Sketches on a ceiling

Coming from hypothetical anchors fixed to the infinite sky,

Wide open justice for the impartial wanderer

Striving to break thru,

Sliding down an impossible trail

Till the take-care-of-business California sea

Rushes onward,

Drowning unaware swerves or sudden stops

Suggesting perpetuity

off to the left,

the vastness

to the right,

the loneliness

A Gallo wino hitchhiking to Blyth sadly agreed:

“Loneliness is what wrecks a man's soul"

Sticks a blunt pin in his balloon–

Without deposit

Evacuation unimaginable

Emptied cycles

Persistent vacuums

Must be parsed together,

Otherwise ragged solitude-

Where only Blues remain,

Each note to be counted

Later multiplied

Withering away,

Until mucosa remains

Rough and bleeding,

Regeneration hopeless as rebirth

This is my naked story of dying

Sliding down Sur one Hopeful Night,

No turn signals to escape from straight ahead directions

Blindly plunging onward

To pass– slide to whatever rhythm,

That, and nothing more,

An exact measure of life's rotation

Discovered inside a futile first gear ride

Straight down Big Sur crumbling highlands.

Big Sur

8/12/73