Captain's Log

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Inhere lie the chronicles of the landship Rieka, and her ongoing mission to journey Furtherer than any poet has gone before.  

16 August 2024

It’s official. The transfer is complete, the torch has been passed. I’ve just assumed command of the landship Rieka, and her continuing mission to seek out and discover new communities and cultures, to bring poetry and art to a level it has never reached before, as an international Poetry Ambassador for Peace.

In her continuing adventures Rieka, meaning “power of creation” and “power of the wolf,” will set out to establish global poetry networks, connecting like minds and great thinkers from around this planet and beyond.

 

19 August 2024

The very first duty that I’ll be responsible for is to perform a thorough maintenance inspection to ascertain any compromised mechanical systems and needed work or repairs that will need to be performed to ensure she’s fully road ready.

Having spent days sorting out all the payments and paperwork needed to be on the road, driving her into the maintenance bay, the last and final step before becoming fully street legal, was a moment of highest anxiety… the last thing I needed at this point was for her to fail inspection. Nearly an hour they spent going point by point, as my heart paced back and forth.

Finally cleared, papers in order, it was time to open up the throttle and hit the road, to take her for a test run… and there’d be poets in Manchester tonight.

Damian Rucci and his merry band of traveling bards and miscreants, going under the moniker of the New Jersey Poetry Renaissance were coming to town to raise the roof and create a ruckus, and what better way to baptize Rieka than with the fire of spoken word.

Navigating the labyrinth of back streets, we finally came upon The Alibi, a corner bar in a poor working class part of town… always the best venues cos they’re real and down in the dirt, places where posers dare not venture… and parking down the street, we had an hour to settle in before the rush began.

Just then, I peer out the window to notice a grey car with New Jersey plates come around the corner, and the hoarse voice of Alex Ragsdale – think Kurt Cobain meets Neal Cassady and you’ll get a good picture in your head – can be heard saying, “That must be the bus. Now I know what we’re doing for the next twenty minutes.” 

I call out to them and invite them over. As they park, it’s time to show them what Rieka can do. Opening up the stage door I lower the lift – The Lift Stage it’s called, the former wheel chair lift built into the starboard side of the bus. Complete with a matching red sofa chair, the stage is now set as I inaugurate the built-in theatre with a poem and the comradery that then ensues from there.

Giving the grand tour, I show off the custom built interior and Captain’s Cabin, fully insulated and finished with floor to ceiling wood work, complete with three beds (a full bed on a loft platform and a set of bunk beds that double as a couch), a shower, counter and cabinets, with more than plenty of space for storage and of course the centerpiece, a fireproofed brick corner with a wood burning stove.

 

As it turns out, Alex isn’t only a poet, but also a mechanic and knows his way around a diesel engine. Asking to open the hood he starts doing a point by point inspection of his own, and offers to help me do an oil change, something that was already at the top of my list, as he travels with his tool kit.

 

When opportunity comes calling, you must remember to say yes. The power of yes is all that is needed to achieve your dreams… and help will come your way, as long as you stay receptive to it – that is with all things in life – the universe responds and will bring good things your way, if you let it.

Now though it was time to set up and get the show started, it was going to be a long night, one of many, and I was fortunate enough just to be a witness. With my bed parked outside and cheap beer inside, it was going to be a long night indeed, as we unrolled our stories at the bar. 

  

If you’ve never been to a Poetry Renaissance show, they’re loud and raunchy, a rowdy crew, a mix of poets and comedians that make up this bohemian working class stew, complete with whips and dildos and every type of vulgarity you can imagine. It’s not for the faint of heart or those easily offended, yet at the same time the level of pure, raw talent in the room was groundbreaking and some of the funniest stuff I’ve seen in a long time.

 

 

When asked if “wild” was a proper way to describe his shows, Damian told me that his goal was to become the Jerry Springer of poetry… and his group of pranksters would seem more than eager to make that vision a reality.

 

 

20 August 2024

 

What happened last night? At some point I staggered back to the bus. It was sometime after midnight, at least six hours before they finally put it to bed and now it’s all a blur.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now, it’s morning and I’m parked on some random street corner with no one else around. Coffee wasn’t going to find itself, so it was time to get my own show rolling.

After taking care of the essentials, I knew there was a free day ahead of me, so with an offer on the table I set about tracking down what I’d need for an oil change and a spot to hold up while the New Jersey crew slept off their own hangovers from the bacchanal the night before.

Around two o’clock, Alex met up with me and we completed the work on the bus, getting the engine to purr. I’m seeing how he’s become a real backbone of the Poetry Renaissance group, more than a mechanic, he’s the chief engineer of the group, making sure the entire thing functions as Damian steers the ship managing multiple events across state lines simultaneously.

