– Kerouac, letter to John Clellan Holmes, Nov. 1957

Sometimes in Charleston I will say
It smells or feels like Florida
But it’s more of a rarity there, of course.

The smell is white soil.
Thick grass.
Grasshopper juice.
Onions boiling.

Across the street the old man
Introduced himself as Williams.
I think it’s sort of a forties thing,
Like when my grandfather uses the expression ‘Man.’
Also I think there was the worry (justifiable) that
With me being a young punk,
If he gave his full name,
I couldn’t be trusted to call him Mister.

He sits in his carport, on a green
Plaid folding chair.
Just sits out there.
Back home only the black people do this.
I’m often jealous of their calm.
A lizard comes up, Williams looks at it for a while and then loses interest.
The lizard leaves.

On the street there is the world’s most mellow
Tornado, four leaves and a bit of paper, circling
Like a record player, a quiet, forgotten,
Ordinary ghost, heading down the street and
Then gone.

When I was a kid we used to have these same
Wind-whirls on the blacktop at school.
I remember one that was probably twenty feet across,
When you’re that age you’re always getting dirty,
And circling up, and so we got inside it,
Spinning with it, getting more kids to join
In, like a leafy congo line, and we made
The wind wider, circling and smiling.

Back here on Clouser, today,
a harp and flute concerto on the stereo,
I’m outside with my coffee and it’s all
Lovey-dovey Florida.

Yesterday I went out for a bike ride,
A front had been forming all afternoon.
I was heading west and it was heading east and
Rain was as sure as traffic at rush hour.
Stubbornly I tried to convince myself I could slip
Under before it swelled and broke.
But when the first drops fell like warning flares,
I had to spin and head home as
The full campaign followed,
A heavy shower, a lukewarm delight, it felt good on my head
And even better running down my neck.

A little girl, growing up here twenty years ago,
She used to swim every day after school
With her great-grandmother in a pool in a grove.
After swimming the girl would pick oranges
And grapefruits and peel them, the tangy citron
Running down her face and still-moist skin.

The pool has been filled in, the fruit trees uprooted to make room
For more houses. But over here, in the old neighborhood
Where Mr. Williams has lived for forty years or more,
It still smells like heavy grass and mud puddles
And boiled onions, sweet honey onions,
Diamond onions in a hot water pot
And Man do I like it.

I got in on the fourth of June, and everything is going pretty well. The first Friday I was here, two sets of pilgrims came by to see the house, one in the morning and one at night. They startled me a little but I didn’t mind showing them around and telling what little history I’ve learned so far. They were perfectly gracious.

I’m happy to be back in Florida — as a native and a frequent visitor I just have to say she’s never looked better. My neighbor was walking down the street the other day with something wrapped in tinfoil, banana bread or potato chip hotdish maybe, for someone who was sick or just had a baby or something. On Saturday morning I rode past a group of little girls gathered on a porch for a picture. They all had on chef’s hats, looked to be a cooking class birthday party. Sunday I went to mass downtown at St. James’; a few people wore red for Pentecost. The newspaper said everybody wore red at Disney for gay days this weekend. And you know you’re in Florida when you see a job opening at an auto shop: ‘Tinter Wanted.’

I’ve set up my ‘studio’ in Jack’s old bedroom, more because I like the desk and the situation than for any historical reasons. Out the window is a humble but vernal view, you can see a branch of the big octopus oak tree on Clouser, with baby fern fronds growing on it like arm hairs. The spanish moss I’m accustomed to, but not these beautiful little droplet fronds, diving off the branch like two hundred little Esther Williams shallow-end dives.

Anyway, it’s rained just about every day so far, and hasn’t gotten terribly hot yet. Not that it isn’t warm. Every glass of ice water I pour sweats heavily. And I’ve done a little sweating myself.

“You want fame? Well fame costs. And this is where you start paying. In sweat.”
– Debbie Allen