To Say the Least

I woke up in People’s Park in Berkeley, Ca. The sun was indifferently glimmering on the brazen grass. My shirt was stained/Dada. I walked to the park’s water fountain and got a healthy drink. I did not want to waste time listening to the birds, so I made my way to the Public Library on Addison St. The walk was nonchalant; nothing to write Rome about.

As I entered the library, the fresh air was cleansing: baptismal, even. I once again got a drink of water from a fountain. I made my way to the American Poetry Section of the library. I took Long Live Man by Gregory “Nunzio” Corso off the shelf and walked toward the study section. An orange elephant zoomed past the main stacks of the Nonfiction section. Nevertheless, I continued in route to the study section. Someone left a half-full cup of coffee on the desk but I was not that desperate for a stimulant. I read Corso for two hours, roughly.

When I left the library it was about noon—at least the sun said so. I sat on a vandalized bus bench on Telegraph Ave. and thought about what had inspired Corso to become a writer when he was in prison. I thought about how beautiful it must have been to read Shelley in prison; or perhaps tragic. I wondered if he danced his way to rhyme; or it he mostly bled, when he was out on his own as a 13 year old lad. I wondered if the rooftops actually sang; or if they mostly yelled. I snapped out of my musing when a lad on a skateboard fell to the floor then quickly got back on the board. The Catholic Church on College Ave. was serving hot soup and orange juice at 1 pm, so I headed over there. The walk was rather calm; I thought of Paul Cezanne.

The nun greeted me with a warm hello and I thanked her for the meal. I refused the juice in preference for a cup of water. I thanked God for the meal and began to eat. The meal went down smoothly; no orange elephants entered the church, thankfully. After the meal, I sat on the church pews for several hours. The wooden pews were like a somber box: I seemed to almost float on rising rocks. The moon arose and roses seemed to glow beyond the twinkling stars of cloudy night; somewhere where yesterday seemed mighty fair. And many miles away from empty stairs-- descending like the evanescent rain, somewhere in love: inside the flowing rivers of the mind; I thought of Dali’s crucifixion and died inside. I said a silent prayer before I left the church and once again thanked the nun for the meal.

The walk back to the park was an ambivalent one. I thought about Cezanne, again; but I also kept visualizing a blue butterfly in the flaming fields of Vietnam gliding like the wandering winds into a tumbling tree’s sudden demise. The blue butterfly bled purple tears and proudly sang of silent seas and also referenced Dostoevsky--seemingly at random. I wondered if the butterfly was reminiscent of Kerouac’s fleeting sonnet; or perhaps something less obscure.

When I reached the park, I threw away the empty pack of smokes I had left on the grass. I reached for my keys inside my deep pocket and made my way to the Lamborghini. Since it was Sunday, I did not receive a parking ticket. I thought about Paul Cezanne, again; but this time less nostalgically. I fumbled with the keys, then unlocked the car door. I entered the car; it was blazing hot inside. I turned on the engine and the air conditioner and made my way home; it was an interesting weekend to say The Least.