The more I hang out with these guys the more impressed I’m becoming with what they’re creating. There’s the debaucherous parts that the morality police will undoubtedly take issue with, yet what they’re doing goes far beyond the first glance. There’s a depth and breath and a purpose full of intent to build something that’ll break the boundaries, while at the same time not losing themselves.

Later we all met up at a 50’s café, where getting towards dinner time they were all sitting down for breakfast. Here I got a chance to talk with Jerimiah, another young poet and event organizer from Manchester, whose helping to promote Poetry Renaissance in New Hampshire.

 

He suggested that since we have the bus, he knew a spot not so far away where we could watch the sunset by the river. So, we piled in about a dozen bodies and rode the cacophony down to the railroad crossing that stretched over the Merrimack River.

By the time I caught up with them, Jerimah had already scaled to the top of the bridge, having lost a shoe to the river in the process. Quickly others followed suit, as Rachad Wright, the former Jersey City Poet Laureate, and Alex climbed to the top to take in the view.

 

Spending the waning moments of sunset by the river bank, it was now time to load back up, tonight’s event was already starting and another night of spoken word and comedy was upon us.

 

 

 

Heading into downtown Manchester we gathered again at the Keys bar for a night of stand-up comedy led by a full bearded giant of a transvestite in a cowboy hat.

 

During the night Damian and I found a moment to talk about the purpose behind the movement he was building – to build poetry networks everywhere, to connect the average person to the power of their own voice, while being a part of something much larger.

As herding cats and poets is a nearly impossible task, the night devolved into a grand debate over where everyone was going to sleep that night.

As it turned out, they were heading to Laconia, more than an hour away for the promise of beds and a shower, but first we needed to gather back at The Alibi for libations and a jam session that ended with us singing Show Me the Way to Go Home in a cappella.

 

21 August 2024

Having woken up, once more parked on the street corner, it was time to beat the meter maids. Coffee would have to wait, for once the engine starts miles we’d need to cross before a rest stop would find us.

Arriving in Portsmouth early, the trick was finding overnight parking. Downtowns are usually restrictive, especially with such a large vehicle to park, yet I wanted to be close enough to be able to walk back after tonight’s grand finale at The Press Room, where Myles Burr was launching his new album, “Voyeuristic Sun.

Myles, a bear of a man in a white fur coat took to the stage and blew some crazy tunes with his band jamming all the way, until it finally climaxed with him having an orgy with the dance floor, as the packed room cheered him on.

 

 

 

Meanwhile, more shenanigans were going on in Manchester as a contingent of cats led by Liam Burdett, a kick ass comedian, clad in a black leather jacket and as punk as it gets, were back at The Alibi stirring up trouble with locals, while planning to “finish the story” to “pay tribute” at Kerouac’s grave in Lowell that night…

Operation Kero-whack was a go, as Damian and Alex coordinated over Instagram, like dispatchers from the depot. “10-4 good buddy, that’s a Roger,” and “Everything’s going according to plan,” as the whole thing eventually fell apart due to being drunk and disorderly in the bar they were at, with the whole road crew having to return to Manchester to sort out whatever was going on there.

22 August 2024

Waking early, it was time to get back on the road, to close out this show and our maiden voyage, as we drove back down the New Hampshire coastline to a bright new day.

I’m pleased to say that our inaugural mission, to tear it up with the poets of the New Jersey Poetry Renaissance was a complete success with no casualties (that we know of) to report.

 

 

30 August 2024

 

 

Heading out today for our second adventure and first medium distance road trip, to Connecticut for the National & International Beat Poetry Festival, where I’ll be inducted as the new US National Beat Poet Laureate.

Setting out early, I wanted to leave extra time for any unforeseen circumstances, as this would be my first distance test. About forty minutes in, this proved to be a necessary precaution, as suddenly a warning light and alarm went off.

As it turns out, if the engine temperature goes over 200 degrees caution lights start flashing. With a vehicle this size and a diesel on top of it, there are so many idiosyncrasies and maintenance checks I need to stay on top of, and I’m just at the beginning of the learning curve.  

With six miles still to g before my exit, and no good option for pulling over, I let up on the gas… when going uphill the power drops significantly and you have to give it a little more to keep up enough speed, but that also causes the engine temperature to rise… once I started heading down hill though the engine started to cool and the alarms shut off. yet I’d still need to get to a safe place to stop and look under the hood.

Having turned off onto Route 20, I found a gas station to pull into, yet once there could find neither the problem nor the solution, so the best I could do in the situation was let the engine cool for half an hour and take a more rural route, staying off the highway for a while.

Having made it to Connecticut without any further incident, I made it to the destination with an hour to spare, and parking at the far end of a lot next to a river trail, I planned to let myself settle in a little before all the events began, yet as luck would have it, I immediately ran into the Beat Laureates, Chris Vannoy and Ron Whitehead, in from California and Kentucky respectively, and took the opportunity to hang out with them, visiting the local antique shops, before the rush of the festivities began.

