richie havens clerk

different year.
same store.
same fare.
tonight she is older, so much older, and her jaw is caved-in from the loss of real teeth. she wheezes and gasps for breath, yet she smells of cigarettes.
as i wait for my bank card to be "approved", i hear the sound-track of the "Plaid Pantry".
it is guitars, moving deliberately yet delicately around one another... it sounds nice.

i asked the used-up woman what we were listening to, expecting her to say , "i don't know, something on the radio". why would she care what she listens to at this hour, at her shit job, as she wheezes and gasps?

"Richie Havens", she answered, matter-of-factly, "it's a C.D."

that means it was her choice. she put it in her purse as she readied to go to her shit job. she thought it would make the day better.

that both puzzled and encouraged me. i guess i figured that when you're that "all done", you don't care about Richie Havens anymore.
i wouldn't lay any bets that she will be around next year, she clearly is suffering emphysema + shit job + basic oldness. I thought that her capacity was to buy a can of cat food to share with "Mr. Whiskers", and to sadly put herself to bed under dirty sheets that smelled like smoke.

how wrong i was, to think that she should ever give up on beautiful music.

there is a lesson here, I'm just not quite sure what it is yet.

i thought about her old smokey clothes that nobody cares about except her. i wondered about how you decide to do your hair when you are dying and have a shit job. how does one make these choices?

it occurs to me that she probably has a name, though i never care to learn it.
she just sells me beer.

i want to be at the beach more than ever, in my own old smokey clothes. i want to shed them to go surfing.
in the water, everything is equal, and everything makes sense. it is all fair.

i want to skip and glide, forever held in time, because nothing else matters. my Richie Havens.
i guess people look at me and wonder what i am doing, why i care.

i don't know, i just do.

song

today i write a song. predictable and clever. it's supposed to be kind of a jack johnson song...

ink blot, buckshot,
i'm drinking, it's five o' clock
and i don't really know where i've been.

bloodshot,
forget-me-not,
i can't hold on to what i've got,
i only know that i've sinned.

it's just too much trouble to tie up the loose ends,
too much time to make friends,
too many chances to miss out,
and start all over again.

don't forget where you're going,
don't forget where you've been.
lay it on the roadside to rest, my friend,
and start all over again.

there's thinking,
and drinking,
what the hell was she thinking?
a machine and not a man?

too late
to get straight
i want to win, but it's just too late,
i guess i'll just do what i can.

clever rhymes and poetry won't save you from yourself,
one of these days you've got to get going...

it's just too much trouble to think about,
too much time too spend.
too many problems within without,
start all over again.


that's it. thinking style circa 1979. quadratic rhyme. simple. ambling yet manageable. all the things that you think about and those that you don't. stupid brain.

of great men and magical moments: dory boats.

my dad invented "dory boats". i think the "wild rumpus" was a collaborative effort between him and my mom...
dory boats goes like this. you're little, and it's time for bed. death sentence on the day. right?
well, once in awhile, not that often, my dad would say, "let's play dory boats!" we would all go upstairs to the bunk-beds, me and him and eric, my brother, gathering up "paddles" and gear on the way.
the bed was a dory boat, and we were hearty fishermen crashing our way out through the shore-break at pacific city. the seas were always rough. my dad would urgently instruct us to paddle this way or that to avoid rocks and general peril. commands were shouted to an able crew.

only once in awhile... not that often. that's what made it so fun. it was special.

like the "wild rumpus", where everybody just goes nuts in the living room. jump around and scream and dance, anything you want to. everybody. me and my mom and dad and eric. dancing around and acting silly in a modest little living room in 1968.

the world looked alot different then. all you needed was a sound boat and a good heart. love was implied.

my parents are great people. together and as individuals, they have proven themselves to be downright magical. i don't know what i would do without them.

i guess build a dory boat.

that's all for now.

create.

that's what the button said, and i agree.
create, fix, build, make something.
that's what i've got to say.
do whatever you want.
r.

clerk / cuustomer. re

she was there and so was i. a business deal.
share ideas?
only under the shroud of perceived darkness. when we're alone. company policy.
etiquette, i suppose.
delicate and frail gestures, deliberate nonetheless.
did i say that?
to theresa from richard.

clerk/customer. short version

fuckin' yer fuck.