Notes scribbled down

Water surfaces, clouds, palm fronds, banana leaves, constellations... Flags. Georgia, Jasper: American painting, displaced, an expatriot, a traveler, Sargent, Whistler...

notes scribbled down, sweating out the midday sun, poured cement house like an oven, drag the mattress we slept on into the main room and sleep there.

I painted in a corner space with its own window, I sat on a stump from the yard.

Originally a bakery, covered in bed sheets, fenced off from the island, a grazing horse roped to a tree, a hind leg wounded wrapped in barbed wire, neglected, infected, bulbous, and covered in flies. clearly suffering, shot for salvation. He stayed for five days. grunting, staring at me, trying to communicate, chewing, chewing.

a stiffness, a bump on the knee, I commiserate and wonder how, anyway, brainstorming my own ailment, knee against board, a duck dive, three thousand times, wear and tear, taking its toll, the fight against getting old, knee against rock under water, a sea urchin's spines, out to the yard to blow off some steam, knee against branches snapping kindling therapeutic, some requiring all my strength, then peddling up hill with a wobbly pedal, soon falling off completely, a dark descent down rocky dirt road, a moonless night taxing my vision's limits, my weight upon it, not bent to cushion the load, gaining speed, the bad brakes, this strain, the stress, the fight, my mind, I imagine some sort of physical condition convinced over medical science. The fact remains, Grandma's funeral, from the furthest corner of the world , the cost of the journey a lamentable factor, the apex of the morally controversial death bed, revisiting my dreams, a ghost at the family dinner table, nearly choking to death, unconscious. clear and obvious, then muddled, mixed reoccurring answers.

J. Crist

A German, married, or unmarried, pregnant, first child, months, years on the island. who knows, who cares, awe, who cares... I care. No you don't. They don't. A hippy style, explosive, enthusiastic, personal, say hello, a fellow resident gringo. Farandula, the parade, downloaded to a disc at no charge, a percentage of the heart, friends, whatever , not a professional, but offering a needed philosophical explanation, the insignificance, real happiness, a healer, the knee, the bump, again the history, abridged ,concentrated , perhaps holding something back, a sadness harbored, mentioned , diplomatically, further back . His warm hands upon my knee, a rock to clean your feet, a pomegranate, his endless, useless gifts. We refuse, he insists, we accept. Don't deny your common human misery, life's full of disappointments, yes, no, it's not about the money, it's about hoping for more than what is given, less than what is taken, the lack of understanding, respect. Persevere under the storm cloud event and rained out mind, find the rainbow and nothing has changed, the same sand swirling around your feet, crusted in the corners of your eyes, find the sweet and the salty leaching under your skin in the dirty dry cracks, sight swelling, the fight, again, the find.

Jote

Jote tonight undecided, what to do, sitting outside Ariki Nui, Seemingly waiting for somebody, but stating his indecision, having to do with the weather, Whether he should go join his family at Anakena for the reunion party camping trip, obviously not something terrribly pressing, not as if he hadnt seen his relatives, lurking around every corner, just weighing his options and own personal priorities or taste for passing the evening, the long trip, the taxi. I come out of Ariki Nui after stopping to see Vicki and walk with him as far as the main road where he starts fooling with his cell phone. For one, a cell phone, in any small town, for me, is absurd, in this town, without the need even to call long distance, even its service is pure novelty, a social thing only, a toy rather than business investment, which for the Rapa Nui is comparable to almost anything they buy, so, in a way, its not surprising that everyone has a cell phone, including Jote. I overhear his call, he needs to give a phone number to someone, the taxi, the indecision, a number that had just called and probably told Jote that his number would then be recorded on the phone, that he didnt have to write it down, then Jote called the person who needed the number, was struck with the anxiety that the number in question was no longer printed on the face of the phone. He cursed his situation as the phone was dialing and searched the ground, his mind for a solution. I was at this time watching him, waiting for a correct time to say good evening, observing the rooster feathers around his biceps, his brown skin painted in mud a traditional design of the Rapa Nui. He had been dancing earlier in the evening, a common gig he had in a band, one of several on the island that are accompanied with choreographed dancers who are actually the main focus of entertainment as they perform what they call traditional dances depicting ancient narratives from the culture Rapa Nui. He had hung up and remembered in the moment that in his backpack, probably a prop for the show, was a piece of volcanic rock not unlike an arrowhead, which he took out and hurriedly wrote down the number in question, carving it into the dirt at the edge of the sidewalk where we were standing. I let it go, staring in amusement, at the contradiction of images before me, a classic portrait of primitive man in the face of a technological world. He made his call and afterwards I asked him if his phone was one of those that wouldn't allow one to search for numbers during a call, because in fact there are some cell phones, maybe completely dated at this point, but here you never knew. But Jote simply confessed he had no idea and I got the point that he didn't care an ounce. It had been his girlfriend who had given him the phone recently, his first ever, whose intention he was still figuring out.

