I see great asses every day
in the subway
and, suddenly, my favorite Hitchcock movie changes from
Rear Window to Vertigo.
The movement of the train calms me down and I fall asleep quickly,
dreaming that I'm in Kerouac's car, quietly hitting the road
like Pollock hit his canvas.
I see great breasts every day
on the bus that takes me home,
but not one single bosom
for me to lay my ear on.
The dream comes to a crossroad where me and Jack have to part ways.
He'll go down in history like a great writer
and I'll quietly go down on memory lane in oblivion.
Memory disappointed me
and left a bad taste
in my mouth - literary cunnilingus ain't what it used to be.