Knocking on my door: Charlie Calgary is here!
His clothes in tatters, upper lip bleeding.
With tenderness my mother welcomes him. He looks
at me knowingly, pretending to tear.
Trickery! Always bluffing till they bring
Something free. He's among the youngest crooks.
She gives him dinner and one of my toys.
"Count your blessings", she counsels me. I frown,
flip Charlie the bird, get sent to my room.
This is the same game he often employs.
Later on, mother's in her evening gown,
Charlie's gone. I sweep the porch with a broom.
The day finishes. It's dark. Quite quickly
the starlight shows --- walking off carelessly, save
knowledge of wounding and cruel, fleeting thought ---
that sadistic boy Charlie Calgary,
whom my misled, well-meaning mother gave
stuffed-chicken dinners, new toys that she'd bought.

Road Trip: Thinking it's about time (find yourself within II)

This particular poem was born as a one line response to a message.  But in many other forms, half written, it exists still, un, unfinished, waiting for the next burst energy, the next holiday time, to reach a new finish line.

This is a different but similar to a poem posted on June 2nd, "Poetry Round (find your self within)"

Any error of omission is unintentional, but know that this took many hours, until fatigue won. If you never told or revealed to me your location, know that you will be called out, to and unto me, in another poem, called "your banner is my flag."

Fact about me:  You design me.
-------------------------------------------------------

th­inking it's about time for a road trip.

create an excuse
(reasons, I got a plenty)
to stop by,
to show you another side of me,
for a drink, a meal,
and some kind
of exchange, of
form and fluids,
manner to be determined.

to come to Minneapolis,
watch you create a heated sensuality,
verbally, from melted snowdrifts,
a hot time to be had
by all the poets
of the mini-apple,
I want to meet
and celebrate ann victory.

travel to Thiruvananthapuram,
tour the treasures
of gold and diamonds,
from whence come
the bejeweled poems,
that have earned visits from
thousands upon thousands,
pilgrims, devotees, followers,
to partake at that, his,
special temple.

Gomer, Gomer,  & MJJ,
I am in your Florida,
no, sorry, not in Ocala,
near to your homer,
and I feel you springer
ten times in the
November sun rays,
that have me locked
in a full Nelson,
your productivity,
endless,
a sea of orange sunburnt words,

Tennessee,
The Carolinas,
Georgia,
The South,
I rise with it,
now, again,
that I will need a slow
sunny all lazy summer long to
learn y'alls ways,
see the wolves,
in your forests,
helm the riverboats,
navigate the quaint tides
of Charleston,
the special places
where they heal, le ville,
where the ashes of
burnt children,
retuned to be whole.

learn y'alls ways,
walk in your boots,
of seeing poems
using your special
southern saber words.

missed the original
Thrilla-in-Manila,
but rest easy, assured,
that hotbed of creativity,
where I check the
PH of the mc waters
to comprehend its
wisdom and now, it's sadness,
will be an illustrious destination
on my itinerant itinerary,
stopping by Makati City,
after all,
it is writ in the good book,
this island,
the PhilippineS,
is the birthplace
of the letter S,
Samples: samson, sally,
and So many others?

in Nevada City,
which is of course in
krazy California,
wager philosophy, romance,
be available for
succinctly seeing
works in progress,
from which I
will imbibe,
so **** deeply,
may have to
stay awhile for...

while I am there,
will need to do
a search and
Hug Mission,
to find a special man,
his unkempt prose,
his mortal rhymes
disguise not his holy worth,
even to the grassy
cal-stratosphere,
to the mesosphere,
will I high fly,
to find his sweetest spot,
then and thereafter
going looking
further on to
Humboldt County.

in Leeds, in West Yorkshire,
(Hamphshirians, Northamptontonians,
patience please)
built foundries and factories
over the magical forest of Loidis,
near to the river Aire,
yet still hides a
magical sorceress of words,
casting spells over
men and beast.
no one has seen full
her half-turned away face,
but when she summons,
do I have a choix
other than obey?
even if I get lost,
my sorceress,
you know,
I am on way too.

to get there,
will fly I must,
to Heathrow hell,
will do it,
just for you,
faithful friend,
a man da gotta do, what
a man gotta do...for you,
but first a stop off at the
London School of Economics,
Hampstead as well,
for a tutorial about sonnets,
or sams in wells,
even if I come
in my bare feet.

even in New York Upstate,
a man da gotta do,
what he mulls over in his heart,
be not surprised at a knock upon
your door, to make comparative notes,
about each other's tattoos.

in the South African veld,
hid in the highland grasses,
crouches the poetesses and tigresses,
waiting to ambush you
with words that must be seen
to be heard, to be well understood.
perhaps I'll come at ester time,
under blue indigo skies over,
a golden landscape,
seizing all the gems
that can be seen
only at 3:00am

leeward,
north to Canada,
must I, transgress,
country of my momma's birth,
fly from Montreal to Toronto, Calgary
then over to Vancouver.
Canada,
a dangerous place for me,
cause there are beautiful
souls up there,
and maybe even a
warrant to
repossess mine,
they want their
poets back.

double down by ferry,
me to Seattle,
to see a man about river,
in the Pacific Northwest,
where I have happily
drowned so many times,
that The Lord is complaining,
am hogging all the baptismal waters,
but when reminded that
nothing lasts forever,
here tomorrow,
gone today, walk on,
I add my tears
to that river,
before hitting the road.

on that river,
gonna drive me a kayak,
down Daytonway,
on the Yamill River,
see a gyreene marine,
watching me do a beach landing,
in Willamette Wine Park.
he will teach me to salute,
I will teach him how to
shake hands,
and learn from him,
it's ok,
to stand down.

man o' man
there are a lots of poets,
in these here parts,
this grand
Pacific North West,
looking for one in particular,
who will be quite easy to spot,
as he is my very own
soul brother.

will be easy to find,
though we have never met,
he will be on his kayak,
I on mine,
tho when he paddles,
somehow he manages
to hold
never letting go
of, his lovely bride,
his best half's hands.

this will a problem,
for I must teach him how to
shake two handed souls,
while hugging and paddling,
even bailing,
with an old dented pail
simultaneous.
but you can teach old dogs
new tricks, even the ones,
that can't spell
rhymers.

have mercie on me Ohio,
like a mother has to her daughter,
done a three year sentence in Cleveland,
but no jail can hold an NYC boy,
but if requested, yes I will return
to set fire to the *Cuyahoga,
again! he he he...
but do not s mock me!
(now you know why the FBI loves
my poetry, my biggest institutional fan).

souls in torment,
where you be,
where you hide,
matters not where
you physical reside,
for we have found
each other
in each other words.

You, who live in
your very own
personal hell,
I think we met there,
because
yours was
mine too,
tho not found
on any map.

maybe I will meet the
Empress Josephine Maria,
rowing on the canals of
the Netherlands,
no longer will she be
alone.

but then again, some
very special things,
like
the purest of love
are on no map,
they are everywhere.

while in India,
will seek the many musings of many lips
of aged rhyme men
and complicated charmers
so I may kiss them
with spiced humors
to pour and pour,
more and more,
upon this western soul,
mysteries of the east,
to Kashmir, Bangalore,
wherever I must,
even take a praDip in the Ganges,
I will go, find you,
un-hide you,
among the
teeming millions,
millions of
jokes and rhymes,
that make the
world spin brighter.

in Germany,
all the university students
speak English,
in Wiesbaden, they know
poetic beauty is not in the format,
some in Bamberg,
with a peculiar
Missouri accent,
which is nicht gut Englisch,
so study hard the real way,
speak the language
the new yorka way,
which will require
study abroad,
which is quite funny,
now that I think about it.

but in Mo.,
the native drums roll,
long and slow,
making words
I know
better, different,
in a way never saw before,
leaves me asking for,
mo', mo', please?

to get there, to Allemagne,
land of my forefathers,
a ship I will take,
from Southampton
across the Kiel Canal,
before I depart,
will have my hair cut,
my words reworked,
by her Ladyship,
whose keen eyes and
maternal instincts,
see the joy of life in every
Livvi little thing.

Watt am I going to do if
I need to find a Tecumseh,
taker of my naked poems,
and enlarger of them,
so truth by her,
all revealed,
we are all naked
at least,
twice a day?

In Nepal I will purr at the words
gleaned from the markets and
train stations where
voyages from Lalitpur to Katmandu,
start and end,
where there is a miracle almost
sixteen years young,
where they call their schools
future stars and little angels,
so why should poetic miracles not be
as common as its subtropical clime?

though I despise the
Dallas Cowboys,
not my  America's team,
nonetheless there is a young woman,
a true rose of Texas,
who waits and writes
so lovingly of her airman,
in Afghanistan, I have placed
their names first,
in my nighttime prayers,
hoping to be there,
schedule my visit,
to witness his safe return
and their
joyous reunification.

there are no Mayans in Maine,
but poets of similar name,
kould be, mae be,
Julia's in Jersey, new,
in Auckland,
there are poets
who don't know it,
and Down Under, too,
where getting high is easy,
getting high at
and on words
well marshaled ,
but **** sure I will be
peering and prring,
all the way.

