With Apologies to The Eagles

On a long, empty highway, the old Number Two,
Cold wind slicing into leather, hot Pennzoil burning
The engine roars; on the distant horizon, a shimmering light.
My head grows heavy; my eyes dim.
My bones ache and ache and ache
From the vibration.
I gotta stop for the night. Phew, pay for just one night.

We rattle and roll into the parking lot,
The engine stalls, my joy dissipates
And this world comes flooding in.
Vincent Bates, in the doorway,
There he stands, lean and tall.

Welcome to the Trailblazing Motel
Such a lovely, lovely place
Bikers always welcome, any time, any year
Pay your dollar, buy a lover
At the Trailblazing Motel, any time of the year.

That’s a mighty fine bike you have there, young fella
Just like mine, a ’73 650.
I traded her for a Hog, a slab of pig iron, rusting over there.
And I couldn’t pay the bill. I hit this wall and couldn't move on.
Now all I’ve got is this garage—of parts, the Trailblazing Motel
And a snooker table that won’t let me win
Will never let me win.

Cordelia’s her name I reply,
Deafened from the headers, straight piped and blue
For the daughter I never had. The daughter I wish I had.
I shut her petcocks off, thumbed the master and saved the electrics
Ready for another day’s hard ride; it’s been a hard day’s ride
On my vintage motorcycle. Cordelia, sweet Cordelia
She's daughter I never had. A daughter I wish I had.

In the shadow, black as night, Mr. Bates the hotel man
Proffers me a proposition, which he scarcely mumbles.
First, let me show you to your room, he plies.
The Biker’s Special, a suite built for three
A room for you and yours to be.
Then one for the little lady decked out in chrome,
Sweetly decked out in chrome.
This was an offer I couldn’t refuse.
Sweet Cordelia! Safe and sound, in a room of her own,
Locked away from prying eyes, my vintage motorcycle
And me in the deep purchase of love, entwined.
That proposition Bates refused to tell in the dark evening light.
Let’s not talk business, he pled, offering instead
A mission bell with the prospect of heaven in hell.

There are pickled eggs, beans and hand-made hamburdogs in the fridge.
I ran out of patties. The buns I had fit Brats.
And I had to make do. Do.
I had to roll do.
Part of the Biker’s Night-time Special, I roll for thee.
And you’ll toll for them. Oh man, you’ll toll for them.
He laughed, walked out the door and I
Settled down to a midnight Feast for Fools.
I started to tell. I had to tell. Man, I've just got to tell.

Welcome to the Trailblazing Motel
Such a lovely, lovely place
Bikers always welcome, any time, any year
At the Trailblazing Motel, any time through the year.

Early bright shone the morning sun, making my body groan
Crotch sprocket sore at 65 miles per hour
Straight up, no windshield, buffeting the wind takes its toll
You have to pay your toll—you gonna pay a toll.
Yesterday’s gain is this day’s pain.
The knife-edged shower cuts through my soul.
I moan and struggle to put my Levi’s on
And pull my red bandana low. And gash my red bandana low.

There Cordelia waits for me, shiny bright, Pennzoil glistening on the floor
Sheltered from the star-blackened night, covered from the frost-rimed light.
Some gas, a little more oil, loose nuts tightened to the notch
Chain checked, tire pressure—sure—some choke, a short kick, the engine roar
Down one, up two, three, four then five. And I’m outta here; I fondly dream.

Goodbye this most capital city
Such a lovely, lovely place
Plenty of room for bikers, any time, any year
Except when you come, you have to pay your toll.
You have to pay your bill.

I roll Cordelia into the sun, savouring the Bikers’ Morning Special
Included in the price at the Trailblazing Motel
Such a lovely, lovely place
Plenty of room for bikers, any time at this time of year.

Mr Bates reaches out beckoning, his smile as broad as he stands slim.
Thought about my proposition?
I tuck into my food piled high as Mt Sigh-nay-eye.
No, you didn’t say. You didn’t e-lab-or-ate, the fine print magnify.
I enjoyed the room though and will surely come again, I sigh,
Will surely come again. The shower’s a bit of a killer, though.

