New York Gazette

The Home of G.E. when I was attending writing workshops

at Union College and The State University of New York at Albany

that said, “it was awarded a patent for a true life form.”

I wonder

 

“What the hell is a true life form anyway?”

 

President George Herbert Walker Bush

is  on the radio on the deck vowing

“Sadam Hussein will fail!

He will not prevail against the

new partnership of nations allied against him

named Desert Shield,” costing

2 billion dollars a month.

 

While Saddam Hussein says,

“Free oil to the Third World.”

To combat the threat of American Imperialism

and Iran is the first to accept

having had their refineries

destroyed by Iraq.

 

The Aspen’s along Vail Mountain all the way to Gold Peak

are quaking and have already turned bright gold,

the oak is brilliant red, splashed brown.

I walk into the restaurant to get my order

right into a screaming short

mustached Denverite, yelling at Elway

for missing a pass at the 10 yard line.

I’m already 7 days late with my rent

and I’m dreaming of powder filled back bowls,

thanking God, I’m thirty-five and I don’t

look good in a gas mask or with

blue dead lips.