For Jack and Allen.
I’m hallucinating spiders.
Cracked benzedrine haziness
smoking and supping ethanol fumes
from cracked glass, dirty frompaw prints
and titted & cocked filth.
Jazzed up and panting. I’m listening
to the other room; the other world. I can
hear smirks, whisperings of zips
and ripping of buttons.
Soft piano titters;
bassy cello and 50’s limp wrists
flail to the Beat. It’s all there,
the visions of the Road, howling & gnarling
& begging & cavorting up through my back
and into the base of my skull.
The Number Four book sits slapped
and curled waiting to the bent and used;
thumbed and flicked by children & childrens