Sunday, April 19, 2009

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

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