Oregon,
don't be gone,
those wide eyes shut,
when I come by,
who knows when I
will pass this way again...
on my way to Phoenix,
where sunrayes bend to the
desires of dessert breezes.

Kentucky to Korea,
one long road to travel,
but middle son,
if you can do it,
so can I, and,
I will follow.

in a beautiful city,
unsurprisingly called
Belleville,
the leader of the band,
still leads us in belle 'noise'
and when he finishes
fall leafing us in song, he still,
rises up in the mid of dark,
prayerful haikus to write.

off to Rogers, Arkansas
to meet an Italian from Mexico
who specializes in skinny poems,
something one day I will be too.

maybe I will go to
places it snows,
there are so many,
but your photo,
and tattoo trail,
clues, will follow,
no matter how hard
you make it a mystery.

you, who live in just
the world,
don't even think,
that crazy dotted lines,
unstraight,
or huge plains,
are sufficient,
to hide your
moody dust trail
from me!

somewhere in the USA,
roses grow in ground
that needs the
watering of tears,
though this place
is hard to find,
ha, turn around,
that is me,
tapping you,
on the shoulder!

will find you,
as I am searching for
a lovely pair
of stockinged ankles,
each with a heart tattoo,
but I sure could use
a clue,
before this hobbit searches
all the shire,
derby hatted,
to find your
heart real, and the real you...

my mode of time travel?
why I am just
a dude on a rocket ship.

Wisconsin,
look for my ruby message
in the snow,
in the dust,
in the sand, the skies, the sea,
but will you answer me?

Pittsburgh,
patient, you've been,
you thought I forgot
all about you,
chimera  at the intersection
of three rivers,
all you need wonder,
upon which one
will my ship arrive
and why you still disbelieve
you are not a poetess!

ME oh my,
you too, a hidey hole got,
but, we are strange, we humans,
we would gladly bleed to please,
If we could but find
a combination of
new words that
would your heart gladden,
your eyes tear,
your lips wear,
a smile of pleasure
at our offerings poetic!
but still I know not,
the where!

Lagos,
where
I shall climb the tallest skyscraper,
calling out in Yoruba,
where is my Temitope?
where is mine,
worthy of thanksgiving
so I may carry my Popoola,
my pole of her of
written wealth?

Mombasa, Singapore,
Maryland, Rhode Island, Kentucky,
Huddersfield, Connecticut Joe, Ireland,
South Dakota,
where the merry elders
well ken somethings
about a moon and tattered clouds,
something about children and dogs,
and something about letting
tomorrow's wait.

Milwaukee, Atlanta,
chuck, in *PA., friend to all,
to all those scattered across these
United States of America.

can we dare not mention
"The Shaq" of Malaysia,
South Sudan, Pakistan,
of course not!

Suburbia,
beautiful, black San Diego, Detroit;

The BBB's -

British Columbia, Brazil, Breendonk, and
B'kara!
the goodness of *Boston,
flipping out in Flipadelphia,

did you think I would forget ya?

those of you hiding among 64 stars,
the groves of L.A',
on the lanes,
the special land of I-sia-Bella,
fellow citizens of Neverland,
those of you 'at home,'
in the land of nightmares,
concrete boxes,
those who post without a doubt,
and in the box,
this who think your birth year
is an identifying mark, not,
you never fooled me,
will visit each and everyone.

even and especially,
the grays of crosstown
NYC,
the red writers of my hood,
the tylers too.

I am exhausted,
forgive me well,
if thy locale,
I did not explicate,
for the hour is very late.

yet thru subtle fissures
in the clouds,
look for a tired old man
on the wings of a
chariot drawn by angels,
bringing you a dictionary
full of new words,
a present for you,
but truly,
a present to himself
for from it,
your future poems
will come.

*but the sun has come up,
so now I sleep.

George Merle had to take a trip to Calgary for a medical assessment at the bidding of his union. He had to be there June 24th at 9:00 a.m. to se a Dr. Paul Darlington. George was apprehensive to say the least.

George made a booking at a motel close to the clinic. He also made a booking to fly from Regina to Calgary the evening of the 23rd.
He arrived in Calgary and took a cab to the motel near the clinic. He made himself comfortable in his room and tuned on the T.V. Around 10:00 p.m. the evening began to drag and things were getting pretty boring.
He left the comfort of his room and went out into the cool crisp night air for a stroll. He passed an all night tavern. He went in, sat down and ordered a coke.
Inside the dimly lit tavern he met a man whose name was Blakie. Blakie was dressed in,  you guessed it, black. he had a full black bear, wore a black leather jacket, and a black New Jersey Devil's peaked cap.
Blackie told George a few food jokes and they became fast friends. Blackie said he was from the Mission down the street, also they would go there later for a bite to eat. He then ordered George a drink.
When the drink arrived Blackie paid for it. George sipped the drink, it tasted good so he drank it down. The affect the drink had on him was devastating. The music became deafening, the room spun, strove lights flashed all around him. Blackie suggested the go outside for some fresh air.

Once outside, George stumbled in the street. Blackie grabbed him, kept him from hitting the ground, but at the same time surreptitiously stole his wallet. They stumbled down the street to a poorly lit doorway that read Mission of Lost Souls.

They reached a plateau and a door that said Belfry. He had the dry heaves then opened the door. The door to the belfry creaked open. His eyes took a minute to adjust to the light of the moon. There was a huge raven sitting, staring at him atop a 4x4 crosspiece that supported the bell.
Then an eerie voice that seemed to come from nowhere said, "What is your name, why have you come here?"

"My name is George, I have come to find a better way of life."
The raven began to caw loudly as if laughing at him. It flapped its wings and took off. It flew wildly right through one of the stained glass windows. There was a loud crash and scream that cried, "You will forget?"
Once again the eerie voice said, "What is your name, why have you come here?" He could not remember his own name. He was completely perplexed and mumbled, "I don't know.
He returned to the Mission of Lost Souls and thereafter became known as "Ralph." The Mission of Lost Souls had claimed its 617th victim, George Merle never made it to his appointment with Dr. Paul Darlington in Calgary on the 24th.

Before that August--

(strange month                                        echo)--

bloomed in the east
sunrise bomb                                           sunset dawn

you sometimes
                                                                   rose
(unbidden)

to the surface
of my mind.

These were some of my triggers:

Calgary                                                     (always Calgary)
me too
Christmastime.

And all the times                                     you attempted
to reach out to me

(sucker punch                                          sleep ****).

And then that August--

(good mornin'                                         bombshell)

the news--
for shame.

For I had fallen for the lie
(while you talked all the while
                                                                 in your human voice).

So you like 'em young.
So you like it rough.

August sun                                            beat me down.

It took this glaring
of a light

to show me
the darkest                                             of men's natures--

and that I knew them
intimately.

Greyhound station the midnight customs man
goes through my backpack looking
for a glock or **** I guess; instead
he pulls out Thich Nhat Hanh's
Teachings On Love.

You teaching love?
says he; I say

learning it

Love of mine
Someday you will die
But I'll be close behind
I'll follow you into the dark

No blinding light
Or tunnels, to gates of white
Just our hands clasped so tight
Waiting for the hint of a spark

If Heaven and Hell decide that they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs
If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark

Catholic school, as vicious as Roman rule
I got my knuckles bruised by a lady in black
I held my tongue as she told me, son
Fear is the heart of love, so I never went back

If Heaven and Hell decide that they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs
If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark

You and me have seen everything to see
From Bangkok to Calgary
The soles of your shoes are all worn down
The time for sleep is now
It's nothing to cry about
Cause we'll hold each other soon
The blackest of rooms

If Heaven and Hell decide that they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs
If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark

I'll follow you into the dark

I try and dream of fields of green,
from my prairie childhood.
But it doesn't come so easy,
midst these fields of mud and blood.

Six months ago in a Calgary inn,
we sat drinking on the benches,
now here we are as winter comes,
slowly rotting in the trenches.

King George he called,
and we all stood up,
proud young Canadian men.
It seemed like a big adventure,
at least it did back then.

But here we sit in Flanders Field,
slowly drowning day by day,
a mind can't help but escape and think,
there must be a better way.

I write this now so in years to come,
you'll know about this day.
The world will know of Passchendaele,
and of the price we paid.

If I should fall and die today,
tell my mother I fought well.
Take me home to Canada,
don't leave me in this hell.

In admittance,
In ecstasy,
In guilt and in anxiety,
In the gutters of Yuexiu,
The plains of Tamaulipas,
My precious mountain top
Near Calgary,
Or this flat, honeycombed and
High above Kyoto neon,
I’ve finally lost;

I surrender.

