Thom Kellar
Thom (tk@standordmicro.com) lives in Aromas, California.
IN A PERFECT WORLD
In a perfect world…
The 4 faces chiseled in Mt. Rushmore
would be Johnny, Kris, Waylon, and Willie
OJ Simpson would be stamping out vanity plates
alongside the unabomber in San Quentin.
every wanna-be Doctor, Priest, and Lawyer, made to watch
Paul Newman in "The Verdict" at least 50 times
and a public school education would include mining the mother lode
of irony found in the life and times of Muhammad Ali
In a perfect world…
the Government would find it unnecessary to spend 5o million bucks
trying to prove that the president committed adultery and lied about it.
the NRA would wither up and die due to lack of interest,
It’s army of Lobbyist picked off one by one through random gunfire.
all the camouflaged, soldier of misfortune, pin-headed, good ol’ boys
would collectively decide themselves not smart enough to exercise the
right to vote.
And every child would know deep and sustaining Love
from those in charge of their care.
In a perfect world…
I could lay all day on the beach
soaking up Pacific Ocean Sun without burning my ass off.
my 1970, Olds F-85, with the 396, would get better gas mileage the
faster I drove it.
like maybe 100 miles per gallon at 100 miles per hour.
there would fantastic, hole in the wall, Mexican food joints on every
street corner.
with plenty of fresh Tortillas, Habeneros, and ice cold Negra Modelo
and "Baby Doll" with the wandering eye, would magically see George
Clooney
every time she looked my way, causing her to re-think monogamy.
THOM KELLAR
From ttingle Fri Sep 11 16:35:26 1998
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Date: Fri, 11 Sep 1998 16:24:56 -0700
From: thom kellar <tk@stanfordmicro.com>
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Thanks Mr. Salasin, I appreciate your comments regarding my stuff.
Thom Kellar...average joe with some artistic
inclinations...poetry,music, art, (blah, blah, blah) ...lives in
Northern Calif...began seriously writing, June of 98...recently
published in several on line poetry zines (much appreciated)...see's the
pursuit of poetry/prose as a way of interjecting some creative
contentment into an otherwise unsettled and dysfunctional life...43
years old...has held many odd jobs...had no formal literary training to
speak of...considers his work to fall within the Folk Art category.
Robert Salasin wrote:
> Dear Tom,
>
> Some real nice stuff in there. I'd like to
> give it a little more time before I finally
> decide, but in the meantime, could you give
> me three, four lines of bio material to accompany
> any publication? Many thanks.
>
> Sal Salasin
> RealPoetik
From ttingle Sat Sep 19 13:20:37 1998
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From: thom kellar <tk@stanfordmicro.com>
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Status: R
STRESS
somewhere far below
valley of shimmering Silicon
hidden beneath dying branches
of a train track Willow tree
2 Mexican V-necks work up a good buzz
drinking malt liquor-swapping lies
cross-tie compadres
with all the accouterments of the homeless
loosely thrown into a Safeway food cart
Henry laughs at Ricardo
"mas cerveza cabron"
the Hispanic boys can see themselves
in the tinted glass of a passing southbound commuter
Inside-upper deck-sits Lawrence-marketing wunderkind
studying a memo regarding changes
in the company's 401K plan
8 hours of giving corporate head and home he goes
it's Thursday night-that means pasta and Seinfeld
one more day of tap dancing and the weekend is his
Saturday he's got tickets for Jagger and the Stones
Ricardo picks up a small rock
he likes the feel of the granite in his hands
carefully setting aside the King Cobra
he cocks his arm and let's fly
too late-the train is gone-the target missed
inside the moment
Lawrence feels sharp pain to his forehead
"stress he mumbles"
ransacking his briefcase for Tylenol
(he thinks to himself)
"there's no way Susan and the kids
will ever know what I go through
to bring home the bacon"
again, Henry laughs at Ricardo
"you can’t hit shit" he says
SUGAR PINE
August-1995
mid morning
after a breakfast of
cinnamon rolls and Italian blend
we drive down
following highway 49
through the American River Canyon
crossing at the north fork bridge
then climbing 3000 feet
up past Forest Hill town
8 miles further
turning onto red-dirt road
lake Sugar Pine
clear and deep
we wade out
the water up to our shoulders
taking off our clothes
holding on to each other
we make love-sex
hidden under a liquid blanket
of Sierra blue
a snow-water baptism
leaving late afternoon
you make me promise
that if you die first
I’ll bring your cremated remains
back to that place
and scatter them there
I say "you're crazy
I'm ten years older,
smoke and drink
like a chimney-fish,
I'll be the first to go"
but you make me promise anyway
3 years later
2 time-zones removed
watching our son
tricycle the driveway
you say
"I don't love you anymore"
and I know you mean it
"the spark is gone" you say
"I can't get it back"
"fuck" I mutter
several nights later I dream
pictures of Sugar Pine
nothing has changed
the dirt road, the pine trees
the fire tower, the boat launch
perfectly preserved
the first time-the last time
all that's different is the water
blue won't come
the whole of the lake
a gray-black ash