I went into the Maverick Bar
In Farmington, New Mexico.
And drank double shots of bourbon
backed with beer.
My long hair was tucked up under a cap
I’d left the earring in the car.
Two cowboys did horseplay
by the pool tables,
A waitress asked us
where are you from?
a country-and-western band began to play
“We don’t smoke Marijuana in Muskokie”
And with the next song,
a couple began to dance.
They held each other like in High School dances
in the fifties;
I recalled when I worked in the woods
and the bars of Madras, Oregon.
That short-haired joy and roughness—
I could almost love you again.
We left—onto the freeway shoulders—
under the tough old stars—
In the shadow of bluffs
I came back to myself,
To the real work, to
“What is to be done.”
Neal Cassady & I went upstairs to attic at Millbrook estate Castalia Foundation big house where Timothy Leary and friends were then experimenting with DMT, a half hour trip - here Neal resting eyes closed with Millbrook lady friend (Susan Metzner, wife of Dr Ralph Metzner) in charge of holding the vile of liquid psychedelica. I’d driven upstate from New York City with Ken Kesey & Merry Pranksters in their day glo painted bus recently arrived East crosscountry from California, Neal at the wheel, Fall 1964.
c. Allen Ginsberg Estate
Maybe it is true we have to return
to the black air of ashcan city
because it is there the most life was burned,
as ghosts or criminals return?
But no, the city has no monopoly
of intense life. The dust burned,
golden or violet in the wide land
to which we ran away, images
of passion sprang out of the land
as whirlwinds or red flowers, your hands
opened in anguish or clenched in violence
under that sun, and clasped my hands
in that place to which we will not return
where so much happened that no one else noticed,
where the city’s ashes that we brought with us
flew into the intense sky still burning.