Gonzo Remembered (Hunter S. Thompson in a poem by Ash Cole )
Duke don't leave us now. Don't leave us tomorrow and don't leave us today and don't leave, man.
He has twenty two guns, and everyone is loaded
I have to put on a certain type of eyes. . .and type of reading glasses that I can only really see with perfectly, eagle eyes and beyond
I must light a certain type of cigarette
Hold a certain type of runny, spattering pen
Hold a certain type of runny, spattering pen
I must light a certain type of cigar, that will last for ten years
Write with a certain type of pen that could fend of a parking lot of vicious wild dogs
To include Dr. Gonzo in a poem, which he may hate, but I bravely speak on for you
But before I draw him in splat ink and word, like a candle flickering desperately in the wind
I must step back
I have to step way back from the side of a unbusy highway next to a desert, or Barstow where His drugs take hold
And Bill Murry and Depp try not to shield your ears completely, for I know his blood pumps through you and I hope one day you will read this sincerely and with bravery because I understand you have him in your bodies. . .so here I go for y'all and other listening now
But before I take this picture and become a journalist for a brief second, and filled with his Wild Turkeys and cigarette stains on my lung, let me tell you I have listen to his voice to know, that he has granted me this speech. . .this entry
So lets all step back, wipe the smoke and tears from our eyes and just meditate like Leary wanted he and us to do and like Kensey may have done with him and like he has done with us. . .
I'm not selling this or selling out to this and I'm not trying to make myself any greater than I know my poetry is. . .I'm just writing a letter and it has to, and will and I have no choice to come out in some mad version of beat verse in my traces of our forgotton and beyond doomed generation. . I have added from my original print from my journal and its only because I'm behind schedule and I don't have enough time to say what I really should of said in the journal which I hope some day one of you can get take hold of. . .here we go.
Before I draw him, the Great Gonzo, in ink and word, like a candle in the wind over and over again, we must step back into a time where the world was ending and a revolution was to begin.
A man of guns. A man of freedom and snow. A man cold in shorts and bald head running for sherrif and only to truly win by losing. 207 votes to 170 or something where he claimed the American dream is doomed.
So I sneak back, sit up and jolt behind dead line, consuming everything from the cocktail menu and slam my Wild Turkey call, motorcycle rumbles near the beaches of West, the coast line of sounds of freedom and splashes of victory and disconnect from the machine. . .let a natural flashback reoccur, released from the fat of my spine, have some fun
Lie a little, like the kids
Die a little, like a laugh again
And spit out something that others will hate now out of time, and what I extremely enjoy
About the sixties: a tune with that electrical base thumb blasted by animal thumps and bleeding wild boars axed down by machine guns of wow and pounds perfectly. . .IBOGAIN supported by wallets of Brazilian doctors. . .perhaps likea forbidden cartoon or brief blinding flashes of neverending bulbs. . .a freak freaking and standing there telling me, "Stop now, stop now." But I go on, scribbling, printing, ranting, gracing and turning on my keyboard, printing and recording into bullet filled microphones, like from a forty four magnum, semi automatic, maybe a thirty eight snub, or perhaps some rigged long barrel handgun with perfectly balanced sights aiming at the American Dream, stoned or sober, speeding and plowing over all road signs and no long hairs served, drunk and saved, but stored in endless amount of bookshelves along yours and I's walls, along a countless library and exact call numbers to find him even today, and of coarse I can't deny now, he will be in every electronic database and this is good.
Fried, freed or imprisoned. What did it stand for? And I go on without limits and let my type writer drum and his like the pussy cat lizard he was, typing like a modern dancer of fingers and arm tableaux disconnected well timed stances, showing off those pointy kneecaps. . .
I'm scared you see. Scared and maybe even scarred of being punched by a fiery mean Angel with brass knuckles, gang rapping in the backroom with a tape recording as jury. . .
Scared of bald angels cooking strange drugs (three martinis and six beers and a tone of everything evil and I wanted it now at my table and or you deaf. . .can you hear. . .give it to me now. . .all for me.
I'm scared of being raped by Hell
I'm scared of being found out.
I'm scared to be on deadline.
