"cassady" poems
Neal Cassady
February 8 ,1926 - February 4 , 1968
San Miguel D'Alene , Mexico
Dead from extreme exposure
Four days short of forty-two
Only fitting , next to a railroad track
He had many words to haul back
The wolf sleeps next to the silver rail
Howling at a silver moon that fell
I see here he drove a ******* Cadillac
Through the San Francisco streets
With the top down
Smiling free , it was meant to be
Life is a quasar
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
back on the railroad
caught between the current
and the cold
how is it ol' Cassady died?
they say he rode the tracks
all the way to Avalon
say it was exposure
that got him in the end
secobarbital and second hand smoke
waiting on a wet sunrise
that never came
counting railroad ties
half way to infinity
hell of a way to go
the hero of two generations
hell of a way to go
not with a bang
--as they say--
no one there to hear the whimper
4am ticket to shambhala
Hank gave up the grief
weeks before he died
crippled and old
poor *******
Bukowski could
hardly walk
down those hallways
to hell
maybe Hem did it best
Ti Jean died from that almighty
weight on his shoulders
unhappy with a dead liver
and a dead spirit. yes,
Hem did it best it seems
him and Hunter
--football season is over--
felt the world
slipping out
quick as it came
so they both put a
quick one to the brain
all of my old friends
are dead now
one way tickets to Shangri-La
I see them
they all walk the tracks
but they don't wait up
they don't wait up
light one for me
Hank
I'll be there soon enough
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
“aquashield+ .. what is this?”
—“sunscreen”—
“no wonder you get burnt all the time it expired in two-thousand-eight ya mad cat.”
“a-ah..”
“ah?”
“good that i use a different one i 'spose hmm?”
“pfft—bronzer.”
“oh come on.”
. . .
—“awshit look at all those dried soap carcasses in the back there. little beached whales”
“exfoliating, irish spring...”
—“hey what's with the two-in-one shampoos anyway?”
“...well,”
—“seems to me like they're just tryna make showering faster.”
“yah. what's your issue?”
"well, what's the point of that? enjoy the ****** thing.
I dare you to find any two things better than being under a hot shower
& the heat of the blowdryer in the hair after...gaw-damnn.”
—“preach.”
. . .
“man, and all the dust...”
Oct 15, 2011
Oct 15, 2011 at 3:20 PM UTC
like a hot-wheel guided by
a holy hand above, he makes
impossible feats as if the car
creates the road, his free hand
is just as busy making
fanatic gestures to guide
scrambled linguistics
or it rests out the window
seeking a courtship
with the wind
clasping the door handle, wide-eyed
the passenger rides safely adjacent to Fear,
but at every turn Momentum carries Fear deep into the heart
where its is pumped via veins, icing the body
with awe inspiring visions.
Visions controlled by the last true
American Driver.
He drives like only a thief
can, poised by paranoia, pure thrill
achieved only through the drive, race or
getaway.
in a past life,
Neal was a great Outlaw
outrunning potbelly sheriffs
to plump on the saddle to rival
the great horsemen of their day
he’d chase trains down,
taming and taunting them
with speed and skill.
or
perhaps
he was a horse himself.
a terrific thoroughbred
bluegrass fed.
tritting
trotting
his way to a Triple Crown.
