wanting of a bus ride…out to San Francisco…The Tenderloin…back to poverty on the flip-side…goodbye Manhattan…so-long Chicago…hitchin’ on Highway 1…like a Mexican migrant…like Kerouac…like….me…

up and down the coast-line…a change of scenery…a thousand islands left behind…a seaway of icy blue…lakes not among the greats…no Michigan…no Erie…no Ontario…head west young man…

hear the jazz on streets and in taverns…spoken words thrown out in the air…everyone asking for a dollar…a quarter…whatever can be spared…and cop cars roll by…coasting along hills in midnight blue with search-lights looking for me and you….come out…come out…

looking for new land…not a home…a poet never has a home….just words and dreams..
words and dreams…and all too often…those dreams are before shut-eyes….

open ’em..