an homage to the beat life adventure
that lickity split moment
thumb out run
dust rising down the road
no soles on your shoes
but God, is there a soul in your heart,
open car door
throw bag down, just
ssssllllide right in.
The “King of Desolation” and
an angel among thieving society,
loved the trip love the road
loved the people the desolation souls
the mad men the beautiful ladies
loved it all so hard.
Wrote more honestly
than many other people care to think when they die
thoughts clothed in truth
and actions led on by what would make him happy,
as it should be.
Seek happiness always first.
Love life, he sure did.
The ghost of Kerouac is no doubt
huddled down in some dark
smells like whiskey and cheap beer
basement bar on Skid Row
the old Times Square, ‘Frisco, between the peaks of
some Colorado Mountain town,
jazz on stage so hard so loud
it shakes your glass on the table
hands clap, dresses shake, cigars and cigarettes
burn away the night.
And next to him is Cassady’s ghost,
Bourroughs, Ginsberg, all the beat life
on the beat streets of ghostly lives.