A Poem and a Back Story

I can see my house on the Russian River

near the mad rapids

that slather

over the rocks and

kiss the embankment.

You could see me coming up

a San Diego walk way

emerging from the

dreamy mist clinging

to the trees and

blades of grass poking

through the cracks,

I am holding

bags of bagels

and five dollar wines

to go along with

the video about a

man who knew a women

who did a thing

that made the world

make sense for a minute I would

never forget.

Decades later

it was like

we had just learned

how to talk

in uncapitalized at a volume

that is clear and

suggests a language that

sound it's been lived in.

Never lived in the Guerenville area back in the day, but I was there twice in the early 70s, two years out of high-school, when a particularly charismatic scoundrel a year older than I convinced me to hitchhike with him up the California Coast, hitting lots of small towns, spending a few days in Big Sur, winding up in that fine town for an overnight residence. We made that trip twice, back backs, carton of Marlboro 100s. sleeping bags, carrying too much cash to be traveling around in the land of s trangers. But it was delightful and what I saw of the area made a lasting impression on me, much like my adventure through Az and Colo. did a couple of years ago. I had a girl friend, later on, who had friends who lived on the Russian River, and we went to visit them; quite a scene, real off the grid counter culture life style, gentle, peaceful, remarkably non- materialsitic. It was a fine time indeed, as I was entranced with how all these homes were nestled into various nooks and crevices of the thick forest , lots of winding roads, mist in the air, with a what looked like a magnificently roaring, churning, pulsing river below. None of these incidents are related other than my trying to find some emotional and tonal commonality with things seen from a distance , through a thick fog or heavy mist, with the idea of that one is left wondering what they were thinking at those moments and how it all brought us (me) to the age of 71, somewhat dazed and amazed. The third stanza that starts "You could see me..."refers to the Coast Apartments near UCSD, where morning fog frequently hovered close to the earth and made the walk to work (I was at the Birch Aquarium at the time) serenely and eerily ethereal.