I don’t need no map,
Just some kinda horizon.
Running on empty,
Stuffing the engine with paint instead of gasoline.
Who is sitting, grabbing you from your back? Is it Mona or Olympia? Or can it be the gal in the red panties that Bukowski through in your arms last night?
I don’t see no house in front of me and no lights either.
Still my hopes are intact and my cognac flask is half full.
Jack is watching us from the skies and Neil Cassady must be around.
I am speeding towards eternity and cops must be trailing behind as usual.
The jukebox of the diner seven miles ahead is waiting for me:
“On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair,
warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air…“
But I know the assholes are out of Bacon. And they will pay for it!
No shy virgins please. Gimme a king size bed and couple beers
Swim and dive at your own risk…
This might be your road to hell,
and I am for sure…
The guy your mom warned you about..
Bedri Baykam—March 2012