Poetic Film Review: Easy Rider (1969)

We rode with stars on our gas tanks,
leather wings slicing the fever-dream asphalt,
our beards matted with dust and defiance.
Freedom was a compass rusted at true north—
no map, just Mardi Gras neon bleeding
into bayou mist.

The land unfolded like a bruise:
amber wheat fields, communes coughing
through utopia’s last cigarette,
jail cells where a drunk lawyer whispered
“They fear what they cannot name”
between bourbon truths.

We wore America like a second skin—
patches sewn from Vietnam’s shadow,
harmonica laments for King and Kennedy,
Steppenwolf howling through cracked speakers.
Born to be wild, but the wildness
was a borrowed jacket, fraying at the seams.

New Orleans swallowed us whole,
its brothels humming a dirge for the dream.
We danced with ghosts in Bourbon Street’s sweat,
saw our faces in the funhouse mirror—
grinning skulls beneath sun-bleached hair.
“We blew it,” you said, voice dissolving
into the swamp’s green throat.

The redneck sun rose shotgun-bright.
Tires screamed a requiem; asphalt drank
our blood like communion wine.
The road never wanted saviors—
just pilgrims to feed its hunger.

Now the reels keep spinning:
Nicholson’s laugh etched in celluloid,
Fonda’s silence curdling to myth,
Hopper’s lens capturing the crack
where light leaks out.

Decades later, the engines still idle,
waiting for someone to twist the throttle,
to chase the horizon’s false promise—
that old, beautiful lie
of wheels forever turning.

(Note: The review in its original form can be read here.)

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