Sketches on a ceiling

Coming from the anchors in the ceaseless sky

Wide open justice for the impartial wanderer

Just to break thru to slide down an impossible trail

Till then the take-care-of-business Sea

Rushes on to draw 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 the Woman to hide around?

The hair to crawl inside of 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

then withered down

until raw flesh is the only surface

left rough and bleeding,

not much hope

for regeneration,

rebirth

So this is a helpless story of dying,

Sliding down Sur at Black Night

No turn signals

To bolt from some straight ahead direction

One must plunge on to define the only direction left

Pass– slide to whatever rhythm, that and nothing more,

This exact measure of existing life

Found once inside a first gear ride

Straight down a falling mountain.

Big Sur

8/12/73