Here’s the deal, he whispers sweetly in my ear
His long, lean back bends over the chrome-topped counter,
The gleaming chrome-topped counter.
The room’s for free, the meal’s on me; and the lady?
Well, just let me take a little ride on your Cordelia
That cute little ’73, like the one I had to sell
But couldn’t pay the toll, just couldn’t face the bill.
Now all I’ve got is this garage—of parts, the Trailblazing Motel
And a snooker table that won’t let me win
Will never let me win.

My heart was broken when first I heard this tale of woe
Of Vincent Bates from the shadow black as night.
Sure I was a little leery, and what is love?
No-thing is free at the Trailblazing Motel.
Lightning struck as we shook hands, the kick was short, the fool engine roared.
That’s a Yammy for you, I now fondly rue
She’ll fire every time you foot the starter. Every time you kick the starter.

Down one, up two, three, four then five
And Vincent with a throttle twist
Weaves off toward the sun in the southbound lane.
Smoking Pennzoil hangs in the air—fills my breast with fear—
And I have miles to ride before I sleep. Miles to ride. . .
I cry,
Too late. Too late. Too late.
For sweet Cordelia, the daughter I'll never know,
I weep and weep and weep.

Now I’m the owner of this garage—of parts, the Trailblazing Motel
And a snooker table that won’t let me win, will never let me win.
This place that’s programmed to receive
You can check out any time you like,
But you can never leave. You can never leave.
Unless, of course, you’re tripping on a Nineteen Seventy-Three

Six Fifty

1972 CB 350 Honda

Hades 6

Today,
I buried
My uncle,
Held the shovel
In my own hands,
Scooped the fertile
Prairie soil, heaped it
High, dug black, cool damp by
Gravediggers, now
Growing grey in
The dry wind
And hot
Summer
Sun.

I
let
The
Dust
Fall like
Rain on the
Urn that held
His ashes. There
Was too much man
For that finely turned
Piece of lathed woodwork
To hold. You'd need the
Hands of God to
contain all that
Norman
Was.

He
Didn't
Deserve
Any of that
Which he endured,
What this often bitter,
Black world offered him.
That mighty man, God's child,
This Norman loved the life he was
Living. He declared it good. For
We who are the strongest on
This earth are its weakest.
And Norman was indeed
Mighty, a conquering
Victorious king.
He spent most
Of this life
Happy in his
Small kingdom
at the
Sally
Ann.

A
Poor
Man's
Banker.
He loaned
Money without
Interest. On trust.
Only the rich ask for
Collateral. Micro-bankrolling
Poverty on the street. Norman
Should have won the Nobel Prize
For his innovation. Yet nobody knew.
No wonder he was so poor, this rich uncle
Of mine. His friends needed some
Spare change, so they went to him,
And he, out of his storehouse,
Gave them his mite. His faith
In them paid out. In trust.
They didn't rob him blind,
Fail Him. Default on their
Payments. For the most
Part. And if they did?
That was the cost of
Doing business. If
You can't trust the
Poor who can you
Trust? Not the
Suits. As Dylan
Says, they'll
Rob you blind
With a
Fountain
Pen.

He
Who
Had next
To nothing
Helped those
Who had nothing
At all. Generous-hearted
Man. Addled. Brain bing-bangled.
Norman was innocent, devoid of guile,
A little simple minded. Yet he would always
Remember who owed him what. More like a
Savant. He couldn't put two and two together.
Yet brought it all together. More than most
Of us. He was complicated like a sentence
That holds more meaning than its
Structure can bear. A tough read,
Yet Norman was easy to read.
Accepting. His pages reached
Into the hearts of those who
Cared. Pressed down,
Shaken together and
Over-flowing. He
Returned more
Love than he
Received. He
Who asked for
Nothing
Continually
Gave away
The little he
Had.

Norman
Was always
There when
Someone needed
Him. He gave and we
Received. Then he rode
To his grave in a fine black
Jaguar. This man of all cars.
He loved them all, but never
Owned one. Cut their pictures
Out of magazines, glued
Them into scrapbooks.
Couldn't get a license.
Couldn't pass the test,
Afford the gas,
Maintenance,
Insurance,
But rode to
His grave
In a black
Jaguar,
anyway.