I surrender to –

Wave a white flag in comfort,
In defeat, and a first, when I warm,
Come this newer blanket,
Whilst we dance,
Come a first smile, decades, and
Finally to fathom,
“Embrace,” eternity, this
Hold opposed pierced when –
Swords eventually rust,
But fields forever bloom.

It’s the end of business as usual
The Lord will strike the nations soon

Multitudes in the valley of decision
And many will die
If you know the Lord Jesus
You know why

These are the judgements just before
The great and terrible Day of the Lord

Isaiah 17 soon to be fulfilled
Lord God Almighty will strike the nations
He doesn’t care about your vacation

Seek Him now why you still can
Yeshua of Nazareth
Is the world’s redeemer and that perfectly righteous God man

Normalcy bias is prevalent everywhere
Many don’t pay attention
Or even care..

It’s the end of seventieth year since Israel became a nation
Yes, we are that fig tree generation
Multitudes of lukewarm in America and across the world
Some think they can decide if they are a boy or a girl..

Manchild of God will soon be caught away
That is what will happen on that great and terrible day
For the faithful bride of Christ are not appointed to wrath
You won’t like life under antichrist Obama
It will be a blood bath

Black eyed Francis putting together his one world religion
But he speaks filthy lies
It was his decision
To become the false prophet of history

Joel 3:18 mentions that the foundations of the earth do shake
Revelation 6:12 mentions this great quake
The sun will be black
Moon as blood red
The earth will be strewn about with the lost dead

Seeing it is a righteous thing with God to recompense tribulation
To them that trouble you;
And to you who are troubled rest with us..... (II Thessalonians 2:6-8)
Pack your bags and don’t miss the bus

The spiritual 144,000 of Israel
Those first fruits of the barley harvest
Will be taken to a place of safety soon
We will return to spread the gospel of Lord Jesus Christ by June

Or around that time
The summer being the time of Shavuot
Leviticus 23 is a parallel and we can see
That the bride of Christ Jesus has reached a critical time in history

It begins with “when he came into the land”
An allusion to that place of safety the Lord has prepared
For the bride, a place for us to hide,
For we are the eternal enemies of the dragon and the dark side
Read Revelation 12 if you want to know what will occur soon

Signs in the heavens last few years
And seven consecutive blood moons
Showing perfect symmetry
The Lord has placed them as signals
So you can see
That Jesus is the eternal God of history

5 g networks sprouting up across the globe
And instantaneous connectivity
It’s not all it’s cracked up to be

Great deception is coming soon
On the day of the blood red moon
Joel 3:21 says the Lord will punish the host
Of high ones that are on high
Nephilim will come with their ships
Out of the sky
Yes they have the ability to take on the form of human beings
But things are not what they seem
Do not be fooled
They are not the creators of man
But they will be spewing this nonsense
That is their wicked plan

Out of their ships come multicolored lights
The lost are drawn like moths
What a terrible sight
And they will return with the mark of the beast as well
A sure ticket to hell

It’s all about control
Satan wants your soul
In this prison planet
Jesus Christ of Nazareth is the only way
Repent of your sins and turn to him today

The mark of the beast will corrupt human DNA
Introducing genetic material of the fallen ones
Across the nation
You won’t here this on your local station

FEMA camps are good to go
Marshall Law will soon be here in America
Don’t you know?
First it will start with civil war
And who are you fighting for?
Come off the fence
Call on Lord Jesus while you can
He is the all powerful God man
Who paid the price for your sins on the tree at Calgary

There is no political solution
To a spiritual problem

Trump is the spiritual forerunner of the one to come
And I guarantee you he’s not a lot of fun
Noahide laws will be in place across the globe soon

Trump will divide Israel
And the Lord will divide the USA
This land and other nations
Have a price to pay
For their wickedness and sin
“Timber” says the Lord Jesus
America is a tree that rots from  within

And you know the worldwide economy
Is a house of cards
A final collapse to the American dollar soon to come
The FED will print and print
Inflation is not fun....

You won’t want to be here for great tribulation
At the midpoint, the antichrist sets up the abomination of desolation
It’s the image of the beast
That will be in the Temple of God
Literal and physical too
Don’t bow down to the image
Really not good for you...
For out of its mouth comes a laser beam

The nations were crying “peace and safety” in February 2019
But things are not what they seem
Tensions with Israel and Iran’s proxies running high
Now rockets fired at Aleppo soar through the sky
Damascus will be a ruinous heap
Do you know about the Lord and the promises He keeps?
He is the Word of God Faithful and True
And he shed His perfect blood for you

Repent and turn to Him today
And join the army of the Lord is what I say

Ezekiel 38:18,19 and Ezekiel 39:6-8
Tell the story of the Lord striking Russia, Turkey, and Iran
These and other nations that come against Israel
Will be destroyed by God
It is his plan
The Day of the Lord will begin
On that day

Warning, warning....
This is a short time away

Well, gentlemen, it all came together in the end there as
you will see when you study the game film later on. You
will notice that we controlled the line of scrimmage during
the entire second half, which is what turned the whole thing
around after falling behind. The way that we mixed it up on
offense, there was no telling where we were going to attack
from. That is what we have struggled with all year long. We
have been inconsistent, to say the least. But I’m sure that you
would all agree that we are starting to jell at just the right time.
Now, after a rough start to the season, it’s on to the playoffs.
Now is when we really need to focus, or it will be “one-and-out”
time. I can guarantee you one thing and one thing only. This
club has yet to reach its full potential. If we can just bang on all
four cylinders from here on out, then we might make a pretty
****** good run at this puppy. Frankly, I’m looking forward to
the challenge; I know that our guys are. They’ve worked their
butts off all year long. Forget about the record. I’ve never been
a real big fan of statistics. There are other factors involved at this
point in the season. It’s been a pleasure, folks. It’s been a long
time coming, and I am sure that this will not be our last rodeo.
Or is it last song and dance? Well, you know. We’ve got more
bulls to ride, and this is going to be like the Calgary Stampede
now. It’s time to saddle up and to man up; that’s all. Giddy up.
Punch them doggies and call in the cavalry. We have arrived!

She’s gone! The nurses came today
and carted Mother far away
to give me peace to kneel and pray
before the cross
Don’t think me harsh if I should say
she’s no great loss!

That endless screeching banshee wail
can carry on to no avail
the staff will hear but surely they’ll
not bend like me
And now I’ve peace to find the trail
to Calgary

Oh holy vision, cruelly slain
Your endless love is not in vain
I pray and understand the pain
of sacrifice
for no reward (except to reign
in Paradise).

Such selflessness I can but follow
(not like that ***** who’d lie and wallow
spit the pills she had to swallow,
curse and choke
Think yesterday would buy tomorrow -
some ******’ hope!)

Take her diploma off the wall
what it was for I can’t recall
she never needed it at all
the lazy bizzim
But come - and heed the joyful call
the Christ is risen!

You had beautiful eyes
not that I noticed at first
first thing I saw was your feet

worn out black running shoes shuffling down the isle
fleece pajama pants with Calgary Flames logos all over
though it was pushing 30 degrees outside
and felt as if you could squeeze warm drops of water from the air

looking up as you stopped
blue and orange plaid criss crossed a winter jacket
despite the weather

your skin was tanned, not orange
you smelled of shampoo and vanilla lotion

watching as you pulled out cherry lip gloss
ran slender fingers over your shaved head

that was when you looked up... as if you knew

I'd been staring

I thought of a thousand reactions
you gave the only one I hadn't expected

then I noticed your eyes
just as the light came thought the window

they were brown, or maybe more like honey
fragmented emeralds drifting though them

you smiled and said nothing

not that you needed too
it was one of those moment that was better without words
would have been tarnished by them

where everything stopped completely and all I could think was

...wow...

nothing else happened to disturb that second
it just stretched on
no one else moved
or made a sound

I knew then that you were one of those people
you lit rooms with a glance
the one that others were drawn to
fell in love with

even if you didn't love them back
and wrote beautiful things about

I couldnt help but smile back
you were contagious
beautiful

the train stopped
you left

I stayed
and watched

watched you watching me through the window
smiling as though you had heard my thoughts

you knew I had really seen you
I understood

I would never see you again
our meeting was chance
but all the same

for just a second
I was in love
with a beautiful stranger

your lips
became
the inside of
       a music note,

your mind
mapping out my
life.

good
         night.
and dream
of me;

or don't.

What is this poison,
that dims hope like light in a room,
caked with cigarette smoke?

The sour bath of sins
that spoils the fertility of our souls,
like the black sap,
clogging the crimson holes in our conscience.

What is this medication
that murmurs obediently in the tunnels
of your flesh like a blind fly trapped in an hourglass?

The thick soup that sinks the dredged
pulse of life as it croaks and awakens in
hesitation
for the next perpetual dawn.

A sign tacked like an eviction notice in the skulls
of your dreams, telling them:
“I’m sorry Sir, but for this magnitude of pain,
there is no cure.”

