We take off at dusk.
passing Ventura, Lompoc,
finding midnight in Santa Maria.
We find our bed behind a dark Mexican cantina
who leaves us with a pacific wave.
Awakening at the publisher’s castle,
we pretend to be tourists, though
God knows and so does the
interstate, that
were really only hungry for asphalt.
We dig for Kerouac’s bones in
Redwood ravines. Fruitless speculations drive us
to ask Steinbeck for insight.
He’d a told us too if
we had paid twelve dollars to see him.
We head for the gem of our journey
as I try to open a jar of artichoke hearts.
We pass Watsonville and Santa Cruz.
Pescadero waits while we ponder
the airport to freedom.
Alerted by our arrival,
San Fransisco quickly congests her streets and sidewalks,
just to piss us off.
Wandering in Chinatown,
we pretend to be hooligans, though
God knows and so do the
Chinese, that
we’re just kids with poppers
searching for Ferlinghetti’s bookstore.
As we cross the Golden
Gate I litter fortunes from cookies
out the window. I imagine some
aboutojumpoff person
finding one: “Your leadership abilities attract others”
Stopping at Telegraph avenue,
we pretend to be hippies, though
God knows and so does
Berkley, that
we’re just banging on buckets with
bums to sap our mid-trip aggression, so we
can order chicken-on-fire in little Thailand.
At the bird-lady’s mansion I buy
postcards and prepare for
the nonstop roadflight home.
A cigar cements our egress,
and I still can’t open that
jar of Artichokes.
(ca2001)
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