Jakarta, 1986

Wanita berambut cokelat muda sebahu itu terlihat sedang asyik mengamati asap rokok yang ia keluarkan sebelum membuang puntung rokok ke tanah dan menginjaknya. Jalanan di Jakarta memang selalu ramai tapi tak satupun mobil-mobil yang sedang berlalu-lalang itu akan berhenti dan menghentikan apa yang akan ia lakukan setelah jam menunjukkan pukul lima pagi. Masih terngiang di kepala apa yang orang-orang katakan tentangnya selama ini.. *sampah, pelacur memang tidak pantas hidup enak, ingat ya, kau itu cuma pelacur ia memejamkan mata sambil perlahan menghitung berapa kali ia telah mendengarkan cacian setiap pulang.

Jam yang berada di tangan kirinya masih menunjukkan pukul lima kurang lima belas menit, ya lima belas menit yang ia gunakan untuk akhirnya mengingat perkataan Abimanyu. Laki-laki terakhir yang memberikan segalanya, harta, kasih sayang, dan waktu tapi ia tak dapat menikmati itu semua walau sudah mencoba beribu kali aku tidak akan pernah berubah menjadi laki-laki yang sudah menyia-nyiakanmu ,kau tahu bahwa seberapapun mahalnya berlian apabila yang memakainya tidak pantas maka akan terlihat murah?, kau terlihat cantik dengan apapun, aku melakukan semua ini karena aku tak sanggup melihatmu sedih, aku akan terus mencintaimu walau kau tak akan pernah bisa membalas perasaanku yang hanya akan selalu ia balas dengan aku sudah tak percaya cinta atau aku sudah tak punya hati hatinya telah membeku dicabik-cabik sejak dulu, sebelum bertemu Abimanyu. Air mata perlahan mengalir dari mata yang tertutup itu, lima menit lagi batinnya sebelum mengusap air mata yang sudah membasah pipi dan meluruskan gaun putih rancangan desainer terkenal yang diberikan sebagai hadiah untuknya tak dipungkiri gaun itu bernilai lebih dari penghasilannya selama satu bulan namun apalah arti uang disini?
Ia kembali melirik jam yang sekarang menunjukkan dua menit sebelum pukul lima, diatas jembatan layang itu masih ramai oleh hiruk-pikuk kendaraan.  Tenanglah tak akan ada yang mampu menyelamatkanmu.

Jam sudah menunjukkan pukul lima pagi, tanpa berpikir panjang ia melepas pegangannya dari pagar yang menopang tubuh dan terjun bebas tanpa ada perlawanan terhadap gravitasi.
**Tak semua bidadari hidup bahagia di surga

Aku tahu mengapa dari jutaan perempuan yang ada di dunia ini, matamu memilih hanya untuk memandangi satu perempuan berambut gelombang sedada dengan kaos polos berbahan nyaman berwarna abu-abu muda yang kamu sebut ia sebagai perempuan indie.

Dia perempuan yang kau beri label indie karena ia mendengarkan musik-musik aneh yang tidak masuk di telinga pendengar musik-musik mainstream yang biasa mendapatkan lagu kesukaannya diputarkan di radio mobil. Bukan jenis selera musik yang biasa ada di playlist tim pemandu sorak. Selera musiknya ialah tak lain sejenis musik rock yang ringan, lagu-lagu dari tahun 90-an, lagu-lagu dengan sentuhan retro beat tahun 80-an, dan musik elektro santai yang biasanya kamu dengar di toko baju. Selain selera musiknya, kau beri perempuan itu label indie karena ia bersifat eksentrik, tak terduga dan penuh kejutan, sedikit tertutup, dan bersemangat. Ia jenis seseorang yang bisa kamu dapatkan dirinya menatapi permukaan jendela yang basah dihinggapi bulir-bulir rintik hujan, sibuk memikirkan sesuatu. Ia juga jenis perempuan yang bisa kamu dapatkan kadang menarik diri dari keramaian, lebih suka membaca atau menulis seorang diri. Juga, ia seorang perempuan yang bisa kamu temukan sedang tertawa lepas bersama teman-temannya, mengobrol dengan terbuka dan hangat, menebar senyum sambil menyapa ramah, berteman baik dengan semua orang. Ia jenis perempuan yang tak akan kau sangka-sangka, apalagi dapat kau tebak tindak-tanduk akan ia perbuat selanjutnya. Kau pikir ia jenis perempuan yang kuat, sesungguhnya ia katakan bahwa dirinya cengeng. Setelah itu, kau pikir selanjutnya ia bukan tipikal perempuan mandiri yang mampu membawa dirinya sendiri ke mana pun, tapi nyatanya kau lihat kadang ia berjalan sendiri – ke kantin, ke mushola, bahkan kadang kau mendapati dirinya berjalan pulang seorang diri dengan kedua telinga ditancapi earphone putih. Ia perempuan berperawakan kecil dan seorang pemimpi besar, yang mimpi-mimpinya membuatnya bekerja keras demi menghilangkan ketakutannya akan pikiran ketidakmampuan mewujudkannya. Ia dianggap secerah mentari bagi orang-orang di sekitarnya, selalu tertawa dan melisankan kata-kata positif, tapi sesungguhnya, ia hanyalah mentari bagi dirinya sendiri. Setiap kali ia jatuh, ia yang membuat dirinya kembali bangun − hingga akhirnya, ia tanamkan pada benaknya bahwa begitulah proses dari kehidupan. Kehidupan adalah siklus yang adil. Kehidupan berbuat tidak adil pada semua orang dan itulah saat yang paling tepat di mana ia harus bangkit dan mekar, hanya untuk dirinya sendiri.

