Dwellng In The Al-Hambra

II.

Gusts from a final cigarette, I danced till I’m dazed, pursued a makeshift pair of heels;/but mostly up tonight,/talk think penetrate,/using an anvil, instead of a machine,/I object to weathered routes, they lead me to,/ the woman in cahoots with the manager./In case of nervous excitement,/it helps to imagine/the same neighborhood, as mine,/the dew on the park expanse,/the neon pizza sign./I’m found here each time I lie./Better, or no, tell the truth to those who/in later life are confined./I defend my shrouded message,/it courses between my feet and spine/it plays out in gesture, saying my name has died./I seem to like things cut and dried./I like when they tell me-/Fare Thee Well, already gone, with the sense,/of upheaval vs. decree,/time is the only world the world can see./what the eye and the flame can conceal ./Silhouettes, pantomimes, what’s left hen time dies./I still remember, late in ’63/My father, Kerouac, and Jesus of Nazareth were on a hitchhiking spree./

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