Sunday, March 11, 2012
You are Bukowski’s Ham On Rye, Burroughs lunch left naked and raw
You are the scattered boos accompanied when Bob Dylan First plugged in
You were Cassady’s stolen hubcap, a joyride with Ken Kessey and Hunter S.
You are the bait in Braudigan’s tackle box while fishing for trout across the land
You are the reason Odysseus walked twenty years just to kiss his Penelope’s hand
You are the breath preceding the voice accompanying Buddha’s enlightened "ohm."
You are Whitman's yawp barbaric, Sylvia’s oven nub, Anne and her gasoline gin
The doily white pasty interior thighs thought Henry Miller while fucking Anais Nin
You are the universal male kiosk, odalisque intractable eternal phallus
And those these bars now hold you, yer wrists now found in chains
That cannot pluck your identity or your poetry or your stories