Nixon's Kids
Nixon's Kids
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In school I learned that I was bright
As most but not as smart as some.
We learned to be what we'd become
In classes based on mental might.
Yeah, right. In fact, it was in sports
That we would learn our destinies
Based solely on abilities
In throwing balls around on courts.
In first grade it was tetherball
That separated boys from ... boys
And though I loved the clanking noise
I stood the lowest of them all.
In second grade my world was changed:
Miss Cursive without knowing she
Had sold me to the KGB
Sat me beside this kid deranged
Who during his first show-and-tell
Told all about his cherished seal,
Convinced me it was really real
And led me to where he did dwell.
Of course, Kris really had no seal -
A dog named Candy, only pet -
But he could make his face turn red
And that was good enough for me.
In third grade we learned how to find
What two times two and four times four
And eight times eight and many more
All mean; in fourth grade we'd divide
And share the stumbling nation's grief
When RFK was shot to death,
To me, more real than President
John Fitzgerald Kennedy's
Assassination five years since,
While mother did the ironing
And kids on Bandstand were electing
A good beat you could dance to.
In fifth grade an experiment
Was tried on some of us to see
If more kids simultaneously
In class was more efficient.
We had not one or two but four
(To teach us all according to
The strengths of every student who
Had tested high or low before
On various subjects) one of which
turned out to be the niece of that
old Presidential candidate
They'd kicked around: Old Tricky Dick
Himself, who also happened to
Have lived just down the street from us
In Yorba Linda. So what does
One do, but hold a vote to choose
Our own class president? It soon
Got ugly, way beyond just signs
And slogans, promises and lines,
Until we nearly, once at noon,
Had us a riot by the bars
At recess when some seven guys
Deplored the war we fought disguised
As just containment of Karl Marx.
I can't recall who won that day
But never mind: Miss Nixon went
To the inauguration bent
On stating America's way.
But having for one's teacher the
Niece of one so powerful
Had merit undeniable
And took me places unforeseen.
For instance, once when Nixon flew
To the southland for a stay
In his new place in San Clemente,
I dragged my parents, joined those who
Went out to see if Air Force One
Would sink into the tarmac of
Our little airstrip. Heads above
The rest he waved, the favorite son,
And I was quite inspired to write
A news account of that great day.
I showed it to Miss Nixon, a
Great source for her of no small pride;
She sent it off to Uncle Dick,
Who sent it to his pilot: shall
Lt. Col. Ralph B. Al-
Bertazzie tour his bailiwick?
And so we went, my parents and
The press and I to El Toro
Where Air Force One awaited for
Our entourage. I took a stand
From that day forth: I'd try to train,
Become a pilot, hopefully,
Serve God and country faithfully
And told Miss Nixon of my aim.
But then one day at recess I
Observed a sonic boom fly by
When we'd just learned astronomy
And all about the speed of light.
I ran across the asphalt lea
To my beloved, said in glee:
"Miss Nixon, everything we see
Is in the past!" She looked at me
And said with utmost certainty,
"No, it is not!" I turned away
And never held her in that way
Again. I still think she delayed me.
I started playing music in
The band at school that year, cornet
My axe, and singing in the choir, yet
My Muse remained concealed within.
Man landed on the moon at last;
We all stared down TV to see
Neal Armstrong take one giant leap
To plant there an American flag,
Extending Camelot, bringing
About the greatest moment in
Man's history, not to mention
The high point of my memory.
But then I went to middle school
And everything soon fell apart;
It seemed like life had lost its heart:
There was no love or Golden Rule.
My childhood playmates moved away
Because their parents were divorced
Or they could now afford a horse
And better schools, a better way
Of life. But some of us remained
On course, the dark side of the moon
Our target: destination doom;
Great expectations were delayed.
We had to read it nonetheless,
As if young boys could somehow sense
Pip's transcendental homelessness;
We could not have cared much less.
The only good memories by far
In junior high were musical;
My birthing was baptismal:
In Jesus Christ Superstar.
I wished that I could paint the sky
Each cloud in spring a portrait fair,
Where fancy rides above the glare
Of buildings, school, and cares. I'd try,
But I had no artistic skill
And got my first D-notice in
Art, then math, a downward spin,
Saved only by the Muse's will
And Mr. Gooch, who let me play
Euphonium and turned me on
To music through the baritone,
Whose lines are echoing today.
At El Dorado I would find
That school was nothing but a joke,
a fraud, facade, a veil, a cloak,
And sought out ways to blow my mind.
For in the classroom I was bored
And needed much more stimuli
To mind and soul and ear and eye
Than gave the teachers I abhorred.
I'd not been there one year before
The nation's pride was fully shook
When Nixon said, "I'm not a crook!"
And then disowned the oaths he swore,
Just after Christmas with no lights,
A year of Daylight Savings spent
In darkness walking wherever we went,
The only crisis of our lives.
Once again would music save
Me from complete annihilation,
Attract me with exhilaration
That none in other studies gave
Except for maybe English Lit,
Which introduced the might of words,
The wonderment of prose and verse,
The latent power of things in print.
