Stages of Adaptation I. The subtle joy of opening personally address mail.

The dry mountain air down my bald and dripping head, dogs jumping, spinning, sticks and beautiful women. She says her name is Allie. I tell her I lost mine on the way here, thought I had it figured out, but backpacks and May snow on a Florida born head can send a man to a place of questioning--I tell her. As if it could make any sense to her, outside my eyes looking in. II. The other side of this journey is that things don't have to be hard at all: Writing songs and smoking pot, prescribed pot, medical marijuana, a whole town laughing in the face of federal dictation. Third-class driving citizens, well connected-homeless men with cell-phones and giant smiles. Blues travelers, gypsys, the man who stares east down Pearl all day with no desire to stretch, the caveman-men disheveled and confused. So I stumble from the coffee shop to the brewery and waste away four hour hikes and sore calves. Give me the newly tapped brew, whichever it is, I know it'll be good and that I'll stumble outta here three hours from now happy and fit and damned sure this is exactly how I pictured it, but better. III. Quick dash meetings of fast lips and stoic eyes, comfortability is what we're all really looking for, spattering jib-jabber quickly looking for wedding rings or hesitation, so how can one be so comfortable in the presence of someone leaving, long hugs with pauses of retrospection, questioning our true intent we pause. I take a puff of cigarette and watch a lone pine needle fall comfortably into her hair. Lucky damned pine needle. I watch her pack up and take off. Smiling, playing my guitar like this song will go on for eternity and then she'll be back

and I'll be right here still playing, smiling, comfortable.

Sign up to vote on this title
UsefulNot useful