Jim McCrary

It is 7:00 am on a Monday in Lima.

Sitting with my back to the water….waiting.

I pull down the black veil.

No one is out except me….now.

I light a Gallo ready made from Bolivia and inhale the white smoke.
The sky has turned the color of a cheap bowl of soup from
Ratner’s Dairy Bar on the Lower East Side circa 1969.
The sun rises and looks like a matzo ball.

I am waiting for Janice to start her show at the Fillmore East just up the block.
Finishing my smoke I lean back waiting.
Today we knock the feet out from under the rightwing parliament members.

Knock them to fuck.



A beautiful looking man sits next to me on the bench.
I hunch over even more and gather my skirts.
My Juliette arrives and sits on the other side of the man.
He does not yet know that he is finished as a politician.

Janice is sitting in the back booth eating a bagel .
No boas. No one see’s her but me.
Jeans and t-shirt. Small bottle of whiskey hiding under the napkins.
She is alone. Her girlfriend is pissed. I am in love with her.

This is a poem about my mother’s mother.

She left most of her charm in Germany.

Came to Peru.

Became veiled as was the way.

My mother’s mother came to Petoskey.
Much to her disappointment.
I cannot speak to those left behind.
I don’t what to tell you what I think.

Juliette and I walk the six blocks.

Turn and walk back the 10 blocks.

Whoever is watching arrives.
We meet at the Café.
We tell them the beautiful man is fucked and
Still sitting on the bench.


My mother’s mother
in Lima veiled in black
With a long skirt
Fucking up the political gangbang called
True crooks

In the day
Which was pre-1900
Just to nail this down for close readers.

What’s more
Oh wait
I gotta dig thru all this stuff
Here it is……
A note passed between the two of them
Just about this day

Juliette….I am late. No not that late. Just a bit.
Catch up with me. I have things to tell you about
El Jefe. He is so crude. So off key. So unhappy.

And so it goes.

As in all of remembered history
Things cross over and again.

Note; Just because it is fake doesn’t mean it’s good or not. NOT.

The whole story is never written as much as some
Would hope
And in fact the mess is made thinking something writ
Is writ with meaning

But let’s return to yore that is
Let’s mine mine

For instance

My mother’s mother down to Peru

And leave it there.

Jim McCrary lives in Lawrence, Ks. With Steve Tills he publishes Hanks Orginal Loose Gravel Chapbooks. His latest (self published) chaps include Po Doom, Es Verdad, M ental Texte and Not Not. He helps run a poetry series in a dive bar (The 8th St Taproom) with Megan Kaminski in downtown Lawrence.
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