the poet's secrets

It’s late, Li Po, but I’ve some questions, as the moon rises behind a veil of mist, shapely

yet demure: How did she guide your pen? And

how many lovers did your verses win you?

Were they wealthy, were they married? Who
was your favorite? Did she ride you, with her robe loosely tied round her pale, plump belly, until she smiled like the young moon?

I beg you, Li Po-- share your secrets with me.

On The Road

On a spring morning in 1974 I bungeed a sleeping bag over the rear fender of my R60/2 and packed my saddle bags. A toothbrush, an extra pair of jeans, two hits of acid, and enough hand tools to meet almost any mechanical need. I was bound for Alaska, to work on the pipeline. 

It was the impulse of Ishmael for water, of Dean Moriarity for asphalt. The communion of the highway: this is my engine, this is my oil. The harmony of twin unbaffled exhaust pipes. The living, galloping creature between my legs. The meditative anonymity of the interstate.

No, that’s all a lie. I was lonely.

The details of the journey are tangled with other cross country ramblings.  A few crystalize through the fog of the decades. The turbulence from a car hauling trailer that knocked me halfway across my lane. A brief stop on Bourbon Street, where the offering of sensual pleasures promptly delivered me back to the saddle. Deep into that deep black night, the blacktop string line from Lafayette to Lake Charles. Nothing distinguishable except the white line along the shoulder, and the illusion of continuously descending for 60 miles. Manic rush hour traffic between Dallas and Ft Worth. Most of all, the shimmering of Santa Fe, coming into view, as night fell while rounding the toe of the Sangre de Cristos. Where I stopped for a visit, and stayed 6 years.

SHAME

I REMEMBER THE GIDDY DELIGHT at hearing the news that Nixon had resigned. It was with some friends--new friends--for I was new to New Mexico. Mostly guys from Boddy’s Honda, where I went to work the day after landing in Santa Fe. Nixon had given us the claim of Peace With Honor, which gave Vietnam no peace, and gave America no honor. It took 30 more years, and the nearly 60,000 names carved in black granite, to at least honor those who struggled and died in Vietnam.

August of 1974 was a good time for me, in good company, and in a good place, to celebrate. Santa Fe, bustling and growing--but still human in scale. And human in character. To walk any street--or to drive on any two-lane--was to make eye contact and wave to the ones you crossed paths with. On a walk after sun-set, when the air instantly chills, you could feel the adobe walls radiate back the sunshine they had absorbed through the afternoon. There was camaraderie in the bike shop.

And the city's setting--like God on the eighth day had scooped a great bench out of the west slope of the Sangre de Cristos--so that He could sprawl on it, languidly, and meditate on the sunset beyond the Jemez.

Tonight, however, there is no giddy delight for me, not after officialdom’s (but not its chief official's) acknowledgment of the end of this shameful administration. I am among friends even if not in their physical presence, in a community that is warm, if not human scale. The great majority of the community is pleased at this outcome. But then I think of so many communities where the majorities and minorities are reversed, where this news brings them sadness.

My delight is tempered by shame, that our country could do this to itself. Like the shame of Peace With Honor, the rancor that Make America Great Again generated fills me with shame. Like the Vietnam Wall, it will take us a generation for the rancor to dissipate.

That day in August of ‘74 was a happy day, in a happy time. On the run--from a wife and child, a family, the law--but mostly from myself. I had nothing but a competent tool chest, a strong motorcycle, and a loyal girlfriend. Shame had not caught up yet. Today, I stop at every stop sign. There is nothing material that I lack or long for. I live with my soulmate. But my country is sick--and I feel sick for my country's sake.