Summer, mid 1980s or so....

 We’d left at dusk and tore the interstate to shreds. We were headed to the Alpine Valley Music Theater, the Mid-West Mecca, to see the Dead, dedicated, resolute, in reverie. The miles rolled away like a papers in a mimeograph. We peeled them back from the face of the earth, we scraped them clean, against the back of our teeth, the thunder pulsing from Phil Lesh's bass. 2-17-73 St. Paul, MN, a live performance of the Grateful Dead was on the tape-deck- that was the one- the glory days, the rolling thunder of passion, I felt it and needed it, longed for it. Somewhere near Asheville, NC we took some psilocybin mushrooms. We figured it’d help keep us awake better through the night. The rain tapped the windshield gently, apologetically and glowed purple-green from the oncoming calls.

Geoffrey and I had a rap going. Not the Busta Rhymes type, just a flow, feeling each other.

-Man this is real rock right here. Chuck Berry lyrics bounced around the car. Stopped in Charlotte, by passed Rock Hill and we never was a minute late, we were ninety miles outa Atlanta by sundown, rollin’ cross Georgia state.

- Yeah man, oh yeah, hey pass that over here. The joint burned sweet. Man, this is some pretty good shit. Old Grover came up gold on this shit. Grover you are an awesome fucker.

-I can’t tell you what that means to me, said Gro. Grover was an old buddy and classmate, a short and stout fellow, who came from a hippy family. He’d shrewdly shunned traditional jobs and taken to entrepreneurship; mostly recreational substances.

-Hell yeah, you know what I’m talking about, not too strong, not to soft, has just a little sweetness. Yeah, and reminds me of the country man. Damn straight. Geoffrey drove, teeth from ear to ear, He’s Gone solo’d sweet off the windows, gently bouncing from panel to seat to window. It was about 11pm on a Tuesday, cars whizzed by in the night, the rain shredding away from their tires. Ooooohhh, nothings gonna bring him back.

-Man, you know I really miss my granddad. Geoffrey said nothing and kept driving, he often daydreamed but not then, we were connected, completely synced, he tuned into me and listened as I continued.

-Yeah, he used to pick me up every Sunday. We went to church, he had a dark green suit. We played games in the car, I remember him laughing as we shouted and raised our hands cheering, he held the wheel with his knee. He had a Lion’s Club pin on his lapel, you know when he died he donated his retinas and they say it helped another man see. My old man says he was drunk though, a violent, bitter alcoholic, but naw man, I never saw it, I never did see it. He was sweet, kind, held my hand and gave me everything I ever asked for, ice cream, fresh tomato sandwiches, and superhero cards. Not spoiling me, I never asked, he always offered. I suppose when he started getting sick, he got grumpy and shit.

-What’d he die of man?

-Lung cancer, he smoked, they took one lung, he came back, he smoked again, and that was it. We said nothing for a little while, the He’s Gone jam faded away from its crescendo, subtle intensity rising and plunging in and unexpected moment of unity. Sweet one that.

The dope smoking chilled out a bit, we rode deeper and harder into our mushroom trip. The rain pelted and swept, peeled and polished, snipped and squeaked at us, gave us a little of this and a little of that. The music unfolded beneath my eyelids in kaleidoscopic twirls, fractals coupled, dancing hand in hand, bent at the knees, spun, bent again, the floorboard became concave, pressed up again, the colors shattered in triangle shapes, again coalescing back into the dancing multicolor fractals.

-Man, I am too fuckin’ high man, where are we, let’s pull over a minute! I twisted my head frantically, looking in all the windows and all the mirrors.

-Dude, chill, it’s ok, you’re fine. You just closed your eyes again, Keep ’em open and follow the music, Here’s Phil man, Box of Rain, brother, this is it, the one, dude, Phil’s the man, this song always reminds me of you Edward, it does, man, it does, Look into any eyes, you find by you, you can see clear to another day. We always been tight right? I know we have man. I know we have.

-I know Geoffrey, me too man, we’ll be tight forever man, nothing will ever change that, nothing will ever change that, this is what living is, Sun and showers, wind and rain, in and out the window… we brave the storms man together man, people wait a whole lifetime to have this moment, and here it lies before us.

–I know Edward, I know man, its special man, it really is. The miles rolled into the night.

We rode those shrooms til dawn, it was a moderate dose, three dried grams, and we’d worked the day before, 12 hours, rolling dough and baking bread. We started baking together at 16 years old, Geoffrey six months before me though. Something to do, so when we went out on weekends, we’d have gas and beer money. The dregs of the morning hit us about 4am.

-Dude, let’s burn one more doobie and pull over and rest a little bit, unless you want to drive Gro. Grover was sleeping open mouthed his nose pointing to the morning star.

-That’s cool man, I’m getting pretty beat. I got no energy to drive, I said.

- Yeah, fuck, I got no speed, got no coke, sorry I know you don’t like that shit man, your dad an all. Its ok, I don’t give a fuck, he’s got his trip man, I got mine. You know what, fuck it! I can go on awhile yet. Motherfucker, what’re you waiting for? Roll up a fucking honcher!

We burned, burned and burned, this needed little elaboration, no colorful fancy descriptive words, and we burned it, just it. Gods weed, at least the God from Mexico. Some folks trust in reason, I always trust in might, I don’t trust in nothing, but I know it come out right.

