what are your thoughts on what I have written? It's simply a rough sketch of what I have in mind:

After I smoked my cigarette I sat upon my mother’s old 1950s stoop and pondered the backwardness of the earth’s yearning for “settling down”—why would you settle down when there are highways great arteries of the Mid West!—cowboys sittin’ in their saddles slouching chewing rutty tobacco and spitting to whistle through loose canines at the broad Mrs. Harbringer as she bends over to scoop up the daily mail from last morning’s mailboy circuit—it’s a shame they don’t deliver milk anymore—anywho, Mrs. Harbringer, the men whistle from high above their arrogant horse heads at the swingin’ *** of the woman as it swings brightly and excitedly back into the saloon—that image can quickly go to rot, as any mad bad mind can tell you. Anyway, I want the people who love to live life those who don’t mind drinking wine and stereotypically stripping down at the party to read and analyze Marx, the people whose hair flow outwardly upon the world like a golden silken blanket—maybe the cause of global warming—too much hair!—and on, those mad fools who will sit up in sleep bags just to talk at three in the morn and listen to the wind as it howls madly and silently in a creeping tip-toeing manner as a thief in the night. On the subject of Marx, his written works are selling like mad in Eastern Germany—(a connection there perhaps?)—and all of Europe for that matter. How odd it is to have grown up with a cynical capitalist Russia, when the rest of the older world has know Her as a Socialist machine, crude ruthless and ongoing—it’s an odd feeling looking at history over my shoulder; there isn’t much of it as is. Lucas is in Texas, analyzing and growing tea, reading scrolls written by Thoreau on the mannerisms and discourses among men and teaching younger selves about the qualities of life in all its broad quantities—Cass is living in some backwater flat over old Woodland mainstreet, trying to kick her benny habit and raising her many golden-eyed children—small waif-like little things—and gazes out of her window on the minor traffic as husbands and wives rush home to their loved ones—she sees the world through sorrowful lens of late, she writes to me. Poor woman, God only seems to know her well-like sadness; it stems so deep. As for Hank, the man is mad, living and dreaming in the opium speakeasies of San Francisco, lady city of the brightly lit bay in all her mist and glamour. He writes more, he says over the phone to me—In the background, white noise, the kind of noise that consists of offbeat surges of electronica pulsing from silver-smooth cars, people talking and yelling from across the street—“it’s UNDER the seat!”—and so on, I can close my eyes and see the smoke that hangs over the city like a symbolic greasy cloud, stinging the eyes and bringing warm euphoria to the brain at the bottom of narrow stairwells and gated road blocks, ladies in their dresses and men in their slacks off to Yoshi’s for Port and good Jazz—Charlie Hunter Trio is playing again informs Hank—the city in all her jewels and lights, her art and her cats that roam bemoaning man and his lack of conscience as they wander into dank clubs to discuss the current scene and its ****. I say my goodbyes to Hank, and tell him of my plans to work as a hired hand on the next ship freight coming into New Orleans—they are so few now—Hank chokes up, and gruffly gives his best. “Watch them sailors” he warns “They don’t care for your Rimbaudish type of man”—and so on, until I lose interest in his cynical unhappiness and tell him hurriedly that my mother is calling for help with the evening sup. He cuts off, then thrusts in a goodbye, and cuts the line before I can say the same. I sit back and ponder the life I seem to have been thrust into, and as the memories well up I tear open another cigarette from its packaging, and walk back up the drooping stoop to my room—mother hurrying about preparing a bit of nourishment before I head out—and prepare for my departure from these states, all its gleaming little slums and happy men and women who anxiously look out their little doors before venturing outside to start their days. I kiss my mother goodbye—she is crying now—and as we drive down to the docks to the freight ship she turns to me and gives me a single kiss, hurried and rushed as I rise from my seat to the pale dawn of the watery morning to trod out onto the plankway that leads to the ship; I turn once to smile and give a solemn wave, but only see that my mother has already left, her little blue Honda turning at the light down the street—and gone—gone, and already looking for her little bottle in the cupboard, and then to the television to watch the silver ball drop in New York City, tears. As I venture on board the vessel I notice the captain give the go ahead as the last of the stragglers pull themselves up the plank, rushing before the ship leaves port, and New Orleans behind
I wasn't sure what section to put this under, hopefully this is it. Also, only serious answers please, none of that "I love it! Keep writing!" unless you have more to add to it and back it up. Be brutally honest, that's why I posted it. Sorry for the length.
Thank you Searchbar. :)
But, keep in mind, this is a Rough sketch. I'm editing later. Several changes will be made. But thanks for your answer anyway.

Honesty number 1:It's annoying to read big chunks of text.

Are you trying to go with the Faulkner approach?

'After I smoked my cigarette I sat upon my mother’s old 1950s stoop and pondered the backwardness of the earth’s yearning for “settling down”—why would you settle down when there are highways great arteries of the Mid West!—cowboys sittin’ in their saddles slouching chewing rutty tobacco and spitting to whistle through loose canines at the broad Mrs. Harbringer as she bends over to scoop up the daily mail from last morning’s mailboy circuit—it’s a shame they don’t deliver milk anymore—anywho, Mrs. Harbringer, the men whistle from high above their arrogant horse heads at the swingin’ *** of the woman as it swings brightly and excitedly back into the saloon—that image can quickly go to rot, as any mad bad mind can tell you'

That is one sentence. That is a run on, and it should not be one sentence. What time frame are you working in? The references you make, and the drawl of the narrator don't seem to match. It's like you've thrown an early 1800s country bumpkin into the late 1900s. It's just odd.

I'm sorry, but I don't care for it.

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