Fool Courting Dance
A ROADSIDE DISTRACTION
First eve of their journey, SF to Boulder, T-Bone asks Mobility B (MoB for short) to stop in Carson City, so he can gamble. But he sleeps thru town, and wakes up in Reno.
“Here we are,” MoB announces. He goes into a casino and the baker loses his dough. Night in some fleabag. Next day, Palm Sunday, down US 50 – the road less travelled and, 20 miles past Fallon, the Squid has its second flat tire.
“You know MoB,” says T-Bone, “I worked as a tow truck driver with a Holmes-440 rig on the LA Freeways. Changed many a spare tire for a lady in distress.”
“No problem,” says T-Bone, “here’s what we’ll do: I’ll jack up this jacked-up car and you, with the jack (I’m broke flat) will take of business back in town. How’s that sound?”
T-Bone is cashless, MoB has travelers checks. She hitchhikes back to Fallon, a flat tire on its rim under each arm, and calls up 24-Hour Repair.
Guy says, “I hope you don’t think I’m gonna give you a ride clear out there.”
“Oh no, not at all. I’ll just hitchhike.”
He mounts and balances two new tires. “Well, you still got still half an hour on the clock – I’ll drive you out to your car.”
“Thanks!”
“But I hope you don’t think I’m gonna put ’em on the car for you.”
“Oh no, not at all. I’ll do that.”
Back at the roadside broke-down Squid, T-Bone gets flashed with a ‘Ben Franklin’ impulse and, unpacking his Indian Tiger Kite, he walks sagebrush over tumbleweed, over cactus, out in the desert landscape to ‘go fly a kite’. There, he spends an hour or two dancing the Tiger Kite in the freedom of the Nevada wind.
About this time, MoB and Repair Guy arrive at the Squid to find T-Bone flying a kite. Repair guy puts both tires on the car – nice guy! No longer stranded, MoB and T-Bone take comfort in the 1969 Falcon Station Wagon with a black fender, a grey one, the rest of the body gold. A cracked windshield and all their stuff sitting there on the US-50 shoulder. This Squid, a veritable ‘bucket of bolts’, holds these two fools together at this dead-stop intersection of their young itinerant lives.
CORRESPONDENCE COURSE
Roll back the clock 4 months, to November in Boulder: MoB gets the Cosmic Kick in the Ass and abruptly obtains an old cheap car, and away she goes like a balloon with a hole in it, launched spinning, Alaska-bound, while friend, T-Bone, stays in Boulder to study computers, baking French bread to make bread.
Before parting waves, parting ways, T-Bone lays down some terms and conditions so that MoB and guy can communicate through space time – as retold by the poet, Jaime De Angelo:
Fox was the only living man. There was no earth. The water was everywhere.
“What shall I do,” Fox asked himself.
He began to sing, in order to find out. “I would like to meet somebody,” Fox said. Then he met Coyote.
“I thought I was going to meet someone,” Fox said.
“Where are you going?” Coyote asked.
“I’ve been wandering all over, trying to find someone. I was worried there for a while.”
“Well, it’s better for two people to go together … that’s what they always say.”
“OK. But what will we do?”
“I don’t know.”
“I got it! Let’s try to make the world.”
“And how are we going to do that?” Coyote asked.
“Sing!” said Fox.
The deal is sealed. MoB and her Squidmobile are launched on her maiden, epic voyage …
Dear T-Bone – thoughts from Montrose:
strange town
cold night
full moon
trains
Play me that harmonica again.
typing
stopping
why should it distract me
that you are baking bread?
If I had a job
a van
needed a cup of coffee
I might be there.
Instead I have a boat
and miles
and piles of words
to tell the world
& hope they want to know
& so I go
on the great black river
in my rubber-keeled fish
with a beer
& the AM bands
& these 2 hands
to guide it all along.
It can’t be wrong
– feels like paradise
under this sky
a place to be,
& places going by …
I tried that harmonica
– where’d you find those notes,
that train-whistle-moan
that mournful tune?
