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The High Sierra of California is a really incredible book I must say – incredible in both a visual sense and a literary sense. Puts a quiver in your heart as bedtime reading. It’s inspiring me to get to the Sierras this summer and/or next year. It includes writings by Muir and Snyder, as well as beautiful woodblock prints by an artist whose name alludes me at the moment. Definitely worth a read.


the fog thunders – we put
silver light on face – we
took the heroes in – a billion
years ain’t nothing

Write what you want bottomless from bottom of mind
You’re a genius all the time
Writer-director of Earthly movies sponsored

I want to be considered a jazz poet
blowing a long blues in an afternoon jam
session on Sunday. It take 242 choruses;
my ideas vary and sometimes roll from
chorus to chorus or from halfway through
a chorus to halfway into the next.

music is noise, poetry dirt

fifty pesos
3 cheers forever
It’s beautiful to be comfortable
Nirvana here I am

I demand that the human race cease multiplying its kind and bow out. I advise it.

I curse and rant nowadays because I don’t want to have to work to make a living and do childish work for other men (any lout can move a board from hither to yonder) but I’d rather sleep all day and stay up all night scrubbling these visions of the world which is only an ethereal flower of the world, the coal, the chute, the fire and ashes all, imaginary blossoms.

Artist or no artist, I can’t pass up a piece of fried chicken when I see it, compassion or no compassion for the fowl.

The central entire essence of which is dazzling radiant blissful ecstasy unending, the unbelievable truth that cracks open my head like an oyster.

I’d rather but thin than famous – but I’m fat
paste that in yr. Broadway show

“On soft Spring nights I’ll stand in the yard under the stars –
Something good will come out of all things yet – And it will be
golden and eternal just like that – There’s no need to say another
– Jack Kerouac, Big Sur

Here we go, he said, hauling us into a debacle that i never had time for in the first place, screaming, whooping, hollering for freedom that we had lost, trapped in the desperate realities of HIGH school and ground into monotony, fakeness, and eggshells by square white stucco and unarable brittle sidewalk structures, tossed by cold glares and binding contracts of homework – the lion eyes of that icy bitch who bit my hand – trying, reaching, pleading, straining for anything but the smooth brick walls of the shaft of the well we were freefalling down, snapping the few ivy growths and dirt clumps and familiar human globs we scratched at, but all we saw were lion eyes and black, no grey, no white, black black black, reaching back, feeling nothing, seeing black, not thick, not heavy, but transparent black, clear floating black, black from the new moon, black from dilating pupils, black from oil spills on the coast of alaska, black looking back at you, black fingering you in the wrong places, black fiend, black land, black dandelions, black sand, black above and below, and everyone black, and everything black, black along with the wind we created, we were there in that black hole.

I saw fear in those eyes – rotting, yellow, rotten bananas.

I saw many things – objects, directions for a man, gods, destinations and stringy destinities, uncertainty in certainty, impossible decisions, fifteen minutes wasted and hung to dry, an incessant trail, a job for dad, the walking corps of lebanese soldiers on a grave, confused ignorant bastards, musicians humming along with my computer’s fan, songs, sounds, nasal sighs, dental whistles, velcro tears, rigorous shopping producing skin flakes sauntering down into the summertime of teatime, pink flourescent highliter changing the color of my red gap sweater, the sqeek of some chair out there sniffing at me, spreading the good news “oh i’m so cold mr. emo”

May 2018
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Beat Generation

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