Early Nineties. Crossing into our Neighbor to the North, the border guard asked me if I’d ever been arrested. To which I responded with my usual candor and bon homie, ‘sure, hasn’t everybody?’ You can see everything that’s going on from the holding cell. Hear most of it, too. The look of disappointment crossed that man’s face when my name failed to appear on any North American criminal records. I just smiled – and mumbled ‘good lawyers’ – as I collected my belongings. – JDW
I Kiss Your Dirt, America: A Meditation On Foreign Travel
CANADA, OHMYGOD, CANADA. MUCH OF THE PLACE
LOOKS LIKE A WASTE DISPOSAL SITE
FOR MOTHER NATURE.
CAME AWAY FROM THE BIG EMPTY
WITH PROFOUND RESPECT FOR DRAFT DODGERS
WHO CHOSE TO HEAD NORTH INSTEAD OF SOUTH VIETNAM.
I KISS YOUR DIRT, AMERICA.
EVER SINCE WE CROSSED THE BORDER
INTO CANADA, OHMYGOD CANADA,
I HAVE BEEN EDGY.
BORDER GUARDS MAKE ME NERVOUS.
I CAN SEE MYSELF SERVING TIME,
THE LAST YEARS OF MY YOUTH, THE BEST YEARS OF MY LIFE,
IN SOME FEDERAL PENITENTIARY
ON SOME TRUMPED-UP TURN SIGNAL VIOLATION.
SHARING A CONCRETE CAGE
WITH A DOUBTLESSLY LOVE-STARVED FELON.
NOT TONIGHT, KILLER. I HAVE A HEADACHE.
I KISS YOUR DIRT, AMERICA.
NOTHING TO DO,
WHICH LEAVES PLENTY OF TIME
TO THINK IN CANADA, OHMYGOD CANADA.
SEEMS TIME IS NOT LINEAR
IN A FRONT TO BACK SENSE.
RATHER TIME IS A DEPTH
MEASURED FROM TOP TO BOTTOM.
TODAY IS NOT AHEAD OF YESTERDAY,
BUT BELOW TOMORROW. THE NOW IS JUST A PEBBLE
DROPPED
INTO THE FATHOMS OF THE INFINITE FOREVER.
LIFE IS THE RIPPLES WHICH WREAK HAVOC
IN EVERWIDENING CIRCLES.
WE DON’T GET OLDER, WE GET DEEPER.
WHICH EXPLAINS THIS SINKING FEELING I HAVE.
I KISS YOUR DIRT, AMERICA.
I DON’T TRAVEL TO FOREIGN
COUNTRIES FOR THE SAME REASON
I DON’T VISIT MENTAL INSTITUTIONS:
I AM WORRIED
THEY WON’T LET ME BACK OUT.
I KISS YOUR DIRT, AMERICA.