#55

"It is neccessary to develop a strategy that utilizes all the physical conditions and elements that are directly at hand. The best strategy relies upon an unlimited set of responses." 55, 植芝 盛平 Morihei Ueshiba, The Art of Peace

Windy, breezy, cold and cloudy,
Is this Portland, or San Fransisco-I can hardly tell-
Tell these days if it's August, and if I am here,
Or not,

Pavement wet with runoff from irrigation,
Puddles on sidewalks,
In spite of the longing absence of rain,
Homeless people play musical benches,
With rude sprinklers in front of the library,

Windfall apples lying in the gutter,
Wandering away in my pockets,
Smelling of spice and honeyed sweetness,
I graze rudely in the raspberries growing by the Catholic Church,
Nibble the sour grapes growing along the fence,
Spreading the seeds like a trail,
Passing along the sidewalk,
Past clusters of green homeless conversations,

Everywhere trees burst out of their troubled pavement longings,
A Wanderer in the land of the dead,
"No I don't have any weed,"
Evading metallic voices and automatic expressions,
The underside of bridges aching with sullen teenagers,
The limp grey river,
The rumbles of construction,
Tourist feet in place of spinning wheels,
The din of the passing train,

Government offices and uniformed guards,
"no i don't have an ID,"
Eyes instead of computer screens,
Shelves of books constantly in motion,
Spreading their secrets shamelessly around town,
"No i don't have my library card,"

Sneaking past gangs of charitable solicitors,
Snaking up the Park Blocks past Abraham Lincoln,
Smokers and beds of roses towards the University,
"How are you doing?",
I ask familiar benches, familiar classmates, the familiar laboratory,
And the secretary who holds all the keys to all the locks,
"I am the person you sent this letter to",
I boldly declare in the Dean's Office,
Before sliding out to catch the ferries,
Who will take me back across the river,

Back to Russian kids on bikes,
Dogs and strollers,
Construction workers singing melodramatic songs in Spanish,
Back to fading flowers and laundry lines,
And dead grass where I practice tai chi until dark