I read Howl last night.
The slumbering starry eyed misfits stumbling, sleepwalking through the pock-marked streets and gutters.
Not knowing where they were headed, where they were from.
I saw the great white bearded somnambulists belting out a hymn.
I saw a mother crying, trying her best to gather enough to feed her two kids.
I walked with a mole-faced man- a pit in his stomach and a dollar in his hand, howling at the moon.
I talked to the man of all men, the herculean epistle of the ages, the voice of a thousand distant slaves, still enslaved.
I came across a dying buffalo, bruised, bloodied, disemboweled.
And then I saw something that I will never forget.
I saw myself, or at least a shadow of myself, hiding, trying not to be noticed.
Muttering something about going home.
It was then that I knew I could never go home again.