-Perfect song for the perfect morning, Playin’ in the Band. Geoffrey perked up out of his graveyard hour doldrums, put on his shades and pressed forward into the heartland.

The sun crested over our back shoulder as we entered Indiana. The land lay flat, like crushed course pulverized asphalt. The soil just as black as the night we left behind. Late June lay before us like a sprawling dog on a dusty back porch, the cloudless sky dared us to look into the searing glare of the morning sun. The Playin’ solo rolled, rolled, and sliced, vibrato sustain, staccato signals shot across the hood, digging, rhythms, while the band decides where to go, Jerry riffs a burst of slicing rain, dissonance, jazz phrases belt, pulsating off our foreheads, Jerry rolls it back downs subtly, Phil anticipating every move, they knew where to go, every bit of it seemingly scripted, but only base instincts, how could it be any other way, how could there be such oneness, unity of purpose, how can he make the music bend to his will, how can it?

-My God Geoffrey, fucking Jesus man, it’s all so fucking beautiful. I rested my chin down on the window opening, filled with wistfulness and longing. I watched the cornfields march to the horizon. Of what longing I didn’t know, but more, something more, the unknown the unexplored, the everness, a real…adventure.

-I know man, It is fucking beautiful man, of course it’s fucking beautiful man, that’s why we are doing it, that’s why we’re here man, because it’s so beautiful, it really gives me hope man, it does really give me hope.

We would see it all go down, once again; on the road to see ol’ Jer and the boys play live. We were blessed and often forgot, taking life for granted, but at that moment, the truth shone on us as clear and elemental as the morning dew. March winds gonna blow all my troubles away.

This is only a piece of a longer work, a novel in process. Hope you enjoy the ride, even this short one.

There is a little backstory to follow:

Apparent Heir

Time’s accordion folds,

Trudging the muddy ditches with bare feet we look,

A white litter slaps past on the heels of coolies,

Inside a little boy rides alone,

His armor folds around him, a gilded bronze husk,

Warlord father astride a panting steed, two more at the ready,

Menacingly he eyes his host, his spyglass scans the enemy array,

Ages away, Mother preens and smiles for bootlicking courtesans,

A fecund honeydew veil covers her dissolute eyes,

A sister’s obsequious gapes, another’s oblivious guffaws,

The friendless heir pops the soap bubbles of father’s approval,

Searching his mind’s drainage for warm mother’s embrace,

Seeing only the sticky rice grains in his iron bowl,

Humans trek the sucking road, some fall broken,

The boy bows his head.

I had a run in with little Allowishus this week. Long story short, he dropped the F-bomb in class. It was ignorant and antagonistic. He is 10 years old, grade 5 and has crippled social skills. He is frowny, chubby and pushy and doesn’t seem to communicate well with classmates. I’d had a bad cold and though I was feeling better I wrote on the board, “Teacher is sick today, so …” and drew an arrow up to rule # 4. “Be respectful, be kind.” Two second later, little Al turns to a classmate and says “Fuck you.” I have to think he did it within the context of a private altercation, because I can’t imagine him having listened to me. He rarely does. I asked him, not loudly but firmly, to repeat it. After the second request he says, “I say Fucka.” Out, out NOW! Again, not yelling, but clearly not happy. He refused, and I ended up grabbing him securely by the arm and guiding him to the office, which is thankfully only 30 feet away. The whole thing took like 90 seconds and I was back in class, “OK, Summer, try number one for us.”

I thought about it for a while, he only caught about 30m. of an 80m. period. He came back and with the slightest bow possible, “Sawdee teacha.” This is the standard, most insincere apology humanly possible, and practiced daily by Taiwanese kids towards their foreign teachers. I wasn’t ready to welcome him back yet, so I made him stand at the door while I thought about it. Later, he joined the class, and I even allowed him to join a game, where he made one sentence.

80 minutes had gone by since the Fuck! Incident, and I was cooled off and contemplative. I thought of the 3 dozen times I’ve personally seen this kid get chewed out, by me and others, phone calls made to mom, the Dean of boys called, the counselor, various punishments meted out. And I concluded, nothing is changing for him.

So I held him about 15 minutes at breaktime, the only real playtime they have, and then I sat down and talked to him.

Very calmly, quietly even, “Are you OK?” He nodded yes.

“I know you are sad boy, and sometimes very angry.” I said it again, in Chinese this time, he nodded.

“You know, when I was grade 5, 10 years old, I was very sad too, it’s hard.” Repeated in Chinese. He nodded, quietly, calmly.

“Sometimes you need to talk…” and a bit more. He acknowledged but his attention waned, but he was quiet, and he returned my gaze when I looked at him directly. I didn’t expect anything, except for him to listen for 2 minutes, which he did. Maybe it will make about one microgram of difference in his life, maybe for one microsecond. Maybe he will remember that one English teacher, who was usually a terrible person, was kind to him that one time. Maybe he will give himself a break, and talk to someone when he is lonely.

On the surface, he’s a troubled kid, bad news, and steals time and energy from his teacher and classmates. At 10 years old, I see a lonely little boy. I hope he finds someone to talk to. So I wrote this poem.