Bingo in the Raw (An Ode to the Beat Generation of the 50s)

This is a letter of thanks to all the peyote zap cowboys who would not stop thumbing the dial of the radio rocket station tuning the beat. Bus driving relentlessly sticky tar daddy-O thoroughfares stopping to pay no tolls just- roar!-bingo!. Flipping quarters out the window as they beat!-Bop!Rat-Ta -Tat Rat-Ta-Tat.
And Go," bingo baby bingo"
The damn fools played bingo in the raw. Swinging junk and loving where they could, there was so little time and so much to say, and so much to feel, and so much to know, and so much more to ask. So much jazz to blow, so many hustles to close,and so many minds to open.
and they did
bingo?
Who's afraid of bingo in the raw?
Sounds of mad kicks and life like blood orange juice dripping down the chest?
Go, Bump -Zap- Bingo- Rat-Ta-Tat -Crash
and things will really open up like music.
thanks guys


This is a fictional letter to Jack Kerouac, Neal Cassady and Allen Ginsburg. Also known as the "Beat Generation" It is a writing experiment where I have tried to write in the Kerouac style of rushing thoughts and images. Sorry bingo fans, its not about bingo.

The Prozac Bends

I think it's called,
the Prozac Bends.
Was down so deep,
and came up again.

Dark water held me,
chilled my core.
Buried me gently
I struggled no more.

Jellies on my stomach,
fish with no eyes.
Colors so pleasant,
could it be a lie?

Entangled in their snare,
the surface I found.
Breathing air too deeply,
my heart began to pound.

A new life was starting,
one I had to win.
But the atmosphere around me,
made me drown again.

In God We Trust

pious, concrete cathedrals
trample clouds,
afraid of the sidewalk.

making no apologies
for their promotions,
for blocking out the sun,

giving thanks
to the tenderest God of all,
Uncle Sam

Voices

Thank God
for the voices in my head.

Without them,

The people in my face
would surely drive me insane.

My Voodoo

trespasses strangle me
go bump in the night

guts bubble and howl
bitch's brew

little dolls
stuck with pins
I held them all

it's true
your voodoo
comes back to you

flowers and music

it's sway
eloquent movement
her small back
crescendo hips
dogwood silhouette
the blossom blooms
and the Cello plays for me

Magic City Blues

Sugar daddy asphalt sweats
thunderbird saxophone grunts and rust.
Rumble jukes hustle up steam ghosts
from rituals of the night.
never forgetting,
keeping score,
in street lights, dirty fingernails, cigarette ash
65 south is bleeding Chicago
all over Birmingham.