with jack kerouac in our collective hearts we hit the tarmac running, encased by a pregnant 2 tonne truck headed for the crisp clean mountain air of sanity.
"nice wheels", he said.
the city is behind us. the metaphoric mexican border, temporary shelter to the cussing king of psychopaths, the degraded holy goof, in sight.
sal paradise travels alongside old bull lee & carlo marx. the beat generation exhumed will conquer, flaws proudly waving like a banner to the four winds.
