Cassady and Kerouac, blazing down the West American coast,
roaring down the Valley,
before plunging down into San Francisco,
sauntering past the gates of Chinatown
blaring jazz and blues.
And Allen Ginsberg, giddy and sentimental,
whispering in the ear of a lion statue
about the mechanics of poetry,
ghosts of a memory, a vision in the mists.