Aku tahu kemudian mengapa perempuan yang kamu sebut sebagai perempuan indie itu menarik perhatianmu, bahkan sampai membuatmu rela melakukan apapun untuknya. Ia benar-benar membuatmu seolah bangun dari tidur lama di ruang kedap cahaya, pandangan matamu seolah mengatakan bahwa perempuan itulah matahari baru dalam kehidupanmu. Tentang bagaimana tindak-tanduknya yang tak mampu kau reka dan kau prediksi, perempuan itu membuatmu seperti melihat sebuah misteri dan keajaiban yang melebur jadi satu.

Sebut saja, sederhananya,
kamu benar-benar (akan) mencintainya.

Relei ingat. Baju hangat kuning kecoklatan, 4 kerutan di tangan kanan dekat siku dan 5 lainnya di dekat bahu kiri. Rok kotak-kotak selutut yang untung dan sayangnya tak pernah terisngkap sedikit pun angin berkata tiup. Adalah pakaian yang melekat di badan Malia kali mereka bertemu tatap.
Udara dingin malam Sabtu sama sekali tidak membuat para pujangga mengurungkan niatnya untuk berteriak kata cinta. Atau cerita patah hati. Mungkin iya di tempat lain, tapi tidak di sini, di 8th Avenue, sebuah ruangan tak terpakai beberapa tahun lalu yang di percantik jadi sebuah tempat pertemuan para penyair dari berbagai penghujung kota. Dengan satu podium kecil –sekitar setinggi 1 meter dan selebar tiga dada- di sebelah barat, membelakangi dinding yang berwarna merah marun sedangkan tiga dinding lainnya adalah batu bata yang tidak dipoles.
Malam itu Relei seperti malam Sabtu lainnya, berjalan dari kamar loft ke tempat favoritnya, menyusuri 6 blok dalam suhu 21 derajat dengan tentu pakaian hangat.
Semua wajah yang berpapasan, tak ada satupun yang Relei lupa. Ada 13 wanita, 8 diantaranya bermata coklat, dan 6 pria, satu diantaranya memegang setangkai bunga mawar, yang sudah bertatap sapa selama perjalanannya menuju 8th Ave. 8 bunyi klakson mobil dan 4 suara orang bersin yang selalu di balasnya dengan “semoga tuhan memberkati”. Tidak, Relei tidak selalu menghitung seperti ini dalam sehari-harinya. Hanya saja Relei selalu ingat.
“ Lalu bulan masih saja datang, pun tak sepertimu, yang malam ke malam, masih saja semakin semu.” Seorang wanita paruh baya sedang membacakan barisan terakhirnya di atas podium dengan parau sangat menghayati. Penyair lain yang ada di ruangan itu menjentikkan jari mereka terkagum, ada juga yang bersorak kata-kata manis. Kode etis dalam pembacaan puisi di 8th ave adalah : tidak perlu bertepuk tangan terlalu kencang untuk berkata bahwa kau kagum akan satu puisi, cukup dua jari saja.
“ Biarkan aku datang ke mimpi buruk mu, lalu mimpi indah mu, lalu mimpi mu yang kau bahkan tak tahu tentang apa, atau pun mengapa,” Selanjutnya adalah giliran seorang perempuan muda yang naik ke panggung. Ia bercerita tentang buah mimpi, bahwa Ia ingin menjadi fantasi yang dibawa kemanapun sang pemimpi berjalan.
Baju hangat kuning kecoklatan, 4 kerutan di tangan kanan dekat siku dan 5 lainnya di dekat bahu kiri. Malia –atau seperti itulah tadi perempuan itu memperkenalkan dirinya sebelum memulai puisi- menyisir rambutnya kebelakang kuping sebanyak 3 kali sepanjang ia membacakan puisinya. Ia bergeliat di boots hitamnya, entah karena grogi atau tidak nyaman. Malia berambut coklat ikal sepinggang, dan memiliki bulu mata yang lentik bahkan dilihat dari ujung ruangan.
“ Untukmu, yang bersandar ke bata merah dengan tangan memegang kerah.” Malia mengakhiri puisinya sambal menatap ke arah Relei. Tangan Relei yang sedang membenarkan kerah baju otomatis langsung membeku. Ia sadar penyair lain sedang mengalihkan semua perhatian mereka kepadanya. Tapi hey, ayolah, pasti bukan, gadis di atas podium itu pasti bukan sedang membicarakan tentang Relei. Gadis yang sekarang sedang menuruni tangga podium dan berjalan ke arahnya itu pasti bukan sedang- Oh tuhan, atau mungkin memang iya.

