Who snatched the zippo from a store in Wyoming with a cow or James Dean embossed in black on the phony metal?

WILD GIRL BY COOPER SY 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 35

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Who were you when you took off like speedo 

for sunny California, radio full blast while dreaming 

awake? Who was the boy? Who was the girl behind 

the wheel of the old Dodge convertible leaking oil?

Was he or she the one who went blind from the  

dust of the open road, rivulets of rain running 

down muscle and swollen veins?  


Did you light his cigarettes? 

Did she light yours?


Who snatched the zippo from a store in Wyoming 

with a cow or James Dean embossed in black on 

the phony metal? 


What town, or state of mind did you grow tired 

of laughter and maybe love?

COOPER SY

Thanks to my mother’s foresight and tenacity, I never had to celebrate my birthday on April 20 the same day as Hitler’s. Although an obvious struggle, Mom waited until the minute hand safely crossed the border from 11.59pm to 12.01am April 21. Looking forward from that day to the present I realize there have been many such fortuitous crossings, crossways, crossovers, fords, streams, rivers, and oceans. One voyage still in progress uniting my mythic longings with reality was being accepted to The American Film Institute (AFI) as a Directing Fellow. Foregoing reason and especially foregoing practicalities, I packed my life, including my young son, into an old Dodge convertible and crossed the continent to the dream factory. Standing on top of the AFI’s terrace at sunset I believed fame and fortune was as close as the Hollywood sign I could almost reach out and touch. Decades have passed, I haven’t yet entered the pantheon of film gods, but still feel hopeful, even lucky to be making films, directing plays, having my poetry, short stories published.