You remind me of my old man
though I’m older now than you were then
counting tracks in Kesey’s mind.
Older than your friend,
when he drank himself to Paradise.
I’m not sure if my father read much
except Playboys left on the couch Sunday morning
after a case of beer Saturday night.
I know he liked the road: he liked to drive.
He would pile us in the light blue Ford—
a bottle of Hamm’s between his legs.

Moriarty, you were unique.
Not just handsome and rugged
with a nose like my father’s, bent—
asking to be broke one last time.
They’re not your poems.
Not your words howling
like a wounded stray—
I rummage through greedily
like a boy
with a forbidden magazine.
It’s the jagged image of a man
I envision
pushing against
the strength of his own sincerity:
counting railroad ties in the cold night air.

Contributors

Sean ReynoldsI was born near Los Angeles, caught frogs in the concrete stream-bed of the LA River, played hide-and-seek at midnight through the dark urban forest of Griffith Park, blushed at whores and debated Jesus freaks on Hollywood Boulevard, followed Sunset to the ocean, cried on the pier and fell in love then started I to live again.

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