Stitches On Acid
It was summer when we were shot out of a cannon.
your eyes were nuggets of gold in the backseat.
I held a strawberry cigarette.
smoke covered our bodies like a blanket as the engine breathed fire into the sky.
dots like on a television screen rained down on us.
It was the end of the modern world.
A Super Supermarket in North Jersey
by G.K. Stritch – find her on Amazon
Why, Allen Ginsberg, thoughts of you fill my head ...
Scroll on, Jack
Scroll on, Jack, roll out the roll,
That stretches down old midnight road,
Shack on the Beach
Sold the house
To escape isolated hell of suburbs i
Old sour Manhattan ii
Beckons no mo...
The Only Jack For Me
The only Jack for me are the mad Jacks,
the Jacks who are Jack to live,
mad to Jack,