And still like an earthquake, death
trembles at your fingertips like an
old, worn man— asking, perpetually,
“When’s the next train to Calgary?”

I have not the guts to tell him
the smoke has held me
captive
all this time.

*2011

I had a lover in Calgary
who used to paint the mountains.
She was all words
and no ***, and so I was bound
to hurt her eventually.

I had a lover in Monteverde.
We would take the sky walk to the clouds
and lighten heads with wine.
I could never stand out from the beauty
that surrounded us.

I had a lover in Chernobyl
who used to collect children's shoes.
She was all memory
and no life, living in the fallout
of love and love's decay.

I had a lover in Alice Springs.
We would **** and drink in her shanty house
and argue through till morn.
I could never stand the sight of sorrow
and aboriginal rust.

I had a lover in every country.
They kept me from the sports news with gifts
of poets and good music.
For all the kindness they had offered,
I never had a speck to give in return.

Jesus as you hung with arms outstretched

Even as you were rejected time and time again

Somehow you loved us so much that you would give your life

Unconditional unsurpassed love would win

Sin couldn’t hold you, death had lost its power


Over and over you showed us love

Nailed on a cross between two thieves


Three days later you came back

Hell could not hold you; Heaven rejoiced

Everyone could not believe so easily


Carrying that cross to Calgary I can’t imagine

Ridiculed, beaten, ripped and torn

Our sins you took upon yourself

So that we might have new life; so that we might be:

S**AVED

You got a face not spoiled by joy
I've got some burns from fire by trials
You got blindfolds that can see right through me
You're not afraid of a requiem
I was told that I would feel nothing the first time
I don't know how these burns heal
But in you I found the time

If there is a light you can't always feel
And there is a veil we can't always heal
And there is teal we shouldn't doubt
And there it's alright, it won't go out

And this is a poem, poem for someone
This is a poem, poem for someone

You let me into the lyrics
A song only we could make
You break and enter my imagination
Whatever's in there it's yours to take
I was told I'd feel nothing the first time
You were slow to heal but this could be the night

If the night is alight
And the world can't see
If you are dark, angel
I'll be the light, it won't ever go out

And this is a song, song for someone
This is a song, a song for someone

And I'm a long way from Spy Hill of Calgary
And I'm a long way from where I was but I need it to be
If there is a blindfold you can't always see
And there is a world we can always be
If there is a kiss I stole as Logan
And there is a dark, don't let it go out

It's 2 a.m.here in Calgary,
I'm sitting on my bed thinking,
I have an English quiz today,
I studied for it,
But of course my anxiety has to come along,
I'm thinking of all the possible outcomes and future of either passing or failing the test,
The numbers so far 5:129
(No don't worry the 129 is the failure side, I told you so that you don't have to ask which ones which),
It's 2 a.m. and I have come up with 134 possible outcomes of this test and my parents make me take sleeping pills that I dump in the toilet,
I drink a lot of coffee and energy drinks,
But I'm still thinking tossing and turning physically and mentally,
Then you wonder why do you have to continue this way,
Then this depression thing comes in and makes my anxiety worse,
Causing a melt down.

It's 2:01 a.m.

The special one!!

Mother full
of joy
when seeing her
baby boy
she knew he
was special
a shining crescent
above his head

She saw the future in
his eyes
love exuded from
this little child
he would never
be allowed
to run wild
so much kindness
they would
scorn an' revile

The star in the
sky alight
shining down upon
this eventful night
the sight of three
wise men
their caps did doth
furnished the child
with rare gifts
frankincense and mirth

As son of god he
walked on water
performed miracles
giving a blind
man sight
they came for him
in the night
nailed him to a cross
at Calgary

In the cave they
laid him to rest
never thinking
he would ever
rise again
upon morning no
stone in sight
just an empty cave
to fill their gaze
fact is he went to
his father
where he still
resides today
lighting our way.

Sunset shrinking behind you,
the silhouette of your nose and your chin and the open
crook of your mouth chasing daylight
in reverse.

“I have seen the movement of the sinews of the sky, And the blood coursing in the veins of the moon.”
– Allama Iqbal


In September,
the harvest moon,
named by the Algonquin people.

A gift to the earth;
endowed for corn, beans, squash, sunflowers,
and received in bright
thankfulness.

When, finally, the time arrives
for an autumn moon
to take its place between the earth and sun,
swooping as close to earth
as bright fireflies filling the sky.
Lunar scheduling;
a time to deliver scoops of light to
the shadowy earth.

Human faces staring upward
at the inky sky.
Stars dimmed by the golden moon
that shines on prairies, sand, on city streets;
glowing its song of moonlight;
offering a nocturne to the silent ground.

Each upturned face,
waiting to be christened with moonlight;
a conduit of heavenly fire
that moves from face to face circling
in contra dance around the rocky earth.

And each up tilted face
in Calgary and Cairo, Belarus and Brazil,
rhymes with golden light.

As the moon glow wanes above, it waxes here below;
endowing our faces with moonlight, a celestial loan,
leaving the moon with only orange and red,
while September yellow clings to us on earth.

The sound of light brushing our faces,
settling into place,
with sweetness of chamomile,
fragrant with the end of summer.
Whispers of the autumn equinox,
and the earth keeping promises.

Soon we must return
the borrowed lightening,
the buttery splash,
to the orange-red moon.

And we pay.
Not with regret,
but gladly.
All we who have seen the hushing of the moon;
we hold forever in the particles that make ourselves,
the seeds of moonlight.

Pieces of the moon.

There was another brother whom history forgets
And though born a fisherman, he preferred other nets.
The coterie of rink rats who lived on the Left Coast
Thought he was sine qua non, and they would often boast
He’s better than his brother Joe,
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.

His slapper had heat to make a goalie wet himself;
His wrister was money either five-hole or top-shelf.
After the goaltender felt another puck **** by,
He’d curse and bang the crossbar as fans took up the cry
He’s better than his brother Joe,
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.

He dominated rinks out West like no other man
From Calgary to Saskatoon, Fresno to Spokane.
He’d hat tricks in Winnipeg, six-point games in Moose Jaw
Moving scribes to hackneyed verse written in fits of awe.
He’s better than his brother Joe,
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.

Though the man was a fine skater, strong, agile and fleet
The slightest flaw in the ice caused anguish to his feet
And he would scold arena crews—What’d you call this mush?
‘Tis nothing but chips and ruts; I’d rather skate on slush!
(More prickly than his brother Joe,
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gio.)

After one match in Oakland on ice unduly rough
He stormed into the locker room, shouting ‘Nuff’s enough!
He didn’t change his sweater as he stormed out the door,
Hopping on a trolley car, to be seen never more
(He’s a bit loony, don’t you know.
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.)

He was sighted in the Yukon, once or perhaps twice
Engaged in some mad mission to find the perfect ice.
Neither man nor beast can say what became of this fool,
Though bits of skate lace appear in petrified bear stool
(Tastes better than his brother Joe?
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.)

On the last step there's a notice that points out that time is slipping by, it all depends on where you are or if the light is ripping you and did you ever notice that a notice never sees you and the ocean falls beneath me as I take my first steps forward where the compass reading takes me to another chapter pointing me back home.

Fortune tastes like silver in your hair when there is moonlight and your fame was spread like marmalade on billboards so they bought you and you ended up in Calgary where wise men sought your company but each man stands against the walls when winds whip up and gather in the last of winter harvests and the ears of corn are pulling me back home.

In a minute which is nothing and a minute then that tells it where's the truth that we were promised, where's the hope that we were given, is the compass flying blindly, are the wills of gods against us, if the last step's the beginning, tell me where did we end up then when we started on the way here from back home?

Day #4: Cody To Saint Mary’s

After breakfast in the Irma’s great dining hall, I left Cody in the quiet stillness of a Saturday morning. The dream I had last night about Indian summer camps now pointed the way toward things that I could once again understand. If there was another road to rival, or better, the Beartooth Highway, it would be the one that I would ride this morning.

It was 8:45 a.m., and I was headed northwest out of Cody to The Chief Joseph Highway. It is almost impossible to describe this road without having ridden or driven over it at least once. I was the first motorcyclist to ever ride its elevated curves and valleys on its inauguration over ten years ago. It opened that day, also a Saturday, at eight, and I got there two hours early to make sure the flagman would position me at the front of the line. I wanted to be the first to go through while paying homage to the great Nez Perce Chief. I will forever remember the honor of being the first motorist of any kind to have gone up and over this incredible road.

The ascent, over Dead Indian Pass at the summit, reminded me once again that the past is never truly dead if the present is to be alive. The illusion of what was, is, and will be, is captured only in the moment of their present affirmation. The magic is in living within the confirmation of what is.

