Oh, for fuck's sake, don't tell me I'm starkers on top of everything else.

nuero-centro-might-be-fucked-over-compensating-lucid-languid-syndicated-fuck.

I opened my door.
And there he stood.
Lovely, putrid, and pale.

Where are we going Walt Whitman? The door closes in an hour. Where does your beard point tonight?

"Towards the eastern skies, my dear. Take me to your king, so I may tell him what a lovely guide you have been."

But Walt, I need a sign, something to give to my children. No guns, no gays, no immigrants will do. I need poetry or prose, something insurgent and mutinous.

Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a small steel bench. We thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and starry eyed, surrounded by swarthy young henchmen.

I says to him, "Jack, these guys, they're not real cool."
He says to him, " Hey man, get off of my shoe."
That guy says to me, " Hey chump, find your own goddamn bench."

Why does everything worth anything have to be imaginary?