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I often find my lungs burning
for the same air that
the 'beat' poets breathed, find myself thirsting for
the same elixirs that hung at the corners of Dylan
Thomas's lips.
To simply create without thought,
or work, just
wrap myself around life and let it wring from this
ink what it shall.
I am not of that cloth, or
even of that ink, and so
with the little four pot puttering like a steam
engine downstairs, I write, deleting, rewording,
rephrasing, reworking.
And if one is to listen close
enough, and is able to
ignore the Zoot Sims being pushed from the
stereo speakers one can almost hear the tapping
of keys, the clear distinct sound of Jack Kerouac
working in the bathroom with the door locked.
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