thinking about beats

the beat generation--relic from a hard boiled past

a past moving fast where the task of crossing the country came easy--

the veins of black paved road opened wide

made room for wild eyed drive--our - - - - destinations

destitute prophets counterfeit angles behind the wheel

the smell of sweat worn leather and gas leaking 

oil on the road mixed with slick ideas about the future

turmoil a moot point.

the gritty soles of people passing out abstract concepts 

scribbled feverishly on paper napkins

over coffee

eggs over easy

west coast dinners spelled 'meeting point'

take-offs and landings timothy leary a fly-by-god

distributing my spiritual awakening--

can't make it tonight--

hitch a ride with a strangers eye

unwind into future till we're looking back

at the marches--the sacrifice of martyrs--characters lost found now only in words

pressed tight on ten cent bookshelves--

kerouac was right

give me a candle in the night--the mad ones are for me

open up your mind with a   k e yed moment--

caution? oh . . . we tied it up to the old tree stump in the back yard

don't worry we left it plenty of water and grub--

now run

even if its raining and the sidewalks spell murder

run until your lungs feel thin and your legs spell taunt

and your faith costs less than a pack of cigarettes 

keep moving until your gut feels shot and your brain is speeding down a highway at 

85 mph 

like that time you did cocaine in the gas station bathroom 

with that girl you met in the bar next door

while dancing twirling crazy with all those cats 

all those jazz cats speaking smoke and blowing notes

keep running until you're flung forward into remembering that its all gone

every moment

every seed

every soldier and civilian since gone to death's deed

don't stop--not till you drop

to ask how much has really changed (in all these years gone by)   

except to say hitch hiking is now a dangerous game

and all the cats have now gone crazy 

not the kind of beatnik crazy 

more like danger danger crazy

rudimentary communion--hospitality--and handshakes are subject to suspicion

while free rides have all gone awry

whose blood runs in the veins of this country?--the people liberated and free

or a population full of the destitute and diseased

where are the angles that once drove like mad dark figures through the night

where are the cats who jumped souls loud like a moody ambush filtering into 

the skin to dance us into the night

what generation now tickets across the country knotting us together 

sewing a fabric of unseen history around sweating excited necks