“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. I am half
in, half out—don’t
take pity on me
because I don’t cook
down suburban roads
in an SUV. I want no mercy
meals from anyone—
not even Kerouac. He’s
dead. I am sitting in
my own lap
topped to wait
for the right moment
to cast a warm glow.
“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, from the 2nd Chorus of “Orizaba 210 Blues” (Book of Blues)
She doubts her bones
will be put on display. Sees
how she is blessed. To be a thief
in this time is what’s left. If he channels you
to music, how will she tune in, listen,
take away what she can
to call her own? If possession
is nine tenths, she has her doubts
about the other tenth—does believe
it has something to do with the shape
of the moon and whether she bothers
to look for it each night. Did she steal
that one too?
“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 adjustments. How to encounter the rolls
and curves without losing myself
when I have a suspicion
I should do just that. How to
accept this condition, this disease
of being human without
somersaulting over the bluff. How to drop
everything I battle gravity
over to let stillness in the center
of a wild wind be my single garment. How to be
a mammal without a thick coat
of fur. How to be upright
on two leathered feet. How? Like this:
I’ll let the blood rush
to my head without blushing.
You swim in the biggest one
of a chain
of lakes. Don’t fear
the consequences. There your head goes
popping through the surface
then bubbling back under. You
were adamant—you don’t
like the tone of Kerouac’s poems. So there you go
through water without salt,
through muck
seen and unseen. I could not be
so brave. I’d rather splash
through an ocean without narrative,
would rather let sound
carry me
than the other way around.
“I also have all space
And St Louis too
Light follows rivers
I do too
Light fades, I pass.”
—Jack Kerouac, from the 55th Chorus of “San Francisco Blues” (Book of Blues)
If this were a poker game,
I would be out
by now. I would be
reflecting on the morning
heron in the stream
between little lake
and wetland infill. Would be
a reflection
of myself on tip toes
hoping to see over
the Hennepin Avenue Bridge
rail to the pull
of the big river
as it takes all the space
it needs to spread
these northern myths
down Saint Louis way.
I would be out and free
to gamble away
another sunset.
“The guitar’s a-started
Playing by itself.”
—Jack Kerouac, from the 50th Chorus to “San Francisco Blues” (Book of Blues)
Hot wind and time
to be
alone converge
at an intersection
I won’t remember
tomorrow morning
when light breaks open
that hill behind me.
The spillage will be automatic,
will startle longing
in shades of red.
Don’t ask
how I know. These are the split
movements beyond control.
Kerouac sees punks
in his 20th chorus—
all those who would fit
on a page of a breast
pocket notebook. Leftover
ones dancing on the head
of a pin, I’ll get over this
disdain. I’ll listen again
when amphitheaters begin
to accommodate sleeping
drunks. I was one
when the longing for nothing
I knew singed the soles
of my feet. The pain made me
sleepy. Howl that one
at a guitar pick
moon—I dare you.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 