Asphalt busy with campers
jeeps, trailers, trios in orange.
Kill those elk, fill that freezer,
maybe something
for the mantelpiece.
We swim concurrent on the highway
in our different streams
– Could they really be nearer
than you?
Play that train again,
I’ll let you know.
A Cool November Night
Monday
Well, well, well
There you are. Cool blueberry country. Home of the Stamper family. “Never give an inch.” Milessssss down the road. How ya doin’?, Miss Mobility?
Here I sits. Little House on the Prairie, North Boulder style, me, Augusto, Justin & Julie stashed in their rooms watching Jane and Papa Henry Fonda in a movie. Time winds down to the holiday season and sometimes, a lot of things happen when you’re standing still.
In Bend
They don’t extend
that helpin’ hand
tho’ friendly as can be.
“No Boy Scouts we &
owe you nuthin’
oh you nuthin'”
don’t y’ see
ain’t nobody poor
‘cept fools like me
footloose & free
But they don’t give
a time of day
to anyone who lives my way
– “You have no phone?
Scram you can’t
wash dishes here
Why they’re standin’ in line
Bribin’ each other to get lost
they want this $20 a day
job so much.”
So, “You know where your
job fits the best
– put it there –
I don’t wanna take yer test
Think I pack m’ bags &
head north, north & west
Into land of fog & rain
I am the Fish’s nose again
Skeezo
Frenic news
“I’m here to welcome you to wherever you think it is you think you’re at.” – X Swami X
“Poetry’s trash, mere cloud of words, comfort to the hopeless. But this is no cloud, no syllabled phantom that stands shaking its sword at you.” – Unferth to Grendel
“Sounds like you got a Tennessee to be Seattled in Washington for a Weil. Well good for you. With a little luck, we may vectorize at some future date. But vector rays are hopelessly divergent lines. Think about Heisenberg’s Law – “If you can see her, she doesn’t exist.” Ergo ~~~ if she’s far away she’s probably doing O.K.”
I have a room that’s pretty bare:
there’s one low table, still no chair.
Not a dresser for my clothes –
Boxes stacked are holding those.
The closet’s large, with many hooks
and hanger space and shelves and nooks.
There is a lamp, and ceiling light
but neither of them’s very bright.
The wooden floor could use some wax
to cover many cuts & cracks,
but then, the ceiling’s fairly high,
there’s lots of space, it’s warm & dry.
Alaska’s hanging by the door
the bed is adequate & more.
The kitchen’s nice – the stove is gas
(they’re hard to find up here – alas!).
The Iron Squid down on the street
is parked beneath where sparrows meet.
Poor Squid! I’d like to keep him clean
But then, where park the old machine?
Athlete’s foot creeps between toes
– I have those Coastal Climate woes!
Well, guess I’ll send this off to you;
if you get the urge to rhyme back, do!
MoB:
Slip-sliding away, the closer to your destination the more you go {drawing of slope written slip sliding away.
I realize that Boulder ain’t happening for y’all but I thoughts your direction was headed towards the LAND (no mention of Spanish Peaks homestead in correspondence). My prejudice is to get something concrete out of this place before I splits elsewhere. & I have unilateral Arian drive to get computer job security under the belt (or at least to give it the ol’ college try).
Journey to Folk Arts Music. (Sing song to strangers on the street). Present song to local folk artists (& croissants for a good review) Man on phone bluegrass artist, with an air of silence that conquers all. He speaks quietly, “That was an agent for Nashville Studio they want me to go cut a record, $50,000 guaranteed.” (Yesterday he played Molly’s for nickels & dimes). Played my pitch to his pitch –
Battle for a New Oil Lease
Iran in the cameras
Iran in the papers
Iran in the White House
Where the oil money flows
Iran so bad
Our Army couldn’t touch ’em
They took our radar bases
In the Gulf of Texaco
Later lying at home, wishing I had someone to go to Molly’s with bluegrass Ned was going to sing my song tonight. DARN.
