candles exploding like spiders across the stars

“…and everything is going to the beat – it’s the beat generation, it be-at, it’s the beat to keep, it’s the beat of the heart…”

Jack Kerouac

At least twice in this past week, someone asked, “What is your beat?”

And I answered: “It’s new each day.” I write what I write and I like it that way.

I write about the birds and breeze, about small kids who play in trees.

I write about lost dogs and whales, and sometimes I tell fairy tales.

I write of oil, of spilling tears, of predators, of cheerful fears.

I write of songs and sunny days, of tragic wrongs and older ways.

I share war lore and birthday cake, eccentric art, choices to make.

And — each time I start to write, I know I finally got it right.

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!” (Jack Kerouac)