One of New
Mexico’s own, Beatlick Joe Speer was an itinerate raconteur and performance
poet, native of Albuquerque and a 1970 graduate of New Mexico State University.
His only book, Backpack Trekker: A 60s Flashback, is his chronicle, his
glorification of hitchhiking as a means of transportation, while it was in its
prime.
‘Hitchhiking in
America during that era kept one close to the Earth. It was a simpler time. The
hitchhiker was not looked upon as a freak of nature. People were less insulated
and more generous back then, trusting and willing to pick up a stranger. Our
goals were simpler back then, too… find that campsite at the end of each day,
find the next ride, the next town, the next festival.”
Published posthumously, Speer’s travel journals crackle with imaginative dialogue and
soulful poetry; entertain with essays and reviews in his fields of research:
literature and film of the 1920’s and 1960’s; and inspire with his minimalist
philosophy – respect for Mother Earth and fellow man – and sparkling joy of
life on the road serving the muse in the spirit of Beat writers Jack Kerouac
and Neal Cassady.
His literary
footprint is large, his newsletter Beatlick Poetry Newsletter is archived in
five universities and two public libraries. His personal library is located in
the Branson Library saved in Special Collections at the NMSU. (Pamela Hirst.)
Backpack Trekker: A 60’s Flashback
TREK 27
In
1969 Margaret Atwood’s “The Edible Woman” reveals the life of a young woman
whose structured and consumer-driven life alters drastically.
When
I was a student, the majestic peaks of the Grand Tetons made me wish I could
fill my dorm room with rocks. I didn't want imported beer bottles, or old
Christmas cards or calendar girls straddling motorcycles on my shelf. I wanted
to adorn my study area with rock formations. But I settled for books and LP's
because they were easier to move at the end of the semester. The best plan was
to visit the rocks in their own habitat.
I
encountered the wonderment of random rocks as I hiked a trail to Lake Solitude.
It was in this remote locale that I met a Buddhist monk.
The
monk had been there for seven days. He spoke English as well as seven other
languages. Our minds closed ranks on the third day as rain pelted the rocks. It
turned out that we both wrote poems so we created a piece alternating lines:
You
and I were in a dream together
asleep
under a rhododendron leaf
protesting
second-hand smoke
a
retired poet injected you with a free-will serum
desert
winds were born from your wound
and
activated the machinery of fraudulence
as
the infernal blue buzz crawled through the rubbish
of
our collective DNA
through
the canebrake of verbiage
Beatlick Joe Speer
All material used with permission.
