…but my wet hand only means that I’ve cleansed myself of the filth of my previous contents. I have shed my snakes skin and emerged a different man. And the beats they beat on the stage along with the beat of the drums, bass, and the hard boppin’ sax chirpin’’ hard beating the Hawaiian shirted hipsters and spitting on the train like the old men as they gaze upon pretentiously gay youth who scream loudly with their clothes, unaware of some’s sensitive ears. They beat like his blood pounding inside his head; the speed increasing, the chicago winter as blur of white-washed skylife behind walls of snow as unpredictable as the drumsticks of Zach Hill who beats the heads harder than his skin can take and they break and it swells as mine do; with passion and unending fervor and sucking at the wound. I beat with my right foot my arms dangle to my side limp and useless and I pound like Dean’s foot on the gas peeling rubber up mountains at one hundred and twenty miles per hour his passengers screaming, but Dean’s eyes just wide with confidant excitement at his grand and powerful gift, his g-d given gift, his gift, his gift that beautiful soul laid near to rest in some g-d forsaken town in mexico searching for the words Allan Ginsberg spoke to him beating him with his foil, so natural of friends they were. Like distant chemicals itching for a catalyst. Beat beat beat beat that stage, be that audience you want to be, scream yell band beat bump let the sax player know you’re alive and listening and feeling it too as his knees collapse and his tongue flutter the music blows through him fire from heaven it beats to the beat he blows till there is no more air. He pauses. Retakes. Like a pen going for one more letter, word, paragraph. Feeling for the right keys and he blows harder than the saxaphone can take and Dean cries out BLOW MAN YEAH BLOW YEAH MAN BLOW and he does, and chirpin’ hard hard bop it is the fire is in every muscle his saxaphone screams in pain the cry of the blue angel so much as he can be now he is free in this, through every not he is alive the fire works to the tooth and nail his veins flux and swell his knees collapse dean continues to scream his hands are sweaty as he beats beats beats beats beats beats beats beats the stage and beats his chest and screams BLOW MAN YEAH BLOW YEAH MAN BLOW and beats the stage and beats his chest and screams YEAH MAN YOU BLEW GREAT SHOW YEAH and he extends his right hand and shakes the saxophone’s caretaker and lover who shakes at the moisture and dean just smiles and explains to him about his loss of previous grief, now gone, left on the bar floor in shock still like his comrades. Forever touched, changed by the man who beat and beat and beat the stage, and driven to beat the page for days with pen and key till their fingers bled, till there was no more paper. Trying to beat out the beat that made the everlasting DEAN MORIARTY scream that night, and the scream made the beats write so fast and so hard. It was for that sax that force of art and jazz that flooded the white void that the scroll could have been and Dean’s hand sweat mix with the sax player’s and they laugh at the moment, not even remotely considering its power, those hands the blood beating through the palms feeling the other human in true musical sense it filled their souls oblivious to their future. Save for Carlo Marx, who smirked and chuckled to himself, put on his newsies cap, tucked his ever present book of poetry under his arm, and walked out into the cold night to beat the street with his walking feet.
Welp, I’m confused now.
Me and my friends all fail the kinsey sexuality scale test
and though we’ve matured past such Holden Caulfield esque immaturity,
we still love folk punk and pop punk
but labels never seem to do much justice without an understanding of statistics
and with all of these budding friendships
and in my excitement I’ve accidentally repeated history with sexual psychology.
But who am I to tell another human what to do
when one of my main goals in life is never to grow bitter at the world around me
I don’t know where I fit in
just like most sixteen to twenty-five year olds from the lower middle class.
I feel guilty just for breathing and thinking and not caring enough to fulfill my potential. I should call my family more often but to be honest I haven’t felt a lick of homesickness.
I do miss them and I want to talk to my lesbian sister, the workaholic, across the country underutilized like I am of myself, but she’ll make her food museum one day and I’ll be sure to tell all my friends about it.
And at this point in my life I’m spending too much time procrastinating on the deep web to focus on the more important things
… and friends down the hall who seem to be in self destructive existential crisis.
I love my new friends and those I’ve met who wholeheartedly and unironically love the esoterica that I love like Steve Reich and Andrew Jackson Jihad and our discussions have been some of my favorite moments so far and also some of my worst sentences.
I came here because of numbers,
and G-d bless all five digits because without them I wouldn’t be here.
And I’m just so glad to be here.