Does summer hide from mechanics?

My grandfather aboard the battleship Arizona
Married a dancer, Eudora, and had a baby Jack
in Los Angeles, moved to Seattle because of
all the Earthquakes.

My grandfather, the mechanic (did he own his shop)
sold popcorn in movie theaters.

His son on the way to management, drafted for Korea
stayed in the Army.

His manly body in the foreground, married to my exhausted
Mother, me in her arms in Georgia, USA.

1963 was the year.

Gratitude begins with love.

What was her Will that brought together the son of a sailor and dancer
and the daughter of a machinist and housewife
many years after the Depression and World War II (during Vietnam).

Why did my parents call the Civil Rights Movement, the Negro Uprising.

Dark harmonies were altered to meth.

I loved freedom and it was all there when sun shined on children
just back from the US of A.

It was solid, tough, strong.

Now I know that feelings freedom are created truthfully as
fruit of Bruce (my old name).

She and I are loving and have something called love from
my mother (she said).

I know that she will treat me like I am free.

There is the sun shining.

The mechanics are treating themselves as men.

I must try to embrace the creativity that caused change:


Will home to live fool. Bartering for hostess for love.
A punch to the wood; and a guard of the bee chest.
Mother of whores, let love lie hopefully.


My mother loves me (but not as Julia).

I created change for life and now it's another person.

Declaring myself as a hollowed mother to babies.

A poem to drugs.

Being in the State of Arizona is cold.

Many seek tallow; I write for madness.
Deal is slime.

George Oppen, a poet, wrote of summer and mechanics.