Writers, criminals, dharma bums, poets and lovers have always found comfort in the low down motels in the less desirable parts of cities- No lease to sign or credit to check, the brown skinned man behind the glass only wants cash and gives you a key to a hot shower and a bed – Television and heat! Away from the cold wind! Summer breezes float through the windows as do the moans from the next room over as you open a can of Spam and one more beer from the paper sack- Weeks go by and you learn some of the names who come and go with the wind and wonder how much longer with life be just these four walls? HBO and clean towels! Mini fridge full of beer!
Months march toward fall and the mirror tells your age and shaving becomes an option as does everything but a simple routine called life – motel life
Winter is gray and the windows rattle while you pack your battered boxes of stuff and get ready to move one more time as that old road calls- “Come back soon” the room calls and you do, again and again.
Page 21- 22 in California Beat Poetry Number Four Dharma Angels by John K Bucher
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