“Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run, but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant.”
― Hunter S. Thompson
I saved all the moisture from my tear ducts
And used it to ensconce my palms in sweat.
As I turned the steering wheel, all matter slipped through my fingers
Like hands lubed in KY
Struggling to grip a rubber prick.
In the backwards rearview
A picture of my 2nd family.
Jord. With purple hair, and patchouli skin.
Guilty of being the whimsical corruption
That established my new perception
21st Century Sexuality. “You’re the only guy
I could ever have a threesome with.
Ya, know. With a girl. Maybe
Ashley? I feel anyone else
I would want to high-five them
As we…well…ya know…”
I told him.
One Christmas Eve.
Our speech slouched
From whiskey alleviation.
Jord. Who helped me realize
That forever the Poet yearns
To explain fuckery as progress
To mainstream scholars.
And Shane. And Neal Cassady.
And Shane is Dean Moriarty.
I remember saying to Inga,
“I have to pee!”
She pointed towards some shrubbery
Anchored, styled into compact squares
Near the sidewalk’s edge.
“Pee in those bushes.”
I shook my head NO. Burped. Tasted carbonation
From all the beer which shaped our night & morning.
“Only a truly free soul
Could pee in those bushes.” I said.
Turned my peripherals for a second
Straightened my sight into focus.
A smile grew across my face
My mouth opened in wonderment
Like wrapping paper torn from a gift.
And there was Shane. There was Dean.
Urinating on the trimmed hedges a retired English teacher
Spent one mundane afternoon sculpting.
In truth. Sometimes writers are gifted with a perfect cast of characters.
They’re so perfect in their apathy towards Metaphysics
It seems a shame to adapt their purity
Into a story,
Or a poem.
I am calling this a tribute.
Allow the Mad-Ones
To just be.
Un-defined in their bliss
To ignore what hides behind