Room 233

I’m sitting in room 233 of the Jupiter Hotel; I didn’t mean to come to America, I am not sure how I ended up in Portland. I took a turn. I closed my eyes and asked for a direction. I opened them and I was forgiven. The map is not the territory. When I understand that I can see all things with more clarity. I traveled up the backside of the world thru Canada to get to Las Vegas. I left my brother by a waterfall in northern Argentina. I miss him. When people tell me that they love me, my natural response is to tell them that I am them. I believe that.

 30 hours on a plane and 4 days later I am here. My arms slept in the wedding bed of one of my best friends on his wedding night at the top of the Palms. My body is still making music on the streets of Buenos Aires.  My mind is consumed with thinking about someone. I don’t think I wanted to come here because I was afraid to see the people and things I loved. I was not sure if my reason for being here was a justified one. I was afraid that my heart might burst, gush out and flood the streets where I spent my best years. I was afraid that I wouldn’t have learned enough about myself to return in the good graces of my city. My fears are still with me but maybe they are more than fears…maybe they are feelings. I think that might change things. When I think they are feelings I become less afraid.

In the aftermath of an earthquake all things are fair. In the face of a walking disaster all the manuals give way to panic. Only experience survives. I have experienced so much but learned so little. Does that make me ok in the face of this earthquake where the manuals and information do not matter? Can I make the right choice then and only then? Never before.

I was in a cave in Peru on a psychoactive drug in the middle of a thunderstorm and a shaman told me that my soul was conceived on a distant planet in the mind of an animal that looks indescribable. Even if that is true I am still gonna head down to New Mexico and help the woman that conceived my body finish building her house. Someone teach me to be beautiful for the first time again. Somewhere there is a photograph of me that explains some things about me, if you find it remember them and tell me in a letter someday when I am old. 

Conversations From The Thick

     “What do you see when you look at the world Ben? Would you describe the color of the clouds as dangerous, do you think the ground looks haunted and wet, huh? Sometimes I don’t think we see the same thing, sometimes I think I am all alone out here, in a totally different place from you, from everyone. How can you look at me right now and not see the noose around my fucking neck? The rope just hanging there.”
     I pull a cigarette out from the front pocket of my pea-coat and accuse him with it. He lights it like a memory, like a reflex for all the times we’ve tumbled, won, and drowned. The rain doesn’t move it thickens, collects those beads that remind us of the hard work we’ve put in for out whole lives, all the sweat. We whisper urgently, caught between a growl and a groan. A howl that escapes and gets lost, like we are. Like things thrown in the sea.

     “I see a storm when I look outside Raf, I see the rope but I got the knife. I see a way out of this shit, if we get in this cab and make two right decisions we can win. We’re the hungriest we’ve ever been in our entire lives, right here, right now. There’s no way were not gonna eat tonight, you know what I mean brother? I can see you. I swear."
     We are the two big fish in this picture. I am the one with my back turned.