So me and Pancho smoked cigarettes

and drank cheap California wine late

into the night. Then there were girls

we talked about, it rained a little too.

But that's alright, we were drunk

and the women in our minds were fine --

they weren't going anywhere, and neither

were we. But

that's alright.

What Warsaw to Oaxaca means to me

A Mexican family of five stands outside of the Catholic Diocese

talking to a Nun. She looks pleasantly at the Young Child; these

are My kin, She may think to herself. And I think this is true, from

Warsaw, resisting the Communist regime into the 1990s, to Ireland,

resisting British oppression for centuries, and all the way to Raleigh,

resisting popular hypocrisy and those ideas turned into laws to turn

the Mexican family of five, who only wanted to be as American

as they can be, away and back to Mexico; but they're My kin, the Catholic

Nun thinks (She is holy if She thinks this, and I think She is holy); they're looking

for the Lord, the Protector of freedom for some, who is most truly understood

by those like the Mexican family of five, for they know the Hero's journey,

like a Buddha, like a Yogi, like a Christ, and like a Trucker, trying to find

His way home; This is home -- Brothers and Sister.

Raleigh, NC

3-29-2012

An Economic Breach

Contracts class was cancelled this morning,

so I took my coffee to the porch, where

I smoked fine North Carolinian tobacco

out of a hand-made maple pipe and watched

the sun rise over the cement factory, a train

rolled by, tooting its horn -- a 19th Century

industrialist would stare at this site in marvel,

finding a certain beauty in American industry, but

now . . . hell, even now there's a certain beauty

in the way the sun reflects off those metal chimneys . . .

a bird builds her nest in a tree in the front yard

and the children hustle down the street headed

for school, and I guess I should too for a meeting

of the minds. But this exchange of time in class

for time on the porch was time well spent. Now,

that's consideration.

Raleigh,

3-27-2012

Talking to D-Bob's Poem

Talking to my California Hat Band bandmate Dylan Freude's award-winning 2010 poem "Catechism in Lord Dear."

What is it about peanuts,

cotton, dogwood, pine needles,

magnolias, and sweet tea

(The lovers sat quietly,

but the porch light is turned off

as I return with beers, they're

not so quiet) that makes rain

-- plat, splat, clat -- seem so much

like an Iowa sunrise

in early June, light shining

over modest-breasts-like hills

and corn fields to Des Moines?

(Because, if You said I Am,

I'd say, I Am, too. If you

said, I hear church bells ringing

I'd say, I hear church bells ring

ring ring ring ring ring ring

ringing! From those modest hills

to the Carolina ocean,

I'd hear those bells ringing, but

the lovers and the flowers, too!)

When the music pours out doors,

trumpet goes, a woman cries,

law books read, some coffee

drank, crescent moon shines through clouds

and it's the Sunday before

Easter, you can tell, the street

is washed clean -- pagans chose

holidays so well -- and I'll

then, maybe, try to answer

your question (but I'll be more

sure tomorrow as desert

tortoises grow older, I Am,

too).

Raleigh, NC

3-26-2012

Greens (after the storm)

Young Lady cuts

her salad, piece

by piece -- Carolina

Sunset splashes

the still-wet grass as

blonde as her hair, she

eats a chunk

of bleu cheese,

smiles to her friend,

and waves her non-

eating hand to

a cloudless sky.

Raleigh, NC

3-19-2012

Dreams of Angels and Their City

Sometimes, when I'm sitting here

with a workload like a locomotive,

I think about how I'd be pretty damn

happy, living in a Los Angeles bungalow

somewhere in the San Fernando Valley,

next door to a place that makes motion

pictures -- dirty films -- and love

sounds, the hills burning in the summer

like the devil on heroin and then turning

green, like they're virgins all over again

in the winter (things are so backwards

there), and hope springs eternal.

(The song that inspired these homesick blues, "Time Spent in Los Angeles" by Dawes)

Raleigh, NC

3-16-2012

An old man tells stories, cigarette

hanging out of mouth, no signs of

regret, smoke rises and the tobacco

gets lesser with time, he says

the 88-year-old mother of his

still lives in a tin-roof shack

in the mountains of western North Carolina --

O and his old-boy accent belongs there too! --

a real woman, this man's mother,

disappointed because she only

killed four squirrels this year,

damn unusual winter, warm too.