Ku terlelap seperti lalu lintas jakarta, berjalan dan berhenti, dari padat menjadi kosong. Yang tak tahu pergi kemana. Gambar-gambar yang lewat begitu saja seperti cepatnya kereta. Lampu-lampu jalan yang menerangi aspal hitam. penjual-penjual yang menjual minuman di lampu merah. Pengamen yang bermimpi membuat kemacetan menjadi hal musikal. Keringat-keringat dibalik helm dan jaket kulit. Tawa-canda dibaluti pendingin didalam mobil. Bis-bis kota dengan kepenuhan penumpang. Orang-orang yang mengumpat jika kau dengar dengan seksama, umpatan mereka begitu indah, tak ada seorangpun di bagian dunia lain mampu menirunya. para pedestrian yang semakin tergeser eksistensinya karena tak ada lagi ruang bagi mereka. Stasiun-stasiun yang nampak menakjubkan ketika sepi. Spanduk-spanduk keagamaan yang dipasang sembarangan sama layaknya dengan iklan-iklan yang berteriak ke telingamu tiap radius 10 meter. aku terlelap bagaikan lalu lintas jakarta. Aku tak tahu kemana.

Rainy nights thinking about Rwanda,
fog seeps out of the woods.
Like smoke, it crawls across the fields.
My head lights attempt to cut through it,
as it intensifies, inhibiting my drive,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.

I arrive at the Mobil,
wait five minutes for the cashier to notice I’m here.
When she does, she hobbles over.
I attempt to buy a pack of backwoods,
my card gets declined,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.

I get in my car,
and have a fit when I can’t find my keys,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.

I begin to drive,
get cut off and curse fellow man,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.

I ***** and I moan,
an entitled little ****,
but I’m alive,


which many can’t say after Rwanda.

Measure horizon interjecting South Asia
Hammurabi formed Akkadian Nation
Babylonian beast winged lion
upon your cajoled eyes
Mesopotamian feast
a civilization dreaming
under oil fields now known as Iraq
petroleum empowered
How history repeats
in crude circumstances
Assyrian War rages on

Have all temples been replaced by
mosques or filling stations
for Halliburton to gas up?
tanks, projectile convoys
not a winged god amongst them
unless you count Mobil

Babylonia azimuth
combustible tankers horizon
sunrise or sunset
both burn black

Silau mobil menabrak kelopak mataku
Bersandar pada jendela kenangan
Sambil tangan berpeluk pada ruang hampa

Aku melewati bekas tapakan kita, lagi
Aku langsung mengembara melewati waktu

Masa itu, kita duduk berdampingan
Sangat jelas diingatanku
Didalam bis, kita mengobrol
Kau duduk bersandar di bangku mu
Dan aku yang bersandar di jendela

Kau hanya fokus padaku
Menatap ku dengan sabar sambil mendengarkan cerita ku
Bahkan, kalau boleh jujur, pada masa sekarang pun aku masih ingin tatapan itu, lagi

Bagaimana kau tersenyum melihatku berimajinasi
Menyambut segala harapanku

Tuan, aku ingin melihatmu lagi
Adakah celah kesempatan itu?
Masihkah kau sama seperti isi memori ku?

det er altid så
nemt at løse andres problemer
og sige "****! gør det nu"
især når det handler
om noget så banalt og ik
så kompliceret som et opkald
til et andet menneske som endda
foregår igennem et rør
så du ikke behøver at se den anden person
smile og få tårer i øjnene på samme tid
og jeg tør ikke men ringer
alligevel op fuldstændig
monotomt mens jeg holder
vejret og hele min krop eksploderer
som var den lavet af tynd is da din stemme
giver genlyd i mit øre og ber mig om at
indtale en besked for der er noget der er
vigtigere end mig og du har forlagt telefonen
på hylden sammen med dine følelser
mens du overbeviser alle om at jeg ikke
findes derude et sted
og jeg prøver at få fremstammet at jeg
savner dig og at jeg håber
du har det godt
men intet andet kommer ud end smertefulde
og (u)betydelige tårer for jeg
frygter at du nok aldrig vil
være i stand til at sige "i lige måde"
når jeg siger at jeg faktisk savner
dig mere end
jeg nogensinde har savnet nogen
så jeg ligger røret på og får
en meddelse fra instagram
om at en har liket mit billede
af noget helt ubetydeligt fra mit
ih så spændende liv og jeg himler med
øjnene af mig selv når jeg tænker på
at det billede kun ligger der for
at glæde dig så du måske vil tænke på
mig igen og min mobil ringer konstant
men kun i mit eget hoved
og jeg tror jeg er ved at gå fra
forstanden for de eneste
ubesvarede opkald jeg har er
aldrig fra dig og dem du har er
altid fra mig

Easy-going energy moguls at Exxon Mobil,
Insidiously sip scotch in their ivory towers,
They take no blame for the blame is ours,
We, the worker bees, were employed to **** the soil,
Little did we know it was the hallowed ground under our very own families feet,
Now we look towards our homes and see nothing but ash and hell fire,
Our collective youth and countless hours of precious life,
Traded for false abundance and counterfeit wealth,
When it all burns will you still care about your bank account?

