Where the Mountains Grew
Reading Bukowski, the poem, “starting fast” he says
“We each at times should remember the most elevated and lucky moment of our lives”
I reflected and remembered
When I was 6 or 7 years old
I was sick and weak and in the hospital with a spinal tap
With a long ass needle pushed into my back
To test the waters
And see why was I so sick
I don’t recall much honestly, of being sick and weak
But I remember when my Dad carried me from the car
To the once perfect Home, in Santee, CA
Where the mountains grew
And where my best friend
My friend who
My only real memory is of us
Bouncing on my bed in our whitey tighties
And giggling from the stomach
Real giggles
The kind only 6 or 7 year olds can muster
Drew Died there in Santee
Where the Mountains grew
He was gone missing, lost and
On the TV and
On the radio
For some time
I remember being so sad but I was so young
It did not hit me until
The search parties failed
At first
All of them
Could you imagine the effort?
So many sweet souls searching
Their success turned into my sad failure
Drew was found so close to his home
In Santee
Behind his house
Where the mountain grew
I can see that mountain now, clearly
Poking into the sky with little vegetation
And what was there
Was mostly brown and dead
Like they found my best friend of 6 or 7 years old
Life drawn out of him; bashed in head from a rock
I can see his brothers angry face
snot raging from his nose
Foot on Drews stomach
He was wiggling and crying and trying to find release
But the killer was stronger
And with angry force
The rock plunges down and Drew ended
And then was buried under rocks
By his fucking brother
Drew was my bff before bff was an acronym
I didn’t have best friends for a long time after that
But I still remember
Bouncing on the bed of giggles and whitey tighties
I was lucky for that moment
And I still remember my Dad carrying me safely in his arms