Hay Ride Rag

I’m thinkin’ Hunter Thompson,
thinkin’ Hart Crane — Spalding Gray.

I’m thinkin’ right cross
from and to, 1833,

St. Mary’s,

Grand Street and Divine.

The wrought of train tracks
is steady, is dark.

Even as. Utah flats, speed burning
but another bright brigade

of Jugement Day; an endless horizon
greets me kissed, with salt quips.

Before them a dead one, cloaked
and borne of, a flashing baring reprise.

Her brother’s ruinous strife. My new one,
unsustained, as yet, some

remarks’ potential’s
conversion.

Having been thinkin’ it,
out under all.

Been thinkin’ it,
past through, straits.

Pondering, just now, ’bout them
guns of angles, and what them

ropings of friends
would be groovin’ to be prayin’,

as regarding all this: I’m thinkin’
St. Paul, thinkin’

Moe Asch. Thinkin’ of
that village

in South Viet Nam.

Sinkin’ ’bout that moment
before the old leper’s

hands.

Rattle up, now, Blind Lemon
Jefferson’s hallowed tin,

up to a higher
column. Gevald.