I Want to Write Novels Like the Beats

Long, thick novels that

dust bookshelves in libraries,

that intimidate to the point

of legend—no, lore—or

creased spines that peak

in mid-chapter, long,

thick words that ramble,

and cock back and forth

under the pretense that

writing is the god's form,

from fingers to bones to

lead us down side streets to

whores with painted faces

and sailors with hard-ons

looking for words in their peaked

creases and it all ceases,

yellowed or worse, unyellowed,

unbound and spineless

a fear I might have of uncelebrated

pages, glossy covers, New York

book reviews, a fear of

a tangle in a blackberry bush

only to curse the bramble

as it kicks my ass as I grind

out another page—you dig it?