The L
Kerouac at 14 street,
and we’ve left the bustle of a hustling crowd.
The silence comes loud here,
in muddied mubles,
and sporadic screams from a disgruntled, wrinkled, dissilusioned youth,
with fifty years to his soiled name.
And Mitchell called this “The Cirlcle Game”.
And we do roam in spheres,
and we orbit each other,
Our mean spectra l spirits bounce off brain to brain.
With caked dirty shoes,
and leftover meats,
we cringe in our closeness
and attempt to stay sane.
Allen Ginsberg, take my fingers,
caress the crease on the bind of my book,
skim the tips of heavy eyeashes
and put her fears at immediate ease.
Dean Moriarti, I wish you could see me,
tired and time punched and callibrated cold,
I wish you could change me
and take me
and break me
And embrace my whole soul so it wouldn’t grow old.
grasp me
and feel me
and crawl through the marrow,
and make it so naked is all I can be,
and truth me
and cry me
and comfort my forehead,
caress with worn fingers
and make me feel free
Take me with you, on the road.
I’ve no money but the change in my step.
And I’m jumping to live.
Yes. Yes!
