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….

1 comment:

  1. Hey Robin!
    this is Ebert, from new orleans (and before and after that, from brazil)
    It's been a looong time, neh?
    after such a long time it was strange to find in the mail box, on the cover of a book my friend sent me from NY... your face! hah!
    yours and other familiar faces... it was nice to go through the pages as if going back a year in time... a bit sad though. i miss those streets filled with music, those smokey bars, the cafes and the carelessness.
    then i couldnt but wonder.. how are you these days?
    what are you up to?