I sing that song!
That old song!
The dirty shoulders, the styrofoam
The great murky black
I could write with it
Write the world with it
Right the world with it!
And I will scribble a song sugar sweet and syrupy
I will eat them all
The freeways where asylum can be found!
Sins of dirty dishwater
Can be made clean by fried sugar
That is the American night, Jack Kerouac!
We will read our Carl Sandburg until we are sick
Then we will sleep
Unless we are at Fourth Coast
And a man named Vahan is there.
My head will never be right
Because there are too many words stuffed in.
That is alright.
That is all right.