He
Passed
Out one
Winter's
Night in
A snow bank
And fell into the
Sleep of the dead. Frost
Bit his fingers off. Someone
Called 911 and woke Him up.
Thawed him out, hypothermic
And incoherent. Gradually
Brought him back to life.
He lived another ten
Years or so. Blessed
Us all Uncle
Norman
did.

I
Still
Didn't
Get to
Know him,
Didn't cherish
The opportunity
The extra time gave me,
So my heart brims with
Deep regret. Shame.
His unexpected
Passing has left
Us (Me!)
bereft.

I
Got
To fill
In my
Uncle's
Grave today.
Clumps of earth
Falling into that
Auger-dug hole, four
Feet deep. Precious Norman
Dead to this world. His veil
Of suffering is finally, torn
Asunder. Now I know his worth.
But it is too late, too late, too late
To speak words of kindness,
Affection. To put my
Humanity into
Action the way
He did his,
Helping
those less
Fortunate
Than
He.

To
Him
Who is
Given much,
Much is expected. Your
Burden, Norman, you bore,
Manfully. You were a good
And faithful servant. You
Made do with the life
You were given,
Uncomplaining,
Grateful.

I
Covered
Your ashes
With prairie
Soil saw you
Set you free while
The Earth welcomed
You back into your ever
Loving mother's arms. Both
You and she suffered, were
Despised and cast off, but
You continued. Your body
Held you back, but your
Spirit didn't quit. Now
You are a prince among
Princes, your
mother a
Queen.

All
Fingered
One, with
Heart, soul
And mind,
Drive yourself
Down that long
Four-lane highway,
Negotiate mountain
Curves with your own
Six-Speed, super-charged,
8 cylinder, Imperial wonder
Of British engineering
Daimler
Vanden
Plas

I'm
Standing
Here, waving
You off. My
Chauffeur's
Cap and this
Shovel rest
In your
Peace.

To My Daughter Jill on her 22nd Birthday

There now is a German Club President
Who was acclaimed. This is no accident.
Those who dared run against her were removed
Though nothing on her could ever be proved
She dispatched at Stammtisch the dissident.

To Sophie

There is a gal from Dar, Tanzania.
Music she loves from Scandinavia.
Her fav is that pop group, you know, ABBA.
To buy their records, she asked her Baba,
Who gave her the money, Mama Mia!

The Lotus Eaters 5

The hero breaks away from their embraces.
He sees staged plays writ by Akeephrases
Writes detailed notes on the star lit Yidnes
And scrutinizes the text of de Percnes
But crown'd as King--love sea lost Ilcydas.

______________________________________

Weary had he grown a little lately
Then plump he read Buck Mulligan stately
Bearing aloft a shaving bowl of lather
His cue aside, read bloom in Joyce, he'd rather
This thought invigorated him greatly.

______________________________________

He languished in the stacks, earned his degrees
For years his due he paid in debt his fees
From his subconcious arose that old quest.
My cue I forgot. This must be redressed.
Enchained to books, I must escape from these!

Calypso 4

The unsung hero saunters down the street
His snooker cue and case, a "Sneaky Pete."
Unsheathed, its action brings uncommon delight.
A dream come true, best hid, kept out of sight.
Improbable? But true! He is discrete.

_____________________________________

It is no weapon of mass destruction
Just an instrument for love in action.
Lovely seaside girls call him from the beach
Teach us some jazz, they giggle each to each.
And so to him they while, love's distraction.

______________________________________

The hero goes on his solitary quest
To those gals on the beach, he sings his best.
They listen; their cotton flowing dresses--
Tempting him with their mouths, legs, tresses.
His hope, his life a gape, at all their rest.

____________________________________

His song from Brazil, a bossa nova
Astrud Gilberto's air "Ipanema."
Seductive Getz on the high saxaphone
The girls draw in tight to that sweet fine tone
Calling, "Hey, handsome, you're hot! Come over!"