Yesterday: Cycling (Trainer): 20 minutes @ 7:00 p.m.Twenty minutes yesterday cycling with Kerouac and Snyder along the concrete basement floor, intending to shift forward three gears and back to the beginning: nineteenth. Twentieth, twenty-first… twentieth, STOP. Hitting the break I never make it back to the start but coast to a stationary standstill, sweat forming at the bottom of my neck just above my shoulders…
Today: Cycling (Trainer): 20 minutes @ 5:30 a.m.
Twenty more minutes this morning. Why don’t people know Ferlinghetti? Their loss and the spirit lacks care, so I, at least, am just a little bigger for having revisited his work in the anthology… for the second day in a row, I never make it back to the beginning, hitting the breaks just before shifting down and accepting that place the real work comes from…
No radio/musical accompaniment this morning, only the dank smell of a humid basement and thumb selected pages from The Portable Beat Reader. A thick black hardcover volume, its true "portable" nature remains very much in question.
Breathe in, breathe out... YOU AND I ARE ALIVE!
1 comment:
"Christ climbed down from his bare tree"--a favorite Ferlighetti of mine. His passion was free of the bitterness and noise of Ginsberg, I think. Thanks for reminding me which bookshelf to dust off for the summer. I won't even attempt an exercise bike!
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