Jiwa yang berlalu lalang
Dibawah ratusan ataupun ribuan
Payung hitam yang mengembang
Berlindung dari jeritan nestapa
.
Hanya tersisa kantuk yang menguap
Di sepanjang trotoar jalan
ataupun dalam kemacetan
dan asap rokok yang mengepul
di pinggir halte bus yang ramai tak jelas
.
Sesekali, seseorang akan menoleh
Dari jendela mobil dan berkata
"Aku tak melihat apa-apa"
Lalu tenggelam dalam sinisnya
Diantara bising klakson mobil
Ataupun kesibukan siluet kota
.
Layaknya seperti papan reklame
Yang terpampang nyata
Dengan warna monokrom
"Selamat datang bagi pendatang baru, dan Selamat tinggal."

8:55 A.M.
Wednesday,
December 3, 2014

Eyes dry, stagnant like a box fan
in a windowless room in summer.
Del Monte plastic blades—black
on the serrated side—dice rotting
pizza tomato trash air.

Stomach like a battery acid pond.
Flannel, Dockers, hair slicked
tight like road signs, tossing oyster
crackers to acid ducks. The sky's
on fire.

Clouds textured like *******
and never-ending like Escher.

Jet planes carry ***** comatose
patients into the sun to burn
out like a light bulb
a few flickers of life gone.

Hands dry, faulted like missing
bathroom tiles at Exxon-Mobil/
Sunoco/Shell beneath the metal
sink where crabgrass sprouts
from the cracks like

cheap caulk from Second-Hand Hardware.
Bent nails, rusted patching trowels,
ants in the quick-dry drywall mix.

I'll never reach Nirvana.

i wish i could ******* like a stephen king once in a while, but then my imagination sometimes gets a kick in the **** from delusional thinking, this the antidote to "a lack of imagination," this the artistic equivalence to a magician's trick, the illusionary works of sawing a woman in half; the many times i spilled some whisky on it... it happens... it happens so automatically that it's sometimes terrifying; now to find that cognitive anchor... ah, here it is: i.*

th- following l-tt-rs hav- b--om- -isabl--

e
c
d
3 / ω

on my k-yboar-,
h-n- th- hyph-nation.

p-rhaps to slow m- -own,
or what-v-r r-ason th-r- is to it,
-onstru-ting a n-w -nigma?

so th- r-ason w-str-n so-i-ty is
-xp-ri-n-ing
a flux of pr-matur- --m-ntia
is --u to population siz-

an- th- young on-s b-ing for---
into a -ompl-x worl-
of s-rious maths an s-rious -h-mistry:
so mu-h th-ory
an- th-n only giv-n bor--om among
banaliti-s of r-p-at r-p-at -
-ompl-x th-ori-s
to b- thrown into a worl- of -istill-ri-s

whisk-y an- vo-ka typos of
form-r -ompl-xiti-s
r-quiring p-rfum-s to say th- l-ast... -st-rs:
sw--t aromati- -h-mistry.

but from th- -r-am worl-:
1. paint s-otlan- with 3 r-- strip-s
2. paint -nglan- with 3 blu- strip-s
3. op-n a win- bottl- with a mat-hsti-k
    an- fin- -arth in th- bottl-: mu--y
    grit, soil.
4. ov-r h-ar talk of my -at-gorisation
    of th- anglo-slav; as a -hat up lin-.

o-- thing is... it's only th- lin-
      3 / £
             E
               D
                 C

t--hnophob- m-, th- oth-r 3 works though...
on th- mobil-:
                        7 8 9
                        4 5 6
                        1 2 3.

The charlatans are back again
With bombs to drop from ballpoint pens
Jerusalem Leviathans
Since lions ate the Zion movement
Now Big Ben is crumbling
And mumbling some skittish Yiddish
To some pig anti-Semitic
Who the critics just diminish as dominions of the British who still commonwealth the nations with their Exxon Mobil stations
While the colonies are sick and medicated on these rations, pullin’ racist colored race cards when the kingdoms of creation are the real abominations that the oligarchs of Noah’s arks still preach to seal your fate in
Coffer coffins of the status quotient tokenism banquet, stuffin’ off shore banks with patients who are drowning in malaises
As the taxing burden raises for the barely makin’ raisins in the sun to have some fun go fundin’ Contras cappin’ convents full o’ nuns, don’t get it twisted sister act, I’m coming strapped with Warsaw Pact because the cops be cappin’ rappers when they packin’ artifact on all the fiction superstition
Burning question abolition
Voodoo economic prison cells
Still selling us religions
Of democracy and freedoms makin’ edens
In the middle eastern promise lands
Just broken dreams and neverlands
Cuz no mans makes a stand or plan
To ban these ku klux clan Greenspans

lagi, ingin ku menyalahkan takdir yang menyeretku kaki demi kaki
saat kusadari, kaulah hening yang tercipta di setiap kata sunyi.
ku harap kau yang ada di sini, jiwa dari tempat yang tiap hari kita datangi.
kali ini hanya ada suara jangkrik yang kegirangan
karena aku mulai terhanyut sepi.