trainers fed him Benzedrine
to gage the beast. they feared
he would run through the finish line
and straight across the country
like a maniacal madman
looking for the last
true road
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 9:22 PM UTC
The feeling
Is a
Tingle
Creeps up your spine
Like the first crazed chill
After seeing
A former girlfriend
You weren't expecting to see
The feeling
Is reading a passage
Of one of the greats
Line by beautifully painful line
And feeling a hopeless
Falling like Alice
Touch of timeless genius
The feeling tears down the stale walls of life
Making everything impossible
Possible
The feeling is like a
Birth
The pushing of the keys
The sweat of the effort
The pain of the labor
And the relief
Of the final push
The feeling life lives on in the work
But with time
Will come
Death
Much like
How the baby grows
So does
The word
But,
The relevance
The importance
The fire
Will soon diminish
To a faint hidden ember
So to live in one's time
Is to be living
Dying
And being
All in fantastic unison
The feeling is
When your mind drifts
To the corner of your eyes
And everything
Just
Turns
Off
You rest your soul
And your soul lets you
The feeling is to be alone
With the hope
That one day
Through fiery snow of ice
Raining mud with blood chipped teeth and beer
A stranger will be there to meet you
And shake your hand
With a Cassady like smile
The feeling is
A
Big Tip
The feeling is
Revolution
The feeling is
A muddy bottle
Of spring water
The feeling is
A lost dog
Looking
For his home
The feeling is
Howling Waits
After a couple of
W's and Waters
The feeling is
Just
That
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 12:49 AM UTC
You were always friendly, with those that you liked
but enemies were easily met. I guess they just didn’t
understand you. Its easier to push someone away
rather than try and relate. Convenience is a burden
in disguise. I didn’t know at the time, but you were
the legend of this town.
Hopping the fence near the river, we settle near
the over-grown grass and weeds,
At that age you don’t drink for
the right reasons, you drink to have fun
but as men, we drink to stay young.
You grew up much too fast, and things
got ugly.
Often times I wondered about you.
So beat, and covered in soot, but
in passing, finding love. Happiness is
only an appearance, I guess. We pretend
to find joy in things to try and forget that
we are alone. He never forgot. I guess that is why
it was so easy for him to walk away.
In my imagination, I saw you passing
a space-bag full of merlot to another
lonely companion in the back of a freight
train; hoping to make it to D.C. before
morning arrived. Old and crusty, but
young in years, almost like
Cassady or Kerouac, but without the gusto.
Too afraid to stay in a single place.
Feb 1, 2011
Feb 1, 2011 at 10:38 AM UTC
I'm glad you died
By the train tracks
In Mexico, alone
With the lizards and
Horned toads
When you did,
When the mood
Was High and
The momentum
Rolled in your favor,
I'm glad you died
When you did
Before rock n' roll again
And again and disco
And no Jazz, no bop
And waves crashed
And undertoe tore at Tired,
I'm glad you died
When you did
With movement, with power
And you should hear 'em
Talk about you and the boys
With ancient lips and Beautiful
I'm glad you died
When you did
Before it all changed
And They took away
Want and replaced it
With electronic death
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 5:00 PM UTC
I'm glad you died
By the train tracks
In Mexico, alone
With the lizards and
Horned toads
When you did
When the mood
Was High and
The momentum
Rolled in your favor,
I'm glad you died
When you did
Before rock n' roll again
And again and disco
And no Jazz, no bop
And waves crashed
And undertoe tore
At Tired,
I'm glad you died
When you did
With movement, with power
And you should hear 'em
Talk about you and the boys
With ancient lips and Beautiful
And god smiles my face
And god still cries for
His Muse,
I'm glad you died
When you did
Before it all changed
And We lost the momentum
And replaced it
With sleep
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 12:47 AM UTC
On my last day in Columbus, which
didn't feel
like my last day in Columbus
we sat on the stairs outside your apartment
overlooking the courtyard
as you chain-smoked cigarettes doing everything
very quickly. Saying
we're on the verge of it, I could be Kerouac and you
could be Ginsberg or Cassady, and all of this could be our
dharma bums.
What an uncommon and unmistakable howl that was, Joe.
The clouds moved towards us so quickly, but
until we focused on the stars, more fixed in the sky
those clouds didn't seem to be moving at all.
It was something about the courtyard you said.
It's all very prosical, you said.
I nodded because it didn't make sense.
You put out your last cigarette for the night and I
walked away from you sitting there
in the rearview of my life.
(Sal Paradise never saw Dean Moriarty again.
Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady were lifelong friends.)
