Thursday, May 12, 2016

May 12


  1. This is going to be remembering a picket fence at 5 in the morning in January in Coupeville.
    This is going to be walking on a deserted dark road along that fence to hitch a ride with KaMika to our writing classes.
    KaMika is not yet broke, has not yet lost her house, divorced her husband and hurt her arms so much she can’t type
    Which means she has to write with her voice alone and that’s weird if you’re a writer. Which KaMika is.
    This is going to be about riding with her to writing classes every morning and riding back with her every night.
    This is going to be about her and my other friends who I meet that Winter:
    Candy who lends me her printer and gives me coffee.
    Sarah who is crazy and Jewish and who likes everything I wrote.
    Barbara who is crazy about animals and doesn’t like most of what I wrote.
    And Bernadette, who likes most of what I wrote and is always nice (except that one time) and who writes kick-ass stories about sexually driven judges and murders that are on the cusp of happening.
    In epics you often see something called a “heroic list.”
    That was one just now.
    Others come to walk that picket fence at 5 am to go to classes. To give me a ride, but these are the originals. These are the
    I am busy living it all, smoking dope with KaMika by the water off Ebey’s Preserve.
    I am drinking with Bernadette, driving Sarah to the airport with enough luggage for 4 people.
    So I don’t notice at first that things will of course end.
    The classes end.
    The writing school closes.
    Now, I walk by that fence in the daytime. But I’m not going to visit anyone.
    Sarah will break both arms in Pensacola, while her mother dies in Tel Aviv.
    Bernadette won’t give up but she will find being a mystery writer frustrating. She will almost win an important prize. Twice.
    Barbara will go to teach community college after her father dies.
    Candy will work with agent who will make her rewrite her novel 4 or 5 times. She gives up and starts another one.
    KaMika will work at Macy’s. She will not have time to write much.
    That doesn’t mean she isn’t still a writer.
    I will walk further east tomorrow, and watch canoes racing in the cove.
    The point isn’t to win. The point is to get there.
    All together. Without tipping over
    The boat.

  2. The river

    I was in Montana
    Riding a ten speed
    Nobody on the road
    Just me and the range
    Of Bridger Mountains
    It was green with the
    Sky so blue you could
    Go blind looking up
    And wondering if there
    Were a cloud in the sky
    If you would not mind it
    Or maybe curse at it for
    Destroying the ocean of
    Blue, dark as the picture
    On the canvas without a hint
    Of white or shade covering it
    Making the ride down and up
    Again a memorable time without
    Thinking about the moment just
    To enjoy the lush forest along
    The edges of the road
    And the peculiar sky
    Making the most out
    Of being there
    Borrowing somebody's bicycle
    For about three hours and just
    taking a bike ride into Bozeman
    The nearest city, it was a ride
    like no other, a beautiful place
    Where I could feel free and not
    Have to worry of bills to pay
    Rent to save, whether the next
    shoe was going to drop

    I was in Montana for a month
    traveling with my dad's football
    coach who went up to take the trip
    on a regular basis as I was on the
    summer of 81 and taking a college
    course which was five units from
    La Verne.
    My dad was giving me the opportunity
    to be on the trip and paid for my tuition
    It was the class that traveled on the
    historic route of Lewis and Clark with
    their expedition through the northwest
    We kept a journal and went on ten rivers

    One of the rivers I remember
    Was Yankee Jim
    I dumped the kayak
    and could not
    roll back up
    To right myself
    and fearing the worst
    I pulled the skirt off
    of the kayak and bailed
    out upside down being
    tossed like in a washing
    machine when I followed
    my instinct to the surface
    and reached up to gasp for
    a breath of air
    To the moment
    Of yelling "help"
    and going back under
    coming up again to find
    the end of a rope trailing
    a kayak to pull me the rest
    of the way down the river
    I was so happy to have
    been saved from drowning
    It was a paradise
    I wish I had
    every summer'
    But the closest
    I had ever been
    back was when
    I flew into
    Jackson hole Wy
    The river is well
    respected from the
    experience of
    The Yellowstone