I should kiss Jack�s angels,
my past packed in a rucksack

����������������a book or two, a photo of you.

I�ll chase them down highways and byways,
peeling back pavement
over bones of buffalo and shaman.

I�ll eat berries and nuts
��������������������and Blue Plate specials;

I�ll write witticisms on palimpsests of bark
����- old vagaries still leaking through -

I�ll ink caricatures of waitresses
on paper napkins - bosoms and beehives,
each detail saved for you