Tuesday, October 15, 2013

365 Poems: Possibly, even probably, a mistake

Day 288

To read Kerouac,

Kerouac, because he's crazy, crazy like a cat, all non-conformist and hep and cool and incoherent and inchoate too everything we're not and that story about On the Road, that he typed it on one big long sheet of rolled up paper like wrapping paper like a Christmas gift some strange elf left for us but at least On the Road made sense, more than that babble flow that he babbled about that aw rust rust rust die die die pipe ash ding dong cob ass words because what's that all mean is that really America's song, the one true story of the world, Jack, I can't help but wonder who did you run with the blue tied men in their flannel suits that day in Frisco or the truck drivers and grimy lost bums because I guess a writer's a little of each and maybe you felt like you'd been hit by that train the 134 136 146 whatever but you know what I like it's your rules for how to write like a hot mess your belief and technique and I know I can't follow them, I'm failing even now I'm not a genius any time how did you write in amazement? although I believe in the contour of life, well, and also the unspeakable vision of the individual, I believe wholly in that, also accepting loss forever because good Lord we all have to do that too and no time for poetry except I'm trying to make that, Jack, right here, see, and except for the scribbled secret notebooks because everybody who writes has those and wild typewritten pages like Emily's night's, Jack? or even blog posts for your own joy. Oh wait.

Listen to him. Just listen.

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