The Ocean
Or The Sea
Oh what a day. The maples flamed and burned and smoldered and some refused, still green, but the whole thing lit the gray morning. I zipped along, listening to Doc Watson and Mark Twain and joined those great, rushing rivers of concrete and glass and a billion dollars worth of cars. Still the maples flared up roadside all day. We all sang along to “Proud Mary” rollin’, rollin’, rollin’, and smiled, smiled. Then more rivers and cars and we got lost in the moonlight and mist of Debussy.
“It’s the sea, not the ocean. La Mer.” She said the sound as the ocean does. I mean, the sea.
Three, three cafe mochas from the wiz bang machine is too much, but hey, how ya gonna know? (Well, now I do.) Then I went home, listening to Tom Waits. His “Diamonds On My Windshield” is night driving.
His “Jockey Full of Bourbon” is what it felt like to brave the murky salsa clubs back when things were good in DC.
Halfway there, the moon came out, and I pulled over to get another sandwich. This poem showed up as I watched it written on the paper, so who am I to monkey with edits and such?
But why wouldn’t I listen to Tom Waits
once the moon cleared the
clouds
o’er that lonely stretch of road
a long way from home?
It’s not quite all that, but not not quite all that
Driving at night, the setting out
Is like asking a fierce beauty to dance
The whirling and daring
A sound like wind at the window (brave)
Something darkly sounds
A muted Cuban trumpet
While my feet keep up
They keep up!
Gone adventuring.
–Josh
P.S. It was a good sandwich.
One take Charlie