bank draft for the little mun-i-sing bard house land contract settlement financing new and depenable tranny, trading the old ford tempo piece of shit in on a cheve short van, jimmy warren's "war and peace" used car lot, joking with jim about the time a year ago when i stood out in the high weeds back of his business spraying "ace hardware" store black paint on the white car hood he installed so it wouldn't look like the old geezer-bard was driving around the keweenaw farther northlands in an old taxi, or black-and-white repo police car, thinking holy waugh, edna, wholly waugh, rollo, what would my father said, emery, who busted his ass to own and drive buicks, proof that he wasn't a poor barefoot farmboy anymore, resisting the "tsk, tsk, tskings" of lila, the calumet school librarian, and her admonition, "vans are not a good idea mister splake, consumer reports says they are highly unstable in snow and unsafe for driving in icy highways," lila, said, bloodless woman and professional naysayer, never taking any risks with her life, the kellogg community college faculty-administrat- ive committee footing the bill for a "screw it -- what the hell," flying low odyssey to maine, back to climb mount katahdin for one final ascent, a "k" full of dollars and plane tickets for beckka and me to fly down to battle creek, giving a poetry reading extra- ordinaire in the w.k. kellogg memorial theater on campus, met at the airport by graying professors and ad- ministrators, clad in l.l. bean catalog uniforms, academic storm troopers with birkenstock shit kickers, driving us back to the downtowner motel in late model jap suv, steering wheel firmly grasped at l0 and 2, just like high school driver's education requirement, surprised how quickly i had forgotten the armpit and asshole of the midwest, "bring back tailgunner joe" bumperstickers, god, mother, apple pie, and no commies on the school board ethos, long live huac sighs, plump fleshy faculty-administration wives, los- ing battle of advancing crowsfeet, long past star fuck- er attractive, surveying bec, my yound edgy and rascal- ly polish girl, maybe thinking "what if regrets," re- membering sister mary living in the pre "big apple" village with her black alto sax man, my ex-wife olga, fuck-king crazy emigre, whose father owned half of switzerland, her buff mercedes-benz red-lining out at l24 mph, short and painless poetry reading with polite applause, reception afterwards, kellogg memorial read- ing room, guest drinking fancy micro brews, small bottles of exotic lager costing the same as a tall cool sixer of old milwau, serious drinking suds, low titter of conversations murmurings, thinking about the primal bardic screams of my CLIFFS climbs in the ke- weenaw, and, not one soul in the gathering who can re- member the last time they opened up with a coronary throbbling yell that lossened the cholesterol in the artium chambers and set it rushing through the system and out, grabbing the "special k" traveling funds, ditching the battle creek downtowner lodging, quickly turning nighttime tranny highway miles east, passing into canada at the sault, becky and "doc splake" motoring across the northern route, taking the less traveled polish trans-canadian highway to maine, declaring a couple or three days free from the mortal time warp to lose ourselves in kolor, katahdin, karma, kunt, kock, kopulation, precious holiday time off from the routines of ordinary kaos, ontario giving way to quebec, motoring along st. lawrence river, driving through small french canadian villages, golden domed catholic cathedrals visible miles away, crossing border into vermont, passing trailhead in and up to franconia notch, leaving shadow of mount washington in rearview mirror, following an- droscoggin river into maine, millinocket city limits on the way to baxter state park, beckka naping like savvy CLIFFS mountain cat, sounds of french music playing low on tranny fm, think- ing goddammer, t.k., you have it made, lucky bastard and bardic sum-bitch, living the perfect dream, gray- bearded poet loft above the omphale art gallery in the old copper mining ghost town of calumet, winter seasons of "long white" providing solitude free from the more urban-metro noise and distractions, whole days with time to muse, read, write stories and poetry, the ink barely dry on the marriage license, bec and margaret's favorite son tom, may to september bliss, replying to the seeming more sophisticated splake critics, "is the orgasm any stronger, the near death signs any louder in sweet dreamy lala land than calumet, are akly hang- overs, the empty blackass periods of loneliness any more painful in sunny south california, can spring nights in hollywood be any more splendid than a yooper "ice out" and coming into spring renaissance atop the CLIFFS, is the large metro bistro menu and ambiance superior to the excellent chef tim carte and late evening tete-a-tete in the michigan house cafe shadows, settling in at baxter state park campground, sleep- ing overnight in open three sided log hut, up early and on the trail with daypacks, oj, trailmix nuts, dried fruits, candies, emergency med supplies, halfway up katahdin granite facing the morning ground fog burning off, clear blue autumn sky, sun's warming rays making sweatshirts and jackets unnecessary, colorful fall foliage mixing with pine tree greenery, darker waters farther north of the allagash flood plains, final rush of climbing a mountain with bec before advancing arth- ritis aches and pains turn the old horse lame, left only ghosts of jack and japhy ryder dancing in bardic brain skull nooks and hollows, reaching katahdin summit, slaking thirsts at thoreau springs, drinking face down in the cool waters, suddeny becky and i naked, our sensual ecstasy requir- ing no industrial strenght viagra, wet, wild, "love me, fuck me," erupting into primal "beckkkkkkkkkkk-AH" echoing across neighboring mountain granite, like all the times or our love making, something dying, yet feeling a new beginning, something else, cheve van speedometer miles humming, continuing our down east odyssey to the atlantic, passing through ellsworth, the fifty miles to mount desert island van- ishing in quick whisper, camping at south harbor, choosing to avoid posh bourgeois atmosphere of bar harbor, fudge emporiums, t-shirt shops, summer art gallery hypes, and "old maine" antiques and curios stores, sad, tawdry high priced circuses for shallow tourists and others who believe buying and owning things justifies their reality, brings richness to an experience, watching late afternoon sunset with beckka, atlant- ic shore continuous coastline of fjord-like