Wednesday, December 07, 2005
The Fall...
Walking to the bus in this dark and windy morning, a large blow-up santa (blow up santa?...kinky) is laying on it's side in someone's front yard. You can see it coming a mile away, can't you?
"...HELP! I've fallen and I can't get up."
OKOKOK...enough of that.
We haven't had the same bus driver any day this week, and this day is no different. I see the man and think..."Rasputin."
Getting off of the bus, spirits are whipping the leaves, jumping between two flag poles and bouncing against the concrete barrier of the driveway leading into the bowels of "Big Pink." I run up and dance with the spirits before I leave...they leave...we both leave.
The wind is strong this morning as it holds my face and body in its hands as I push my way up Burnside and smile. I think of John Redcorn except shorter, pudgier, with smaller arms, and a 24-pack. The wind feels good and crisp against my body and face. There are still some golden leaves holding onto the trees, unwilling to release, even in the face of this wind. This wind that wants to dance with them and will tease me.
I say hello to the same woman every morning as we cross in opposite directions on the Burnside Bridge. I make offerings from my usual place. As I place the tobacco back in my pocket, there is a man standing on my right, the side from which I came. It's my buddy, Jesus.
"Got a Guinness," I ask.
He smiles.
"Okay," I say casually. "What the hell do you want?"
He just smiles, puts his arm around me, and we look at our sister, the water, the river.
"They always call your name out in war," I say.
He looked down and shook his head at the one. A man of peace whose name is called out in war.
"That's why I don't like you. Nothing personal. It's your fucking followers."
He shakes his head some more.
"Got any pot?" I ask.
Jesus reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a little wooden box. I looked in and saw the most beautiful tasty buds. I stuck it in the pocket of my jeans. "Thanks," I said and pointed at him with my lips.
"Jesus?" I ask.
He looks at me with that smile of his.
"Tell me about True Love. Tell me about soul mates."
He knew why I was asking. He knew who I was asking about. His smile brightened. Using his hand for leverage, he leapt over the "what a lovely shade of beige" cast iron guard rail. I looked at the river to see him standing on it. His face shined in the red light. He stuck his hands in his pockets. He started whistling a little tune as he looked up at me. He then faced up river and started walking on water.
"Fucking poets!" I think to myself.
I stuck my hands in my pockets, and headed on across the bridge. A smile in my heart. Other smiles in my heart.
I remembered what I needed to talk to him about. I ran back to my offering place and screamed to him as he neared the Hawthorne Bridge. "HEY! YOUR BUDDY SANTA HAS FALLEN AND HE CAN'T GET UP!"
Jesus laughs hard. What a good laugh. He slapped his knee, turned back up river, and started whistling again. Then he'd laugh some more, shake his head, and start whistling again. This went on until he was out of sight.
"...HELP! I've fallen and I can't get up."
OKOKOK...enough of that.
We haven't had the same bus driver any day this week, and this day is no different. I see the man and think..."Rasputin."
Getting off of the bus, spirits are whipping the leaves, jumping between two flag poles and bouncing against the concrete barrier of the driveway leading into the bowels of "Big Pink." I run up and dance with the spirits before I leave...they leave...we both leave.
The wind is strong this morning as it holds my face and body in its hands as I push my way up Burnside and smile. I think of John Redcorn except shorter, pudgier, with smaller arms, and a 24-pack. The wind feels good and crisp against my body and face. There are still some golden leaves holding onto the trees, unwilling to release, even in the face of this wind. This wind that wants to dance with them and will tease me.
I say hello to the same woman every morning as we cross in opposite directions on the Burnside Bridge. I make offerings from my usual place. As I place the tobacco back in my pocket, there is a man standing on my right, the side from which I came. It's my buddy, Jesus.
"Got a Guinness," I ask.
He smiles.
"Okay," I say casually. "What the hell do you want?"
He just smiles, puts his arm around me, and we look at our sister, the water, the river.
"They always call your name out in war," I say.
He looked down and shook his head at the one. A man of peace whose name is called out in war.
"That's why I don't like you. Nothing personal. It's your fucking followers."
He shakes his head some more.
"Got any pot?" I ask.
Jesus reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a little wooden box. I looked in and saw the most beautiful tasty buds. I stuck it in the pocket of my jeans. "Thanks," I said and pointed at him with my lips.
"Jesus?" I ask.
He looks at me with that smile of his.
"Tell me about True Love. Tell me about soul mates."
He knew why I was asking. He knew who I was asking about. His smile brightened. Using his hand for leverage, he leapt over the "what a lovely shade of beige" cast iron guard rail. I looked at the river to see him standing on it. His face shined in the red light. He stuck his hands in his pockets. He started whistling a little tune as he looked up at me. He then faced up river and started walking on water.
"Fucking poets!" I think to myself.
I stuck my hands in my pockets, and headed on across the bridge. A smile in my heart. Other smiles in my heart.
I remembered what I needed to talk to him about. I ran back to my offering place and screamed to him as he neared the Hawthorne Bridge. "HEY! YOUR BUDDY SANTA HAS FALLEN AND HE CAN'T GET UP!"
Jesus laughs hard. What a good laugh. He slapped his knee, turned back up river, and started whistling again. Then he'd laugh some more, shake his head, and start whistling again. This went on until he was out of sight.
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