Old Masters Dialogue

Time is the mind of space

space is the body of time

It was the longest day of the year

a solar eclipse happened somewhere

on the other side of the planet

Picture a Girl Walking, elevated

Jack and Will went up the hill

both with a buck and a quarter

Dottie came down with $2.50-

The whore of Babylon

Dottie Mingle of Chattanooga, Tennessee, librarian

selling Huck Finn's first edition

for the adventures of

the young and the restless

Get a haircut and get a real job or

You'll wind up in a van, smoking doobies

down by the river!

The greatest delight

the woods minister

is the suggestion of an occult relation

between Man and the vegetable

Have you ever seen an inch worm

crawl up a twig

and there clinging to the very end

revolve in the air

feeling for something

reaching for something...?

that's like me

Trees: they are my friends

Albrecht Durer, Reginald Marsh

Constantino, Castiglione, Birchall, Belleroche

titles inside the head of an old man

Master of the die

dust clouds when the curtains are drawn

stained glass paints an old piano, out of tune

a vanishing geometry

like falling gold leaf, gilded frames

waiting in the lobby, like flakes

in a fish tank

settle to the bottom

beneath battered velvet furniture

worn linoleum, Oriental rugs

We're not here for a long time

we're here for a good time

The only American master who interests me

said that

on a sunny day in Jackson

along the rattle snake river

he whispered it

on a cement patio in Amagansett

before a parade of young bucks

his words were lost

on a fishing boat in a maze of everglades

I'll let you be in my dream

if you let me be in your dream

I said that.

Malibu

Private Beach

to the mean high tide line

bubble gum lips like silly putty

pucker under the shade

of a droopy hat brim

Look but don't touch

Little Miss Silly Putty

says, "He's not marriage material"

starring another poor little rich girl

in hot pink pumps

playing frogger across PCH

and introducing the golden retriever

with the lion haircut, so distinguished

posing for dog portraits

commissioned artists striking it rich

with Pug Mania

cream puff lap dogs gone wild

Image is everything

What's yours

smart, strong, feminine

always talkin' about the next place

and the glory days

the keepers vs. the sport fishers

her new best friend

Look under Tenacious D for Desperation

If Buddha dated a dog

the little blackbook for finding love

on a spiritual path to Greatness

by, Charlotte Cold Cash, PhD.

egomaniac, materialist

author of, If the Buddha married

a baby tiger on the beach

it would be off the hook

Lost Hills

Lost Hills, oil rigs, nodding off at the wheel

pack your trash, your portable crappers

your busloads of Mexican labor

Sometimes you just gotta do it, drill it, piss, and drive on

If you're always looking, you won't ever find it, right?

well what's shakin' bacon?

nuthin' but the leaves on the pistachio tree

just makin' a livin'

at the end of the day

it sure beats Yemen

or swimming the aqueduct to Malibu

It is what it is

We're all in it to win it

We're all, to a certain extent, stranded

in our own desert of an imagination

like tumble weeds snagged by a lone fence

of pride, love, and security

that stretches so far as to incorporate

familiar songs, sends pangs of nostalgia

for a lost movie star suddenly pronounced dead

over the radio, the TV, the cell phone

text messages strewn about like the cans of last night's binge

tomorrow's empty promises of making up for lost time

the slow realization that forever life seemingly gains speed

and your own inability to keep up the pace

maintain acceleration

the undeniable and depressing

once uplifting and inspiring

now demeaning envy of youth

Pacific Grove

Pleasantville

why all the dead ice plant?

