Neal Cassady
February 8 ,1926  -  February 4 , 1968
San Miguel D'Alene , Mexico

Dead from extreme exposure
Four days short of forty-two

Only fitting , next to a railroad track
He had many words to haul back

The wolf sleeps next to the silver rail
Howling at a silver moon that fell

I see here he drove a ******* Cadillac
Through the San Francisco streets

With the top down
Smiling free , it was meant to be

Life is a quasar

Right at the contour,

Decorative canyons of dire, descending ornaments,

Occluded with mixed smoke signals.

Those heading to their number beds,

Pray to the analytical gods,

"Dear Lord, bell curve distribution. Please, please, please..."

Blues on Monday.
The cats run to me
for pieces of chicken,
and a little B.B. King.

Blues on Tuesday.
I look in the yard for
rubies, and all I find are
hard-boiled eggs.
Pagans hid them in the
grass during their
Eostre festival.

Blues on Wednesday.
Muddy watered coffee.
I ain't even getting out of
this bed.

Thursday's blues bring
rain and that old
Robert Johnson.
**** the crossroads and
all those poison *******.
Grab Blind Lemon and help
him to the campfire.

Hey, Sonny Boy, get that
mouth harp out and start to
wailing.
Those fat frogs are hopping
around for them snakes at
the Friday barn dance.

Saturday is finally here.
Buddy Guy and
John Lee ****** burning up
that devils note--the flat five.
You know you sold your soul.
Here comes Lightning.

Better take Sunday off, we need
some churching up.
Do some praying before we
all go to hell.

1 Pope
0 Pope
1 Pope
2 Popes
1 Pope
0 Pope...

Eternal time to Re-Group +

Without poetry, we'd all
be chained to fences of time.
locked in,
torn apart,
played with by the
cosmic dance.

Don't get me wrong,
the poems can't
cure cancer, or heal the
lame dog's leg.
But, they might give
the ****** hope, and the
hobos a home.

Poetry tricks the mind
into seeing things,
like woolfhounds with
bagpipes playing an
Irish jig, far away from
the ferryman and his ride
across the river.

Without poetry, about now,
my skull
would be a home for beetles
and worms, turning
ever so slowly into
dust.

I cracked open my chest in front of the mirror

Dug around for the light switch

I found your sweater thrown over one of my ribs

and a note you had left on my heart in sharpie

‘I was here’

Though, i know you meant ‘will always be’

How we never relent believing
     even in the clutches of doubt!
    
How we withold living
     -without the hues of dreaming  
     -and the nurturing arms of loving,
      both nursing suffering into healing!

How we move the quill to see more,
     and more to love what is essential in things,
     -even the things that fall and crumble
     amidst the ravenous roar and the rampant rumble!

How we defy the Frantic Fret of a hollering sky
     with a hued cry hovering over this raucous choir!

19/04/2025
Hirondelle

Sometimes there are nights where it feels like my soul is writhing beneath my skin.

Rattling the cage made of bones, banging against flesh, clawing its way out to get to you.

An all consuming condition,
liquid fire roiling through my veins.

My desire for you
Decimating me to ash from flame.