what the beats called "Spontanious Prose"

too weary and too inspired to sleep in this warm and worn universe
thinking of Emmylou, sitting crosslegged on the matress surrounded by Bob Dylan, Sachmo, Count Basie, Ella Fitzgerald, Kris Kristopherson, Jack Kerouac, candles, incense, Bama moon, thrift store trinkets, instruments.....
thinking about Emmylou and missing her I just know she's somewhere out there, see-thru frock of crimson and earthly tan, barefoot, looking into me. But ah so is life
have no idea what time it is, but it's dark and the birds are chirping for some reason and I wanna run beneath them, discover empty phantoms and call them holy (and rightfully so) find everything holy,
find something holy
Solid brown eyes, voice like honey, crumpled letter in the gutter, Blues, anything un-resolved, the cotton that grew near my house that died two years ago, maybe even all those times I walked til my feet were ablaze and then numb humming about bloody eyes and about running to a lover's door covered in exhaust, clay, coffee, ideas, will, something calling, something screaming, something sighing, someone moaning or singing or asking

someone out there
maybe Emmylou enthralled and holy

(and it's my last night here)