Thursday, December 25, 2008

What Constitutes An Adventure?

Hunter S. Thompson and Oscar Acosta.

Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady.

Where's Ginsberg? Someone call Ginsberg!

Denver is calling! The West is calling! And the South is screaming obscene things!

I feel the pull, the call of black lonely asphalt and where in God's name is Ginsberg?

 

John, Paul, George and Ringo and a stifling yellow bus.

Speed and sex and too many sleepless nights.

Tao and Zen states and bennies and lsd.

 

Late night jazz clubs. That last cup of coffee in a remote diner.

Florescent lights buzzing, blinking.

Imminent collapse.

 

It's Sally tonight and Beth tomorrow.

Florence two nights past and last night?...

No one can remember.

 

Hitching from coast to coast.

Strange vibrations and stale air, thick with smoke.

Turns at the wheel.

Too long at the wheel.

 

It was recklessness and marvel.

It was complete surrender to impulse and fate.

It was 'now' and 'time' and 'eternity'.

 

At times of rest it was arguments

over football, negroes and Sartre.

 

It was restlessness and exhaustion.

 

And where is Ginsberg?

Where is Thompson?

Where is Jack?

We all know where Bukowski is; at home, drunk again.

His typewriter sits forgotten as he slumps in a chair,

Some nameless woman caught between waking and sleeping in his bed.

Who is she?

Was he scared of the road?

 

Where is Bukowski?....

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