kucoba abaikan tapi ada kosong yang selalu mengajakku kembali
“sini menangis lagi, aku tau kau tak sekuat ini”
tak apa, malam nanti kita akan bersua
dalam malam yang enggan berdusta
kuharap aku sedang mati,
tapi hanya terdengar ejekan raungan knalpot mobil yang tak peduli.

-“Aquarium kaca”, 17 April 2017

I've been at work all day
And I cannot move
So instead I write poetry
And get into the groove
No wait a minute
I don't know what to write
Everything is blank
It's gone out of sight
So i stuff my mouth
With lots of yummy food
Putting me in
A most fabulous mood
I sit and think
About my journey home
And i must admit
I love my mobil phone
But I look outside
Where nature lives
And it's so dam beautiful
It whole heartily gives
The day still light
I can see the trees
Green leaves are dancing
In summers sweet breeze
Magpies zoom
Across blue sky
Under fluffy clouds
Not to high
Even the bees
Buzz on by
Looking for honey
Busy little guys
Daisies bloom
In a bush of weeds
A trio of geese
All in a lead
Car windows open
Loud music blaring
Singing along
Good times sharing
Big fat lorries
Sandwich me in
But my son's car is nifty
With an invisible fin
Over a bridge
We slowly go
Built up traffic
Is so slowwwwwww..
Mums and babies
In a park having fun
Horses in field
Enjoy warm sun
Night draws in
Stars begin to shine
And though the moon is halved
It still looks fine
Writing things down
Is a lovely way to express
It sure helps me
Unwind and de-stress

at the edge of any town
evening leaks out over green tufts
trio of circular-headed
pumps with no cars to quench

grass like a smudge of butter
nudges the curbs
lights threading shadows
where a man

back to the road
waits for another vehicle
to pull up by
the unswinging Mobil

red Pegasus to signal
here is where you fill

After forty years the brownstones
still seemed the same except
for the newer cars and the people
in fashionable clothes walking
golden dogs in chic comfort vests,
all living in houses he couldn’t afford.

He couldn’t believe he grew up here
when the streets were lively
with black live matter
and Gerald every summer
out there  with his roller
painting fatsfix’s store front red.

Now there sits Wray’s fancy drink café,
his name in a stylish white font
outcropping from a charcoal awning,
a cocktail glass replacing the Y, a large
BLACKLIVESMATTER banner out front,
proudly put there by its white owner.

The old El Diamantet is now
Castro’s Authentic Mexican Cuisine  
sharing space with a Dunkin’ Donuts
with expensive bicycles racked
to the declining handicap ramp.
The Mobil on Fuller- a Citgo Market.

The Meats and Greens turned Bamboo’s
and the farmacia now just  a pharmacy,
and the biggest insult of them all,
New Murken’s Restaurant which
served the best corn-beef sandwhiches
is an “eat big, leave happy” Mega  Bites.

The homebuds  had split, vanished
to memories of stinging high fives,
basketball jams and feeling up
Zoe on a fine Friday night,  the smell
of her  lingering in forty years  of regret.
There’ll be no bros coming from  these doors.

His heart  felt the sting of going home to a home
that was no longer his and no longer wanted him.
That past was a meat offering to this new block-
as if his blood and flesh had been scrubbed away
in the white wash of neatly trimmed roses behind
spiked  fences-  as if that there of his never happened.

“What was here before we came?” he imagined
the children asking the parents behind the doors.
“Nothing of note,” they would reply using the
same line the real estate agent routinely recited
to anyone who inquired about what existed
before the abattoir came and moved  on.

I shall pass evocative words to curse a pocked, scabby-kneed *****
who perverts the soldiery from an Okinawa Prefecture ***** camp
under bloated rain clouds in moistened meadows of dead war damp
lousy in cadavers mouldering reposed in corporeal-restricted cramp
boldly blest by blood-rich masonic oaths from a capo-regime stamp
that is hidden from sight as lamp-black blackens a black genie lamp
so as to mask the Frisbee Earth into which Exxon Mobil does tamp
because a nut's wedding ring forms a tourniquet/ligature-like clamp
that couldn't hug Evel's faggy *** as he fell off Skycycle X-2's ramp

Day #8: Cortez Colorado To ‘The Grand Canyon’

Thoughts of Monument Valley, Mexican Hat, and the Grand Canyon consumed my morning, as I quickly repacked the bike to get back to my ride.  It had rained during the night, and the windshield of the bike was dotted with the dried residue of raindrops. Not enough to be bothersome, but just visible enough so I knew they were there. The pattern they made across the large plexiglass shield told a story of what had happened during the night while I was asleep.  