inlets, evening tides coming in, blue-green wash, ocean waters sweeping over tidal flats, covering the rocky shore, sandy spits, holding bec close, our silence mute acceptance we were witnessing a force beyond complete understanding, later sharing late lobster dinner and pitcher of down east dark lager, spehars dockside cafe, pier where fishing boats loaded with lobster traps tie up, fat orange harbor cat asleep on roll of heavy rope, raucous gulls circling, still hopeful for lucky free feastings, telling beck about my summer years ago at the un- iversity of maine, orono, freshly divorced, alone and out of rehab from the battle creek seventh-day advent- ist "san," homesick for sons and daughter, but committ- ed to finishing professor greenberg's "constitution and civil liberties" summer school class before heading back for another and new semester at kellogg community college in battle creek, suddenly overtaken, feeling the weight of drowsy weariness, driving back to south habor camp grounds, evening of sweet and solid slumber-zzzzzzzings, and, up early, on the road home, passing the wild blueberry barrens turned cherry red with fall frostings, closing the loop, soon back to the bard loft over the art gall- ery, settling in for the winter with bec, quiet season for making "long white" poetry together dream fugue wild flourescent lightning and thunder crashing, mid-summer storm moving off lake superior into the ke- weenaw peninsula, punishing elements racing across the CLIFFS, sheets of wind driven rain making windshield wipers shutter and pause before continuing their sweep, gray bard thinking, ah, shades of richard burton, james mason, massive artillary barrages booming across el alamain desert nighttime skies, alan ladd movie duel in the dark room illuminated only by lightning flashes, his bowie knife fight against enemy's saber, yooper ednas and rollos, huddling in their base- ments with pet dog and cat companions, fearing death the early morning storm might bring, while aging poet going out to look at danger, stare down the unknown stormy darkness, precipation cooling respite to the past several "fanny days," life-sapping hot and humid hours resting the bardic behind in front of the family dollar store econo electric fan, sucking in what little cool breezes possible, remembering mother, and the summer dog days of long ago, stripped to her sweaty monkey wards bra, three rivers old michigan basement, boiling ball jars and lids from muncie, hoosierland, putting up fruit preserves for the smith family meals during the winter and into next spring, wondering, "jesus, does anyone stilldo this stuff anymore," or has life become all grocery store frozen foods, speedometer miles ticking off on journey out to the CLIFFS, recalling the mtv cool teen at john's family restaurant and complete calumet cafe earlier, diminish- ed capacity from cheap akly rip, nursing a last call warm cocktail, asking waitress leonora for "some ice, eh," bragging loudly about recently drinking beer sun- day morning out of a brown paper sack in front of a small new york city "big apple" grocery, sadly suffer- ing fools, i declined to volunteer, "why, those stores are called 'bodegas' young lady," empty human being, lacking inner thoughts, cult- urally frozen at perpetual seventeen, not having to wake up later and use her imagination, while i rise bard loft early, contesting the elusive damn dame lady muse, hoping to fill blank pages with words that sing, creating images that often sting, arriving at CLIFFS trailhead, parking the auto- tran as the rains slacken to a steady misty drizzzzz, heading up the path to "poet tree point," the trailside stream a gully-washing torrent from overnight storming, recalling the young poet tom and how many readings of my childhood favorite "paddle-to-the-sea," the canoe- indian carving by a young boy and voyage floating through the great lake waters and saint lawrence river to the atlantic, escaping many hazards along the odyss- ey, later graduating to heroes of jules verne fiction, captain nemo now of my adult crossword puzzlings, the brave castaways of "mysterious island" firing dreams of a young lad long ago, short-lived job setting pins weekends at three rivers bowling alley after dad died, planning on saving money, buying a jeep, heading out, north to alaska be- fore it became discovered and overpopulated and devel- oped, living a life of mystery and adventure until mother and thte high school counselor intervened, also recalling my first college teaching position, young man with new master's degree, green, yet fearless of future unknowns, until fateful moment i would de- clare, "i can't spend the rest of my life doing, liv- ing like this," lamenting fading passions of the scarlets, juliets, lady chatterlys, and mad lovers, dimitri karamazov and gatsby, sad recent ann lander's newspaper column com- plaint, "i don't like sex, and i am sick and tired of hearing how great it is, and, there is something wrong with people who don't like it," sad comparison too with contemporary celebrities possessing so little uniqueness and originality, mtv stars getting by with cheap theatrical demagoguery, cliche filled ear-shattering decibels, drugger-in-yo- face muggery and thin intellectual veneer of profess- ional athletes, unemotional sex satisfying human biology, but no nurturing for the soul, alas, paul simon and mrs robinson, where have you vanished, joe dimag, early morning thundering and storming moving on, low black clouds scudding eastward, hiking around the escarpment outcroppings, a slight angina twinge return- ing, calculated risk mountain climbing, briefly feeling closer to something i don't understand, light ground fog rising, blurring forest landscape, maybe hiding ghosts of past, poor hardscrabble farmers till- ing thin soils, ancestors of my mother and father often praying late nights during a hot summer drought to an uncertain god, "please, rain, please," so the fall harvest would not burn away in the august fields, stepping over and around red raspberry stained trail puddles left in storm's raging wake, visions of scared american soldiers bleeding to death, omaha beach tides, nervous nam grunt walking point blown to fleshy bits outside chu lai perimeter, young american boys having their lives taken away so that my young early morning john's teen can sober up and declare "fuck this," and "fuck that," with narcisstic "my doll is dead" whine, the same unknown soldier canon fodder and dogtags that gave this bohemiam thinker freedom to explore and expand my consciousness, later trading trout fishing rod, reel and creek for memo pages to fill with poetry.