For Dean Moriarty, Who Has Another Name

I will never be on the road,

untethered, I am no spastic cluster of stars

bouncing from one life to another,

touching only so it burns,

cigarette holes I'll leave but never see

and ooze with poetry

thick and on the turning edge of sweet,

it gushes from sloppy mouths,

recycled words, recycled and recycled,

left with all the grime of the night

I'll mention but only barely in a hangover

stoop to pick up with yellowed nails

and it will be caught under them, I will carry the grime,

and I'll say the next day I am fresh,

moving somewhere else, no matter where else,

but I will leave a crust of last night's 

words on the corners of my mouth

like some gutter drunk trying to get clean

I will never be clean,

we are all recycled,

we think we're something new,

we think we're something ancient,

something united with something, led by someone,

we elect to be someone,

knowing we are no one,

we think so much of ourselves

as we eye the world with nonsense stares

so they think we're all about something

other than ourselves 

but we're not and can't deny

we're only out for kicks,

to see everything and be everything

but someone for someone,

we can never be real,

only theatrically mad, babbling lunatics

clogged with too may words

we leached from the empty air

because we won't acknowledge silence

won't acknowledge love that doesn't run away

we always run away

leaving only grimy footprints

and that is not me

I stay, I always stay

and I am no madman,

I am draggingly mundane,

I see nothing gorgeous in unfocused eyes

and slurred words on top of words on top of

toilet seats and bathtub rims in houses

of people I never mean to know

that is too lost for me

you are too lost for me,

I refused to love a beat,

the only people for me are the real ones