It was cool this morning, and the temperature on the bike’s dashboard registered only 53 degrees as I pulled out of the motel parking lot onto Rt.#160W. I purposely avoided any breakfast and thought only about the delicious frybread at the 4-Corners National Monument. 4-Corners was where Colorado, Utah, Arizona, and New Mexico all met in perfect symmetry, and at its southern end was a rickety old trailer run by a Navajo family that served some of the best frybread between Phoenix and Durango.

To my great disappointment, the frybread trailer was still closed when I arrived at 4-Corners.  The jewelry stands were all open and staffed, and the stone parking lot was full, but the old trailer that advertised Navajo Frybread, located in the extreme southwest corner of the memorial, was still dark and empty inside. I asked the friendly Navajo lady in the jewelry stand, to the right of the trailer, what time she thought they would reopen.  She said: “It was always hard to tell, because they never showed up on time.  They should have opened over a half hour ago, but they couldn’t be counted on to keep to a set schedule.” With that, she shook her head in disgust and said something in Navajo that I didn’t understand.  Trust me — it wasn’t good.  

It was now past 9:30 in the morning, and my stomach had started to growl.  I thanked her for the information and asked her what spot on the radio dial the Navajo Station was coming in on this far from Kayenta.  Her name was Rosita, and she told me it was coming in clearly at 6:60 on the a.m. dial.

What was it with multiple sixes in this part of the west?  The infamous highway now called Rt. #491 used to be labeled Rt.#666.  The locals referred to it as the ‘Devils Highway.’  It got so much bad press that the route number was eventually changed. There was even a Hollywood movie (Natural Born Killers) filmed along its route.  At least this radio station had only two sixes, but still the connection was strange, and it made me wonder again about the choice of location. Maybe there was no choice, and 6:60 was the only spot available on the dial for the Navajo Station, or maybe it was something more …  

I wanted to believe it was just co-incidence as I headed back to the bike. On my way to the parking lot, I noticed that the monument had changed, and so had my opinion of it.  The Memorial itself was fine, but the four rows of shops that surrounded it — forming a perfect square with the flagpole in the center — were much different than before.  

Instead of the old rustic wooden stands that used to form the rows, the shops were now a modern masonry (sandstone and adobe) and all connected with one no different from the other.  They looked like rejects from an out of work architect’s bad dream. My connection to the Navajo Nation used to be strong here, but today I felt nothing more than a nagging anxiety to get going, and for the first time ever I had no desire to return.  

I headed west on Rt.#160 and turned right onto Rt.#191 north until it connected with Rt.# 163 in Bluff Utah. This would take me through Monument Valley and then back in a southerly direction to the Navajo town of Kayenta Arizona. In many ways, the Navajo Nation was frozen in its own time warp. It observed daylight savings time, while the rest of Arizona did not, which always caused me to smile when coming through here in the summer and looking at my watch. This truly was a nation, with its own sense of time and place, and being a visitor was all I would ever be.

Being A Welcomed Visitor Would Always Be Good Enough For Me

The loop north, through Utah, was a longer way to go, but the road went right through the great Valley Of The Gods, and Mexican Hat, and was more than worth any amount of extra time.  As I made the right turn onto Rt.#191, I was visually assaulted with the vastness, and awestruck wonder, contained within the sand and rock of the American Southwest. It was unlike anyplace else, and I was reborn in its spirit every time I passed beneath the shadows of its ancient monuments.

I looked off to the west and remembered the first time I came through here back in the spring of 1971. I had had to stop repeatedly, as my spirit breathed in what my eyes wouldn’t accept.   It was on that day that I first realized that one of your senses could lie to you about what another one held dear as the truth.

Alone on the road, the miles were again my only companion, as the sand and the rock measured me for who and what I was.  Beneath their great shadows, I was but a transitory annoyance in the mega-millenia history of all that they knew.  Like the occasional fly or gnat that landed on my face shield, I was something only to be swatted away or ignored, with no real significance, and deserving of no serious thought.

As I passed unnoticed beneath their immortal grandeur, the changes they inspired, and the walls they tore down, would live forever inside my new insignificance. There was nothing symbiotic, or co-authored, about my place in this desert.  Monument Valley existed as it always had … welcoming, but with an unsettled message you had to measure yourself against.  In the beginning, I thought the message was coming from somewhere deep inside the towering Mesas and Buttes only to discover that it was coming from deep inside myself.

In what seemed like an instant, and without warning, Mexican Hat appeared off to my left.  Today it seemed bigger than before, and for that I am grateful.  Most things appeared smaller, when revisited, than they were in my memory, but this morning Mexican Hat was larger than ever before.  It was nestled against the horizon on the mesa’s edge, far enough away to ensure its own safety, but close enough to remind us of how small we really were.