PG the newly wed or almost dead town

or just dead town after 8 o'clock

the last dry town in California

America's last hometown

Heros girl swallowed by rogue wave

at Lover's Point after having accepted

his proposal for marriage

the environment vs. the environmentality

the monumentality of the butterfly

rent a room on Mermaid Way

talk about Michael Jackson

dogs and deer, Trader Joe's

talk my ear off

small town small talk

love fog license plates

fog happens, have a house party

Love Song

It's a trip

it can be difficult

sure

I can imagine how

difficult it may be for

some people but

for me I just knew

from the beginning that she

was for me

the one 

and everyday

she proves it to me

and every week she

surprises me

and every month

flies by

and every year

has been a dream

come true

one after another

6 years so far

runnin down the dreams

checkin em off the list

so many more to go

San Francisco

The City is to MAN like a cage is to a bird

Information is gladly given, but safety requires

unnecessary conversation be avoided

can't blame the bison

for being anti-social

massive diversity makes for universal anonymity

and God Bless It

Attention deaf jabberwalking freedom flowers!

Your ridiculous dogs are not wild

Your parks are not enough nature to hide

the real wilderness of your left over insanity,

your big-footed bearded friends,

the indispensable Bushwhackers dodging the straight walkers at dawn,

the public pissers, the bottle snatchers, the raving cell phone bitches

Its just another short-lived sidewalkers guilt trip

for the passive aggressive passerby fighting back the anger

Fight the Power, Fuck the Police, Private Property and the permanent address!

while the Good Green Mother Earth is at the tips of everyone's ravaged tongue

the button at your itchy fingertips

pressing diphthong in cheek, knowing which buttons to push

free speech, the Free Press,,peer pressure, the stress

the sight of another neglected pile of shit,or

another hot handful in your baggy

But what about the butts, the frozen sticky spills, the black gum spots

scattered like bad jokes and dead blank stares

the cardboard one-liners and the perma-grimace

while the white columns and domes and pyramids

and buses and buggies and segues slip by soundlessly

begging Please Do Not Disturb this area

Please Enjoy the Flowers but do not pick!

Restoration in Progress Please Help us ensure your safety

and the squares stand united, tons and tons of tiny little squares,

all over and around the place,placed and misplaced and recycled squares

beat up and driven down under the cubes of cement and fortified steel girders,

squares worshipping squares whining and dining and honking over square footage

squares, squares, squares

Help us take root, get involved, use caution! The Future is here

The Future lies somewhere between the square and the streamlined

the famous and the forgotten, the celebrated and ridiculed

the reformed and rejected, the survivors, the lethal, the lethargy,

the kept and the awfully unkempt, the newborn, the reborn and the dead.

Santa Rosa

what's politically correct makes no difference

between the right and the left, In the end

you're in the land of the free to play

by the rules of the MAN

or try to beat the rules of the MAN

outsmart the MAN's computer, earn the MAN's good credit

live off the fat of the MAN's land

or consider your losses with the rest of the planet

you might find greener pastures south of the border

dig yourself out of a hole, fall off the grid

but it takes a special kind of gringo

to invent a new happiness so late in the game

be careful what you wish for: most dreams come true if you

really do what needs to be done to make them happen : )

Dear Anastasia and the mail order brides

hard work and no pride leads to a pet legacy

believe in your children to accomplish

what you right now desire

Good luck with your withering tent peace

and splintered tiki bar, good luck with your health and harmony

the jerry rigged ping pong stadium moon lighting

the precarious leaning parasol and wind blown deck furniture

scattered like detritus, slate and sleeping cars

in the garden of earthy delights

four story skate ramps and bike trails are

no country for old men with shaky knees and Bodega Bay

empty promises, drunk talk me-too pidgin

This is the land of milk and honey

the land of wine and weed, summer love

and righteous bumper stickers and registered voters,

women with ancient leather tool belts

men, the descendants of gold and oil bounty hunters

and drunk dreamers whittling away the time

with a twig of homemade hydroponic critical justice

and a get-rich-quick plan with no exit

leaving a wild west without madames

but internet pimps and independent perverted hermits

more dangerous than the mountain lions and coyotes crossing.

the steep trails and uneven terrain