Mason West

Driving for Pleasure

He was big and grimy on the corner
and his belly lifted his T-shirt
and a navel winked out like Cyclops:
"Pleasure Palace? Down that way.
Take Shangri-La this time of day.
Hooker left on Xanadu."
With that we rolled up grimy windows
and locked our doors.
Drove for the Pleasure Palace.

Mighty Jack sang a song in back
and hot-wire Neal steered the wheel
and I prayed for traffic slack
all the way to Pleasure Palace.

Everyone was there
Great smoky words filled the air
it sounded like ten stations on AM radio
it sounded like the ocean of words in a hurricane
a billion words and an ebb and a billion words
and a drunken misplaced word in an ebb
and a billion words and an eye.
This is what it sounded like and bongo drums
What a challenge for poetic bums
to stand their naked soul on a table
and shatter the rums
Allen did it
but Neal was restless so we convened
a dozen godless disciples taking the gospel on the road
to where everyone had their idea
Neal wanted to see a painter laid in Santa Fe
(But he wouldn't do it
and no one else was straight)
and lick Lawrence's ashes encased in concrete
Jack wanted to scream at the desert from a mountain outside Tucson
I wanted to erupt like Vesuvius and pound on the walls of City Lights
Peter wanted to giggle at the bubbles in the hot Idaho Springs
Someone said we could just drive around and pick everybody up