Player I
The corner wall hid the player
horn blaring, the
drunkenly staggering
blower pale, no blood
lightheaded, he truly
captures beatitude
it is him, his blood pumps:
Cassady's bus pounding to
nowhere
in his heart, the screaming
spittle, each foaming drop:
the dense six gallery reading,
screaming response to HOWL;

Mexico Blues embodied controller
of our fate, that night
his light feet amusing the beer
toting college crowd, unappreciative
of the played drama in his notes,
they, reeling from the scare of sobriety,
look where to drop their
loosechange, his mad hopping
always just off bound of the
bleary, teary path of the money's
hand.