5From the beatest corner
of the bar
at the top of
Crossover Hill, he the
frequent devil of my dream
speaks to the cracks in the sidewalk,
after he emerges
and
cloud shift thoughts split
my broken open mind.
Why does this dream recur?
Jack Kerouac stepping into
the San Francisco street, all
rapid, shouting, gesturing night-
angel of a man who goes about
his autopsy of this dawn dead alley.
Have generations slipped through this
transient night?
Gone full black this driving vision
of the outcast within, the in crowd
without. Developing subterranean morning
glories, casting a line from the mind
into the pond of constant recurrence, I
can not shake the dream, can taste the scene,
sullen all the passer-bys crawl, and
we in fits of spontaneous prose discover
that 1922 was a good year to live, 1969
a young one to die.
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