Wind Over Water

Cast yer fait accompli to the mountain, kid. Once you get this high on the frozen slope it’s all downwind from hear that melody strain to con vince that I have no I.D. what yer tawkin about. With my sister? I don’t think so. Don’t take it personally when I wonder where yer from some foreign street where they pass ass fault button-hooks at the tailfin of a Buick? I’ve been there before, but that was later. Right now I want to know how we’re gonna get from a mileanahalf wild turkey high to see level. I head west to scope it out along six lanes of San Burn a Dinosaur flashing neon nothing free about this way to the coast and hole up under some Triassic fern, as the presidents and ministers explain the pain in the people’s republic of Santa Monica, on the train with strains of the sea in my veins.

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I’m racing some Russian kid to the moon, when you show up to take the missionary teaching position at sandfern and over to stucco Spanish tile valley west of no woods anywhere I find you unpackin the motherless truck. I’m cuttin Mexican keys for doors of perspiration with less art, beer, and balmy weather we’re havin as I draw for you a nonreversible map to hideout in hills of pass a dinar, where we spearmint with gum. I red the nose today, oh boy.

Eddy puss wrecks finds a girl just like the girl and brings her home to meet the outlaws and marry his further. And I can’t remember weather the grateful airplane played for free in the park for five days when I was nineteen or weather underground and quicksilver holding company played for a dollar one night in the Cheetah when I was twenty once upon a dimebag, but I do know that one of Antigone’s sisters was there the day we paid with our shoes for chance to choose a dance and lose ourselves in trance beneath the sun in the country joanie joplin alice b. freedom bowl of roses. Take a little bitty peace of my art now baby blue in the psychodylan mammorial graveyard of tea dreams and ocean views.

When faithful Antigone, herself, arrives we’re already, like, hi! She shelters our spirits and softens the perils of our path to trip the light fandango and becomes our guardian angle. I trade my piece of uhmerrygo round pie to have a tear gas at the wedding of Phnom Phen and Telegraph Avenue where the guy who wasn’t a crook sez you may now kissinger the bride of frankincense and mirth. So you took me in this time and she was all for it but eddy puss-in-bootsophobia devoured his mother. Oh, can I just have one more walkin on the moontrance with you my friend and then just let me oil up yer carpet for ya here and I’ll be on my way. 

And when the two of you ‘ave yer own kiss on the altered state of consciousness, I’m halfway around the whirled packin’ axe outta Trieste headin south when the weather changes again and I take shelter with the nuns of Dubrovnik. Three dead in Ohio, and when the sky clears I head for Rishikesh on the great river and by the time I see the two of you again, yer standing on my floating home in the nether lands where I Amstel the river. You’ve got tickets for all the rides, I speak the local languish, she’s got the vision of finding her vagabond author of Mediterranean letters, so we trade five magic beans in Damrak Platz in the Port of Amsterdam for a deep blue carry van of all my friends and once the journal begins, chaos grins.

In Mazarrón we eat flan til dawn and when she comes down with cholera I’m dying to go swimming in the rip rap torn tide to be born again in octopus garden before bringing back the bacon fish only to find Elvira has sailed her Armada Española into my mermaid meditations. In delirium rooms we gaze at tired horses in the sun, raising heads on flute songs for your bride along the wide strand between us and the minstrel band. I’ll never goya that way again on the road from Seville to the jelly fish women in port you gotta lotta gaul, but in the end, they forgave us our trespasses and sent us on our fall.

We find her confidante in King David’s piazza, meet Venus on the half shell, put on all kinds of crazy hats, and go out for dinner in Carnal Café where the appetite is whetted for the long walk home. Oh Solo Mia, we barely make it outta there uncorked and head for a druid’s refuge inside the myths of Avalon, where we unstonehenge the hatch and set the wizard free, measure the treasure of thee and me, find the fiend under loch and key, and putter north to the firth of fourth till the road stares out at the Viking sea, where she hears a voice cry Daddie, and we hold it all together with the gumgum, Laddie.

And back in century city of lost angels, the first little eye that rises between the names that cannot name the eternal name changes the game. New rules for wise, old fools and be four you know it doesn’t end hear that knock by the federales cookin up somethin big and lookin to be bookin someone into the brig. I slip out through the glen with Tara’s daughter, to boreal water, playing blindman’s tag to the maple leaf rag, and there you are one day in English Bay having tea with me and basement sweets in innocent retreats. Then she goes back to milehideout with the little angels and next thing we know we’re all hungry kiddies in sundry cities too adrift to reach and lift the sandlewood clip from hand to hand and lip to lip, smakin’and packin’ for a whole knew trip.

Both at sea, you and me, gust of gale, wind and whale, teach and preach and reach for shore just like before. And thar she blows into town again with a hurricane that talks to crows and shows the way to magic mountain to know it for the first time again, and finn again on riverrun ’round bend of bay and we burn in the sun again, until we catch a glimpse and then, it’s gone again. I reach to kiss the great goddess and you end up in the arms of Hollywood spy girl, lay low an’ lead a life of legendary sheriff of mental cripple creek to the meek and we meet in the peaks on the outskirts of town down to our last notion from the ocean nearly dead from the wounds from the shootout at I’m Okay corral.

But at the annual multicultural winter solstice jam it’s all wander full big happy familiar true love again. Those angels growing wings inside their crazy eight of hearts. We pause to thaw, only outlaws of old laws not eternal laws which are the new laws in the lawless dawn blooming a shower of wild flower power at this conscripted hour. Special coffees in the mugs of matriarchs in making, mates of the ark of the internal covenant, and you on the sofa with nothing to hide, bodhisattva of no pride, nothing to declare on the border of no despair where it doesn’t take a rocket dope to see all the hope and surprise in those eyes at the hearth of home, at the return of the sign, and Swarte Pete comes for every one menorah time.

Then we sail to berth of bornagain and catch silver fish in Marina del rainbow with the tree of life so you can meet my wife. And soon angels of my own to guard the crown and thrown and sown across the earth all seeds and wild weeds of dreams, all dressed up in human jeans. And brother our mother didn’t smother those dreams but only seems to wave us by and save the best until we try not to die, burning and learning to trust the yearning she buried in our cells see shells by the sea shore where we bore our finger into the suckling ring of how to sing above the rumble and love our tumble down the strand at the hand of our anemone.

The presidents and ministers were crooked actors playing for peanuts and beer, Don Wanderer, panderer, philanderer, frat boy, Pinocchio point and click trickie dickie slick willie anyway and the peep holes republic of Monica media gripped the collective semiconscious waves of nonstop nausea. Not every one afloat on the coast made the boat. Not everyone who takes the toke gets the joke nor can sea level anyway. And the leather bags of the Bowery are tossed into the pillage of the global village with sisters of Mara and no mo jokes made in the shade on a parade of memory. And we’ve learned enough to stay up wind where the bear won’t care to tally the air and identify the whiff of that gift to lift us low and send us over that airy melody of how it felt to melt in the callow green hills and run like a river through draw and bow to end in this sea of fate and consequences, in the backwash swarming karmic accomplishments of no task but to ask…

again and again, Mother may

         I cast away

                 on this breeze

                              and seas

                                       this day.


Personal storiesRex Weyler