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"The wind," I say, but it weren't no stiff breeze that brought me here. A thousand lazy roundabouts, whether within or without the confines of means or reason, it was something there that set about fat feet to pounding pavement. Strong hands gripping guardrails, my eyes were warm and glazed, and of all the self-righteous glances mincing words with soft teeth and forked tongue, how many are written by the pen hand of a free man? How many by a second rate poet?
Clear you throat. Clear your mind.
So... my rainbow shoes did dances, high step and tip-toed along the border. No socks to warm the trough and peak, and gaps to meet the day by way of stone and grass. My mind is lent to bend and twist, taps and spirals set to tunes of sweltering ecstasy. Here by the aching stomach of the Genessee, I've found some common ground to land on. Harsh words and humble bones hide behind the sagging swagger of eyes closed and lips uplifted.
...and you ask what brings me to Rochester. "The wind," I say, but it weren't no stiff breeze that brought me here. The air was taut and humid, pressure rising, eyes intensify, my skin grew cold and clammy, hair raising, flared nostrils, beady black pupil holding tight to sky blue iris, but wait! That boy is crazy!
My rainbow shoes were glued to ground, though my feet were hardly steady; my back and forehead shining sweaty, but no one to call my own. Sure there were some faces, a couple of bodies and a soul or two, but no one to call my own. I had a door, a lock, a key, a bed, a car, a job, a phone, a head (though a head consumed of a mind by brain still stuck to the hip of the leg of the girl that was gone.
I took to the streets.
My legs were rubber bands stretched wet in the heat of the high of the here and now, Haight and Ashbury. Blankets wrapped all their beautiful bodies; days were hot and nights were lonesome. By the side of the girl who was nervous to meet me, I spoke of my life and love lost. Dinner was wonderful that night - the guts of a compost bin, vegan with greens we picked in the Golden Gate.
Like any dumb, downtrodden dog, I came back home with less than I left with. I beat myself as I have no master, no one to tell me how wrong I've been, and no one to call my own... and you ask what brings me to Rochester.
"The wind," I say, for the winds of change can barrel over all of the high and haughty notions we cleave close to our breasts. The wind, both destructive and lovely, pushed past the bared and frozen bones, eating into the meat of it, feathers lifting into wings of golden glory, hazy hues of soft and silent subtle motion. The winds of change tore my roots from soil, but my wings did lift and lay me down, here in the aching, sobbing breast of the Genessee.
"Welcome home," she seems to say. "Welcome home."
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--that's right, take it!
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Hmm