The Chief Joseph Highway was, and is, the greatest road that I have ever ridden. I have always considered it a great personal gift to me — being the first one to have experienced what cannot fully be described. Ending in either Cooke City or Cody, the choice of direction was yours. The towns were not as different from each other as you would be from your previous self when you arrived at either location at the end of your ride.

It turned severely in both directions, as it rose or descended in elevation, letting you see both ends from almost anywhere you began. It was a road for sure but of all the roads in my history, both present and before, this one was a metaphor to neither the life I had led, nor the life I seek. This road was a metaphor to the life I lead.

A metaphor to the life I lead

It teased you with its false endings, always hiding just one more hairpin as you corrected and violently pulled the bike back to center while leaning as hard as you could to the other side. While footpegs were dragging on both sides of the bike your spirit and vision of yourself had never been so clear. You now realized you were going more than seventy in a turn designed for maximum speeds of forty and below.

To die on this road would make a mockery of life almost anywhere else. To live on this roadcreated a new standard where risk would be essential, and, if you dared, you gambled away all security and previous limits for what it taught.

It was noon as I entered Cooke City again wondering if that same buffalo would be standing at Tower Junction to make sure that I turned right this time, as I headed north toward Glacier National Park. Turning right at Tower Junction would take me past Druid Peak and through the north entrance of Yellowstone at Mammoth Hot Springs and the town of Gardiner Montana. Wyoming and Montana kept trading places as the road would wind and unfold. Neither state wanted to give up to the other the soul of the returning prodigal which in the end neither could win … and neither could ever lose!

From Gardiner, Rt #89 curved and wound its way through the Paradise Valley to Livingston and the great open expanse of Montana beyond. The road, through the lush farmlands of the valley, quieted and settled my spirit, as it allowed me the time to reorient and revalue all the things I had just seen.

I thought about the number of times it almost ended along this road when a deer or elk had crossed my path in either the early morning or evening hours. I continued on both thankful and secure knowing in my heart that when the end finally came, it would not be while riding on two-wheels. It was something that was made known to me in a vision that I had years ago, and an assurance that I took not for granted, as I rode grateful and alone through these magnificent hills.

The ride to Livingston along Montana Rt.# 89 was dotted with rich working farms on both sides of the road. The sun was at its highest as I entered town, and I stopped quickly for gas and some food at the first station I found. There were seven good hours of daylight left, and I still had at least three hundred miles to go.

I was now more than an hour north of Livingston, and the sign that announced White Sulphur Springs brought back memories and a old warning. It flashed my memory back to the doe elk that came up from the creek-bed almost twenty years ago, brushing the rear of the bike and almost causing us to crash. I can still hear my daughter screaming “DAAAD,”as she saw the elk before I did.

I dropped the bike down a gear as I took a long circular look around. As I passed the spot of our near impact on the south side of town, I said a prayer for forgiveness. I asked to be judged kindly by the animals that I loved and to become even more visible to the things I couldn’t see.

The ride through the Lewis and Clark National Forest was beautiful and serene, as two hawks and a lone coyote bade me farewell, and I exited the park through Monarch at its northern end. There were now less than five hours of daylight left, and the East entrance to Glacier National Park at St. Mary’s was still two hundred miles away. An easy ride under most circumstances, but the Northern Rockies were never normal, and their unpredictability was another of the many reasons as to why I loved them so. Cody, and my conflicted feelings while there, seemed only a distant memory. Distant, but connected, like the friends and loved ones I had forgotten to call.

At Dupoyer Montana, I was compelled to stop. Not enticed or persuaded, not called out to or invited — but compelled! A Bar that had existed on the east side of this road, heading north, for as long as anyone could remember, Ranger Jacks, was now closed. I sat for the longest time staring at the weathered and dilapidated board siding and the real estate sign on the old front swinging door that said Commercial Opportunity. My mind harkened back to the first time I stopped into ‘Jacks,’ while heading south from Calgary and Lake Louise. My best friend, Dave Hill, had been with me, and we both sidled up to the bar, which ran down the entire left side of the interior and ordered a beer. Jack just looked at the two of us for the longest time.

It Wasn’t A Look It Was A Stare

Bearded and toothless, he had a stare that encompassed all the hate and vile within it that he held for his customers. His patrons were the locals and also those traveling to and from places unknown to him but never safe from his disgust. He neither liked the place that he was in nor any of those his customers had told him about.

Jack Was An Equal-Opportunity Hater!

He reminded both Dave and I of why we traveled to locations that took us outside and beyond what we already knew. We promised each other, as we walked back to the bike, that no matter how bad life ever got we would never turn out to be like him. Jack was both a repudiation of the past and a denial of the future with the way he constantly refused to live in the moment. He was physically and spiritually everything we were trying to escape. He did however continue to die in the moment, and it was a death he performed in front of his customers … over, and over, and over again.

As I sat on the bike, staring at the closed bar, a woman and her daughter got out of a car with Texas license plates. The mother smiled as she watched me taking one last look and said: “Are you going to buy it, it’s for sale you know?” I said “no, but I had been in it many times when it was still open.” She said: “That must have been a real experience” as she walked back to her car. It was a real experience back then for sure, and one that she, or any other accidental tourist headed north or south on Rt. #89, will never know. I will probably never regret going in there again, but I feel fortunate that I had the chance to do it those many times before.

Who Am I Kidding, I’d Do It Again In A Heartbeat

I would never pass through Dupoyer Montana, the town where Lewis and Clark had their only hostile encounter (Two Medicine Fight) with Indians, without stopping at Ranger Jacksfor a beer. It was one of those windows into the beyond that are found in the most unlikely of places, and I was profoundly changed every time that I walked in, and then out of, his crumbling front door. Jack never said hello or bid you goodbye. He just stared at you as something that offended him, and when you looked back at his dead and bloodshot eyes, and for reasons still unexplained, you felt instantly free.

In The Strangest And Clearest Of Ways … I’ll Miss Him

It was a short ride from Dupoyer to East Glacier, as the sun settled behind the Lewis Rangeshowing everything in its half-light as only twilight can. I once again thought of the Blackfeet and how defiant they remained until the very end. Being this far North, they had the least contact with white men, and were dominant against the other tribes because of their access to Canadian guns. When they learned that the U.S. Government proposed to arm their mortal enemies, the Shoshones and the Nez Perce, their animosity for all white invaders only heightened and strengthened their resolve to fight. I felt the distant heat of their blood as I crossed over Rt. #2 in Browning and said a quick prayer to all that they had seen and to a fury deep within their culture that time could not ****.

It was almost dark, as I rode the extreme curves of Glacier Park Road toward the east entrance from Browning. As I arrived in St Mary’s, I turned left into the Park and found that the gatehouse was still manned. Although being almost 9:00 p.m., the guard was still willing to let me through. She said that the road would remain open all night for its entire fifty-three-mile length, but that there was construction and mud at the very top near Logan Pass.

Construction, no guardrails, the mud and the dark, and over 6600 feet of altitude evoked the Sour Spirit Deity of the Blackfeet to come out of the lake and whisper to me in a voice that the Park guard could not hear “Not tonight Wana Hin Gle. Tonight you must remain with the lesser among us across the lake with the spirit killers — and then tomorrow you may cross.”

Dutifully I listened, because again from inside, I could feel its truth. Wana Hin Gle was the name the Oglala Sioux had given me years before, It means — He Who Happens Now.

In my many years of mountain travel I have crossed both Galena and Beartooth Passes in the dark. Both times, I was lucky to make it through unharmed. I thanked this great and lonesome Spirit who had chosen to protect me tonight and then circled back through the gatehouse and along the east side of the lake to the lodge.

The Desk Clerk Said, NO ROOMS!

As I pulled up in front of the St Mary’s Lodge & Resort, I noticed the parking lot was full. It was not a good sign for one with no reservation and for one who had not planned on staying on this side of the park for the night. The Chinese- American girl behind the desk confirmed what I was fearing most with her words … “Sorry Sir, We’re Full.”

When I asked if she expected any cancellations she emphatically said: “No chance,” and that there were three campers in the parking lot who had inquired before me, all hoping for the same thing. I was now 4th on the priority list for a potential room that might become available. Not likely on this warm summer weekend, and not surprising either, as all around me the tourists scurried in their pursuit of leisure, as tourists normally did.

I looked at the huge lobby with its two TV monitors and oversized leather sofas and chairs. I asked the clerk at the desk if I could spend the night sitting there, reading, and waiting for the sun to come back up. I reminded her that I was on a motorcycle and that it was too dangerous for me to cross Logan Pass in the dark. She said “sure,” and the restaurant stayed open until ten if I had not yet had dinner. “Try the grilled lake trout,” she said, “it’s my favorite for sure. They get them right out of St. Mary’s Lake daily, and you can watch the fishermen pull in their catch from most of our rooms that face the lake.”

