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THE RETURN TRIP

How often the awkwardness
of entering you,
your mind,
your body,
your country.

 

1:

 

We’ve all come from the cracks and fissures of an ancient lady
From deep within her hollowed walls
And out through the holes where her arms should have been
We keep coming

And the first time I came with you
You were barely18 and just left home for the first time
And girl… was your mommy and daddy upset with me!
But you only stayed until you found a boy your own age to marry, didn’t you?
But I stayed until our daughter was grown
Yes I stayed until our daughter was grown
My god! Haven’t you noticed yet that our daughter is lost and gone?

Still I remember her
Back before words worked
Or awareness kept
The long lists and categories of memories
We were never far from this birth and the huge umbilicus
A limited trail twisting backwards to mother
Her distant husband away in some other land
Fighting wars with its mothers and sons
Fighting wars with its fathers and daughters

Yes I was born but never bound to the flesh of umbilicus
The limited trail that twists ever backwards to mother

And yet, to my child’s glee,
The blood-filled life-line became a hollow balloon
It stretched for miles and miles
Into the unseen abyss of history
It stretched for miles and miles
For Miles and Coltrane
And the unheard music of history
For miles and miles
The unknown abyss of her-story
To where we all arrive,

At last, far out, and beyond ourselves
I know my hollow balloon came to rest
Finally and fully it filled with smack
Where it crumbled into a pile again
Came to rest at last
At my dear mother’s feet again
At rest again
At the feet of my dear weeping mother
At rest again
At the feet pf my dear weeping mother

At rest in space, between days and nights
Between planets made out of powdered stars
Twisted forever into constellations and formulae
Into clothing made out of the coldness of cadavers

But finally and at last I am severed...
Severed forever from the maze of endeavor
From the sweet milk my mother produced for me
Severed forever from the phase of endeavor
From the two fanged formula of ancestry
Severed forever from the craze of endeavor
From the huge swollen tits of addiction

 

2:

I can almost remember that child you wanted
That child you wanted from me
And the tragic miscarriage I forced on you

I bet you never knew I put that still warm fetus in a bottle
Covered it with paint thinner
And curled up next to it for a very long time

Curled up to it for a very long time

But alas
No sideshow
Wanted it
And so I buried
That little baby
In the basement
Beneath a pile of dirt
And curled up next to it
For a very long time

For a very long time

But even I, with my compulsive attachment,
Oh even I finally walked away
Banished forever to this silent room
Where no suggestion is possible
Where no dream ever manifests
Where no one ever needs any one
To breathe again

But still the sins of the flesh, they scream out at me
My son, my only son, how could this be?
How could you have forsaken me?
Oh Father, how could you have killed me?

Ah but this permissive society
Never even indicted us for murder
...For murder

But truthfully
Your miscarriage
Only aborted
The inevitable
It saved us
From killing you
Outright
Out of convenience

Oh yes my child!
I know you’re dead
Regardless of when feminists say life began

But do you know what really bothers me?
Not your death, but the fact that it took from me
It took with it my dreams
Of baseball
And fishing
And circuses
And cotton candy…
Your death denied me another childhood
Ah your death denies me another childhood

3:

Ah childhood... and how wonderfully I remember you!
It was James Dean and race cars we rode in
That soared from 0 to 60 in 8 seconds flat
You know I’m talkin’ about the 50s with Bo Diddley

Me in reform school, the odd boy out
Droning the deep harmonies
Behind black boys with shrill voices
We were the blood in the veins of the Rhythm & Blues
Anonymous young pimps and boxers
Dopers and killers and strays
Yet we all sought first to harmonize
Mere children locked up and singin’
The sad love songs from the ghettos
According to Ray Charles and the Gospel

No I haven’t forgotten a one of them
These precious memories of 60 years
On the road using roadmaps of Kerouac and Kesey
To outdistance the trails of lobotomy
The sleepy Alzheimer’s
The monotony of progeny
The great appeal of sex drugs and vanity

But by God, by God, by God! This time
The next 60 I’ll travel more slowly
The next 60 I’m traveling more slowly…

 

4:

Everyone has the privilege
Everyone is the answer
Ah this huge umbilicus
Coiled like a snake
Engulfing creation
Will we ever throw off her tentacles and breathe again?
With a Creator’s breath in our nostrils

Yes I feel it coming every day now
The great desire to wake up
And always expect to get laid
Again every night the same sensation keeps lulling me
When I lie down
And expect to get up the next day
Every day now I wake up and expect to get paid
For the things I have done all along for you
For the things I have done all along for free
With a Creator’s breath still warm in my nostrils

Fred Burkhart  2003--2004