As it is the way with me, I have the car prepped by individuals whose love of the industry has acquired a rather peculiar name, "Grease Monkey."
I have no understanding of vehicles or their inner makings of their encasement under the hood the concepts of an engine. Repairing a flat tire, or locking the keys in the car, whereto, I leave it to AAA for its resolve.
Now the picture is made clear, the vehicle industry is one subject matter, when it comes to my person, I have little to no interest.
Now we're heading back to the Bay Area, and the four of us have some great conversations, lots of laughing, funny incidences in housekeeping.
I drove up to let all three off at Derek's place and waited in my car, as Derek went to retrieve his car. Jane and I shared some new news and there was no mention of that store incident, though it dwells in the back of our heads.
Derek drove to my driver's window, and I said I was going off to work, and I drove away and off to work I went, as they got into Derek's car till I was unable to see them.
Allegro
Crystal decanter, wine in a glass.
Tabletop woodwinds court candlestick brass.
Fine sterling service, stems in a vase.
High-tone enamel meets low double bass.
Pale yellow roses, peaches and grapes.
Clarinet colors tint saxophone shapes.
Citrus in concert, lemon and lime.
Echoes of summer in three-quarter time.
Adagio
There are brazen implications
In these muted, pulsing horns.
The strings are thick and creamy.
The bass line’s strewn with thorns.
Scherzo
Nail-tap percussion, tremolo drill.
Twelve o’clock whistle sounds cranky and shrill.
Shipping yard sunlight, loading dock shade.
Forklift holds pallet in mid-serenade.
Mustard-stained napkin, Styrofoam cup.
Strains of a power saw being tuned up,
Baritone belt sander wailing away.
White glove allegro turned grease monkey gray.
Rondo
Without darkness, there could be no light.
The sun would rise unnoticed.
Without silence, there could be no song
From either bird or locust.
Without winter, there could be no spring.
No flowers for your lover.
Without music, there could be no art.
They flatter one another.
Used to be this high octane poet
Running outta gas, my poems sure show it
Need a fillup
Injection up my butt
Of phrases like “grease monkey in the pit”
Used to be this high octane poet
Running outta gas, my poems sure show it
Need a fillup
Injection up my butt
Of phrases like “grease monkey in the pit”
Grease Monkey Rainbows
by Odin Roark
How colorfully the reflective smears ignited the senses.
How sinuous the undulating slick remained forever permanent,
its unintentional abstracts made prescient.
Dank syrup of engines idle,
spilled upon aged concrete
where the mechanic beneath rusted warriors
drained yesterday's tensile stress,
fresh loading tomorrow's fluid to live.
How focused his oily footprints remain,
now aloft riding the escort of Valhalla,
gliding upon colors of other-world palettes,
yet remaining forever heroic,
forever indelible,
in a little boy’s perpetual memory.
Yesteryear’s ever present ether continues embracing,
bestowing a blinding courage for the senses to endure,
even as the buried vestige remains dark.
The smell revered.
The smooth touch esteemed.
The unbridled colors forever a reminder of love.
Diesel rainbows,
still rippling in this man-child’s quiet ebb.
the lackluster heart
is a careless companion
his tarnished love is a thin man with hungry eyes
loved only by her mad mad mind
with a clean beauty to her that shines
the sour bread is bitter wine
his own madness stifled his tongue
painting its masterpiece of literary eloquence in utter silence
a neon glitter mona lisa written for the ages
like a grease monkey supplicant for the siege engine that is his heart
the lackluster heart tinkers with his noble endeavour soul
seeking that sweet music perfection you see in all the magazines
hand in hand with the dream come true girl and her saltwater jewels
she is dragging sacks of christmas cheer
decorating the avenue with beautiful things
its that time of year
the lackluster heart is uninspired
but he's handsome and thats all that matters to her
I trip to the O,
For grease monkey fries and a 40oz,
Scaling the Cathedral of Learning,
This is Oakland.
A roll of the die,
Stadium of choice,
Clemente Bridge connects us,
This is North Shore.
Fat Heads,
Tattoo parlors,
A thrift shop heaven,
This is South Side.
An Incline ride upward,
Pricey housing here,
Best view of the city,
This is Mount Washington.
Carnegie Hall,
Monty Python monthly,
Music and theater are alive here,
This is the Theater District.
Nightlife rays,
Morning meat shops,
Fresh food, legendary sandwiches,
This is the Strip District.
Extreme movie luxury,
Shopping for dropping dead,
Adjacent to one of many flowing rivers,
This is the Waterfront.
Culinary capacities,
PNC bank abound,
Fear of death by rubbing alcohol,
This is Downtown.
The only bar to attend,
Ice skating around a Christmas tree,
Mirror sky-scrapers,
This is PPG Place.
Three rivers,
Connected in a field of green,
The most amazing fountain on the edge,
This is the Point.
This is Pittsburgh.
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