I felt obligated to give the hotel some business for allowing me to freeload in their lobby, so off to the restaurant I went. There was a direct access door to the restaurant from the far corner of the main lobby where my gear was, and my waiter (from Detroit) was both terrific and fast. He told me about his depressed flooring business back in Michigan and how, with the economy so weak, he had decided a steady job for the summer was the way to go.

We talked at length about his first impressions of the Northern Rockies and about how much his life had changed since he arrived last month. He had been over the mountain at least seven times and had crossed it in both directions as recently as last night. I asked him, with the road construction, what a night-crossing was currently like? and he responded: “Pretty scary, even in a Jeep.” He then said, “I can’t even imagine crossing over on a motorcycle, in the dark, with no guardrails, and having to navigate through the construction zone for those eight miles just before the top.” I sat for another hour drinking coffee and wondered about what life on top of the Going To The Sun Road must be like at this late hour.

The Lake Trout Had Been More Than Good

After I finished dinner, I walked back into the lobby and found a large comfortable leather chair with a long rustic coffee table in front. Knowing now that I had made the right decision to stay, I pulled the coffee table up close to the chair and stretched my legs out in front. It was now almost midnight, and the only noise that could be heard in the entire hotel was the kitchen staff going home for the night. Within fifteen minutes, I was off to sleep. It had been a long ride from Cody, and I think I was more tired than I wanted to admit. I started these rides in my early twenties. And now forty years later, my memory still tried to accomplish what my body long ago abandoned.

At 2:00 a.m., a security guard came over and nudged my left shoulder. “Mr Behm, we’ve just had a room open up and we could check you in if you’re still interested.” The thought of unpacking the bike in the dark, and for just four hours of sleep in a bed, was of no interest to me at this late hour. I thanked him for his consideration but told him I was fine just where I was. He then said: “Whatever’s best for you sir,” and went on with his rounds.

My dreams that night, were strange, with that almost real quality that happens when the lines between where you have come from and where you are going become blurred. I had visions of Blackfeet women fishing in the lake out back and of their warrior husbands returning with fresh ponies from a raid upon the Nez Perce. The sounds of the conquering braves were so real that they woke me, or was it the early morning kitchen staff beginning their breakfast shift? It was 5:15 a.m., and I knew I would never know for sure — but the difference didn’t matter when the imagery remained the same.

Differences never mattered when the images were the same



Day #5 (A.M.): Glacier To Columbia Falls

As I opened my eyes and looked out from the dark corner of the lobby, I saw CNN on the monitor across the room. The sound had been muted all night, but in the copy running across the bottom of the screen it said: “Less than twenty-four hours until the U.S. defaults.”  For weeks, Congress had been debating on whether or not to raise the debt ceiling and even as remote as it was here in northwestern Montana, I still could not escape the reality of what it meant. I had a quick breakfast of eggs, biscuits, and gravy, before I headed back to the mountain. The guard station at the entrance was unattended, so I vowed to make a twenty-dollar donation to the first charity I came across — I hoped it would be Native American.

I headed west on The Going To The Sun Road and crossed Glacier at dawn. It created a memory on that Sunday morning that will live inside me forever. It was a road that embodied the qualities of all lesser roads, while it stood proudly alone because of where it could take you and the way going there would make you feel. Its standards, in addition to its altitude, were higher than most comfort zones allowed. It wasn’t so much the road itself but where it was. Human belief and ingenuity had built a road over something that before was almost impossible to even walk across. Many times, as you rounded a blind turn on Logan Pass, you experienced the sensation of flying, and you had to look beneath you to make sure that your wheels were still on the ground.

The road climbed into the clouds as I rounded the West side of the lake. It felt more like flying, or being in a jet liner, when combined with the tactile adventure of knowing I was on two-wheels. Being on two-wheels was always my first choice and had been my consummate and life affirming mode of travel since the age of sixteen.

Today would be another one of those ‘it wasn’t possible to happen’ days. But it did, and it happened in a way that even after so many blessed trips like this, I was not ready for. I felt in my soul I would never see a morning like this again, but then I also knew beyond the borders of self-limitation, and from what past experience had taught me, that I absolutely would.

So Many ‘Once In A Lifetime’ Moments Have Been Joyous Repetition

My life has been blessed because I have been given so many of these moments. Unlike anything else that has happened, these life-altering events have spoken to me directly cutting through all learned experience that has tried in vain to keep them out. The beauty of what they have shown is beyond my ability to describe, and the tears running down my face were from knowing that at least during these moments, my vision had been clear.

I knew that times like these were in a very real way a preparation to die. Life’s highest moments often exposed a new awareness for how short life was. Only by looking through these windows, into a world beyond, would we no longer fear death’s approach.

I leaned forward to pat the motorcycle’s tank as we began our ascent. In a strange but no less real way, it was only the bike that truly understood what was about to happen. It had been developed for just this purpose and now would get to perform at its highest level. The fuel Injection, and linked disk brakes, were a real comfort this close to the edge, and I couldn’t have been riding anything better for what I was about to do.

I also couldn’t have been in a better place at this stage of my life in the summer of 2011. Things had been changing very fast during this past year, and I decided to bend to that will rather than to fight what came unwanted and in many ways unknown. I knew that today would provide more answers, highlighting the new questions that I searched for, and the ones on this mountaintop seemed only a promise away.

Glaciers promise!

I thought about the many bear encounters, and attacks, that had happened in both Glacier and Yellowstone during this past summer. As I passed the entry point to Granite Park Chalet, I couldn’t help but think about the tragic deaths of Julie Helgeson and Michelle Koons on that hot August night back in 1967. They both fell prey to the fatality that nature could bring. The vagaries of chance, and a bad camping choice, led to their both being mauled and then killed by the same rogue Grizzly in different sections of the park.

They were warned against camping where they did, but bear attacks had been almost unheard of — so they went ahead. How many times had I decided to risk something, like crossing Beartooth or Galena Pass at night, when I had been warned against it, but still went ahead? How many times had coming so close to the edge brought everything else in my life into clear focus?

1967 Was The Year I Started My Exploration Of The West

The ride down the western side of The Going To the Sun Road was a mystery wrapped inside the eternal magic of this mountain highway in the sky. Even the long line of construction traffic couldn’t dampen my excitement, as I looked off to the South into the great expanse that only the Grand Canyon could rival for sheer majesty. Snow was on the upper half of Mount’s Stimson (10,142 ft.), James (9,575 ft.) and Jackson (10,052), and all progress was slow (20 mph). Out of nowhere, a bicyclist passed me on the extreme outside and exposed edge of the road. I prayed for his safety, as he skirted to within three feet of where the roadended and that other world, that the Blackfeet sing about, began. Its exposed border held no promises and separated all that we knew from what we oftentimes feared the most.

I am sure he understood what crossing Logan Pass meant, no matter the vehicle, and from the look in his eyes I could tell he was in a place that no story of mine would ever tell. He waved quickly as he passed on my left side. I waved back with the universal thumbs-upsign, and in a way that is only understood by those who cross mountains … we were brothers on that day.



Day # 5: (P.M.) Columbia Falls to Salmon Idaho

The turnaround point of the road was always hard. What was all forward and in front of me yesterday was consumed by the thought of returning today. The ride back could take you down the same path, or down a different road, but when your destination was the same place that you started from, your arrival was greeted in some ways with the anti-****** of having been there, and done that, before.

I tried everything I knew to fool my psyche into a renewed phase of discovery. All the while though, there was this knowing that surrounded my thoughts. It contained a reality that was totally hidden within the fantasy of the trip out. It was more honest I reminded myself, and once I made peace with it, the return trip would become even more intriguing than the ride up until now. When you knew you were down to just a few days and counting, each day took on a special reverence that the trip out always seemed to lack.

In truth, the route you planned for your return had more significance than the one before. Where before it was direct and one-dimensional, the return had to cover two destinations — the trip out only had to cover one. The route back also had to match the geography with the timing of what you asked for inside of yourself. The trip out only had to inspire and amuse.

The trip south on Rt.#35 along the east side of Flathead Lake was short but couldn’t be measured by its distance. It was an exquisitely gorgeous stretch of road that took less than an hour to travel but would take more than a lifetime to remember. The ripples that blew eastward across the lake in my direction created the very smallest of whitecaps, as the two cranes that sat in the middle of the lake took off for a destination unknown. I had never seen Flathead Lake from this side before and had always chosen Rt.#93 on the western side for all previous trips South. That trip took you through Elmo and was a ride I thought to be unmatched until I entered Rt.#35 this morning. This truly was the more beautiful ride, and I was thankful for its visual newness. It triggered inside of me my oldest feelings of being so connected, while at the same time, being so alone.

As I connected again with my old friend Rt.# 93, the National Bison Range sat off to my west. The most noble of wild creatures, they were now forced to live in contained wander where before they had covered, by the millions, both our country and our imagination. I thought again about their intrinsic connection to Native America and the perfection that existed within that union.

