August 2024 – Page 2

The other day my Production boss, Randy, and I went to a local waterpark, Splashdown Beach “America’s Biggest Little Waterpark” in Fishkill, NY at the invite of the Splashdown boss guy, Steve, to grab some lunch as a thank you for the production work we do for them (well, Randy … Steve and Splashdown are “his” in our divvied up client work).

While waiting in the main lobby area I got a chance to be fascinated again, as I always am, at some of the oversized photos of old time beach and summer time fun, as well as older Splashdown pics that adorn the walls here and around the rest of the park.

Some of the older ones, of classic, happy, boardwalk and beach days made me think of Postcards that might have featured the same back when postcards were still sent.

(post post addition: I noted not too long after posting this new one of mine a prompt at dVerse Poets about “dreams” and writing of such. I thought this one could possibly fit that bill)

Postcard

You were beach and boardwalks

pictures of imagined

haughty days only others could afford

to ride Ferris Wheels and wave tall round smiles at excitedly milling insects below

or chance games of chance perchance

when you returned to earth

You were an untold story in vistas in the long

that stretched toward far off worlds over waves that

fell curved into dreams

and I curved with them

You were hand in almost

hand

pinkies

young

could I kiss her

if I were there, in a postcard

not be awkward in words

saladed with ummms and ahhhhhs

Would that be too forward an ask?

My feet lift happy

as I go nowhere with purpose

stilled

in my postcard

that one mustached swimmer who looks me in the eye

from the beach in a striped one piece

long dead

tells me the sky was perfect for postcard dreams

that day

sent for smiling envy

Your magic

your wonder

has been lost

but your bright pastels and pictured smells

were all the tells of where I wanted to be

stammering in possible young love in the sun

found history past

in a box

of memory

of postcards I collected

when I was young

Could I send you to a new found love?

Now?

Maybe?

Imploring “Wish you were here”

with colored pinks and blues and yellows and reds

that taste of stretchy taffy

smell of sticky cotton candy

feel of crispy skin sea salt

sound of creaky old wood beneath my feet

Could I step back?

For just a moment

recapture the wistful wish

of a card pictured boardwalked sunshined day sent in the mail?

So I thought I would offer this up in case anyone is inclined to send me some mail.

I have moved.

The address you previously had for all those Christmas and birthday cards, they were lovely by the way, thank you, has been updated.

I only mention this as I would hate for any further correspondence to be lost in future Louis DeJoy attempts to destroy the U.S. Mail, especially with a pretty consequential election just around the corner. Damn those mail in votes says Louis.

I now call the kingdom of shopping plaza’s and strip malls and waaaay too many churches and pizza joints home. Albany (or its thereabouts).

I had been, for the longest of time, situated in a perfect of spots with a friend and her above garage place in Poughkeepsie. It was a place of wonder, furry and even winged wonder. So very furry you could lose count. And a spot so furry that you could easily get in shape simply from the oft repeated petting “hello (insert name)” bend downs and one that begged you to take stock in rolly sticky things that you kept on hand at all times just to keep up with all the fur that would stick to you like welcome glue.

Never wear black by the way.

But things change and I have new digs.

See, I have this sister, her name is Rebecca, she’s very nice and a real love and quite possibly the best friend I have ever had (others were in the moment though some have thrived past that thankfully) but she’s been a constant, surely to her year’s long “Seriously Steve?” dismay. You’d like her, good at charades and card games, and she has these two boys, their names being Jacob and Mathew who are also very nice, who you’d also like, though I don’t know of their proficiency at charades or cards, and Matt is quite the cook and champeen good at simulating the pyramid of Giza in the kitchen sink in the process. Together they have this house, home, a little place in a land called Schenectady that has a finished basement that was only being used for housing a behemoth of a treadmill that no one treaded on and a litter box for a very chunky, clunky, chubby little large cat named Ricki who meows like 2 or 3 packs a day.

There are two other cats, Arthur and Sephira, but they are more able to fend for themselves outside of this and are quite lithe instead.

I’ll hold off on referring to this as a basement though, even if that is what it is, as it sounds like I am the story of sad “guy who lived in somebody’s basement” lore. Me being in an almost Mom basement can cry pathetic and solitude and conspiracy theories and manifestos and tinfoil hats but that it not the case (I haven’t finished the manifesto yet … it’s still just a draft).

It’s a nice little spot and will afford me a break on rent, Beck only asks of my soul to use in rituals on small altars, nothing too involved, and a few dollars and gives me a chance to maybe breathe a little, something in this radio life of mine I have never really been able to do, and I have been doing this for quite a while.

So anyway, you can direct your cards this way now, they will be welcomed by myself and my own fur, Bella and Cricket who are enjoying their new surrounds replete with central air but who haven’t met Ricki the chunky yet, or Arthur or Sephira, though I’m sure that will be all kumbaya’s and peaches and cream and sunshine and rainbows and happy meow songs and will be picture cut perfect and pasted into vision boards or collages like grade school projects on large poster paper hung on walls in a NOT basement.

Cheers all.