Monday, January 23, 2012

Scent of Yelapa

...the scent took me back to a mountain on the island of Yelapa, Jalisco, Mexico, where a tall blond-haired and handsome Mexican, named Arturo, once handed me a stash of fragrant mountain-grown bud wrapped in the New York Times. The wrapping was unexpected.


Old friend, I haven't sought you out for awhile. I have thought of things I need to tell you or work out with you, but it is always in the early or late hours as I lay alone, the hours when my brain starts spiraling with forty thousand disjointed ideas, fears, emotions, dreams, songs, poems, one line from a movie with Nicholson that I saw in the 70's, my Mama saying "I don't think I'm going to make it" and knowing, me, I won't go to the doctor, no,  I won't, God, your will be done, needing a change, how to change, "Spare Change, Spare Change" dog misses his yard, I lost his yard, I should have tried harder, I'm sorry, need some magic, pull something off once more, I can sell, no, I don't like to sell, why not, it is honorable, people have needs - you fill those needs, nothing magic there, maybe that is why. I like magic, I want HIM,  these people are insane, no really, they are certifiable, best play along. Old friend, it is hard to put into words.