Blank Verses

Crossing the street today a woman crossed paths with Charley & I.  I stared at her.  Not for attraction’s sake.  I didn’t know why at first.  I was actually thinking about that, realizing how often I stare at people, when we pass a man.  He looked me in the eye, said something about my glasses, smiled.  He asked for a quarter.  No.  He asked for a dollar, then he would give me change.  I don’t have a dollar.  He says yes, I do.  I say no, I don’t.  I walk away.  Charley makes a comment- I’ve got to work on looking those types of people in the eye.  But I look at everyone, just to see if they’ll look back.    

Man with beeper.  He’s walking away OH NO HE’S GONE.  With his Whitman-esc white beard, over-arching moustache, a “I do or used to frequently dip tobaccy” chin…Shh…he’s back…those glasses that turn into sunglasses when it’s sunny and one is out in the sun.  He’s got a loaf of bread with him (casually nibbling an entire whole loaf).  Woah.  Just had a two-minute whisper conversation with Meme here and he kept glaring over; it appears I was intruding upon his peaceful comic book reading.

My team!

I am standing in the back of the Portland, Oregon home we have been invited to stay in- the owner of which is Charles’ 2nd cousin, Jon Graber, and his wife Terry, who are “brewmasters,” brewers of beer, and people with very fine taste in many things.  I am inhaling one of the few cigarettes I have been allowing myself lately, and observing things such as the ice on top the cooler, the rigged backyard brewery Jon has set up for his home taps, a clay molding of a bearded crescent moon against stars, hanging on the wooden fence.

The garage side door is open, the light is on.  I step closer and there is music playing through speakers.  There is a metallic wind-chime next to my head, dangling, a CDR on the end of the string in the middle, the long part that hits the metals and causes the sounds I suspect only need to go so far a distance before transforming into the wind and carrying themselves about the ear canals of Earth’s atmosphere.  I bring them into motion, surprised at how they resonate.  I have a nastily opinionated preference for certain types of wind-chimes, metal ones constantly do not make the cut, but these, their waves linger.  They sound like the Home Alone soundtrack mixed with what would be the sound of snow being created, were you to hear it, and that with the music playing in the garage brings me to a time in San Diego four years ago, at Audrey’s great aunt’s, swimming in her backyard pool, gallivanting.  

Her husband has died recently and, in an interval of exhaustion, more likely of “Audrey feels like sunbathing now, not swimming,” I ventured into an open side garage door and saw all these things everywhere, much clutter, orchestrated clutter, and found a funny hat, at least a hat that looked so outdated and dusty and flat-billed I just had to take it down and try to make Audrey laugh.  So I took it off its nail and onto my wet head, barely, letting it rest on my head, not truly putting it on.  I walked outside and hoped for a beaming smile.  I received a jumping up from laying-out position, quick please put that back

Why

that was her husband’s and she hasn’t moved anything of his yet.

A bit of a scold afterward for questioning.  Understandable.  Soon after Audrey gets nervous because we’re running late to have dinner with her father, and oh did she ever get worked up about running late.  

I’m experiencing this while looking into Jon’s garage, who has no children, and is so nice, as we people judge most others, considering who is going to go first: him, or Terry, who just walked downstairs in her pink, fully-outfitted pajamas to remind Jon what time he needs to get up while he’s telling Charles bear stories, what is the multitude of their love for each other and others, how long is this wind-chime going make the music it makes where it is, which of them will have to contemplate whether or not to move it after the other loses presence here.  

Charlie and I stopped to talk with a couple guys with a big cross in their arms the other night on some other street in New Orleans after the Sugar Bowl. How do the even get permission to do what they do, I don’t know. But my conversation was awesome. Guy was really kind, what I liked most was how much we got to talk about him, and where he’s coming from. He said it was a lady, caused all the change, helped him see. But he did hand me this pamphlet that is not very cool, even with the best of intentions.

Found this picture of my friend Andy on my camera too.  I imagine he is making that face at this pamphlet.

Took my first shower of the trip this morning.  Charles called me gross for it, but I’m thinking

I’m on a road trip, and even were I not, this would of been about the time when I’d take one, gross or no,

so he can be Mr. Clean all he wants.  The shower tally is Charles 4, me 1. Had an odd experience though, using this shampoo for dry, coarse hair it says, which I don’t have, so I’m thinking

crap, my hair’s gonna be all strange, but then I’m thinking

the last person to use this shampoo was probably Charles’ great uncle’s wife,

who died near seven months ago.  He still has her voice as the voicemail.  Last night his uncle kept egging me to have a beer and I wouldn’t have it because I was still recooperating from New Orleans, but then we got some Mexican food and I had two margaritas, and when we got back to the house I asked for another beer.  He said to go to the fridge in the garage.  I did and saw this ginger beer which sounds interesting and sounds like its light on the old stomach.  I grab it hesitantly because I’m halfway worried this is the last ginger beer in the fridge, I’m making up this world where this beer is the only beer his wife would ever drink, one of her heavy quirks.  Walking toward the living room I crack the can lightly, worried if he notices I didn’t just pop a top.  All’s clear, I open a kitchen cabinet to find a cup, and the only mug available has her name on it. 

my father always talked this chalk about giving the classic “one-hundred and ten percent” when he was going through school.  Then I found his report cards.  I’ll let them speak for themselves.

Ope, someone is too cool to stay after-school.

wow. that teacher seems so…”nice”

though, how much is he helping himself, if he’s getting candid this way

at least he gained some style along the way, I guess

Alright.  To his credit, here’s the Joseph Williams I think he’d always tell me of

but that looks pretty sheepish when compared to MY 2nd grade marks, which were oddly found the same weekend I found these

dad called it an educationally theological issue, my generation’s teachers being told to encourage. 

excuses, excuses, he would say were the situation reversed

I just wanted to post this one because it made me feel good when I found it.

Could’ve sworn that teacher was “Acorn”