Larry O. Dean
Cowboys & Indiana
On the tollroad
toward the gassy stank of Gary,
past the Port of Chicago
with its sucker-punch alewives stench,
fumes funnel the sky, smoke
signals admonishing passersby.
The Dream
In the dream,
I am ambulance chasing with Gandhi,
which is even weirder than it sounds,
because I am not now nor have I ever been
nor would I ever want to become
a lawyer, and even the friends I've known
who were, or are, or studied to be lawyers
I had to pretend weren't, or aren't,
and watch my words around so as not
to discourage their career paths,
because I just don't respect the law,
the inflexibility of it, which is part of why
this dream is especially off-putting,
because if I had to be a lawyer
I wouldn't be the personal injury type,
it's so counterintuitive to what
I'm all about; but then
I take a good, hard look and realize
it's actually Roger Gandhi, not Mohandas,
commonly known as Mahatma, second
cousin twice removed of the preeminent
leader of Indian nationalism in British-
ruled India, who is with me,
and as I pause and squint,
aside from glasses and a mustache
he looks nothing like his famous cousin,
having a full head of bushy black hair
and not once smiling that enlightened
and enigmatic smile the Mahatma
is usually shown with in photographs;
in fact, he is rather dour
and out of breath, which is when
I realize we are literally chasing
ambulances, not metaphorically,
which explains the whole lawyer mis-
understanding but doesn't explain
why we are in hot pursuit
of a bevvy of emergency vehicles
which could very well, ironically,
injure us because we are running
in the street, chasing taillights
like cliched stray dogs as wailing sirens
fade the further away they get,
which is perfectly natural since
they are vehicles while we're on foot,
though, again ironically, the term
ambulance comes from the Latin word,
ambulare, meaning to walk or move about;
it is then I look sideways at Roger's face
and although it's not a race
I feel compelled to pull ahead of him
if not impelled to catch up with the rotating
red lights getting farther and farther
away, and I think, in his pancha,
or traditional Indian men's garment,
he must be more comfortable than I am
in a tuxedo and Crocs which,
while comfy and colorful, with each
leg extension threaten to fly off my feet
and slow me down, if not cause us
both to stumble and fall as they bounce
and tumble in the distance, electric
blue obstructions on an obstacle course,
but through some miracle they remain
on my feet, and I'm not complaining,
because even at a garb disadvantage
we're neck and neck
and I'm suddenly very proud
which gives me an adrenaline rush
not unlike adding fuel to the proverbial fire;
but this is not about me,
nor is it about Roger, or even
the ambulances, it's about living
in the moment, which we simultaneously
arrive at as a conclusion telepathically,
since neither of us has said anything,
coming to a halt and doing that
hands-on-hips-walking-in-a-circle thing
marathon runners do upon crossing
the finish line, and I undo
my bow tie, cursing my impetuousness only briefly
because knotting one is a complicated business,
using it to mop my sweaty forehead
like a handkerchief because I forgot mine
on top of the bureau this morning,
cleaned and folded neatly and ready
to go, with the monogrammed initials
G-O-D in gold, not L-O-D, which I never noticed
before now, or didn't want to notice,
not because it scares or unnerves me
but because I like being in charge
and think maybe this is some kind of a sign,
albeit from the dry cleaners but a sign
nonetheless, if only a sign of their ineptitude,
or their business outgrowing itself
way too quickly to keep up their top-notch
fluff-and-fold service;
and then I wake up.
--
Larry O. Dean was born and raised in Flint, Michigan. His numerous books include Activities of Daily Living (forthcoming, 2017), Brief Nudity (2013), Basic Cable Couplets (2012), abbrev (2011), About the Author (2011), and I Am Spam (2004). He is also an acclaimed singer-songwriter whose latest solo album is Good Grief (2015). The sophomore album from his band, The Injured Parties, is due in 2016. For more info, go to larryodean.com
I am ambulance chasing with Gandhi,
which is even weirder than it sounds,
because I am not now nor have I ever been
nor would I ever want to become
a lawyer, and even the friends I've known
who were, or are, or studied to be lawyers
I had to pretend weren't, or aren't,
and watch my words around so as not
to discourage their career paths,
because I just don't respect the law,
the inflexibility of it, which is part of why
this dream is especially off-putting,
because if I had to be a lawyer
I wouldn't be the personal injury type,
it's so counterintuitive to what
I'm all about; but then
I take a good, hard look and realize
it's actually Roger Gandhi, not Mohandas,
commonly known as Mahatma, second
cousin twice removed of the preeminent
leader of Indian nationalism in British-
ruled India, who is with me,
and as I pause and squint,
aside from glasses and a mustache
he looks nothing like his famous cousin,
having a full head of bushy black hair
and not once smiling that enlightened
and enigmatic smile the Mahatma
is usually shown with in photographs;
in fact, he is rather dour
and out of breath, which is when
I realize we are literally chasing
ambulances, not metaphorically,
which explains the whole lawyer mis-
understanding but doesn't explain
why we are in hot pursuit
of a bevvy of emergency vehicles
which could very well, ironically,
injure us because we are running
in the street, chasing taillights
like cliched stray dogs as wailing sirens
fade the further away they get,
which is perfectly natural since
they are vehicles while we're on foot,
though, again ironically, the term
ambulance comes from the Latin word,
ambulare, meaning to walk or move about;
it is then I look sideways at Roger's face
and although it's not a race
I feel compelled to pull ahead of him
if not impelled to catch up with the rotating
red lights getting farther and farther
away, and I think, in his pancha,
or traditional Indian men's garment,
he must be more comfortable than I am
in a tuxedo and Crocs which,
while comfy and colorful, with each
leg extension threaten to fly off my feet
and slow me down, if not cause us
both to stumble and fall as they bounce
and tumble in the distance, electric
blue obstructions on an obstacle course,
but through some miracle they remain
on my feet, and I'm not complaining,
because even at a garb disadvantage
we're neck and neck
and I'm suddenly very proud
which gives me an adrenaline rush
not unlike adding fuel to the proverbial fire;
but this is not about me,
nor is it about Roger, or even
the ambulances, it's about living
in the moment, which we simultaneously
arrive at as a conclusion telepathically,
since neither of us has said anything,
coming to a halt and doing that
hands-on-hips-walking-in-a-circle thing
marathon runners do upon crossing
the finish line, and I undo
my bow tie, cursing my impetuousness only briefly
because knotting one is a complicated business,
using it to mop my sweaty forehead
like a handkerchief because I forgot mine
on top of the bureau this morning,
cleaned and folded neatly and ready
to go, with the monogrammed initials
G-O-D in gold, not L-O-D, which I never noticed
before now, or didn't want to notice,
not because it scares or unnerves me
but because I like being in charge
and think maybe this is some kind of a sign,
albeit from the dry cleaners but a sign
nonetheless, if only a sign of their ineptitude,
or their business outgrowing itself
way too quickly to keep up their top-notch
fluff-and-fold service;
and then I wake up.
--
Larry O. Dean was born and raised in Flint, Michigan. His numerous books include Activities of Daily Living (forthcoming, 2017), Brief Nudity (2013), Basic Cable Couplets (2012), abbrev (2011), About the Author (2011), and I Am Spam (2004). He is also an acclaimed singer-songwriter whose latest solo album is Good Grief (2015). The sophomore album from his band, The Injured Parties, is due in 2016. For more info, go to larryodean.com