Friday, May 1, 2009

today like everyday

Rough wet rain fell in the antique light of old

Seattle in the deliberately bright sun

Of spring. The Puget sound echoed with a

Great wrath of dark waves pushing steadfastly

Against the sides of tankers and fairy boats

And anonymous fishing crews docked beside

The lamp lit house boats in the bay marina.

I was at Pike Place sitting in Post Alley

Typing on some things I thought worth while

Over steaming coffee. The bums walked through

As did market security and business owners next

To an array of street performers bouncing off of walls

Echoing in laughter as they stood nearby chit-chatting. I felt

Like a golden template basking in a weather of cold wind

Asking for everything and giving only what came natural

To the powers that be. A friend had sent a letter up from New Orleans asking of information on what to do in New York.

He was headed there by way of thumb with our old roommate.

All I could muster in interest of New York, New York was the folk scene and roof top parties in Brooklyn, the MOMA museum and a friend’s apartment in the Bronx.

It seems like the tough skin of the city has shaped his voice and sharpened his sight.

By way of phone call he rang last week speaking in a powerful low-tone, reciting

To me a four page piece of recent love and learned eloquence surrounding the light

Of some girl, Natalie, he’d met.

His everyday became visiting Natalie on the Brooklyn Bridge to meet her while

She oil painted and he, according to one day, yelled infinitely into sound and space.

My reply in form of choppy type written words was put off for a bit

While I lit another cigarette outside Seattle’s Best in Post Alley.

A large Wooden pole shot out of the ground randomly in the middle

Of the alley. I put my coffee there as I lit and puffed my smoke, but then,

Something a bit odd happened. An old man with one arm walking ahead of his petite wife dressed with bright eyes in a bonnet asked if he could take a fashionable photo of

Me beside the coffee. I guessed the coffee did look good and I, suave leaning against it.

The old fellow snapped four flashes and upon leaving said “I’ll get the photos to you when I see you in Hell.” He pointed to his silent bashful wife behind him saying “she won’t be going there. She’ll be in heaven.” And walked inside the coffee shop.

I was left a bit puzzled wondering about unimportant things as how I looked

In the photos beside the coffee balancing on the wooden pole sticking out of the alley….

today like everyday

I was showing my sister the website for a book I am in, when she found a video and song

About me on youtube… Robin Attwood. After listening a while I recognized who this person was. She was a tourist girl I met in New Orleans visiting from L.A. I hadn’t really thought of her since. Being a street performer you meet lotsa folk who come and go and sometimes come back but usually just disappear and you never see them again. Any how the song was unfinished. The first few lyrics were “smoke cigarette/crooked smile/lend me your smile…Robin Attwood”. It was so unexpected! I didn’t think her or any of her friends took to me that day after miming on Royal st. My face was painted an oily white; I had just bought a beer with what little money I’d made and decided to drink it with Troll on the Mississippi River front. It was Troll who had been sitting and talking with this girl and the rest of her friends from L.A. Wow! What a trip. She gave me her glasses with no lenses in them; said they went well with my mime outfit. She never came to the show that

Night, I wonder why. I imagined, so enamored by me in mime face, that she would’ve come to see me perform.

Eh, you meet people you forget people you long otherwise.