Typewriter Dreams

I walked down jazz alleys with stingy cigarettes and a head filled with typewriter dreams, silently praying to sidewalk gods for the inhaling of coconut rum, Chicago and Havana, minds heavy with thoughts of steel and uranium in the years before cold war, red missiles, and the rusting sickle of Russian terror, seeing dusty men gathered outside newspaper stands waiting and plotting, in quiet conversations about Che Guevara, and in America, small bankers with obscene moustaches fingered money with a capitalist fix, primarily out of the silk lined jackets of a charading middle class, that got stuck in first, like early model Cadillacs, blooming in the 60's like early spring lilacs, violent purple, pink, and the blue of acid blotter fractal brothers and Grey's later paintings of cross-sectioned life, where Jesus was spread out and examined in new eyes of a public embracing science and the sub-atomic nuclear buzz, in the years before computers and solitary confinement of plastic and lamplight, in the years before the war on multicolored terror and human entropy, here, the rising fist was a message, not a punchline.