Eternal Road Trips with Mohandas
Copyright 2006-2009 by Lane Adamson
If I wrote an epic poem
In a manner now archaic
In tetrameters trochaic
Parody might be suspected
But it isn't: pay attention
You just might enjoy the story...
i. Tripping: Down Metempsychosis Highway
On a road trip to AtlantisDown Metempsychosis Highway
With my friend, the Dalai Lama
And the Burmese cat, Mohandas
In a '64 VW
Motoring the midnight asphalt
In my aging, beat-up Beetle
Windows down to let some air through
In the sharp-drawn Chuck Jones desert
Underneath a gibbous moonrise
Coming from a late-night movie
At the Instant Karma Drive-In
(Eastwood, mentored by Leone
Filmed a new Spaghetti Koan
It's called "Dirty Hare Krishna")
Passing signs along the roadside
Brightly painted Day-Glo billboards
For the Kalevala Gift Shop
It was late, and we were hungry
(Plus, Mohandas had to tinkle)
When we parked, we knew at once that
This was not your normal truck stop
Gifts and liquor, food and diesel
Horoscopes and I-Ching readings
All marked down to bargain prices
Tarot cards, reduced for clearance
Flies in amber, bumper stickers
Postcards--French, and more prosaic
Plastic Jesuses and Marys
All along with gas (self-service)
In the diner, percolating
Coffee smelled like Finnish mornings
Wainamoinen at the griddle
Flipping flapjacks out like Frisbees
Onto astral plates, with syrup
While the Dalai Lama went to
Get his nails done, and his palm read
I sat, cat-side, in the diner
There to share a beer and burger
With Mohandas, people-watching
Looking at the waitress, pouring
Kool-Aid in electric colors
For the riders from the bus stop
On the road to test their mettle
With their faces painted merry
Thumbing through the juke-box play-list
Looking for some Mary Hopkins
Maybe even Ravi Shankar
All they had was Barbra Streisand
So I saved my Franklin quarter
In the next booth was a fellow
Fair of hair, with eyes of lapis
Yellow-gloved, in floral weskit
Reading Irving's "Sketch Book," slowly
Savoring Americana
With a raven, and his--daughter?
Sat a high-browed gentleman who
Looked quite thin, and most consumptive
Peering 'round in bleak bemusement
Tapping, tapping on his table
Ravens make Mohandas nervous
So I fetched the Bodhisattva
Stopping at the gift-shop counter
There to buy some handmade hand-wear
Mittens, with the fur side inside
Then I gassed up the VW
Whilst the Dalai bought a bottle
(Old Crow, just to piss the cat off)
We drove off into the desert
Drinking rich Kentucky bourbon
Weaving slightly as I traveled
With the Burmese cat, Mohandas
And my friend, the Dalai Lama
Down Metempsychosis Highway
On a road trip to Atlantis
ii. Cruising: The Transcendental Turnpike
On the Transcendental TurnpikeIn the steamy Texas twilight
In a '64 VW
With the Burmese cat, Mohandas
Looking for the Dalai Lama
We had set out on a road trip
Off to sightsee in Atlantis
But the Dalai Lama left us
At a bus stop in the desert
For a merry band of pranksters
He said he would catch us later
On Enlightenment Expressway
After having "found himself" (but
Privately, I blamed the Kool-Aid)
—Still, Mohandas missed the bastard
So, we wandered back-road byways
Checking all the roadside psychics
And the drug-store make-up counters
Looking for signs of his passage
'Til we found ourselves in Texas
