To my friends,
I am Dean Moriarity
(or Neal Cassady I suppose)
Driving a dozen poems
in my back pocket
around the Bay Area
a dozen poetry readings a month
in the dozen month year
Christopher’s riding shotgun
(A sort of Ginsberg I suppose)
I’m saying a dozen times
a dozen times an hour
another dozen issues of Poesy
and I am done and dosin
But he dozen ’t believe me
and whoever’s dosin
in the back seat
JC or once Pablo
or whatever pick
of the dozen
dozen ‘t ever say a word
(a poet I suppose)
After a dozen emo/indie songs
a dozen turns of the dial
wheels turn
in the parking lot
of a bookshop filled
with only a half dozen poets
but the size of a bakers dozen
who’ve been dosin
the past dozen days
do seem a bit dazed to
why does it seem to
make sense as to
why does a poet Cruz
from Santa Cruz
to a half dozen open mikers
dosin during a decent poem
worth a dozen dimes
panhandled from
hands of demons
behind a dozen doors
of the past
and it does seem strange
(I suppose)
a dozen different places
A hundred miles apart
all look the same
it dozen ’t have to make sense
but it does