I stopped the bike on the apron and took pictures while burying in the sand something of myself I never wanted back.  I brought small tokens of homage on these trips hoping to trade them for a deeper spirituality. What I left behind was only a tiny symbol of thanks for what they had already given me.  It felt good again to say thank you after having worshipped for so many years in their shadow. As I re-crossed the road, with my limitations offloaded, in the timelessness of the Valley’s eternal presence — I headed West.

In what others saw as only desert and rock, I saw as the exposed truth of a landscape beyond reform.  It welcomed me back while happily letting me go. It knew I was on the way to see my Spiritual Mother, and it also knew that the great hope chest of her arrival was created here.  

I got on the bike as the radio came back on.  I heard the Navajo commentator say the word Walmart, as the rhythm of her native words danced through the air.  Thank God there was still no native word for that modern symbol of consumerism that so much of our society had become slave to.

‘Lowest Prices Every Day, Lowest Expectations Inside Of Yourself’

The veneer of Native America masked the same problems shared by the rest of our country but with one major difference.  In trying to hang onto, and preserve, their own culture, they served to dignify their struggle.  Wasn’t a dignified struggle a definition of life itself? Without it, how could a life be truly lived? Without it, one is just being observed or marking time?  Marking time had become the catalyst, and the driving force, behind all cultural suicide and the one gift from the Industrial Revolution that we needed to give back.  It was where the spirits of the unfulfilled died from reasons unexplained, and all that was left behind was just excuse. The great illusion was that the machines had saved us from everything —everything but ourselves!

       Idle Time Was Its Undoing — A ‘Bad Day To Die’

I said goodbye to Mexican Hat as it disappeared over my left shoulder. I was again the only one on the road.  It was more evident to me than ever how fond I had become of this motorcycle during the past eight days. It did everything I asked of it, while doing it quietly, and was a reminder that I should be doing the same.  

Alone with my thoughts, the spirits of my ancestors — and their ancestors before them —crowded into my subconscious mind.  The word subconscious was an anglicized term for those places inside of us that never should have been divided. I bled for all the things in my life still left undone but hoped that by the end of this trip they would not remain unsaid.

The history of the Navajo people lay buried in the sand and would forever hold the spirit of the things they had taught me. As I waved to two Harley riders headed in the opposite direction, I wondered if they ever thought about how we got to this place.  Was it an accident or accidental fortune or something words would never know?  Ahead, I saw a sign warning of a sharp left turn in less than a quarter mile.  When I got closer, the image of the San Juan Trading Post rose like the Phoenix from the desert floor.  Sitting low and deep in a knoll by the river’s edge, it beckoned you to stop without telling you why.  

Why — was a question I had refused to deal with since leaving the motel. As I parked the bike in front of the Trading Post’s Café, the smell of something wonderful drifted through a window in the back.  In the back, and to the left, was where the kitchen was located. The smell was so overpowering that I was frozen in place, and I stood there in the bright sunlight taking in as much as I could.

          Why, Being The Question I Tried Most To Avoid

There was usually a reason for why most things happened even when not apparent. The closed Frybread stand at the 4-Corners Monument made more sense to me now.  Had I eaten there, I would have probably bypassed the Trading Post altogether.  All who have had the good fortune to stop there know that their Frybread is the very best. It’s served in the round, comes with powdered sugar, and is the size of a small pizza. I have always tweaked mine with maple syrup on top.

I asked Sam, the Café’s manager, and an old friend, if they still had the maple syrup that they kept hidden in the back.  He said, “Yes Kurt, you’ve been one of the few, if not the only one, that’s ever asked for it.  It may not have been out front since the last time you were here.”  I liked the thought of being the only one that enjoyed Frybread that way.  I thanked Sam again, but I also noticed something about him that seemed disturbing and strange.

Sam was limping with his left leg, dragging it is more apt, as he headed down the forty-foot-long corridor to the kitchen pantry for my syrup.  As he started back my way, I could tell from the look on his face that he was in a great deal of pain. Already knowing the answer, I asked Sam what was wrong.  He said: “I have an arthritic hip.”  At this I smiled, lightened up, and said: “Sam, I had my own left hip replaced just a few years ago.  It now feels like the real thing and allows me to do everything I like to do.”  This motorcycle trip of almost 5000 miles is no problem,” I told him, as he grimly smiled and looked away.

“How much did it cost?” he asked, as he cleared my table and walked back to the register.  With that, I grew sad because I did remember — and it was over $32,000. I did not tell him the cost hoping there was a health plan on the reservation that would allow him to get it done.  He looked at me again and said: “I’ve seen three doctors, and they’ve all said the same thing.”

They all told him that there was nothing more to be done, at that point, other than having it replaced. “I could have had it done in Phoenix or Tucson and been back on the reservation in three days, but the cost is what’s stopping me.” “I know Sam, I was in and out of the hospital myself in less time than that”… still not commenting on the price.