The path of the Great Bison was also the Indian’s path. The direction they chose was one and the same. It had purpose and reason — as well as the majesty of its promise. It was often unspoken except in the songs before the night of the hunt and in the stories that were told around the fire on the night after. It needed no further explanation. The beauty within its harmony was something that just worked, and words were a poor substitute for a story that only their true connection would tell.

This ‘Road’ Still Contained That Eternal Connection In Now Paved Over Hoofprints Of Dignity Lost

The Bitteroot Range called out to me in my right ear, but there would be no answer today. Today, I would head South through the college town of Missoula toward the Beaverhead Mountains and then Rt.#28 through the Targhee National Forest. I arrived in Missoula in the brightest of sunshine. The temperature was over ninety-degrees as I parked the bike in front of the Missoula Club. A fixture in this college town for many years, the Missoula Club was both a college bar and city landmark. It needed no historic certification to underline its importance. Ask any resident or traveler, past or present, have you been to the Missoula Club? and you’ll viscerally feel their answer. It’s not beloved by everyone … just by those who have always understood that places like this have fallen into the back drawer of America’s history. Often, their memory being all that’s left.

The hamburger was just like I expected, and as I ate at the bar, I limited myself to just one mug of local brew. One beer is all that I allowed myself when riding. I knew that I still had 150 more miles to go, and I was approaching that time of day when the animals came out and crossed the road to drink. In most cases, the roads had been built to follow the rivers, streams, and later railroads, and they acted as an unnatural barrier between the safety of the forest and the water that the animals living there so desperately needed. Their crossing was a nightly ritual and was as certain as the rising of the sun and then the moon. I respected its importance, and I tried to schedule my rides around the danger it often presented — but not today.

After paying the bartender, I took a slow and circuitous ride around town. Missoula was one of those western towns that I could happily live in, and I secretly hoped that before my time ran out that I would. The University of Montana was entrenched solidly and peacefully against the mountain this afternoon as I extended my greeting. It would be on my very short list of schools to teach at if I were ever lucky enough to make choices like that again.

Dying In The Classroom, After Having Lived So Strongly, Had An Appeal Of Transference That I Find Hard To Explain

The historic Wilma Theatre, by the bridge, said adieu as I re-pointed the bike South toward the Idaho border. I thought about the great traveling shows, like Hope and Crosby, that had played here before the Second World War. Embedded in the burgundy fabric of its giant curtain were stories that today few other places could tell. It sat proudly along the banks of the Clark Fork River, its past a time capsule that only the river could tell. Historic theatres have always been a favorite of mine, and like the Missoula Club, the Wilma was another example of past glory that was being replaced by banks, nail salons, and fast-food restaurants almost wherever you looked.

Thankfully, Not In Missoula

Both my spirit and stomach were now full, as I passed through the towns of Hamilton and Darby on my way to Sula at the state line. I was forced to stop at the train crossing in Sulajust past the old and closed Sula High School on the North edge of town. The train was still half a mile away to my East, as I put the kickstand down on the bike and got off for a closer look. The bones of the old school contained stories that had never been told. Over the clanging of the oncoming train, I thought I heard the laughter of teenagers as they rushed through the locked and now darkened halls. Shadowy figures passed by the window over the front door on the second floor, and in the glare of the mid-afternoon sun it appeared that they were waving at me. Was I again the victim of too much anticipation and fresh air or was I just dreaming to myself in broad daylight again?

As I Dreamed In Broad Daylight, I Spat Into The Wind Of Another Time

I waited for twenty-minutes, counting the cars of the mighty Santa Fe Line, as it headed West into the Pacific time zone and the lands where the great Chief Joseph and Nez Perce roamed. The brakeman waved as his car slowly crossed in front of my stopped motorcycle — each of us envying the other for something neither of us truly understood.

The train now gone … a bell signaled it was safe to cross the tracks. I looked to my right one more time and saw the caboose only two hundred yards down the line. Wondering if it was occupied, and if they were looking back at me, I waved one more time. I then flipped my visor down and headed on my way happy for what the train had brought me but sad in what its short presence had taken away.

As I entered the Salmon & Challis National Forest, I was already thinking about Italian food and the great little restaurant within walking distance of my motel. I always spent my nights in Salmon at the Stagecoach Inn. It was on the left side of Rt. #93, just before the bridge, where you made a hard left turn before you entered town. The motel’s main attraction was that it was built right against the Western bank of the Salmon River. I got a room in the back on the ground floor and could see the ducks and ducklings as they walked along the bank. It was only a short walk into town from the front of the motel and less than a half a block going in the other direction for great Italian food.

The motel parking lot was full, with motorcycles, as I arrived, because this was Sturgis Week in South Dakota. As I watched the many groups of clustered riders congregate outside as they cleaned their bikes, I was reminded again of why I rode. I rode to be alone with myself and with the West that had dominated my thoughts and dreams for so many years. I wondered what they saw in their group pilgrimage toward acceptance? I wondered if they ever experienced the feeling of leaving in the morning and truly not knowing where they would end up that night. The Sturgis Rally would attract more than a million riders many of whom hauled their motorcycles thousands of miles behind pickups or in trailers. Most would never experience, because of sheer masquerade and fantasy, what they had originally set out on two-wheels to find.

I Feel Bad For Them As They Wave At Me Through Their Shared Reluctance

They seemed to feel, but not understand, what this one rider alone, and in no hurry to clean his ***** motorcycle, represented. I had always liked the way a touring bike looked when covered with road-dirt. It wore the recognition of its miles like a badge of honor. As it sat faithfully alone in some distant motel parking lot, night after night, it waited in proud silence for its rider to return. I cleaned only the windshield, lights, and turn signals, as I bedded the Goldwing down before I started out for dinner. As I left, I promised her that tomorrow would be even better than today. It was something that I always said to her at night. As she sat there in her glorified patina and watched me walk away, she already knew what tomorrow would bring.

The Veal Marsala was excellent at the tiny restaurant by the motel. It was still not quite seven o’clock, and I decided to take a slow walk through the town. It was summer and the river was quiet, its power deceptive in its passing. I watched three kayakers pass below me as I crossed the bridge and headed East into Salmon. Most everything was closed for the evening except for the few bars and restaurants that lit up the main street of this old river town. It took less than fifteen minutes to complete my visitation, and I found myself re-crossing the bridge and headed back to the motel.

There were now even more motorcycles in the parking lot than before, and I told myself that it had been a stroke of good fortune that I had arrived early. If I had been shut out for a room in Salmon, the chances of getting one in Challis, sixty miles further south, would have been much worse. As small as Salmon was, Challis was much smaller, and in all the years of trying, I had never had much luck there in securing a room.

I knew I would sleep soundly that night, as I listened to the gentle sounds of a now peaceful river running past my open sliding doors. Less than twenty-yards away, I was not at all misled by its tranquility. It cut through the darkness of a Western Idaho Sunday night like Teddy Roosevelt patrolled the great Halls of Congress.

Running Softly, But Carrying Within It A Sleeping Defiance

I had seen its fury in late Spring, as it carried the great waters from on high to the oceans below. I have rafted its white currents in late May and watched a doctor from Kalispell lose his life in its turbulence. In remembrance, I said a short prayer to his departed spirit before drifting off to sleep.

Break me and make bread.

In your head,
I'm forever alive.

You can take your road to Calgary and it won't bother me
if you take me.

Here are true lives in the lines.

We read because we need them,
even in our solitude, we choose them and after all, they give meaning to the many men who come to pray before them.

On the Richter scale, we measure five, not quite a fail but not an achievement of which we could boast.

Break me and I'll play host to the demons that ride through the night when you're at your most vulnerable.

Take me and recreate me in the image of your man, but we fake it where we can.

Because,
and that has to be the answer sworn,
the baby born
the cradle cap
the winged bat
All these to choose
rejoice and win
or reject and lose.

Sermons on the Mount in many fonts available from any encyclopaedia,
online any time
Line
Break.

It is an undertaking to be done with some trepidation,
As the arrival of June-like warmth and sunshine
Can lead us to an unwise giddiness,
A disregard for what we instinctually know
Concerning the introduction of basil and succulents
While the spectre of an unwelcome late-season freeze
Lurks some days westward in Calgary or Winnipeg,
But this is mostly the grunt work
One puts in for preparation for summer's bounty,
The shoveling and hoeing and grunting
Which one performs with pro forma grunting and *******
There is a certain reflexive restoration in this task
Which belies our outward irritation
And though we cast the odd sideways glance
Toward the shadows at the back of the lot
Where rabbits and chipmunks
And other less tangible potential enemies lie in wait
There is a warmth which permeates marrow and memory,
A thing which recalls a child running
Through torrents of October leaves
Or sitting wordlessly with a loved one on the porch
Or any number of tableaus from this thing
Of worry and wonder.

Just a product off the shelf
help yourself,
the resistance is in the mobility
to get the hell out of there
willingly
before they shut you down
totally.

fight tooth and nail
fail and fight again.

