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.
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