Kerouac said that the right words would be simple, so you can imagine my relief when I read about grammar in the obituaries -
So from here on we go off script and the madness will present itself in the ways only it knows how,
passed out on the bathroom floors of dive bars, tapping out the morse code password to the Other Side with credit cards on kitchen tables, singing holy mother if you could see me now to the congregation,
We built our egos around songs about summer in the American south and the northern winters are especially brutal for something so fragile,
Flashes in the rear view mirrors, nerves begging for mercy, one hand clutching miracle and the other annihilation and both feet pressing the gas pedal until it joins in the chorus,
And then, the drums
When it hits you're in this ******* thing for life, no retreat and no regrets, the torn shirt lunatics with lips wrapped around their fathers fathers fathers poison, Thompson fired from the cannon, the veins that ache for the discharge of built up static, and there is nothing to be done about it now so enjoy it the best you can,
When I wake with old news hangover and flashbacks to old time anarchy, I will need strong black coffee to deal with the comedown, that much is certain
The fallout from the detonation covers the windows to my bedroom, and most mornings it's the only way I can recognize my surroundings
And then from the ashes, the words,
And from the words, the poem,
And god, it is so simple