I FIND MYSELF

The streets of San Jose are alive with rumblings
and stumblings and bumblings and me.

Through horn toots, whistles and engines
fall fluttering petals of flowery
conversation, strung flaccid on a
speech of haste.

A man passes with a Lazyboy inverted on his head.
My spine winces, mi cuelo contracts.
I shudder from the faintest reflex.

Two street kids, the first I’ve seen,
Shake me for a salad, beg me for some
Change and cigarettes.
I loose my pockets and they scamper off
Gleefully, in love, to do their barefoot bidding.

I walk on, my eternally lingering
ice cream headache turning to pulse.
I find myself
repulsed by (North) Americans who don’t even try,
“Specials” boards in English and dollars,
verily put off by the condescending air.

This is a fine day.
This is my finest day.
Here comes the rain.

I picture Dylan, imagine him here, singing
alongside me in the park, in the rain,
Kids passing by with ice cream faces,
All of the lovely Latin ladies
Just doing what they do best.
Bob would slap my arm, point his head.
He’d get off on this, have a good laugh.
(Is there any other kind?)
We’d sing, harmonize, on
“You Ain’t Going Nowhere”
“Alberta” and
“Lonesome When You Go”.

I find myself
inspired for the first time to shoot still lifes,
To hang a backdrop, to place in place
Bottles, berries,
bromeliads and
bullets.

The street kids
Run fast past
And I beam
As rain drips
Down my lips.