Last Thoughts While
Lost Below Lizard Rock
(July 26, 1972—Aravaipa Canyon, Arizona)
There was so much I wanted to say
and did not say.
There was so much I wanted to do
and did not do.
There was so much I wanted to be
and never was.
Three Limericks
(August, 1977—Aztec Peak Lookout, Arizona)
#1
A modest young fellow named Morgan
Had a hideous sexual organ;
It resembled a log
Dredged up from a bog,
With a head on it just like a Gorgon.
#2
An old aging roué known as Drew
Looks back on his youth in sweet rue;
In the years of his might
He could do through the night
What it now takes him all night to do.
#3
An LDS bishop named Bundy
Used to wed a new wife every Sunday.
But his multiple matehood
Was ended by statehood:
Sic transit gloria mundi!
For Marcel Proust, et al.
(October, 1978—Aztec Peak Lookout, Arizona)
They praise the firm restraint with which you write;
I'm with them there, of course.
You use the bridle and the bit all right—
But where's the fucking horse?
For Clarke
(October; 1982—Tucson)
High in the redrock canyon land
We come for our honeymoon;
Married in bliss near the end of May
Would it last till the end of June?
You're selfish, she says, and mean and crass,
And dirty and ugly and old.
Quite true, I admit, but you have a sweet…!
If I may be so bold.
So we love one day and we battle the next,
And the music goes round and round;
We're on top of the mountain on Thursday eve
And by Friday we're underground.
Rising on wings of delight to fly
Just as high as lovebirds can sail;
Then sinking, barge-like, to the floor of the sea,
Low down as the shit of a whale.
But we'll struggle on through and outlive our tears,
Whether marriage be joy or a joke;
I don't give a damn if it takes forty years,
I'm cleaving to Clarke till I croak.
The Kowboy and His Kow
(March, 1989—Tucson)
Oh give me a home where the buffalo roam
Where the deer and the antelope play,
Where seldom is heard a bawling beef herd
And the flies are not swarming all day.
Yes, give me a home where the grizzer bears roam
Where the bighorn and wapiti play,
Where never is seen a hamburger machine
And the cowshit's not stinking all day.
(I should recite this at the annual Cowboy Poet's
Roundup.)
[Editor's Note: This poem is the last entry that appeared in Abbey's journals before his death on March 14, 1989.]
Benedictio
Benedictio: May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing views. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds. May your rivers flow without end, meandering through pastoral valleys tinkling with bells, past temples and castles and poets' towers into a dark primeval forest where tigers belch and monkeys howl, through miasmal and mysterious swamps and down into a desert of red rock, blue mesas, domes and pinnacles and grottoes of endless stone, and down again into a deep vast ancient unknown chasm where bars of sunlight blaze on profiled cliffs, where deer walk across the white sand beaches, where storms come and go as lightning clangs upon the high crags, where something strange and more beautiful and more full of wonder than your deepest dreams waits for you—beyond that next turning of the canyon walls.
So long.
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