There you sit
in my garage
a graceful German machine
a classic gas guzzler
of iron steel
and glass

There you sit
a ruby relic of the road
waiting for me to turn the key
and roll down the road
littered with tons of flat tires
radiators batteries and wires

of wood wind water and ice
free from a concrete
plastic prison
of soiled air and water
killing king salmon
melting Arctic ice
habitat of perishing polar bears

In a wilderness of wood wind
and water I am alone
arms raised in awe
to grizzlies
caribou and wolves
who roam over mountains
glaciers and razor edged ridges
rising from rocky river beds
and silt layered flatlands

In a wilderness of wood wind
water and ice I tread
on a carpet of moss and lichen
where water falls and flows
in a woodland harmony
of cottonwood
ferns, alder and Sitka spruce
beneath a soaring eagle eye

In a Lisboa Jazz bar around midnight on Rua da Rosa
I’m talking to Marcos the twenty something seminarian
soon to be Catholic priest who tells me about
his secret love affair with what he gleefully calls
“The Devil’s music”— and what the saints
on the walls of this small smoky club call THE BLUES:

In black and white photos over the bar mysterious
Robert Nighthawk plays his slide guitar on Maxwell St.
in Chicago back in the day, to his left Muddy Waters
eyes shut strummin’ his guitar and hummin’

Then there’s Miles caressing his charismatic horn
and on the opposite wall, in a dusty gold frame, Lady Day
face and necklace aglow in Satchmo’s shining trumpet

A million miles from home I can’t but grin and shake
my head while sincere, celibate Marcos belts out
“Crossroads Blues” and the Holy Spirit transports us
back to the Mississippi Delta where the blues was born
when black folks were crucified on the cross of king cotton

Then he pulls out his B-flat-harp and it’s Kansas City
St. Louis, Memphis and Chicago…Christ, am I really
in Bairro Alto diggin’ the blues in candle light?

In the back, in the dim light of Moorish lamps
two ladies in black strapless fado* dresses
are sippin’ and shakin’ their shapely derrières

while over their heads under glass Diz in that black
beret, stands one foot crossing the other on tip toe
his back arched, blissfully wailing, cradling that horn
close to his heart

*Portuguese blues music

Juvenile Justice is a caste system
where shackled and chained kids of color
replay the tearful trek
from plantation to prison—

America’s new slavery

Young lives languishing in cell blocks
where the light of day is lost
in a dungeon of desperation
and despair

America’s new slavery

Why are they there?
To protect society?

Do we dare defeat the evils of poverty
race privilege and war?
Destroy the prison-industrial machine?

America’s new slavery

I’m strollin’ Babylon by the Bay
in North Beach when the storm
swamps the Bay Bridge
blowing down trees on Telegraph Ave.

Treasure Island is underwater and
Alcatraz is sinking in surf
The sign on the de Young museum
reads “closed due to inclement weather”

A streetcar is stuck on Nob Hill
the strip joints and bars
are nearly empty on Broadway
and lunch is canceled in Chinatown

While the mayor is getting toasted
at Town Hall I’m groovin’ with Buddha
in the Old Shanghai where Jazz is still alive
on Steward Street in San Francisco