back to what is known…

it is back to the road in search of Whitman…Kerouac…and… Dean Moriarty…

in and out of fact…around the corner from fiction…what is real…that which is imagined…drunken fits and bongo hits along a trail hiked only by poets…

madmen and prophets…sifting through tealeaves to tally-up a future’s promise…don’t count on it…

looking and listening to America…staring her right in the face and calling Liberty’s bluff…the odds are never good…

sleeping in rooms rented out by the week…no need for lawn-care…hedges never trimmed…a place to rest bones and boasts…words placed on pages at two in the morning with noises of children at play…walking home from bars and diners where 6 egg omlettes were eaten and coffee was slurped…

letters sent to old girlfriends…old allies…old old old…all that was done away with yet still haunts when lonesome…and…it is always lonesome…

it is back to the road in search of Whitman…Kerouac…and Dean Moriarty…

my life has begun…

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