Sara Russell, former editor of Poetry Life & Times asks Sage Sweetwater where the inspiration from The Biker Chronicles comes.

Poetry L & T:	Your poem "The Vision Jammer" is very poignant. Do you feel that poets can help to raise awareness about the effects of war?
Sage:	The Vision Jammer is a merge of my living it, both riding my Harley and employed at a Veteran's nursing home for seven years, starting in my early twenties. What a better way to merge the biker lifestyle with the Nam vets who all had a story to tell me. The poet/storyteller can effectively raise awareness about the effects of war. The Vision Jammer was inspired by the mindset of many of the Vietnam bikers I was in the company of in my twenties, the badass Hell's Angels, the Outlaws, and the Banditos, and over a few shots of whiskey, those haunting stories were unvaulted only for the priveleged and chosen few like me. Some of the stories were downright grizzly. Things I cannot even talk about or fathom. The gentlemen behind all of those big, burly, hard-core beards, tattooes, and piercings cried, one even fell to his knees and prayed. Stories about doing low crawls as opposed to sleep walking in fear of the enemy brought an awareness to my soul of the residue of war. A haunting awareness. It's real, Sara!
Poetry L & T:	In your bio, your mention of "The Biker Chronicles" interests me - I love the title and would like to know more about it.
Sage:	Harley's are an American legend. They are also popular recreation and reliable transportation. I have been to the recording studio to record The Biker Chronicles, poetic narration tales of the Harley-Davidson biker lifestyle. The tales are backed by Celtic Renaissance music; banjoes, dulcimers, harps, harmonicas, and mandolins. I have ridden a Harley-Davidson across the Colorado asphalt, weaving stories inside and out of the gypsy wind, spinning iron tales from the legendary Milwaukee wheel. From my past life in the wind, I pounded The Biker Chronicles out of the hard pavement and softened them with the renaissance wind for a traveling storyteller always available to entertain bikers in their cribs, cages, wrenching in their garages, at swap meets, poker runs, toy, charity, and blood runs, pig roasts, and biker bars. The Biker Chronicles is approximately one hour in length and contains 8 soft-R-rated selections. Panama Whiskey Mash Camp Elinoar and Randall Vison Jammer Outlaw's Revenge (Milwaukee Steel Prayer) Brothers, Jugs, and Weed Tattooed on Coney's Eye-Land All Colors Welcome, No Attitudes! I wil be publishing this in audio on CD. I have also developed The Biker Chronicles board game to go along with the CD. It is a biker Jeopardy. The answers to the questions must be obtained by purchasing The Biker Chronicles CD. I have written this project under the pseudonymn of Keysta D. Lorean. I am not marketing this as lesbian. It is written for a much wider market so that I may perhaps entertain women and men alike. Also, I want to grab the Fortune 500 Harley-Davidson Motor Company's attention on making The Biker Chronicles an officially-licensed product of the Harley-Davidson Motor Company.

I witnessed a miracle cure near my home in the Colorado mountains in the early 1990s, to the right side of the road near a spud patch in a homesteader's rusted tin-roof shack and I wrote these two poems and took them into the recording studio with six others.  The project is very dear to me.

PANAMA WHISKEY

Panama Jack eased the throttle
for a healthy doe to cross;
somethin' had her riled,
could be bear or lion;

He pulled the Harley
over in a field of
clover;
spun the .357 cylinder,
had a six-load
inside;

Recognized her summons for help,
he followed the cranky doe
up the mossy bank, she was
tense;
he untangled her fawn, caught
up in a barbed wire
fence;

The air was sweet from
sugarpine;
Panama's whiskey voice poured
through the Wet Mountain
Valley air, echoed up to
timberline;

He trapped fox an' beaver in the
Greenhorn's an' Sangre de
Cristo's,
where he lived with Jilly
in a valley of
primrose;

Jilly played mountain
dulcimer,
while Panama tanned
silver fox
fur
an' brewed namesake
whiskey;

Quickly, they ladled mash into
quart Masons in a fit of
frenzy; the still was
swelled with shine,
they were swelled with
sweat,
'til the five-star yuppie man
drove away in his unmarked
'Vette.

In the open-air showerhouse, Jilly
soaped his long strands of
mountain-grown
hair;

He told her of a spot near Crestone
Needles, layered with lilies,
an' smelled of jasmine an'
sandalwood;
it made her feel tranquil, she
understood;

She told him of a spot in the loft,
on a teal feather tick, layered
with fox pelts, an' smelled
of mountain
hickory;
loft wicks were softly
flickering;

She smelled potent shadows of Panama
Whiskey;
they were both feelin' mighty
frisky;
The timber wolf Dakota South,
howled at the full moon
above;
serenaded them, as they
made high-country
love.

MASH CAMP

The Harley lit early morning fire
to the asphalt; Panama Jack
an' Jilly burned up bigelow
Divide
on their Panhead
Ride;

The azure sky turned to dove
gray;
rain wasn't too far
away;

A friendly homesteader motioned
for them to pull over; from a
kettle, the homesteader
ladled them metal cups
of venison
stew;
from wide-mouth Masons,
they drank Panama's whiskey
brew;

They heard a sick cough an' a
cry;
the homesteader's wife had
tick fever; because they
were poor, she would
suffer 'an
die;
it was then, Panama asked
if he was welcome to give
his healing whiskey a
try;

Panama Jack an'  Jilly cut up flour
sacks into
strips;
soaked 'em in Panama Whiskey,
an' wrapped her above her frail
hips;

Set up a mash camp an' waited the
poison fever
out;
next morning, they heard the
homesteader praise the Lord an'
shout;

The miracle shine sprouted a pretty
sight; she made blueberry muffins
wilth her whiskey-rag
hands;

Panama rode the kick pedal
down;
on their way to San Isabel,
a fine little
town,
a car swerved across the
yellow line; the Harley
went crashin'
down;
gone, were nature's
greens 'an
brown;

Panama Jack an' Jilly were
tangled an' cut up real
bad in a barbed wire
fence; a familiar doe
recognized their summons
for help; the deer ran to
the road an' flagged down
a passing car with her
ears;
the doctor said their
recovery would take many
years;

They knew the only cure was
just a secret still
away,
an' just today,
at Panama Ridge Mash Camp,
Jilly played mountain
dulcimer,
while Panama tanned
silver fox
fur
an' brewed namesake
whiskey.


Copyright 1993-2007 Ms. Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist

Sage Sweetwater has closed her article board for reviews on Authors Den.  Please feel free to read Sage's articles, but she asks that her readers leave no reviews.  Thank you to all of you who have been generous and left reviews for Sage Sweetwater since July 2005.  Thank you.


THE BUCKSKIN SKIRT OAR TRAVELER

http://www.booksforchristians.com/bk_detail.asp?isbn=1420821601

FROM THE CONVENT TO THE RAWHIDE: THE SAGA OF SADIE CADE AND VI MONTANA

http://www.booksforchristians.com/bk_detail.asp?isbn=1425926339





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