A lost calling.

The seasons changing without notice.

A misplacement of the misplaced;

The Beat Generation.

They were crusaders of the word;

always someplace and never without cool.

Shirts and shoes unrequired from San

Francisco to West 46th Street.

Their pain was locked in the fists of their


Eyes deaf toward the average, they drove

across America.

They were a gathering of sinners with

broken wings.


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