Sketches on a ceiling

Coming from the anchors in the ceaseless sky

Wide open justice for the impartial wanderer

Just to break thru

Slide down an impossible trail

Till the take-care-of-business Sea

Rushes in crashing away any swerves unaware

off to the left,

                        the vastness

                                                                                                            to the right –

                                                                                                                                     loneliness…

An old gallo wino i picked hiking at Blyth

Agreed sadly: 

            “Loneliness is what wrecks a mans soul

   Sticks a blunt pin in his balloon”

            no deposit-no evacuation

Then where is my Woman to shelter me?

Her hair to crawl inside and make a nest from?

Just that cycle,

Vacuum

Irreplaceable,

Must be stuck together 

If not, ragged solitude

Then only Blues remain,

                                                                       to be counted

                                                                       multiplied

                                                                       withered down

                                    til raw flesh is the only surface

                                    rough and bleeding, 

                                    with not much hope

                                    for regeneration,

                                    rebirth

So this must be a story of dying,

Sliding down Sur at Black Night,

No turn signals

To bolt away from a straight ahead direction,

One must plunge on then define the only direction left,

Pass– slide on whatever rhythm

That exact measure of one’s existing life

At once launched inside a first gear ride

Straight down a falling California mountain

Big Sur

8/12/73