THE HIDDEN TRACK

The following passages are dedicated to Leopold, to the vernacular, to certain evil women (you know who you are), to certain wonderful people(they know who they are), to soft afternoons and quiet Sunday evenings, to Fall and seeing your breath for the first time since Spring, and to Isabelle Ya Feng ... a soul slipped by like two ships passing in the still, moonlit sea.
-- Abraham Ahmed, the Surfing Beatnik



Beatnik's Log: III

Contemplation overtook me this melancholy morning of sheer desire.
In my raft I lay, parched, red-eyed and wily [a term I often associate with myself and my most common disposition] , no signs of life yet again … much like a traffic jam:

People all around. Perhaps even ten-fold Yet none anywhere to be found. All bodies, no souls.
Implore of me my soul, oh my soul of my inner true nature, and fail not in assisting me towards a trail-head for the un-fricken-stupid.

Stationary with no hope for relocation at the moment,I, I am a block of no transistion and no removal. A box on a hill if you will
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