On the Road

Shake it bed it sing it we are young, younger
the road is ours and all the folk who sing on
silver mikes and light a weedrette in the bars
of intelligentsia are alive with a madcap fire
to live dammit to shake it bed it sing it, but
occasionally we become the strongest of buds
whom having sex with is is an expression of
the arms of the road, and her bosom are many
girls across denver colorado or campbell california
because who knows what is hither we have our
now our bodies one by one piling up in a writer’s
mind–we vacillate between a friend a muse a dad
a sex partner a hitchhiker, the road yonder is
ours, there is no nation, there was no war, just
the music of bars where the seed of poets was
inhaled, and our mothers paid for our speed, oh
that speed, faster than cacti on a road where we
are immigrants citizens voyeurs lovers but rarely
the traditionalists, with loyalty and oozing sincerity.
But we were best buds dean moriarty and i, and
mary lou who came to know about seriousness, and
camille who was always serious–dean moriarty danced
and bedded without shame because he was unfathered
he was no father, but he was my muse, that charming
bedfellow across the roads of america, breaker of hearts
who only sometimes knew better… the music changed
its tunes as the road down the twenties became pointier
and the highway marks became clearer, and there were
letters on the milestones, for some, who wanted to type
the endless night more than drive the endless road.
but dean moriarty and marylou teach us about the wild
fire of the godless most spirited beings who shake and
bed and sing because the ol’ golden highway of cacti
and upswimming hail is a longing that never met the
keystroke, period, that longing which human weakness
knows as the endless road.

on the road_mehtacritic

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