kerouac’s dead baby

like all lost orphans

I had dreams of glory

not being snatched

dead of night by gypsies

mine were more

treading rails with Cassidy

high trails with dharma bums

Hemingway’s confidant

listening to tall tales of war

more women than bottles

learning romance & time

with Tom Robbins strange loves

Hunters phone listener at 3am

far enough away to live free

close to the deepwater edge

letters from Bukowski

not a drinking companion

so I’d never get bored

whoring with the ease

pleased easy with Chandler

peeping in that American hour

one time friend Ellroy to the fore

anything but the mundane

the here & now

where I was stuck

waiting on the call

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