When I went looking for America

I found reflections of pain

and frowns of distain

staring back at me

as I drove down Kerouac’s road.


My diary

of motorcycle drive by’s

ended before it had even begun

killed like Nicholson

and left in a ditch

posing as a lost homeless bum.


I looked self-ward,

then around my nucleus

traveling the crossroads

and upsetting status quo’s

with simple interactions.


This story is hardly finished,

my memoires of wandered observances

have only just begun to be told.

A solitary transient

of Rumi and Socratic verbiage.


My words scream

to be read by masses

and my beating liver

prays to be understood.




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