The Denver Hero

I stayed up like a bum with my hands coverd in ash. I sprawled out on the roof. I listend to Jack Keuroac for four hours now. My breath smelled like hot rum and it burned in my throat and feet and fingers.

I was drunk. Damn drunk. I was reeling and laughing and crying at his adventures in Mexico. He was a bum, I'm a bum, You're a bum, too! I paid more attention to his airwaves and hollowed out recording than I did my own parents.

His voice gravled on, dark and sexy and lonely in his discription of the America's to Mexico and back again. How he was lonely in Denver, How he went away from Denver, How he bloody died in Denver. The time were he sat and listend to Dean and Carlo talk about the mechine and how you couldn't shut it off because if you did everything would die. How he laid with some girl in some grass mummbling and slurring til everything made sence in there minds.


And about Mary Lou. How her honey colored body and soul was enough to drive him to the brink of hell, into hell and repeat itself before morning. Then morning came and he, a hero of this American teenager, walked and hitch hiked into the shadey road of alholoic death. Into the shadey woeful boxcar night on the railroads of maybe his hometown... but probably Denver. Everything happens in Denver. Living, loving, and dying in Denver. The hero of Denver, the devil of Denver, gets out of a shadow truck and onto the boxcar. Only to ride off in the rainy naked light blub night once again... all the way to Denver.