On The Road

Starting out from home because where else are you going to be when you’re ready to roam, when you’ve outgrown your clothes in the bottom drawer and the single bed like the window you’ve crawled in and out of for a decade or more, time to hit the road, Jack or Joe or Jimbo, time to roll onto the highway of your dreams, time to dial in the radio howl and hit the high beams, open a beer, roll a joint, and concoct those schemes that only a post-war teen can envision, those moonlit scenes of slippery sex, visions of speed and weed and music and drums–ba-dum bum-bum, ba-dum bum-bum, ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum bum-bum—scream and cum, be the beat, be the drum, be someone, the heartbeat, the backbeat, the heart throb and run of cool jazz saxophone riffs, trombone, vibraphone, muted chet baker trumpet, miles davis so stoned on the thrum of the bass line, asphalt white lines cut and humming on a toilet tank lid and lit by the dashboard glow, shadows flying by like a cave-load of bats across the windshield, a panic of light dawning on the distant horizon like a nuclear detonation, Pandora’s box almost exposed by a broken zipper, the white bra floating under her chin as god-almighty explodes in her hand, your first confirmation of grasping what Wolfe meant, Angel there’s no looking back, your gone, your going, of course you always were, but now you know you can’t go home, henceforward and again, it’s more about the cumming than the going, home to high rise buildings and virtual realities, it’s about the miles and the cows and the snow plows and the soup kitchens and the go go go and the yes yes yes, who knows what to do, and who knows right is rain or wrong, or who knows dusk from dawn when the radio’s on and you’re howlin’ in the rollin’ streets and everything is in front of you, and the road not taken is too late and long gone, gone, gone, gone, and who knows which road you’re on, you’re just on, you just go, just blow, just move on down the road, roll to the beat, just rock it, baby, just roll your feet because that’s what it is, that’s where it’s at, you can’t be too careful about being too reckless at seventeen, your mama knows what your daddy came to know a long time ago, it’s beyond their control, it’s time for you to roll, time to hit the road, literally, figuratively, time to jump on the train, time to hitch, in time to sink and swim, find your beat, your hymn, that tight-skinned rhythm, your song of the open road, your song of yourself in the landscape-body-shoulder-hip, lick the tips of all your sensitive senseless mental states of satiation standing up and screaming, “I’m alive, mother-fucker, I’m alive!” so let’s go, let’s do it, it’s time to move out, it’s time to move on, move in, and move along, move to the beat, move into your song, the source of your flame, your moment, that passionate passport to flight, mad as Jack and Neil forever stuck on the road.


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One Response to On The Road

  1. Elísia says:

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