Tough, he says, patting his knee, tough

is life, a bullet through the leg, Vietnam,

four inches from the artery, wouldn't be

sitting here, but for that miss, fate like

a young man and fast cars, speeding hurriedly

down residential streets and into a lamp post

killing his passenger. These war stories

and young-man stories make me the saddest.

Raleigh, NC

3-12-2012

Bob Dylan Blues

The humanist dreams of narrative

In a coffee house there's a kid

who brags of his misery

he likes to live dangerously

and when bringing her name up

he speaks of her farewell kiss

to me, oh, this story is as old

as a ponderosa pine and human-kind

history. But it bares repeating,

because the street is busy

and the smog is dirty and there ain't

no beauty in any of the daisies,

no more, no more.

Raleigh, NC

3-10-2012

Un-Duh-Feated

I finally made it to the big screen! This is a film that took second place among 36 or so teams in the Inland Empire 48-Hour Film Project. The good people at the Johnston Film Collective created this wonderful film about the desert-dwelling folks of Mentone, California.

Enjoy!

Watch here!

The Best Band I've Seen in Raleigh, so far

(Ponderosa at Slim's in Raleigh, NC)

The most beautiful woman in town,

wearing a brown leather vest

over a white blouse, blue jeans

over boots of Spanish leather, wants

to dance and she's standing next to me --

blue eyes, blonde hair, not too skinny, beautiful,

really, and she's drunk. But she's with the dude next to me,

wearing a black-leather jacket and hair

as blonde and long as her hair, douchebag. Not inconsequential,

the music this band plays only sounds better,

the psychedelic stuff sounding like a lost journey

somewhere on Highway 17 through South

Carolina, the country stuff sounding like an innocent

love, suddenly turning not-so innocent and the rock

stuff just sounding like manhood in full -- the most

beautiful woman in town, dark lights, loud American

music are too much for one night, one more PBR

and a bus ride home, please.

Raleigh, NC

3-7-2012

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, in Beaufort, South Carolina

The Good

Late morning, the sun was near high noon when I pulled my car into a meter-parking spot in downtown Beaufort, South Carolina. There was a light breeze, the flags at the end of West Street were waving high and proud on the sound. That crescent moon and palmetto tree against a dark blue banner may be one of the prettier state flags among America's fifty states.

It was still near the beginning of my spring break, a Tuesday, and I had just left paradise, Fripp Island, South Carolina, where an old bosom buddy spends his days working for the extremely wealthy. It was a weekend of playing golf, drinking, spending time near the beach and then drinking and shooting-the-shit evenings away.

But now I was en route to Columbia, the Palmetto State’s capital, where I would have some wholesome recharging before heading back to Raleigh for a week full of studying. I was in Beaufort for coffee and coffee only, that brown liquid much needed for the three-hour drive.

At the end of West Street, near the sound, is a little coffee house in an old building. Beaufort struck me for its beautiful old pre-Civil War houses, palmetto and oak trees and the Spanish moss hanging liberally from their branches. It was like somebody took a snap shot of 1830s South Carolina and recreated the town. The coffee house was no exception.

When I walked into the coffee house, I was greeted by two ladies who worked behind the counter. I ordered a large coffee, a coffee cake and a banana. But then I asked of the girls, “What’s good in Beaufort?”

First, one of the girls corrected my pronunciation, “It’s B-you-fore,” she said. “Not Bo-fort. Bo-fort is in North Carolina.” Then she started to tell me what’s good in Beaufort.

It was the home of Robert Smalls, a freed slave who learned how to make ships (whatever that type of craftsman is called). He commandeered an important war ship in South Carolina and delivered it to the Union navy. He then went to the north during the war and made a fortune crafting and building warships and merchant ships for the Yankees. After the war, he came back to South Carolina and served four terms in the United States House of Representatives. He also helped create the state’s public education system.

In Beaufort, he bought the house he was raised in and that his parents and relatives were indentured to work for generations. The last family who lived there were the ones who freed him. And he did not forget this, he allowed the woman -- his last owner -- to live in the house until the day she died.

This was the good in Beaufort.

The Bad

As all Americans should know, the Union army did a good deal of unjustified damage to the south. General Sherman burned every city his army marched through, including great burnings in Atlanta, Georgia, and Charleston, South Carolina. Except, he did not burn Beaufort.

