i am at the bar
where jack kerouac was supposed to
frequent
trying to keep the dead man alive
but i am beat
a bit constipated with no
toilet paper to wipe away the myth
of what i ate on the road
and it is raining outside
leaving me
dry and bamboozled
against the flowing around
each drop is supposed to be some reflection of rapture
yet it squirts on the poor and rich alike
who sit slow like snails
waiting
knowing that there’s a world
and there’s the world
and we all slurp towards one or the other
against the dampness around
our heads are snail eyes
held above our shells
our goop are snail trails
gripping to the dirty
in quick submission
while the rain labyrinths
half of it monstrous in its bullheaded determination
to erase this building this writing this land
to reconnect the waters
that forget that even then
there are divides
that will assault a tune of fresh battles
the other half a small soft
pat of congratulation on a recent graduate
a helpful nod to a farmer with questions of when
a sapphic pool that reflects an entire city in calmness
the trying taxis the greasy light of cigarettes the drunks
sitting atop of a hill where the sun greets them red-eyed
wanting another drink
though the clouds block the alcoholic spinning around
in nothingness
and the snail keeps moving straight
against the intricacy around
how high is the bar
have i done it
i hear that even the dead still drown
jack shit jack shit
the water is storming in
i am drunk
i am alone
the vomit
departs away from me
and flat like a suicide from the heavens
there is little
against me that is round
still
the snail
will show of a shell
after the sludge stream dries
and the eyes recede through the poking of air
a shell only remains
a masterpiece of it
a repetition repeating work and determination
to pedal revolution there
always there
into the tomorrow
where i will wake
plucking thorns of sunlight
from my yawns
and think only
it rained
i must now cycle
avoiding the puddles
Mizpellt wurdz 
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