Benicia Love Poem: On the Occasion of Mark and Nan's Wedding

On the Occasion of Mark and Nan's Wedding by Larnie Fox

Look here, you friends, you family, look at us all here! We come to recognize these typical humans, these products of evolution as much as any plant or flea. These two are holders of cats, stewards of herbs and words, makers of books, drawers of humans and animals, writers of perfect and gnarled thoughts, makers of stories, travelers, milkers of the way, great tao, great teat of the universe, Mrs. Everything shall surely bless two such a ones.

But first of all, let me just explain about Nan. She’s a woman of two worlds, one vague and one crystal clear, one rich, one poor, one inside and one out. And she doesn’t bounce ‘tween them two, no man, she surfs. Yeah, like she surfs when the mood suits her, and rides when it does, and relaxes with books and guitar recordings when it don’t, and she is one who knows how to consider, and essentialize, and magnify the prime part, the liquid truth inside each gooey bite.

And she looks hard and listens, inside and out, and says the exact thing when it surprises you, that one exact thing, and it twisted in the way that shows it beautiful and strange. And she doesn't broadcast the fact, so it surprises us when we pay attention, and underwhelms us when we're not.

And then she will make the thing, the same thing that is beautiful and strange, and now we see it as funny and sad as well. And there is always reading between the lines.

And she makes it little.

And she’s not one to run over, or run you over, and she learns how to make it at wherever she lands, ‘cept sometimes she just sits and thinks. And the cats run around, and they nap, and then Mark and Nan climb up into their bedroom loft over the kitchen table and maybe watch Star-Trek or PBS, or best is The Streets of San Francisco. And there is always reading between the lines.

Bursts of affection, slow smoldering trails of affection, long sleeps and months full of long threads of affection. And curiosities, gems of five words or twelve, or a thing to know or see, or best of all, a dog on the street. Travel and pool and ping pong and work, and deadlines and those who block the creative and block the fun, yeah they do, and we deal. Still, there’s always more dogs on the street to love for fifty seconds. And there’s always reading between the lines.

And there are friends who are funny, friends who are sexy, friends who are smart. And there are friends that need help, friends that deserve help, friends who neither need nor deserve help. And there is always reading between the lines. In the car with friends, at your desk with your friends leaning over it, on the phone with friends, briefly. At home with a friend and some cats. She looks into a clean mirror, every detail remembered, down to pink skinned feet.

And this is what life is like, always the slow shift in spectrum, always the flavor of the hour, or the year, always the hum of memory and expectation. And there is the time that is it, the time, and the growing from the time. And there is the stuff that is hilarious, and who can explain that? And there is the stuff that is hilarious and loveable to boot!

And then there’s Mark. Mark thinks in cascading, streamlined racing thoughts; sequential, rapid-fire, one after another hit the web and stick ... the color is unimportant.

The web extends, vast, a huge plane, a desert of bleached ideas, full of life as the blooming desert, clear as the dry desert, as big as the big desert, bright as the noon desert.

Underneath rocks in holes, in burrows, the life, replicating DNA oozing, creatures with little eyes on stalks watching, plants dozing, centipedes feeding on sow bugs, snakes sleeping with eyes open, dreaming of the cool night.

Late at night, thoughts racing, networks engaged, thousands of little clicks make one big leap, crystalline, metallic, clean but not squared-off. Little wheels cover long, beautifully covered tacks, arching over the net and under it.

Well placed nodes, hubs of information not gathering dust...a clean mirror, every detail remembered, down to fur-covered feet. "I am the Monkey" he says silently

Early morning, thoughts racing.

Look at this messy world!

Look at these smudgy kids getting into every thing!

Look at these wounded beggars, still dripping, yearning in shallow eyes; “too hungry, too cold, too late”.

Boiling vat of protoplasm, winding ladders of DNA, back to the ancient animal ancestor, back to the soup

All this food everywhere!

Afternoon, cooking a soup from the bodies of plants, the bodies of cute, loving mammals.

Order returns as the portions are neatly arranged. And we are nourished.

And look, ladies and gentlemen gathered for this mysterious and festive occasion, look you lovers of plain old humans and lovers of brilliance, look how cool they fit, and how silently! Look how they bump and flow together, easy as any school of deep blue and bright orange sea fish! “Pink Nose!” they say, “Dog Head!” As they turn toward each other Nan looks up slyly and wistfully and Mark melts to a smile despite himself.

Look how at these two stroll or talk, how they bend and grow, how they wrap the first brick of home so lovingly.

Oh, ride ye that walk through the desert, fly ye who ride! Yea, though we become as salt in the ages, though we mellow with tears, still we see that the anchor is now set, the sails are full-furled as the day turns to next.

You and you may travel for ever, you may grow gardens of curiosities and wonders, you may cook and eat every night of your quantumized beauty filled and loving lives.