My barista, who I’ll call Rosie for the sake of this story, said that the reason so many of the historic houses still stand is because when Sherman’s army headed toward Beaufort the residents there heard about the general’s scorched-earth strategy and left town. The Confederate army, which was nearly defeated, left the town. Its residents packed up what they could and left for the country, or perhaps even Fripp Island, if it wasn’t already controlled by the Yankee navy.

Sherman had a weary army by the time he got to Beaufort. He needed hospitals, mess halls and roofs for his soldiers’ heads. So he did not burn Beaufort. He used its old buildings for hospitals and utilized them for other military uses.

But still, Sherman was the bad. More southern cities would be as gorgeous as Beaufort but for his scorched-earth policy. Furthermore, southern reconstruction certainly would have been much smoother. This still effects the region today. Rosie explained that the Civil War is so real when you hear family stories about land that was taken by carpetbaggers and estates that were burned to the ground. The Union had to win that war, no doubt this is a better country than one divided. And war is always going to be awful. But Sherman was bad.

The Ugly

No, Rosie was not ugly. But her personal story was.

Rosie was the type of person who talked to fill a room with words. If you asked her a question, she’d answer ten more. And she had a story for everything. She was a pleasant person to meet in a town where you don’t know a soul. After getting my cup of coffee, and after I told her I was a law student, she began telling me about how she needs a lawyer.

She hasn't seen her husband in a few months. She left him after he beat her. He has since hired a lawyer. She needs to hire one too.

I didn’t inquire too much into this personal ordeal of hers, especially since I’m not supposed to offer legal advice until I've passed a bar somewhere.

It was an ugly story. And I won't get into it.

Epilogue

We then went outside to smoke a cigarette. She offered me one. The Coffee House was not busy.

“It’s a beautiful day, huh?” she asked.

“There are many of those here,” I said.

She nodded and as I left she said, “watched out for the cops on I-95. They like to pull people over there.”

I didn’t get a ticket.

Coda

Bob Dylan’s song about melancholy days in the American south, “Mississippi,” was stuck in my head and playing on repeat on my car’s stereo all the way to Columbia:

“Well, the devil’s in the alley, mule’s in the stall
Say anything you wanna, I have heard it all
I was thinkin’ 'bout the things that Rosie said
I was dreaming I was sleepin' in Rosie’s bed

Walkin' through the leaves, falling from the trees
Feelin' like a stranger nobody sees
So many things that we never will undo
I know you’re sorry, I’m sorry too

Some people will offer you their hand and some won’t
Last night I knew you, tonight I don’t
I need somethin’ strong to distract my mind
I’m gonna look at you ’til my eyes go blind

Well I got here followin' the southern star
I crossed that river just to be where you are
Only one thing I did wrong
Stayed in Mississippi a day too long.”

“Mississippi” from the album, “Love and Theft.”

Privy to Conversations and Love Songs

Today, in a period of only an hour, I was either privy to some of what I estimate to be the most essential conversations a person living in a community in the American South can have, or overheard the conversations of others who were essential to this community. Here are excepts of these conversations:

LESSON 1: You never purchase whiskey alone, even if you want to

There was a man wearing a thick flannel coat standing behind the check-out counter at the ABC Store in Cameron Village, a shopping center in Raleigh, North Carolina. As I approached with a handle of Virgin Bourbon whiskey, he said, "You know, I'd pay $30 for that stuff."

The man was only about 5 feet 5 inches tall. He was clean shaven and wore blue jeans. He appeared to be a friend of the man working the check-out counter.

"Yeah, it's good stuff," I said.

"No, I mean it's really good," he responded.

"This is the third handle I've purchased since I moved here a few months ago. And I have to say, it's better than anything you can purchase for $20."

"It really is," he said, pausing for a second, presumably to make sure no one else in the store could hear what he was saying besides me and his confident, the clerk. "Hell, it's better than anything Jack Daniels makes."

"And it's only, $12."

"You can't beat that, especially these days."

The man behind the counter dutifully performed his task, scanning the bottle of whiskey, not saying a word, not checking for my ID, and I was aware of this, wondering how old he thought I was.

