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So Kerouac and Ginsberg walk into a bar,
Cassady too (they're crying, "Come on, Neal!"),
and the first two, they order drinks.

Cassady isn't drinking at all, really,
had a couple earlier.
Just a spritzer, please and thanks,
sits with his friends and talks loudly
about racecars.

Ginsberg is planning his next gin fizz as he finishes his first,
is planning his next stroll through the naked streets of Harlem.

Kerouac's hair hangs over his eyes.
Cassady musses it up. He says,
"You should grow a mustache, Jack,"
placing a finger beneath his nose.

They sit with shoulders touching,
Cassady in the middle,
the two poets on either side,
and he's drawing circles with his fine hands,
these breakneck turns.

"This weekend, how 'bout it?"
says someone, and, like that,
they leave their drinks,
lost to Benzedrine plans of
an afternoon at the track.

There's no punch line,
no who wrote what, or meant what
or where they went wrong, lost touch.
I should know:
I've read a few biographies;
I've got Howl on tape,
and went to Big Sur on family holiday
when I was eight.

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