DRIVING TO AMHERST

First I will decide to take
out my old motorcycle
or revved up used car
with my kayak on top
and charged up
or set loose
after my douche
from the cold garage
as the strong January sun
quickly hits on me
with my desire to visit
Emily,
the eccentric Miss Dickinson
we still refer to as the belle
of Amherst
looming large
in my own poet's imagination
knowing of her understanding
of my frequent visits
in a standing invitation
every new year
it's already crazy traffic
as a gloomy melancholy
sets in after the holidays
here over wounded roads
my hands resting
on a symphony of horns
by a cacophony of noise
along the super highways
not wanting to be a casualty
anchored to other bodies
as a troop boy of scouts
murdering their oranges
wave to me
stopping to buy violets
and a sour doe bread
at a tiny shack
back on open ended road
feeling like John Kerouac
on his journey
wondering what I bought
to eat and for Emily
hopefully was not from a cult
but who knows
the difficulty
in this day and age
it is to have a business
or to earn
or make a living wage
and meet up anonymously
with a Dunkin coffee cup
for a non belligerent friend
or even to learn or discern
from a language
whom we cannot offend
as I ride by a bearded guy
with "a Hitchhiker's Guide
to the Galaxy"
from that science fiction
broadcast from the B.B.C.
as I'm taking out a croissant
my aunt Sarah sent me
for Christmas
from Burlington,Vermont
from her bread and breakfast
at the student rooming house,
a red scarf, Russian hat
and my small Persian cat
from my glove compartment
hoping every day to love
dream and be reborn not cursed
under the ancient Evergreen
among a Jamesian realization
that some clever happenings
do not change
as I'm busily driving by
apple and chestnut trees
the squirrels are busy
as we pass the Esplanade
with a thaw breeze for miles
without street signs
or what passes
for law or civilization
as this poem emerges
within range
of Amherst Common
seeing a peace sign
of the Sixties
to make love not war
from Quaker fallible souls
who quietly go about
New England
with their honorable goals
hearing a talk radio station
with loud voices
force fed on oldies
and war horses
by a river bed
engaging with the words
of this metamorphic poet
a hurting a bit on my knees
yet knowing that my verse
will be translated
in many languages
of the universe
and sent overseas.