DREAMING OF FURTHER
dreamt of resurrecting ken kesey's bus called further last night, ripping
across the country with a load of poets and artists (who'd grumble with every
poorly absorbed shock) racing town and city, screaming odes out the windows
to romance in passing the slowed down in wonder perfect muses of the road,
visions at the apex of every rise, a poem on the curve of road or the hips of
girls at gas stations or the upward tug of a paramour's lips passed in the
front yards of homes.
we all howled and beat the backsides of seats once in mad cacophony of
understanding in small town texas with the approaching image of white
chickens and a red wagon (where was dr. williams then? we all looked but
failed to spot him), tipped our lances at the visitation of every lonely
windmill, contemplating the dragons of our minds, the stanzas of our youth,
the believed ideology of televisions and parents that we sought to strike
down and in so doing discovered them figments without a grounding in the real
world seen through the eyes of poets.
ceaseless over blacktop, shattering the drawn on lines of man, laughter and
tears the whole way, tracing interstates with fingertips: when our inkstained
nails would come close enough someone would whip out a cell phone, call ahead
whooping, "drop yer work man and pack a bag, yer taking a week off and
living, no choice, we're coming, we're here, no arguments; ya got one hour
and we'll be there" and we'd thrust another onboard leaving behind poems
etched into the concrete sidewalks and paintings on the televisions of
neighbors.
relentless quest of new inspiration, seeking to find it hanging on the
clotheslines of the south or smoking cigarettes outside some nameless seattle
skyscraper, everything fodder for the mind among the pendance of so many holy
creators, old hands at the enslavement of the muse, the tender cradling of
the muse, the sudden surrender to the muse and knowing better than to
question the paradox of art.
and for once i wasn't sal paradise.
i was dean moriarty, balling that monstrosity of a bus clean through the
sleeping mornings of america.
jacob johanson doesn't write very good bios about himself.
which is sort of ironic, when you think about it. which he does. often.
somehow he has stumbled into putting together an ezine (this was before
he realized how much actual work editing the thing would be).
you can find it at www.offbeatpulp.com
