Mel’s Kayak 8-30-15

I remember Mel.
We had seen him before at the beach.
He lived in the neighborhood.
Well we called it the beach.
It was mostly rocks and large concrete blocks and rubble and gravelly sand.
He had yellow aviator glasses.
He resembled James Coburn, the actor.
He was lanky and tan.
He had straight gray hair.
He came ashore from out on the lake.
with his kayak.
He built it he said,
From wood and canvas, obviously.
A nice double-ended paddle
he had, to pull it through the
cold crappy water,
parsing the dead alewives and seaweed.
He seemed to be pretty happy
letting us take turns in his boat.
Watching us from shore.
Paddling out and back.

I think I was with my friend George.
Probably.
All my friends and I were always at the beach.
Summer and winter.
Maybe more so in the winter, when
The surreal reigns.
When a man and a dog
appear out of the fog
walking toward you
from out on the lake.
And you hear them before you see them.

George overdosed on barbiturates and died before we got out of high school.

Paco’s Tacos, 8-15-15

Today I’m riding a rope on a bicycle.
It’s overcast, cloudy, cold and dim.
And foggy.
I don’t know how far I am
From the ground.
Or from where I started.
I cannot see my destination either.
I run a red light.
Because, remember,
I’m up on a rope. On a bicycle.
I pass a taco truck
on the right hand side, and
My pocket inverts,
And all the dollars fall out,
Because Paco lets me run a tab.
And his children call me
Tio Jaime, as they jump back and forth.
Small children and animals,
Dogs and birds mostly,
See me as perhaps a two-legged merry-go-round.
I look at my face in the mirror
But I don’t see that much fun.
I am
Happy to be clambered and perched upon, though.
I think they may sense that.
And now that I think about it,
I do recall being knocked
Off my bicycle many, many times by them,
On to the ground,
Which, it turns out,
Was not far.

A Meditative Chant in the Key of When

Cflat7, Gflat. Repeat.

I know it’s trite, which I hate,
But sometimes things take a long time to change.
And sometimes things change on a daily basis.
Change is an onslaught
And change is life.
Change is an onslaught.
And change is a way of life.
Change is an apocalypse

For some, and
Change is what’s in your pocket, for others.
For others.

Some things never change.

Beat back change, or,
Ride the change, not only that, but,
Drive the change.

My friend Doug used to say,
It’s time to change motels.

Change your tires.
Change your clothes.

Change your hair.
Change your name.
Change your feet.
Change your face: smile at every fucking awful thing.
Change of address.
Stop. Change direction.
Wait.

Start. Go.
Start to look.
This means:
You will have to wait and see.

Start to listen.
This means: you will have to shut the fuck up.
Entirely up.
Wait! What was that?
Did you hear that?
Did you hear all the colors?

Change how you wait.

Wait for the instant, the moment.
When change happens.
For example:

When happiness drives by, with despair in the passenger seat,
Wave at them.
Yell at them:

Hey! Hi! I love you! I miss you!
Come over sometime!

I’ll be here waiting.
If things don’t change.

Waiting is easy.
If you simply stop waiting.

Don’t wait.
Begin that now.

Just point your toes at the ceiling.
It’s all I want.