Stumbling

 (for G. S. Sharat Chandra)

When I went to college

I owned a large Zenith radio

from which the world

came into my walkout basement

beneath the old lady

who would fall on the floor

with a thump

that would make me look up

to my ceiling

covered in hippie Indian bedspreads

Sure I went up to call for help

Then back to the dungeon

where I'd listen to the radio

all night to hear the latest

on the Symbionese Liberation Army

and Patty Hearst from KNX in Los Angeles

Exposed pipe wasn't as lovely

as the block print colors

contrasted with the sound effects

recorded live on the scene

of gunfire and police interviews

Three windows kept me in touch

with the outside

One to the south that looked

out over the town

and two onto the parking lot

behind the building

at 300 North East Maple Street

How strange it is to now

look upon that building

and see the apartments

upgraded with shiny new appliances

across the nation inside my computer

looking for ghosts of a different time

when Simon gave me an acid dot

and I watched a Roman trireme

being rowed across the sky

That night at his Halloween party

The great Chandra would open

my mind to the world of poetry

So now I've come to his old grounds

to find my writing voice

as I hold my walker tightly

sliding around my mobile home

only wishing

someone could hear me

as a stumble

to fall upon the floor

As I lay there

will I see Roman ships

rowing across my ceiling

and hear gunfire from Los Angeles

or will I slowly sink

into the stupor of an acid trip

the brilliance of my ceiling

once again covered in block print tapestry

from his homeland around the world

As that has not happened as yet

I know the day is coming

as life winds slowly down

like the words of this dead poet

stuffed into unread books

or sparked across a screen

the explanations before his reading

by who and what

the future wants to hear

plain language

delicious as simple block prints

from that bearded dark skinned face

Barry G. Wick 2015