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A typical poem of my style about a desolate day, with homage to Jack Kerouac at the end. |
| The sky is covered with blankets of autumn gray and rain beats down in sheets upon the mattress Earth. The sidewalks are forced into vacancy in the late afternoon--- old men smoke cigarettes in the doorways of their shops and blank faced people stare at the downpour through plate glass diner windows. Small rivers flow along the sides of the streets, washing trash and cinder stew into the hungry mouths of the sewers and the snake-like hiss of car tires plow and spit through tiny lakes. Desolation... I watch from my kitchen window, a bottle of beer in hand, as the street lamps click on their golden halos of halogen light in a buzzing angelic harmony, the rain beating on the side of the house sounds like the hooves of the four horsemen approaching to deliver my own private apocalypse. I am beat---hungry---yearning; searching for something more than what I am and what I have. Tonight I wish I were a ghost--- traveling with Jack and Neal on their ongoing journey west. "Give me something more than this!" I'd say, and Neal would floor the gas pedal of his phantom Hudson and we'd cut across the country until we could go no further, and when we stopped me and Jack would do shots and write. I was born way too late... so instead I'll open another bottle of beer and try to capture this evening alone. |
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