Christmas?
it had to be
and anywhere else
but Calgary.

It had been a long idyllic two-day ride from Taos to Jackson Hole.  The bike had been running well, in spite of the altitude, and the 1600 C.C. Yamaha Venture Royale handled with ease whatever the mountains had in store.

This was the second extended tour for Kurt and his twelve-year-old son, Trystan, who everyone called T.C. (Trystan Colin).  They had started in Long Beach, California, and were making a long semi-circular loop through Arizona, New Mexico, and then back to Wyoming.  After hiking and riding through Grand Teton National Park, they would head North through Yellowstone to Missoula Montana and ultimately reach their final northern destination — Glacier National Park.

This morning though, they would be traveling into an unknown world on the most proven and time-tested forms of transportation, horses and mules.

Teton Scenic Outfitters was the oldest guided tour company in Teton National Park.  Today’s route would take four tourists on a twenty-five-mile ride deep into the park.  At its highest point, the trail would be over 2000 feet above the Buffalo River. There would be two professional cowboys leading the tour.  The lead rider, and boss, was a 6’ 3’’, 200 lb., ex-college football player and rodeo bulldogger named Russ.  At the back was a diminutive, bow-legged, journeyman cowboy from Miles City Montana named Pete.  In between there was Kurt and his son T.C., both riding horses, and two nuns from the San Cristobal Convent in Cody Wyoming, riding mules.

There were two additional mules, between Russ and TC, that were loaded down with a week’s supplies for the Teton Art Camp at the end of the trail.  The Art Camp was a popular summer destination for both experienced and budding artists and depended on the supplies that Russ’s company delivered every Saturday.  At 8:30 a.m., four mules and four horses started the arduous and steep ascent up the narrow trail that was carved out of the east side of the mountain.

Before leaving, Russ had said: “In some places, the trail that’s cut into the rock is less than six feet wide. Don’t let this upset you.  The horses and mules do this almost every day, and they are more surefooted than any person walking.  Whatever you do, DON’T try to get off along the narrow trail.  We will come upon four open meadows, as we climb higher, and you can get off there, if need be, to walk a spell.”

Russ reminded everyone that they had signed a form acknowledging the risks of a mountain trail ride and that they were not afraid of heights. “Whatever you do, make sure to give the horse or mule its head.  Don’t try to guide it or change its direction, it will be following closely the animal in front of it and will become upset and disoriented if you try to change its forward motion.”

Pete, who was riding in the rear, had heard this speech a hundred times before.  He knew Russ would repeat it several more times as they continued their climb.  He also knew something that he hadn’t shared with anyone yet.  After feeling poorly for several weeks, he had traveled to the Medical Center in Idaho Falls for tests.  Two days later he had the results — Cystic Fibrosis.

Pete was only 26, but his doctor had told him that with treatment he had a very good chance of living into his fifties. “What can’t I do, Doc?” Pete had asked.  “Anything for right now,” the specialist advised. Just don’t get too far away from a good Medical Center, just in case. I wonder what he would think if he saw me today,” Pete mused.

The two nuns seemed to be enjoying themselves, but the one in the back, Sister Francis, directly in front of Pete, kept pulling on her right stirrup.  “I’ll have to adjust that when we stop,” Pete said to himself.
At 10:30 a.m., they came to the first clearing and Russ called everyone to gather around him. The meadow was a naturally formed pocket that carved into the mountain for about 100 yards.  There was tall spring grass growing as far as you could see.

“Hey T.C., whatta you think those two things are sticking above the grass about fifty yards ahead?” “I don’t know, Russ, they look like sticks.” “Well ... those sticks happen to be antlers that belong to a resting moose.”  Before Russ could say another word, T.C. had spurred his horse and was headed in the direction of the moose.  As T.C.’s father started to head after him, Russ grabbed his reins and said — “watch this.”

T.C. was still thirty yards from the antlers when an enormous moose stood up out of the grass. Seeing that, T.C.’s horse slammed on the brakes and T.C. went sliding off the right side of his mount.  Time seemed to be frozen in place until ... BAMM!

When Russ saw the moose stand up, he withdrew the Colt Peacemaker (45) from his holster and fired a shot into the air.  The horses and mules never moved, they were rifle trained, but the moose turned and ran into the woods at the far end of the meadow.

“Those things can get ornery when you take them by surprise.  I didn’t think your kid had the guts to charge a moose in the open field.  It’s one of the damnedest things I’ve seen in a long time.  With ‘try’ like that, he’ll make a good hand.

Both cowboys dismounted and went over to where T.C. was still sitting in the grass.  “Here, take this,” Russ said, as he gave T.C. a Snickers Bar from his vest pocket.  “The way you got off that horse would make any bronc rider proud.  Sister Marcella was filming you with her camera.  It you’re nice to her, I’ll bet she’ll send you a copy of the tape.”

Hearing Russ’s words were like his birthday and Christmas all rolled into one.  His rear end was a little sore, but his spirits had never been so high.  “Hey T.C., if your head hasn’t swelled too much, try this on,” said Pete.  Pete handed T.C. a baseball cap from his saddlebags.  It was a watershed moment for both father and son as T.C. took a giant step toward manhood.

Back on the trail, Russ repeated again: “Don’t try to guide your animal, they know where they’re going.”  In all the confusion, Pete had never gotten around to adjusting Sister Francis’ stirrup.  It was still bothering her, and her squirming was starting to affect her mule.

“Don’t mess with that stirrup anymore, Sister.  If you need to, just let your right leg hang down straight until we get to the next clearing.” Pete hadn’t finished speaking when Sister Francis pushed down again on the stirrup until it came loose and was dangling free.  The momentum of her pushing down with her right leg had pulled her body across the saddle, and she was now off the mule and standing — screaming — on the right side of her mule.

Less Than A Foot From The Edge ...

“Stop screaming, Sister, and I’ll try to get to you.”  Pete knew there wasn’t enough room on the trail for him to make it to the panicked nun, and he also knew he didn’t have enough strength in his upper body to pull her back if she started to fall.

Russ had heard the commotion and stopped the lead horse. He was too far in front to be of much help.  Pete’s best cowboy skill was that of a header in the team roping event.  The hat he had given T.C. was from the last rodeo he had won in Calgary, Alberta.  Pete instinctively took the rope from his saddle horn and formed a loop.  Just as he started to swing the rope, Sister Francis’ mule panicked and moved to the right pushing the nun toward the cliff.  As she started to fall, Pete managed to get a loop around her head and under one shoulder.  He pulled ******* the rope as she fell over the side.  He quickly took three turns around the saddle horn.  Pete knew he could hold it for a while without his horse moving, but if he tried to dismount, there’s no telling what the horse would do, and all three of them might go over the side.

It was just then that Pete saw something crawling between the legs of Sister Marcella’s mule.  T.C. had slid off the back of his horse and crawled between the legs of his dad’s horse, the two pack mules, and Sister Marcella’s now stationary mule.  When he got underneath Sister Francis’ mule, he started to talk in a gentle voice as he worked his way back to the rear.  Once under Pete’s horse, he reached over the side and grabbed the rope. Luckily, Sister Francis was only three feet below the rocky ledge. With T.C.’s help, and a lot of adrenalin, she was able to get her elbows up over the edge and slowly inch her way back onto the trail.  Pete held firm to the loop to make sure there was no backsliding.

T.C. and Sister Francis sat there for a long time until T.C. said: “Do you trust me, Sister?”  She said that she did as T.C. said: “Ok, follow me.” Together, they crawled underneath Pete’s horse to the very back of the train.  “How far is it to the next meadow, Pete?” T.C. asked.  “It’s only about a half-mile, “Pete called out.  “Ok, Sister Francis and I will walk the rest of the way, and we’ll meet up with you at the meadow.  Pete waved ahead to Russ, who was sitting there in a mild state of shock, to get going again.

It was a hero’s welcome when T.C. and Sister Francis arrived at the meadow.  “How did you know you could crawl underneath those horses and mule’s legs without getting trampled?” Russ asked.
“Well, it’s like this,” T.C. said.  “My dad was raised with horses and said that a horse would never step on a man.  I just figured it was the same with mules.”  “And where did you get the guts to try?” asked Pete.  “It wasn’t guts, I was just trying to finish what you had started.  If you hadn’t gotten that rope around her, nothing that I did would have mattered at all.”

“That rope was thrown from the hand of God,” said Sister Marcella, “and today, we were all blessed to see one of his miracles in action.”
The rest of the ride was uneventful.  Pete readjusted Sister Francis’ stirrup as Russ started to sing an old cowboy song.  “What’s the T stand for in T.C?” asked Russ.  “Trystan, my first name is Trystan, T.C.  answered back. With that, every Ian Tyson song they knew was being sung at high volume with the name ‘Trystan’ interjected into every one.

T.C.’s father had never been so proud.


Kurt Philip Behm: June, 2024