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A Million Billion Miles
Neal Cassady has been deceased
longer than his candle burned,
but that hasn’t stopped him
from extending the record
for non-stop transcontinental drives.
Alive he’d finally have to sleep
once run out of benzedrine, supply
tougher to get a bead on as contemporaries
pass away and/or go straight,
not a one vivacious enough to perpetuate
beyond their demise. Neal knows
journeys, the buzz of a long-block engine,
the fast route and meandering routes
to the next city. His faith is continuous
motion, “Go,” the last word he remembers.
He forms the shape of “Go,” but never “gone.”
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