at this intersection anymore
is from the fixies of hipsters,
but this used to be Denver's Skid Row,
where Kerouac once partied with the homeless.
To hang out in the places your heroes haunted,
and absorb the atmosphere...oh, what a lovely life we take.
Neal's grave is somewhere near
in Wheat Ridge with a sax solo,
then the clearness will be gone.
This is all vanity
in some form or fire,
but I don't care,
I am just a traveling writer,
trying to forget her.
I will search and see ghosts at Euclid Hall,
eat jack rabbit sausage
while playing ball behind the Buckhorn Exchange.
16th street will devour me in letters
but not before I write your name in a alley called Jean.
It's alright, I have finally stopped caring,
mostly by mountain time,
because it don't pay to live like love,
never to return to words,
unless my sister says something.
This generation permeates every last lane,
and when I try to escape,
I am reminded of the corners,
with weird haircuts and tiny shoes, Arcade Fire;
this is the alphabet of my life, dumbed down with time and age.