Tag Archives: Jack Kerouac
Where’s the Frozen River?
I sit beneath a painting of Kerouac in thick shades of gray and try to digest the fact that I am older than he will ever be. I should be so privileged to pass Emily and Virginia. I’ll prefer mine … Continue reading
Filed under Morning Poems
A Lock of Mary Shelley’s Hair
Virginia’s walking stick washed up on the bank. It looks like someone stole the ceremonial bronze key from its case. Things are not lookalikes unless we want them to be. I wouldn’t know what to do with a Goliath mouth … Continue reading
Filed under Afternoon Poems
Polite Emily Dickinson Flies*
Riding the rails through an afternoon comes easier than staying put face to face with imminent death. Or not. To those gone but not gone, she says these tracks are her prayer. * From Jack Kerouac’s Big Sur
Filed under Afternoon Poems
Inherit This
“Soaked in the blood and black of thousands of dead bugs. We smelled our clothes deeply.” —Jack Kerouac, On the Road What color is your blood, she asks her grandmother instinctively. The answer comes on strong as a tall shot … Continue reading
Filed under Night Poems
On California Crates
“I made love to her under the tarantula.” —Jack Kerouac, On the Road Beams and beliefs before the bottom fell out and I became just another casualty. It’s not the fur—it’s the dander.
Filed under Night Poems
Brown Foams
“What is the Mississippi River?—a washed clod in the rainy night, a soft plopping from drooping Missouri banks, a dissolving, a riding of the tide down the eternal waterbed . . . down along . . . and out.” —Jack … Continue reading
Filed under Night Poems
In a Serious Room
“Waiting like a longbodied emaciated Modigliani surrealist woman in a serious room.” —Jack Kerouac, On the Road She who passes the art test will be cursed with elongated worry—the weight of aluminum confused with its atomic number 13. She never … Continue reading
Filed under Civil Twilight or Dawn Poems
Medium High
“Poetry doesn’t know: The air conditioner Not in use in winter Is like my hopes— Half in, half out.” —Jack Kerouac, from “Richmond Hill Blues” (Book of Blues) I have no air conditioner. No dishwasher. I have no washing machine. … Continue reading
Filed under Civil Twilight or Dawn Poems
Question of Property
“I almost called these poems Pickpocket Blues because they are the repetition by memory of earlier poems stolen from me b y t w e l v e t h i e v e s.” —Jack Kerouac, … Continue reading
Filed under Night Poems
No Ginger
“I stand on my head on Desolation Peak And see that the world is hanging Into an ocean of endless space.” —Jack Kerouac, from the 1st Chorus of “Desolation Blues” (Book of Blues) Prone to motion sickness, I’ve looked for … Continue reading
Filed under Overnight Poems