In band we marched and played our way
To championships on street and stage.
"Go Hawks!" we cried with precise rage
Then Kris would set the tempo played
While I, in center front, would set
The stride. But festivals were where
We shined most brightly; it was there
That our musicianship was led
To greater heights than even we
Thought possible, when Muses took
Us by the hand and let us look
Past walls of mediocrity.
That did not happen during math
Or civics, physiology,
In typing or phys ed for me,
But one class did expand my grasp
Of the Humanities. I gave
A long report on Kant and his
Categorical Imperative,
While Kris did his on Charles Ives,
Whose question, still unanswered, guides
My thinking to this day, and I
Sat right in front of this one guy,
Whose cynicism rocked our lives:
The future bassist for Berlin,
Who soon, with Nunn and Diamond, played
On "Sex (I'm A...)" and "Masquerade"
But there's that music thing again.
They soon began to merge: the words
I read in Kant and Tolkien,
In fantasy and science fiction,
With Yes and other bands I heard
And told me there was something more
To life than we can find in school -
A principle, a guiding rule -
And so I peeked behind the door
Of altered states. At first we'd raid
Our parents' liquor cabinets,
But Bacchus offered us no semblance
Of psychedelic trips. We strayed
Out of our homes and into yards
Where scents of sensamilla soon
Dispersed and dreams would learn to loom
As we would leave our house of cards
And trip along the streets, the maze
Of suburbs from which there was no
Escaping but by flying so
We did; we flew away a ways
But still could find no insight to
Reality; introversion
In to our minds the only fun;
Where poetry was born? no clue.
And so we got some windowpane,
Some LSD, so we could see
Clear through to wherever maybe
The stream of consciousness meets brain.
We laughed a lot, then things got weird
And Kris said things into the tape
Recorder that I've never played
For anyone. "Soundchaser" blared
Too fast on my old stereo
And we denied that we were loadies
Until we sat outside and rode these
Waves of perfect ratio
In facets, green and shimmering
Like in "2001 - A Space
Odyssey," that pleasant place
Where the abstract lies quivering
Atop the concrete, where no fear
Accompanies the beautiful,
Where stars are geometrical,
Where music plays no ear can hear.
Some twelve hours later we came down,
Back down to chores, a poor report card,
To parents asking why the school had called,
Unable to say what we'd found,
Which was essentially nothing;
It seemed like it was something such
As dreaming during daylight, but
An acid trip is unrevealing.
That did not deter us from
Ingesting it again to see
If this time some great truths might be
Revealed. Could there be things to come?
The answer was affirmative,
But not what you would think.
We met some guys while stuffing ink
And making it distributive,
For we were once employed to throw
The LA Times from speeding cars
So people rising with alarms
Could know their neighbor from their foe.
And it was over cups of joe
That Jim and Andy turned us on
To Farrell's "Moon Germs" and to fusion,
Return to Forever, and blow,
But that is not what matters now
For it was in discussing frogs
That Andy told us how the gods
Did really come to show us how
Our life was meant to be. We urged,
If he would babysit us while
We fried, to tell the story wild
Of evolution on this earth.
He taught us from a book, the likes
Of which we'd never heard before,
Called The Urantia Book. It bore
The stamp of Truth and struck our minds
As such, but, as I soon found out,
My dad had shown it to me once
And I had thought him quite the dunce;
I lacked maturity, no doubt.
But naturally would have a girlfriend
In spite of that, completion of
The trinity of Sex & Drugs &
Rock & Roll. But comprehend,
My friend, I knew to reach old ages
I would need some rules to guide
My journey through this rising tide;
I called my rules "The Three Big H's".
They were three things I'd never do,
Parameters to ground me, bind
Me down 'tween borders, and remind
Of options I would not pursue:
1) Heroin in no degree;
2) Hypodermic contraband
With steelie needles ripping flesh; and
3) Homosexuality.
These three things I would not take,
Though I could still experience,
To lose my youthful innocence,
A lot of life, for heaven's sake.
And so I have, but I believe
"The Three Big H's" saw me through
The coming of enough's enough,
When man let loose the reaper's reeve.
For all of these were options valid
At El Dorado High back then,
A pleasant place, yet a time when
Some guiding lights were sorely needed.
My parents saw potential harm
For me; felt powerless, I'm sure,
And sent me on a three-month tour
To work a family dairy farm.
I fell in love with everything
About the farm: the cows, the work,
The tractors, the farmer's daughter,
And learned about the birds and bees.
But wait. This is obviously
Out of sequence; not the way
It really happened. That's okay,
You probably think this poem is about me,
Don't you? I managed to escape
Our El Dorado with nearly
Straight-A's in spite of truancy
and drugs, but not before my fate
Had turned: I spent the day a crook
In jail, just weeks before they would
Decriminalize pot for good.
I learned a lesson: handcuffs suck.
I went to college then, became
A music major and delivered
Phone books, even one to Richard
Nixon down in San Clemente,
Where he was self-exiled, holed up
There in his compound where he worked
On his memoirs, watched the surf.
I wonder if he looked me up....
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