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
So we saunter up to each new prospect,
slow and sly and seductive in our invitations.
"Look at what made me this way.
Wouldn't you like to see?" More
and more until we've disrobed and dismantled ourselves
to the absolute limits of our abilities (our willingness?).
We repeat this display of sacred
shedding until we finally elicit that awe-inducing look
of "concerned understanding" - we complain
that we are misinterpreted in Cassady fashion
when we make no real efforts to be understood.
"Care most about me." Let me mystify you with myths of me,
perverse nursery rhymes lulling you into a slumber inside my skull
from which you will wake with a start,
demanding release from that citadel you so wished to infiltrate
when it was your hands that needed warming.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 1:44 AM UTC
What melancholy nights
We experience in the towns we call home
Kerouac's Holy October is over
And November hangs on the lips and minds
Of the denizens of
Autumn Earth
And when will I become the
Angel-Headed Hipster
I convinced myself
I was prophesied to be
Hipsters who bury themselves in the acoustic blues
Of coffee shops
Or are baptized by words
In bars on Sunday nights
Why would Carl Solomon
Ever leave Rockland
If he's promised never to be alone there?
And they say Neal Cassady died counting railroad tracks
And did he want to die counting railroad tracks?
And will I die counting railroad tracks too?
I so much want to emulate my heroes
I fear it will **** me
And if not a death of physicality
Then a death of mentality
Where I will cease to be
Me
But who wouldn't love of life
Of holy restlessness
Who wants to limit their scope to
A town
A city
A state
And when the only state I feel I can truly call home
Is Confusion
I want it to be for a good enough reason
And if I am to die in a state like this
Let me die counting railroad tracks
As melancholy days
Turn to melancholy nights
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 9:00 PM UTC
VW buses headed to Haight
and Ashbury
In San Francisco to
meet a man
We brought the acid to
expand our consciousness
that's what Tim Leary suggested
And you need to feed your head
like Jefferson Airplane said
Just go ask Alice
Yes we brought the psychedelics
and our bus is painted
in pastel peace signs and
purple Shiva's
We wove flowers in our braid
we ran barefoot
and climbed the trees
They said that the hippies are dead
but The Grateful has yet to
perform their last gig
love love love, man
it's our religion
R.I.P John Lennon
***** Warhol's banana and
Campbell's soup
But we miss Lou Reed and Nico too
Yes the summer of love was in 67'
and Woodstock was a muddy heaven
We watched every episode of Laugh-In
but it wasn't always sunshine and dandelions
like when a runaway overdoses
from ******
It was a wave no one remembers
but to everything there is a season
Freaks with beards at the drive-in
R.I.P Janis Joplin
We were all California Dreamin'
Jack Kerouac the dharma ***
was friends with Neal Cassady
the other-worldly monad
A time of innocence
a time of confidences
And so we are here bumming
cigarettes and joints
with talk about the Manson Family
and Sharon Tate
We are all here so come along
but in the meantime
I'd love to turn you on.
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 11:58 PM UTC
Sitting here looking at all the world going by
With looks of friends and lost lovers limping
How weak our weekly memories can get
When we don't know who we are
Or who we seek
It makes me sick and angry
I curse and clash and yell and Drink.
And drink, and smoke until I can't breathe never no more'er
Will you be my new Neal Cassady?
Will you get his sing song king-orator flow just right?
So I don't have to listen to anyone else
Because I'll spit on their fake plastic empty love and o lord
How I sound like Salinger that reclusive little ****
I spit on this grave and grab-grasp desperately
For you
How I crave
Ya dig?
O yes how your two part name rolls running off
My loose, lucid, lucrative wet tongue
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 9:51 PM UTC
Sad cars stream down/up/down/up highway
like a two-way waterfall
full of salmon Neal Cassady's
and
Sal Paradise's
on their way to the
spawning sanctuary
to give birth to a strange
bleeding
fever // dream.
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 4:55 PM UTC