Midnite
Back to the ovens.
No more Cinderfella stories.
Briefing for a descent into a boiler… Tomorrow I get to put in a ~ 24-hour shift taking measurements of wall-thickness in aforementioned place. Scaffolding, heights, bad smell, long hours, numbers.
Do you sing? Do you dance?
Do you laugh without a joke?
Ever swing, take a chance, share illegal smoke?
Do you jive while you drive, let your spirit free?
Do you miss that fishy kiss, do you think of me?
Anyway
should I say
what you are to me?
Someone kind (scale & fin) to ( ) unbindingly
(You won’t like it if I write it so I leave ( ) blank –
Friendship’s fresh air without pressure, nothing if not frank).
Send me a letter, I’ll write a poem better –
I never know what I’ll say.
Just take a blank sheet, the ink & the words meet,
follow it all of the way!
CALL & RESPONSE:
So, I went down to the Crossroads, just to spend some time.
In these still moments, lettuce take time to look ahead at our divergent vector rays and consider these possible scripts, well —
- MoB goes to Canada marries an Eskimo.
Naa!
- T-Bone goes to IBM, marries a Computer.
Hope naa!
- MoB goes to North Pole, polar bears hate alfalfa sprouts, comes back to Boulder … huff buff.
Nope. [I wanna go forward! No Boulder Buff!]
- T-Bone scatters in April.
Yep!
- MoB comes back to Boulder CO, MoB & T-Bone link up.
Y Not?
- T-Bone: I’ve a mind to give up living and go shopping instead.
Don’t buy it’s all inferior goods
high prices & who needs it?
Inquiry:
Everytime I find myself empty-handed & things are dull I Fold Paper.
Tonight, I make Kangaroos.
The paper is Creased
Pinched
Curled
Pointed
then isn’t Just Paper
What sort of financial future
might an Origami Artist
carve out
(fold out?)
of a 1980s (!!) society?
Into what circles
of that society
might I Fold
Curl
Point
my way
to manipulating some
material
clay
paper
sometime
metal
stone
wood
food
words
Making
birds
turtles
Stirring up
the cup of wonder
Cutting adult webs asunder
to free the child
living under —
An elder child
a Fool
must be
But I would rather
Fool and Free
Than smarter be in
Misery.
If someone laughs
& lights those eyes
I feel I have done
something Wise
so why not awake
by an image, I make
some slumbering corner of mind
where a person is kind
can have joy
a free heart
in this world
not apart
Is there such a
market
today?
Intelligence is
What You Use
& Luck of the Muse
Not just Logic
& Pedagogic concluse.
Bend a thought or 2 my way
& le’me know what you have to say.
MoB
Good Friend of Mine
Thanks for the Note
Thought I’d drop you a line
The trouble, it seems
If I follow your rime
Would be Making cents
While unfolding time
The solution we find
Is not much of a problem
We’ll put you to work
In a big Kindergarten!
Alas & Alack
She moans with a scorn
“I’ve really no use
for the not-quite-yet born.”
“If I’m to return
To my land as a native
I must strike out new
With a task that’s creative.”
Want ads are wanting
Who needs a position
When with words and with paper
You’re a folding magician.
Now girl, here’s some lip
From a new age visionary
I’ve looked into the future
And sister, it’s scary.
Scarcity, hunger & famine it seems
May be riding the crest of an American dream.
Without any roots, we’re just tumbleweeds
Blowing around in the Dustbowl of need.
(In the world of the doomsayers
Life’s never too rosy
T needs MoB or
He’ll never be cozy)
MoB needs busy
Or she’ll never be happy
T [bone] it seems
Is going quite daffy.
(On cold days at home
We used to make taffy).
Stop.
Breathe.
Maybe these ramblings aren’t crazy
If we can stretch the mind’s vision
Like that old home made candy
And pat it around in the palms
There’s a chance we’ll
Create a Confection
That’s Grand!