I left cash on the table as I paid my bill. Sam and I hugged one last time and he walked me outside to the bike. Before putting my helmet back on, we looked at each other once more in the eye.  He knew and appreciated that I understood what he was going through and that his pain would continue until his hip was replaced. It was more likely than not, and something I hated to admit to myself — that his pain would continue.

I asked him, as I was leaving, about any V.A. (Veterans Administration) options. He looked at me through very sad eyes and said: “They told me it was not degenerative enough for the V.A to transfer me to a private hospital, and they don’t perform that kind of operation here on the Rez.”

He had told me inside that he remembered the many years I had limped, and how badly he always felt when watching me leave.  The desk clerk at the adjoining motel actually mentioned me to him. She told him that a guy just left the Cafe on a motorcycle and was riding with his left leg completely down (straight) and not on the foot-peg.  He told her it was because I could not bend my left leg, and my only choice was to ride with it extended and straight down.  He also told her it was not a good option but better than the other alternative of not riding at all.

     So Many Times In Life We Have To Live Inside ‘Plan-B’

Sam looked seventy-five, but he was actually ten years younger than I was.  At fifty-two, he had far too many years of pain left to endure.  With all the money and resources wasted, and given away to countries that hated us, here was a crippled veteran of the United States Marine Corps who was in desperate need of real help. In my mind, no one could have deserved it more.  I watched Sam slowly limp back into the Café as I climbed the steep parking lot road back onto Rt. #163S.  

As I headed into the great Monument Valley, I thought about all the Native Americans who had served their country and were in dire need of health care. Within a 100-mile radius, I knew there were forgotten thousands suffering in pain.  Because of a broken health care system, and the apathy of an ungrateful nation, the only choice available to most of them was to quietly soldier on.

Their Pain And Suffering Continues Long After The Battles Have                                   Been Fought

As I headed east toward the Canyon, I thought about everything that had been so savagely torn away from them. Life on the reservation was challenging enough and the simple elements of life, that most of us take for granted, should not be denied to them.  I gave Sam my current cell number before I left and asked him to contact me in two weeks.  I was hoping that the great doctors who did my hip might be persuaded to take a pro-bono case like Sam’s. I told him that I would be more than willing to provide the airfare to Philadelphia and back — and he could stay with me. I wish I had had the resources to pay for the operation itself. I couldn’t think of a better way to spend money that, unfortunately, I didn’t have.

Sam promised he’d be in touch but in my heart, I didn’t believe him.  Native American dignity has always both inspired and confused me.  They bear life’s darker side with an acceptance that few of us could ever understand and even less endure.

                I Knew I Would Have To Call Him

The final thirty miles to Kayenta was a tribute to the great film director, John Ford, and his mastery in this valley. I felt his strong imagery call out to me with every bend in the road. His camera was magical, and he truly understood both the mystery, and the majesty, of these sacred lands. The time he spent here, and the stories he told, both changed and shaped our image of the American West forever. It was a romanticized image, yes, but one where the intrinsic beauty of the canyons and desert jumped right off the screen and into our imaginations. He lives inside of me now, as he lived inside me then.

A Five-Year-Old Boy Was Changed Forever By The Images Coming From The Small, Eleven Inch, Black And White T.V.

As the mesas and buttes became larger, my thoughts and feelings did the same. It was a shared epiphany of expansion as I crossed back over the Arizona line, but the sadness that I felt for Sam lingered inside. Even the towering imagery of the distant monuments had not chased it away. I remembered my own hip pain and could feel what he was suffering.  Before leaving them, I prayed to the God’s of this valley to enter my thoughts and force these dark clouds to leave — and to bless Sam with good fortune.  

It was mid-afternoon, as I entered Kayenta through its northern end. I was both thirsty and in need of gas.  As filling as the Frybread had been back at the San Juan Cafe, I was hungry again. After an egg salad sandwich and grape juice out of the cold chest at the Mobil Station, I felt much better. This quick stop would be enough to hold me over until I arrived at the Canyon later in the afternoon.

Kayenta put me back on Rt.#160S toward Tuba City where I would bear left onto Rt.#89 for the short trip down to Cameron. Rt.#89 was one of my two main roads of discovery, and it was always good to see it again — we knew each other so well. Cameron, the low-sitting town on the high desert’s floor, had served as a major trading post for Navajo artists and rug makers for over 100 years.  It was also the East Entrance to Grand Canyon National Park.

I shall pass evocative words to curse a pocked, scabby-kneed *****
who perverts the soldiery from an Okinawa Prefecture ***** camp
under bloated rain clouds in moistened meadows of dead war damp
lousy in cadavers mouldering reposed in corporeal-restricted cramp
boldly blest by blood-rich masonic oaths from a capo-regime stamp
that is hidden from sight as lamp-black blackens a black genie lamp
so as to mask the Frisbee Earth into which Exxon Mobil does tamp
because a nut's wedding ring forms a tourniquet/ligature-like clamp
that couldn't hug Evel's faggy *** as he fell off Skycycle X-2's ramp