 

While there, I fortuned on a prize, a beautiful 1965 hardcover edition of Jules Verne’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea… officially now the first book for the new Poetry Library I’m building for the bus.

 

 

 

As more poets arrive, the tours begin, showing off the bus and all her potential, as I serenade Leann and PW Covington (the incoming New Mexico Beat Poet Laureate) with a Grateful Dead song from The Lift Stage…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poets converging, we sat down to eat, drink and carouse before the festival officially launched with a reading at the Collinsville Town Hall from the former Beat Laureates… which in style nearly ended in a brawl. 😊

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 31 August 2024

 

 

The day I’ve been waiting for is finally here. Having settled in at the festival headquarters, an estate in the Connecticut countryside, I woke up early to do some filming and to prepare for a long day ahead.

 

 

The new Poetry Bus, a center of attraction, I’d be giving tours and a Green Room for poets who needed to take a break from all the hubbub going on throughout the day.

 

 

 

Easing into the celebrations, we started with an open mic for the first two hours, so that the room – or backyard – would be warm from when Debbie (Tuson-Kilday) would introduce the new laureate selection.

 

She began by telling of the selection process where a committee had weeded through hundreds of nominations to come up with a list of 70 potential laurates for this year, out of which only a dozen were chosen. That was the moment it truly sank in how special this honor really was.

 

 

Over the last couple days I’d heard over and over again the theme of home this group is a family of poets, a home for those who had no place in the ivory towers of literature and society, that this was where the wanderers met, echoing the same feelings I had already, contemplating the meaning of this award… as like a homecoming.

 

Readings went on throughout the day and night, and just when we thought we’d put it to bed, reinforcements arrived, when Damian Rucci and Alexander Ragsdale showed up at 9:30, keeping the revelries going for another four hours, until they finally crashed in the bus for the night, as I went staggering off to bed.

  

01 September 2024

 

Another early morning struck me, as coffee was sitting so far away, yet if I don’t start during the calm before the storm, I’ll just get swept up in all the chaos.

In the interim, I was able to get Alex to take a look at the bus again to see what was going on with the exhaust system, the likeliest culprit for the mysterious warning light. Turns out that this bus is one of the first ones installed with a filtration system to reduce diesel emissions. What that means is that I have both an exhaust filter and a cleaning procedure called Regeneration that I must do regularly, a process by which the engine heat is used to burn off any carbon built up in the exhaust system.  

Theoretically having the solution, and a plan to follow through, I felt better heading into the third day of readings, as the poets gathered made their final plans and last farewells and to be continueds, before spreading back out into the thousand directions.

 

 

 

As the heat of day was breaking, I finished repacking the bus and hit the road myself, watching my gauges as predicably they followed pattern I saw before once the temperature went above 200, as I regulated my driving to compensate, making it back by nightfall without further incident.

 

03 September 2024

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What a day. Having returned from the Beat Poetry Festival in Connecticut, it was jump head first into my first event, hosting as the new US National Beat Poet Laureate.

 

What better way to kick off my term than to go to Lowell, Massachusetts, where Beat Poetry, specifically Jack Kerouac, was born and raised.

 

 

 

Starting off early, I wanted to get to Edson Cemetery where Kerouac is buried to set up, before the poets arrived later that afternoon.

With the bus, I always need to account for inevitable obstacles and everything taking twice as long as I plan. The first limbo stick I had to pass under was a low bridge heading down Gorham Street on the way to the cemetery that only had a 12 foot clearance. Conservatively, I measured the height at 11 foot 4 inches, so 11 and a half to be safe, which gave me a six inch margin of safety, yet I took that nice and slow just in case.

 

 

 

 

 

Having cleared that, it was now a question of how to get inside the graveyard. The main gate likewise has a low narrow clearance that I wouldn’t be able to get through, so I had to drive around the perimeter to find a back entrance which barely was wide enough to get through, yet dodging tree-lines I made it to Lincoln and Seventh where Jack was laid to rest.

 

Having assembled, the poets met up and then got on the bus to take them to the grave site, where in the Beat tradition, started by myself and the poet, George Wallace, last year, we would drink a shot of Jack for Jack.

Sitting around his grave we shared stories and commemorated Kerouac’s legacy, before heading over to The Worthen House where Kerouac (and allegedly Edgar Allen Poe) used to drink.

   

With the new inducted Beat Poet Laureates and more poets from all over, having joined us from as far away as California, representing nine different states across the country in total, we set the mic afire on this Tuesday night.

 

The benefit of course of having the bus with me is that it’s now possible to stay all night for events and go right out to the parking lot to sleep, when it’s over. No couch surfing or driving required after a night of poetry and raucous behavior. 

 

Another success and great memories created we poets said our farewells as we planned out our next adventures in this long and winding tale that has only just begun.