Because I had A Vision.

We all sat there. Staring up at the poet Jesus of the 20th decade. A year of my life I never got. And he howled. Then I howled. I howled, piercing the night.

Her skin burned like hot oranges and cigarettes. I was the frustrated teenage girl in the back row, wanting to be physical. Go! Go! Strip your clothes off and fuck. Fuck America for we are free now.

We are free like lost children in the Midwestern night. Or the hot southern swamp. I am trapped here in it's acid filled lakes. It's hungry, sexless roads. The cigarettes pile up in numbers.

And where was he? He. The man of the hour. He. A dead poet. He. An alive poet. He. The bum. He. The hoodlum hero. He. The writer?

You call this gesture absence. Yet you groan and you grind along with the other naked man and his pulsating body. A summer night of hot, shimmering heat on bronzed skin.

I called out to Jim Morrison in the summer night. In the winter night. In the night. I called out to him, begging him. Wanting him. Needing him on my body and my mind.

Thrown into a vast abyss of sidewalks and city streets. They keep going. Lost in some once glorious vision of the 1960s, all faded away with the bloodshed. The bleeding of its last pawns of war. The rise of the American Capitalism and the fall of Jack Kerouac.

Yes! Yes! All I felt was skin. Skin of an animal. It wasn't human. This feeling of tremors and cold sweats and screams. I was hunched over on the cold tile in the bathroom. As I looked up at her naked, bronzed, body I saw it all. I saw life thrashing inside her soul. The ark angel trying to get out of her prison of flesh and bones. Her body.

Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty is the sidewalks at dusk in small town America. Empty is the wallet of a poor man. Empty is the parking lot on a Sunday afternoon in swamp lands.

The souls of angels spread out over the horizons of the people in the hospital. Like a germ. They were all dust. They were all thrown into war. They were all abused. They were the rape objects. The horrid sexual feeling of seeing the body of the young boy in the river, stripped naked and bruised. Oh! The tragedy! Such is the American Way! Oh, little boy. Oh, big man who raped him. OH! The cruelly of it all!

My lover stands poised in the face of the man that marked her. My lover spits on the lesser man. Her father. The one who gave her life, she damns. She damns it all with the wave of her hand.

I am not some grate movement. I AM NOT some crack head in the basement jerking off to sorrowful poems of Poe... thoughts of dead bodies. Drowned.

We all sat there in the building staring at the screen mindlessly. All of us sick perverted souls who just wanted to be fucked then left alone to make thick fog on the edge of our illegal illusions we bought of the street.

We want to be something. We want to be poets and perverts and lovers and Jesus and drugs and dreams and bums! All of us want to be something! We want to be free and alive and dead and pleasured and tortured and heard about and hidden. We want to be alright and horrified at the gaping bodies and we want to be the cold corpse; the price of war. We want to howl at the night for no goddamn reason other than we want to free our angelic souls from our prisons. From our prisons of flesh and bones. From this hellish world we created for our self. For the rest of it be damned! Everyone is an angel even the devil and I say fuck it all.

She threw the bottle in the garbage and watched as the glass hit the rim and shattered into a million microscopic pieces of souls. And she herd them scream. They called out into the only night we know. They called out for something else beyond ourselfs. A drugged up world were dreams are reality and reality is a foreign concept.

Oh everyones a faggot! Just fuck it all. Suck a cock and get it over with. Fuck it all. I'm a grown being now, there. You happy? Are you satisfied? Was it good for you, too?

In these valleys of death I traveled threw a rickety world of barns and houses and cities and back alleys and whores and drugged up dreams. Because I had a vision. Because I had a vision. Because I couldn't sleep. Because I had a vision. What was it? I visioned my naked body twisted and battered and bloody and bruised. Forever dying and unholy death in the river. Hot swamp, hot frog.

We wanted to be something. We wanted to be herd. Damn it we want to howl. To expose our lungs in the night! To cry out for every god damn thing we've done or haven't done. Herd or seen. Been or being. We want to howl! Howl! Howl! Howl! Cuss! Fuss! Fuck! Drink! All these things! We will be lost in the vision of the night.