jack k. rolls in his grave

its the flamingo bar where jack k
had his last drink. they're giving poets
ten  minutes each, backed with music
the flamingo bar  now packed
with bikers, like any respectable dive.
a place jack would feel at home at
if dean and luc were by his side. but wtf
poets?
on a saturday night?
on saint PADDY:S eve begorra.

and this one, timing the things she reads....

well ive always said ima poet
i can do these crazy things.

jack k was  a spring baby, product
of a summer love before the summer of. .
that's about all i  know.
recently read on the road
saw the nexxus of modern morality
formed in telephonet lines and thumbed rides
across this wild and crazy country
whose citizens culitvate homeostasis, status quo, normalcy
where jack ks and dean ms and poets and writers and bikers and the maimed
fuzz in like charlie parker puttin a needle in his vien.

oh yeah.
and the nothing left to lose ness of it.

the it ness
the beatness
the quickness
the sweetness
of tea and women and whine on the road.

where does it go?

swooping horns, manana mourns
the fallout boys and century toys
the voice of god from a harley
the voice of satan in a charlie
bravo one two three, dean and sal a serendipity.
times are then the time of now
alls i can do is wow and flutter in the wake
of on the road and eaten cake.