Dreaming in the immensity of that American Prairie Rising

[Terrance]

They were like the man with the dungeon stone and the gloom, rising from
the underground, the sordid hipsters of America, a new beat generation
that I was slowly joining. 

We were on the roof of America and all we could do is yell, I
guess---across the night, eastward over the Plains, where somewhere an
old man with white hair was probably walking toward us with the Word,
and would arrive any minute and make us silent. 

So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down
river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all
that raw land that rolls in one unbelievably huge bulge over the West
Coast, and all that road going, all the people dreaming in the immensity
of it, and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land
where they let the children cry, and tonight the stars'll be out, and
don't you know that God id Pooh Bear? the evening star must be drooping
and shedding her sparkler dims on the Prairie, that is just before the
coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all rivers,
cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows
what's going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing
old, I think. what thoughts I have of You tonight, Walt Whitman, for I
walked up the broad streets under the Brooklyn and listened to the Jazz
that is America under a full moon rising.