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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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