(Watch out now, it’s HOT)
Luv,
T Bone
[FADE BACK TO THE ROADSIDE SQUID]
Fools Courting drive off into the great Salt Lake desert, alternator light blinking red and dark while semi truck mudflaps slap road grit and sleet snow into Squid’s cracked windshield. MoB lies prone on the seat, unable to watch, while T-Bone guides the sliding wheels, driving half blind into the night.
So, after those rhyme-times, they take a chance –
in Boulder, he finds he can hold her,
she finds it’s no colder –
Just what he told her –
They stoke the fire so it won’t smolder,
Each offers a supporting shoulder –
living by whatever rules
pop out of their molecules
Silliness and wit their tools.
There we leave our courting fools.
[SEGUE WITH HARMONICA]
I tried that harmonica
– where’d you find those notes,
that train-whistle-moan
that mournful tune?
Play me that harmonica again.
ILLUSTRATIONS
The mega-fire of the devastating Woolsey blaze drew back the curtains
The Battle for the Headline News
Pink Lady in the Nudes (1966).
Miramar Surfers Win at Meet
Huerfano (meaning orphan) County’s Spanish Peaks, neither quite a fourteener but standing out from the Front Range (wa-ha-to-ya in the native tongue) were landmarks on the Santa Fe Trail. Population centers include county seat Walsenburg, sex-change capital Trinidad, Ludlow (as in Massacre), La Veta and a double handful of small dried-up towns scattered across the scrub oak and pinon of the hills and sagebrush of the high prairie.
15 miles up a county road, with no electricity or running water, our dreams become projects. Build a cabin, string a fence, lay in a cistern. Pour concrete walls. Pour lots of concrete walls. Stand up a windmill, dig a trench, pump water up a mesa to tanks for gravity-fed irrigation systems. Fix a broken tractor. The entropy of the land: we’re always building, and things are always breaking down.
The only structure on the property when we acquire it is a low shed, used to store hay, protected from snow and wind. Raise the roof, add some walls, add more rooms – piece by piece it becomes a cabin. Fred and Marigold, dreaming of Rammed Earth, design the next addition, pouring a foundation then presenting plans to Frank Noga, the county engineer. He never heard of rammed earth – pipe clamps secure sturdy forms aligned 15″ apart, sprinkle in a moist blend of clay, sand and portland cement, then tamp it till it rings, hard packed. Keep adding earth-mix, keep tamping and the walls rise. With a “hat and shoes” – protective roof and foundation – a rammed-earth structure lasts centuries. Well, Frank Noga’s seen plenty of hippie shelters – our architectural drawings are a step above. He stamps his approval on the plans.
The Kawasaki 175 (Estrella model) is a sporty, temperamental motorcycle for riding the Story Creek back roads and making quick trips to town. One day, Fred takes it out for a spin. Wearing sunglasses plus a helmet with a smoky visor, he keeps fiddling to kick this sucker into third gear. As luck would have it, he notches third as he comes over a rise, revving up to 30 mph about the time he sees, about 40 feet away, a three-strand barbed wire gate closing the road. Steve McQueen in The Great Escape would have leaped gracefully over this barrier. Instead, Fred goes for Plan B: dropping the bike, sliding wheels-first into the obstacle to save himself from painful lacerations. Almost. His right hand on the handlebar finds some nasty barbed wire that slices a two-inch gash in his middle-finger knuckle.
The next day, Fred wrestles his car out of the mud, driving home by way of the long-gone Red Rocks commune, the dome his cousin shared with thirty other hippies. Fred’s cousin, David, morphed into a film critic for Newsweek. The Red Rocker, Larry Lazlo, hangs his hat in here in Denver, with Co-Media Photography. His celebrity portraits grace Denver’s SIE Film Center today. Everybody starts somewhere.
April 1st, 1981
A dyad launched from the Alpha Motel,
Beneath the snowy Spanish Peaks –
