I Search for the Origin

“I Search for the Origin” By: Erickson

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You know, it was those trips to San Francisco.

Grandma’s eyes enlarged from the passenger seat.

“There’s no way you created those stories on your own!”

The need to preach, to create, from that moment forward,

My life purpose jumbled with my small eyes on a brief road trip.

I just made up a story – from my small body – in fragile, tea scented air –

And she loved it, what if the world could too? 

–

You know, it was those trips to San Francisco. 

My body drained of all nutrients,

My mind pleaded for help while my lips were sealed. 

I was carried away in a little white car,

To be placed in a building far away. 

–

That group home in Redlands California. 

Criminals and other youth that needed help.

Enlisted among coyotes and brick walls; there were three meals a day. 

In comparative heaven, I planted my flag, 

A potential leader if I could overcome the constant bubbling in my stomach, 

And I showed them a way.

–

You know, it was those trips to San Francisco, 

Before that city lost some of its pizazz- 

I grew up, and the place grows weary and drab. 

It was those trips to San Francisco

That has me knowing that I don’t know everything.

Those car rides under bulging yellow lights. 

Grandparents and I whooshed through the monstrous red, black bridge.

We planted near the yellow-white beaches,

Taste of salt solidified on our skin.

–

My grandparents drove until an ice cream shop came into view. 

Never been, let us see how it is. 

New people talk, potential friends – mint chocolate chip – 

Take in sights that little Ian will savor – fruit flavored like a Now and Later. 

–

The bulked and bolstered door 

Closing on the tour of Alcatraz.

The robotic man, who painted himself in seven silver coats 

Just to perform and make a wage, make a way, in a city on fire. 

You know, maybe he had his own trips, to New York, to Cheshire. 

–

You know, it was those trips to San Francisco,

That had me booking airlines to travel and play chess. 

Connecticut, Philadelphia, the Midwest. 

I saw

The World Chess Hall of Fame, a giant pawn 

And pieces from all over the world. 

The Van Gogh Art Experience, a moving motion picture; 

Waves of Japanese art, of crows and yellows and blues.

The museum in Portland Oregon, 

The Black Lives Matter exhibit that had me in tears – 

This is a human experience. 

–

You know, it was those trips to San Francisco. 

That have me living in my car. 

The promise of adventure and the high rents are equally far – a star. 

Because I cut my days in two, and slither those to fifths – 

I sacrifice myself for that 16 year old kid- for the abused to live. 

–

Yet the grandest trip was closest to home –

Like a heart that skipped a beat in a storm – 

The California Redwood Forest. 

The mist that aligned the shore

As the trees – so much higher than me, 

This brown, burgundy, 

Red rock trunk – larger than the van I took a picture of –

The Other, the outside- 

Living and breathing – existing on a footprint outside our bodies and minds? 

–

Words cannot describe. 

–

Let me write, world. 

Let me right, world. 

You know. You know you’ve had those trips to San Francisco.