On a lonely stretch of nowhere
Stood a man, with thumb extended
Masked, and wearing twin revolvers
I stopped, on Mohandas' say-so
(Much against my better judgment)
He got in, and most politely
Introduced himself as Clayton
Now retired from law enforcement
(Out to pasture, as he put it)
Living on a meager pension
He, too, missing a companion
Set out for the reservation
There to find his faithful sidekick
Shake off shackles age had fastened
And ride off into the sunset
I thought this a noble venture
But tonight could drive no further
Up ahead a billboard beckoned:
"Stop and rest, relax your chakras
At the Lobsang Rampa Campgrounds"
We pulled in, and parked the Beetle
As we stretched our legs, we heard the
Sound of mantras being chanted
Clayton went that way; I followed
While Mohandas chased cicadas
In a clearing, levitating
Was a happy little yogi
Wrapped in saffron robes and chanting
While a scruffy blonde was strumming
On a weather-beaten guitar
Then Mohandas came to join us
Jumping to the yogi's lap and
Making all the introductions
(It was plain they were acquainted—
Yogi, cat, and young musician)
He was Mahesh; she was Janis
He was spreading Vedic science
(Life in harmony with nature)
She was resting for a concert
In her hometown of Port Arthur
Clayton asked if she would favor
Us with just a short performance
She was bashful, little-girlish
'Til Mohandas rubbed her ankles
Then she smiled in acquiescence
Sang she songs of love and longing
Pain and heartache, tears and trials
Balls and chains and new Mercedes
When she finished, we were quiet
Staggered by her raw emotion
Then Mohandas broke the silence
Yowling—was it in E minor?
Smiling, she picked up his rhythm
Harmonizing with abandon
Joyful, wordless, unknown anthems
Come the morning, we had slept not
Yet, I felt rejuvenated
Healing by association
With these happy, freeform spirits
—I was ready to move forward
Clayton said that he would stay there
'Til they astrally projected
(I think he was sweet on Janis)
So I got back in the Beetle
Where Mohandas joined me shortly
In the ruby Texas sunrise
In a '64 VW
With Mohandas riding shotgun
Looking for the Dalai Lama
On the Transcendental Turnpike
iii. Flashback: How I Met the Dalai Lama
Once, upon an endless journeyDown Nirvana Boulevard, I
Happened on a happy stranger
Who would change my life in ways that
I have yet to fully reckon
I was on a misadventure
In a run-down town in Texas
With a sheaf of unread verses
(And a healthy chunk of hubris)
Going to a poet’s slam-fest
At the Sportatorium, a
Faded relic, now decrepit
Once the home of roller derby
(Long ago, an Elvis concert)
And the wrestler, Fritz Von Erich
This was an All-Star event, an
Eagerly awaited showdown
Poets-laureate in spandex
Vying for a chance at glory
And an over-sized belt buckle
e.e. cummings took the mike first
Sing-song tales of anyone who
Lived in towns of petty how-ness
Sad laments of Death and cowboys
No one stopped to listen closely
Just arrived from San Francisco
(With his mind on Coney Island)
Lawrence Ferlinghetti rambled
Little charleychaplin poet
Painting word art psychedelic
Next came grizzled Charles Bukowski
Swilling from a screw-top bottle
While a merry whore would whack him
With a blackjack by the lamplight
Every time he muttered, "Fuck you!"
