for jo jo white

jo jo white would come down the court dribbling.

little Black man with bow legs and rounded shoulders

with hair like donated, crushed glass. and

each time he would flick his wrist. 

It's funny how the mind always misses something

after watching so many three dimensional events

like blood on the shield of the gladiator or

what color shoes the thin model wore for her thigh-gap shoot. 

"it should be impossible" i'm telling my father

who hated the Celtics, "being able to throw a bouncing

rubber sphere through a gaping loop from 30 feet". but

there it was happening, over and over

like a river without a resting bank; without rivers without

fish to hold the mongrel sand grains down their throats.

"Cancer killed him at 71" the story read. I didn't want to

know what kind. cancer is one of those words

that is a folding of endings all alone. no medical dictionary could

spell out the numerology of it. no pill book

with those white lozenges stacked up by shapes walking

along the slumbering thorn chastening. no words

with "nol" as an ending, enough to quell the thirst of man

that shakes in the night waiting for god to return with a miracle. 

jo jo white would come up the court dribbling.

that's enough right there to keep you forever

remembering.

Reviews

[emmajoy]

Your thoughts, your memory, of that wonderful jo jo white rises soooo high via your words, and, i, the Brit.. could see and understand best i can, the magic personaliyt and character he was. Your phrasing is exceptional, magical: ' ".. being able to throw a bouncing rubber sphere through a gaping loop from 30 feet". but ~ there it was happening, over and over like a river without a resting bank; without rivers without ~ fish to hold the mongrel sand grains down their throats.'

That is language at its best.

[h d e rushin]

oh, my love...thanks for those wonderful remarks my friend......dana

[emmajoy]

It's always a pleasure plus, frequently a lesson learned when i read your posts.