the man at the wheel is José
and he is perhaps the greatest
flashbulb friend
I have ever known
you know these people
you meet them by chance
the one time acquaintance
that burns bright
has tremendous impact
and then is gone
maybe they’re next to you on a plane
or perhaps you get stuck in an elevator
or in our case, they are driving you
to a lagoon for a kayaking trip
on the way José explains his friend
owns a bar where they make their own
Sangria, Sangria known as
K’roja Sangria
José then laughs deeply, a laugh
that I’m convinced comes from the
bastard son of Vincent Price and
Speedy Gonzalez
Jayme asks but he refuses to translate
K’roja, but says it means the Sangria is good
we’ve been in the taxi an hour now
a drink sounds well earned and local
we walk in, a blonde in a bikini and her
husband in a Pearl Jam t-shirt,
we scream American tourist
brown faces at the bar turn, disinterested
then José enters behind us
there is a verbal explosion
we are now local
the bartender, Jorgé, does not speak English
but Jayme’s cough and tears after her first taste
explain universally that K’roja Sangria is not for her
Pina Colada’s dance with her the rest of the evening
I however, find myself seduced by K’roja Sangria,
made in the back, poured from a used Hawaiian Punch bottle
Jorgé slaps me on the back approvingly, smiling as I drink
José mentions I’m a poet and the karaoke mic
finds itself in my hand
I do poems about Puerto Rican bartenders
those that understand English smile and applaud
those that don’t cheer wildly, just because there’s a white kid
on stage talking fast and throwing his arms around
The drinks begat drinks which begat drinks
José is on the phone and I’m vaguely aware of the fact
that there’s no way I’m going kayaking this evening
José’s sons and son-in-laws arrive with José’s daughters
there are numerous introductions
Jorgé is cheering behind the bar and a bucket,
a literal bucket of K’roja Sangria is being ladled out
to any and all who want it, Jayme is even having some by this time
at 2 we find ourselves singing along to Van Morrison on the jukebox
Spanish and English mashed like Mojito sugar and mint,
brown-eyed girls singing about themselves
It is our greatest night in Puerto Rico
I live in Los Angeles, a reflecting pool of a city
it has a beautiful image, but no real depth, a city of stars, but no constellations
I’m from the small town mid-west, a place of simplicity, slowness
and relationships strengthened by thousands of winters,
but winters that leave you bleak and bland
as I watch the Puerto Rican sunrise through the bars of a bar’s window
I realize I have found something that I have been looking for
I survey my new friends in various stages of disarray, at various tables
Jayme’s asleep on the bar, a party hat from who knows where
lopsided on her head, José’s two sons sit silently playing Dominoes
I walk out into the moist, sobering dawn
Jorgé and José are smoking on the porch
I join them for a shared cigarette, we smile,
we are community
3/13/2006 San Juan BACK