notes of a native son

I’m the truest sort of resident. The kind who,
asked to offer proof that he resides here, fails.
The guy who comes from someplace else & thrives
better than fremontodendron or another local shrub.

I am the child of Argonauts. I’m that Ithaca man
who’s been pre-ordained to wander
just like a common fieldhand, a vacher.
Lotus eaters tempt him.

Sorcery. Seduction. With your permission,
I’m going to make a lot of this story up.
Here is California, region of new mythologies,
the substitute for plot: a history pageant

covering every prospect of the valley
and its processions, from the tardy Donner Party
to the efficiency of the Overnite Express.
That was some caravan.

I slept a long time in the backseat of the car.
Which worked out well for me. For I knew little else.
Except to keep expectations low and myself high.
Who wants to go to Lodi? So do I. So do I.


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