"A man came in here the other day and bought each bottle on the shelf," the friend of the clerk said. "He said he was from Virginia, and they don't have any Virgin Bourbon in Virginia."

"Virgin is good stuff." With bottle in brown paper bag and a wave g'bye, I walked out the door.

LESSON 2: Community and the Good-ness of a place

Just as I was opening the door to my car to leave the ABC Store, a voice as deep as California's desert valleys boomed behind me, "Where in California are you from?"

My car here still has California license plates.

I turned around. It was a large man, casually dressed, African American and standing next to the red truck parked next to me with one hand on the hood.

"Southern, southern California."

"Oh, I'm from southern California too," he said. "San Diego."

"Riverside," I said.

He nodded and asked, "How long have you been in Raleigh?"

"I've been here for a few months. I'm here for school."

"Do you go to State?"

"No, Campbell School of Law, over there downtown."

He nodded and said, "You know, I like it a lot out here."

"Yeah, me too. The people are great."

Again, he nodded and said, "And the weather is not bad. When I left California, everyone asked, 'why would you do that?' But the weather is not bad here, you know? It's never too cold. I have family who live in D.C. and when ever they come down here, they always say it's so much warmer."

"Of course," I said, leaning in a little now. "You can't beat San Diego weather. It's certainly the best anyone can ask for, 75 degrees all year round. But there's so much more here."

"Yes, oh yes, there is. You can't judge a place until you've been there."

He then went on to explain, convincingly (as if I needed convincing), that so much of our perception, prejudices and judgements of places are based on the media. He said that you have to live in a place to know it. And these places will surprise you more often than not with their good-ness.

LESSON 3: Aim low, miss high, buck meat stays good for two years

The true destination of the afternoon was my barber shop up in Five Points, a quaint neighborhood just north of downtown Raleigh. My barber is a daredevil, crazy man, who jumps out of planes and fishes semi-professionally. His barber shop, located under a pharmacy/diner (think circa 1950), closes for weeks at a time as he goes on fishing trips far off the Atlantic coast, or goes on vacation to skydive with naked women in Puerto Rico -- and he as video evidence to back up these perilous and nude adventures. For privacy sake, he'll be referred to here as "John."

When I walked into the barber shop, John was talking with two other gentlemen. Or rather, John and the other gentleman were listening to the third man talk. This man wore a hunting shirt, or at least I assume it was a hunting shirt, because where the left breast pocket should have been, there was a stitched figure of a deer and two flags, one of the old Confederate States of America and North Carolina flag.

He was an old man. Hell, they were all old men. I was the youngest in the barber shop by at least a quarter century.

As I sat down in one of the chairs, John looked at me and said, "This here is a buck story."

The man talked about approaching a deer, getting within only 10 yards of it, before pulling back his bow and shooting the arrow and nailing the damn thing. He went into more detail than that. But it's all I remember, frankly.

The other man sitting on the opposite side of the room was a man I had met before. We appear to be on the same hair-cut schedule. He has three adult daughters, two nurses and one lawyer. He used to be a cop for the city of Raleigh and he was a part-time butcher for a grocery store in Cameron Village back in the day. He was retired now.

The hunter and the butcher then talked about deer meat. The difficulty for the hunter is skinning, packaging and freezing the meat before it goes bad. Most of the time hunters are in isolated areas, hours away from anywhere that can freeze the meat. But once the meat is frozen, it can stay good for two years. Buck meat is unlike beef, because it has less fat, so it can stay better longer.

Lesson 4: Detective fiction was a whole lot better before CSI

Perry Mason was on the television while I was getting my hair cut. Perry and another fella were looking at the rear of a car. A woman was found in the trunk. But the two sleuths were just poking around.

"If this were modern-day television, there would be CSI people everywhere," Johns said.

"Yeah," the other man said, watching ol' Perry poke around, looking at the bumper. "Back in the day the detectives you'd to tell that a woman was the killer by finding a dent in the spoiler."

Lesson 5: Man massage

"I've never had a man give me a massage before," a woman said to her two girlfriends as they walked on the sidewalk. "I liked it."

And then I was out of earshot, having walked passed them. I went into my car, turned up the music to hear Leon Redbone sing, "Bart began to sigh, and told the moon a little tale of woe.

"Shine on, shine on, shine on Harvest Moon."