TRAVELOGUE (BLUES CHORUS#32)

TRAVELOGUE (BLUES CHORUS#32)

Pale red sun rising

waterly–an eastern expanse

of purple sage and scrub pine

starting to shimmer in the desert morning…

Fresh yellow and green buds, still moist

from the cool night, on the pine

betray the desolation beyond–an “Indian” reservation,

sun-scorched shanties, bleached bones of graveyard cars and trucks…

A small untidy blight

lodged between the highway billboards

for turquoise and onyx trading posts

just ahead…

 

 

A nation in motion–

the past Sunday the sleek cabined semis

were lined up a dozen deep

at the “Love’s” truck stop…

On the four Interstate lanes of new asphalt

RV’s whiz by in tinted glass

and air-conditioned isolation.

In the neat rows of pumps, our Volvo–

its rear cross-hatched with feminist bumper stickers–

seems quaint…

Earlier we rolled past

casino after casino–

monuments to possibility–

however long shot it may be.

Semis and RV’s filled the parking lots

(like worker bees around an artificial honeycomb)…

Dropping down through Nevada,

the sun danced along

the straight line of tarmac

stretched to the horizon…

Not much on either side

except square-holed, weed-filled ghosts,

vacant reminders

of Westward Ho!

Las Vegas itself

resplendent with sprawling new

subdivision after subdivision.

Plenty of newly prosperous–

perhaps our country’s “non-believers”

paying homage

at the alter

of that roulette Wheel of Fortuna…

A t Santa Fe we skipped

the merchant’s Canyon, with its

exquisitely crafted turquoise and silver,

in favor of the Georgia O’Keefe museum. Inside

the time-wrinkled sandstone hills about us–

dotted with green pine, log and peach-tinted adobe houses–

were transformed by the soft blends of her colorful vision

into vulvas, a desert abloom with delicate wildflowers…

Winding along the Rio Grande,

amongst sun-darkened boulders and skree,

we arrive in magical Taos.

Sitting in the legendary Rainbow Room–

in overstuffed chairs beneath a crooked bamboo ceiling,

the one time literary sanctuary

cool and still inside the huge, hogan-like walls,

still pregnant with philosophical conversation, I wonder

Where have all the Mabel Dodge’s gone?…

D owntown, the galleries full of knock-off O’Keefe’s,

the cute stores full of expensive curios,

the over-priced atmospheric restaurants

fail to garner our attention.

So we drive out the legendary roustabout

Kit Carson’s Way–on the steep hills around us

tall jack pines, poplars beginning to blaze

with early gold…

Here and there, amidst the big modern

art and pottery studios–

and the “Moon Valley” RV Park

(a broad flat patch of crushed granite

next to the new golf course)

sit rusted-yellow school buses

tucked into nooks and crannies

of someone’s notion of a homestead…

In the rear window of one

hangs tattered

rainbow shards

of a shade…

 

 

D eep in the National Forest

we camp for the night

at a trailhead

beneath a dark expanse breathtaking with stars.

In the morning, walking the frost-glazed trail,

I see three huge black crows take flight–one turning

in the mountain-blue air above. As if arcing

protective wings, towards the mist of the valley below…