I'm scared of floating in pools during Ali's comeback in the jungle
I'm scared of a bullet awaiting to shape my mind
I'm scared like a cat overdosing on cat nip purring out the only writer of our time
I scare and flee city to city, state to state, like a bullet awaiting three shots
I'm scared a bit. A bit of me becoming possessed with my type writer in the kitchen and intercom phone calls to all my friends. I'm scared of being annoying.
I'm seared by maybe not being a simple journalist, but rather prophet of getting off track
Like a madden wet cat, with tape on his back paw, shaking it away, wet in broken clothes and murmuring out in the rhythm of a broken clothes dryer off and on, losing the heating element and endlessly rumbling, type by type
And domed but purring out The Writer, the journalist, the photographer of well placed words in a unplaced world. . .drying the blood of this continuous doom generation now in the shape of a Y.
Why hang on now? Why hang on ever? Why hang on?
I must stop cold loaded, fire at a paint can or butane tank and watch it explode like my head, blood casting a shape of a piece of target that only the devil can understand
Endlessly a doomed situation and starved generation occupying those words above WHY HANG? Lost I must stop cold and restart the engine to this oversized American car and in some death and the whispers from the fire from the gas, a white wale swims onward across the desert, pushing onward, but where? Onward coaded by wire tapes and politicians and Mojo steam and Nixon reams
See, too many words
Too many pages to feed
Too many campaign trails and rolling stones
Gathering no moss in my back, head and sweaty upper lips
This is overdoing it now.
Hell broke loose. .44 discipline well aimed shots and forty four putt offs.
The reader must go deaf a minute as you really hear those BAMs and feel those endless kicks from the pistol shouting
No, he broke lose not hell
So, lets put on a certain bullet, and wear it around our necks like priest's shawl
The reader here with it's reptilian tongue and forget what I say. Instead do your own prescribed or unprescriped drug yourself
Don't look toward me and lie, steal, shit and deal a tangent of conventions
Forget your life for one sec. Its over now Freak. I say in a wild boom three fold,
Like your spine
Like your skin
Like your uploaded sin, "chew on that gibberish awhile your heartless scum. . ."
And remember this. . .one can only chase an American Dream like a junkie George chasing a dragon. Like a fear chases a loathing. . .
So I hold you up with pistol in hand. So I hold you blond, brunette and tongue twisting maidens of whore. . .I hold my fists, and place the cigarette in the long handled filter like the Penguin, So I hold my fist with two thumbs, 1, 2, 3, somewhere near Aspen between wood and creaks
And a woody motorcycle trail, jumping creak a for moment for the moment and only the moment and the dirt way and mud feel of the sometimes cold Colorado ground
Somewhere inside a cave, turn away over a wood and a creak on a motorcycle and explode like a gun powdered Nixon character mask, one two three
Into tinier particulates than particulates can make and for one brief candle in the wind moment, speeding off the coast of Florida endowing the dreamy motion of dolphins, serene,
Like blue ocean water hitting the banks, and a flash I'm back on the motorcycle hum to explode like gun powder, on two three into tinier particulates than particulates can make and for one brief moment, like Kennedy's quick bang, and thinner than any lost angel, with that particular strange feel, I snap open a Strange drug, a strange brew and simple beer to wash it all down, and whiskey like a mint or diseased arty desert topping a place this strange white tab on my protruding snaky tongue and never ask for permission to do such but endlessly make my wise decisions, for everything we do is wrong and we replace on thing for another
Replace this for that, tit for tat
I let this white tab rest and dissolve on my tongue, swoosh it my mouth, and down my classy throat, let it drown it all away on a wave of ignored skull fragments filmed and capturing the reptile walk, reptile skin and reptile snip and lit a bit of who I really am.. . . .
Five tacos for one dollar and where are in this white chariot and we know this and we know this will take us to the American dream on the psychiatric hippie hang out. . . down the desert road-soma-where is better than nowhere now than I'm gone and stoned immaculate like the stars over that desert beauty
And the dust from the motorcycle race has awaken those bastards, I just know it.
And turn away from those smelly skull fragments I left in a brief goodbye
A brief god-bye
I criticize and hate myself because I could really never smell May
And I really could never fuck summer too good
And I could really never throw the pig skin well enough in autumn or spring
And fall backwards, a loving gesture, pulling the trigger alone on em all and one two three you must learn to lose, learn to die and with everyone there, either way I'm free now
Your free now of me now. . .
Goodbye up there, spread out over Woody Creak.
Speak out and be free Gonzo.