Scribble secret notebooks for your own joy,
blowing deep as you want to blow.
Write to those visionary tics,
shivering inside yr chest.

Be a dumbsaint of the mind,
an old teahead of time,
no fear or shame
in yr experience,
its dignity.

Keep track of every day,
accepting loss forever:
the Bleak inhuman Loneliness
of the individual,
the bottomless true story of the world,
the eye within the eye.

Love the holy contour of yr life,
the jewel center of interest
emblazoned in yr morning.

Submit to everything in tranced fixation,
dreaming upon the object before you.

Work from the pithy middle eye,
swimming in the language sea.

The crazier the better.

Try never to get drunk
outside your own house.

                                                From the words of Jack Kerouac






Linda Frye Burnham, 2012


No comments yet.

Leave a Reply

Website by Steven Durland

Share This