Other bards were less successful:
Frost got lost on roads less traveled
Kerouac cracked up his tour bus
Plath committed suicide, and
Andy Warhol read the phonebook
Then a really odd thing happened
As I watched, nonplussed, a
Little brown cat took the spotlight
Yowling, hissing, purring, screeching
It was feral, yet uplifting
Then, in time, it was my turn, and
I was in full rant, invective
Spraying from my lips like napalm
Bitter tales of isolation
Broken hearts and bleak rejection
I was not that well received; I
Heard the snickers of derision
"William Wantling wanna-be" and
Other epithets less Christian
(It was quite a savage lesson)
Last, a little fellow walked out
Bald of head, and robed in saffron
"Joy!" he said, and stood there, grinning
Arms uplifted, beatific
Silence sang like summer sunshine
Nickel beer is often blamed, but
Rowdy crowds are commonplace for
Poetry (or wrestling matches)
No one was at all surprised when
Ripe tomatoes started flying
He just stood there, getting splattered
Like a produce section martyr
Head unbowed and smile unshaken
Then the cat from stanza nine came
Out and started blocking for him
Shamed, I scrambled from my stupor
Leapt down from my seat to help them
I escorted Baldy backstage
(Getting beaned a time or several)
While the cat ran interference
We went out the service door, while
Hoots and catcalls echoed rudely
In the parking lot we found my
Old VW waiting for us
We jumped in, and I burned rubber
That, my friends, is how I set out
On a never-ending journey
With the Burmese cat, Mohandas
Down Nirvana Boulevard, and
How I met the Dalai Lama
iv. Fugue: Burmese Cats and Death in Texas
I have driven past ForeverIn a '64 VW
With the Burmese cat, Mohandas
Getting more and more frustrated
Seeking answers yet unquestioned
We had found the Dalai Lama
Eating tofu, barbequed, in
Garland, at a shack called Cowboy's
On Catharsis Avenue, where
Beef has never tasted better
He was slightly drunk and rowdy
Preaching to the hungry rednecks:
Evils of consumerism
Mustard in potato salad
Proper cornbread has no sugar
Finally, the owner, Jethro
Six-foot-six of burly Negro
Had enough and put his foot down
(Limping slightly from the missing
Toes he lost in cold Wisconsin)
So I grabbed the Bodhisattva
Hustling him outside the building
Thrust him in the waiting Beetle
I jumped in and revved the engine
While Mohandas ordered takeout
When we cleared the city limits
I turned off the busy byways
Onto country roads less traveled
'Til we reached a quiet town where
We could stop to rest a while
In the quaint old town of Greenville
("Blackest dirt and whitest people")
We came to a bed and breakfast
Managed by a charming couple
With the names of Rob and Laura
Refugees from New Rochelle, now
Rob was working on a novel
Laura ran the daily business
Every word they said seemed witty
And the lady's smile bedazzled
It was time to have a little
Heart-to-heart with both my friends, and
I was not enthusiastic
As I knew the Dalai Lama
Has a touch of ADHD
And Mohandas, now, that feline
Is a chocolate-brown conundrum
Full of vast and unplumbed wisdom
But for all his knowledge, still he
Isn't much for conversation
"Look," I told them, over coffee,
"We all set out on a journey
On a road trip to Atlantis
But we keep on getting sidetracked
From our stated destination:
"Up Nirvana Boulevard, then
Down Metempsychosis Highway
On the Transcendental Turnpike
To Catharsis Avenue, and
Still I haven’t seen the ocean."
Then the Dalai Lama asked if
There was bourbon for the coffee
"No," I said, exasperated
"Since you drank it in the desert
By the Kalevala Gift Shop
"Just before you turned us back and
Took off with the Merry Pranksters
In their psychedelic tour bus
Leaving me there with Mohandas . . ."
I trailed off, my thoughts disjointed
Then Mohandas, purring softly
Lapping coffee from a saucer
Pointed out that our adventures
Even though they lacked direction
Had not been entirely pointless
We had met the singer, Janis
And the masked old lawman, Clayton
Maharishi Mahesh Yogi
And the slightly cracked but happy
Wainamoinen, with his flapjacks
Poets at the slam in Dallas
(With their stash of ripe tomatoes)
Jethro, with his barbeque, and
Rob and Laura's bed and breakfast
Slowly, I began to grasp it
Life is not a destination
But a never-ending journey
And the truest source of joy is
Not the end result, but how you
Get there, and with whom you travel
Then that wise old cat, Mohandas
Closed his golden eyes in pleasure
Knowing I had been enlightened
And his journey, too, had meaning
Then, at peace, his purr was silenced
Tears I shed, but they were joyful
And the Dalai Lama joined me
Then we got back in the Beetle
With the spirit of Mohandas
Riding shotgun on our journey
On a road trip to Atlantis . . .
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