(a Kerouac-ian remix)
We climbed to the top of a mountain.
I carried a lantern and a jazz singer
as a guide.
I felt the calamity of dust,
heard the atomic pulse of the womb.
You had that lousy feeling of not being high
so we poisoned the pear tree
and watched it die like the scorpion.
The next morning,
we got up, got laid,
then died like the fruit.
And it was perfect.