hmm yes.. the rest of that one thing... you know...

I get crazy in love with the beats. The real maggie, the Cassidys, Ginsberg, and Jack. It brings back memories that arnt even really mine ... hmm... you people are so damned beautiful. and to think that your not! the brilliance of it! to have writen poetry in India for 2 years... 'til our summer.- to know all the foul language and exadurate each sylabol like a mad rapper thinking slowely about politics, to a beat, to be fed up with politics. to know everything about Buddism and lithium, fields, and not care to much for it.- to have a herb garden in your back yard,- to have the biggest variety of thought to yourself and thats all that matters.- -Because as fucked up as this world gets outside the deep leafed jungles, between us and Mexico City,- there's still beautiful burnt eyed gypsy child. theres still shoe gazers to be reminded of us when they finally look up. Theres still cool-red-clay villas waiting for us at the end of this chipped road. Clean clothes, rollies, and new culture are waiting. It's what we headed out for. but for you,- to appriciate the trip there, down to the sweat and mosqitoes, makes you the poet. and I the people reader, thinking- gazing at this cultures new birkenstocks... and I'm loving Gregory Corso like I knew the kid.. yelling your tribunes into microphones filled with smoke... and echoing through the joint is Visions of Cody and "...bop began with jazz..." I'm filled with that knot...