The pages of a dead man speak to me.
It’s like reading my own obituary.
This is Dean Moriarity jiving with Jack Kerouac.
I’m in a head spin.
Don’t be silly.
I’m catching glimpse of Last Exit from Brooklyn.
I'll add Henry Miller, for his optimism, Charles Burkowski, for his 'I don't give a fuck' and rubbing shoulders with the down and outs.
There's a certain arrogance about saying you'll suffer for your art. But a man who doesn't give a flying fuck, conceited to the point, in a humble way, knowing he's ahead of the literary pack, that is when I pay attention.
But my purpose here is not to put the bastards down.
That's respect.
I'm liking this guy very much. He is me. He is you. Our lost collective voice.
Deal with it.
Now don't get preachy on me.
Mark Rogers Down at 410 rises above Campell Soup art scene and grubby nightclubs of New York.
The stakes have never been so high.
Glimpses of On the Road, Koreatown Blues, Basement and Plunge.
John L Sullivan would have been proud.
'The bastard escaped to Mexico.'
And wrote a tonne of books, too.
