I did not read Kerouac

[revolutionrabbit]

there were always words
that I did not know
how to say well

so difficult how to remember
what it was I intended to say

I can still see the revolution acid
dripping on the sweet wild air
in the summer of love

I can remember the way the sky looked
when it seemed the whole world was
tripping on LSD

I once was on a slope in Big Sur
and I could see the pacific ocean
sparkling in the distance
and it reminded me of a poem

the poem was like a forest tapestry
and in that tapestry was all the heart songs
sung by the generation of youth drawn to
the beauty of this place, to forget who they
were, so they could remember once again

one bright blue day on San Francisco street
It was like I could hear a thousand poets chanting
some great endless Beat poem to the bongos
of the cosmic bliss

I did not read Kerouac
I did not read Kerouac
until many used books later
by the time I read On The Road
he had already died of hard drink
I had made poet like to a shrink
Poetry entered my young life
through a scene in a spoof movie
of a beatnik poet reciting in the
beginning of the cheap goof ball film

I see the moment poetry came to me
I was screaming in a bottle of whiskey
as a eternal one that happens as by mistake
it came as a flaw in the flow of chance events
when religion suddenly seems full of it
when Mickey Mouse has begun it
and childhood went down a railroad track
behind my tract home near Disneyland
following a thread of black and white TV
into the Mojave looking for some UFO stone
under a giant rock with a German spy telephone

I can see a copy of some soft porn paper back
dime novel my dad hid under the couch, sweater
girl too wild in a hot rod with marijuana eyes
In the dim light of 50's flickering soda fountains
my kid mind welcomed the witch doctor song
because I could not understand a single word
as the silly lyric went, so did my view of reality
some baseball cards and a Life book of WWII

Howl just exploded somewhere in my teenage day
I don't know if I read it or it read me or was it Dylan
that alerted me to the bard of bongo breath cry
I lived in a radio of words that bled signal at night
through a crackle of memories that were not my own
I listened to the music of funny that came in bursts
of frequency behind the smiling faces of normality
I existed between static noises of USA and Coca
Cola murder mystery afternoons

Kennedy shot, a magazine opens its spooky colors
the splatters on the glossy pages of hair spray ads
the last home run hit pauses in the shattered image
Marilyn Monroe's dress flutters up over the manhole
the flying purple eater song helped to prepare us
as witch doctor song paved the way for chaos poetry
the strange code jive talk ends in bing-bang

surf was up, but the psychedelic wave came before
we knew it, and the times were changing in a flash
of a bulb of a reporter's camera, Kerouac in a jazz
shoot, saxophone voices forbidden beat wind blew
and big city sounds blow holes through flimsy years
all those idealic scenes of progress we grew up with
and a generation of mad dreamers reading in cafe
as the coffee hallucinates on spaced out walls graffiti
poets recite past century shadows or electric rain
everything is insane or it is John Coltrane beautiful
put a man on the moon but can't find the way home
America is a lost poem left on the door step of never
she is too clever in her gallivant through homogeneity

the river of healing feathers washes our ancient tears
as mental foot prints in flames of the freedom games
newspapers sweep our thoughts under the autumn rug
as leaves of vision drift down over hurricane theaters
street protests light up one by one on a map of miracle
the drugged wars fought in the name of nothing empire
vampire of news media gone corporate spiritual poverty

like a writer of the impossible hoping for an opening
through the gray areas of hypnotic probability reflecting
dimensions of peace paintings left by beings once here
I did not read Kerouac until many used books later...by

the time I read Jack K still did not how to say, how I feel
held some kind of view of poetry made by all, once and
for all, but knew too that the battle to keep verse free
would be fought on the street corners of the skitzo-mind
would be fought line by line, poem by poem written real
would be read page by page over and over in any given
situation, without hesitation, living the free wheeling life
would be read between the lines deciphered sign for sign
symbol for symbol shift of the crystal skull gear shift nob
in the holy ghost vehicle jalopy driven on roads not yet
too traveled, yet once traveled by Buddha poets before
Buddha came on the scene, like do you get my drift, man?

chanting holy holy holy near park bench where Bobby K
once sat, Harry Monroe told me stories of East Village days
I lived in City Lights books roaming the isles of free-word
later roaming the alley they later called Kerouac alley, later!

[dadio]

Jack would have dug this and maybe he does now looking over my shoulder as I read. Top notch poem.

[Kailashana]

Anna needs to take a deep breath now. A sigh along with her morning coffee.

Fucking brilliant poem! A holy poem. Ginsberg mayhaps stands in your shadow.

~A

p.s. I'm willing to bet this was a stream-of-consciousness poem, and you didn't have to change one word....and you know that you are one with it all.

[revolutionrabbit]

Everything I ever wrote comes from stream of consciousness
I never knew any other way to write, that does not mean that
I do not change words here and there after, this poem is like
a poem I have been writing, since I first began writing.I think
the first poem I wrote was automatic writing, just a flow of
words that rise to the surface of my child mind.It seems
like I have been writing the same poem ever since, except
I met some poets along the way.Really I was very influenced
by the Surrealists, and William Burroughs.But my novel really
is where I put my body of poetry.I was recently thinking about
entering a poetry contest, I think this piece evolved from that,
it always has to be about why I began to write poetry in the
first place.When I read poets that have the University degrees
and list the published works behind their name, I know that I
have never been on that train, I see how they frame their words
ever so carefully, and sometimes I even like what they write.
As far as Ginsberg goes, his poem Howl changed the world, as
Ferlinghetti said not too long ago, "poetry can change the world"
I was influenced a lot by a poet that influenced Ginsberg to write Howl.
the way that poet came to my attention seems mysterious to me.
As I was just really getting into the Beats and other poets, when I
found a copy of his poetry at a woman's house that I was hanging
out with at the time, and she said she had met the poet personally.

[Steve Plonk]

I heard Kerouac on the Steve Allen show--the same episode that
is in the Youtube video forum. That's one thing that got me thinking
about writing along with Jerry Lee Lewis...A strange combo, that...

"Great Balls of fire!" ... Jerry Lee Lewis "God is Poohbear..." Jack Kerouac
Then Ginsberg said "...put my queer shoulder to the wheel"...Ha Hahh!
Then Gary Snyder with "Rip Rap"...nature is sacred...

Moreover, there was "Keep on Truckin!" by Mr. Natural...Freakness was born...with Anita Eckberg, Sophia Loren, Jane Mansfield & all the stacked beauties as pin ups--got to be pinned up along with Marilyn Monroe, even though I was just a kid...What's up with that, under the bed foldouts!
Sooner or later you'd act out your fantasies like a fool. So, help me, Stokely...

Plenty of foolishness to go around..."I feel Gooddd!" James Brown...
"Heavy" by Iron Butterfly, "Album 1700", "Peter, Paul, & Mary" & "The
beat goes on", Sonny & Cher, "Disraeli Gears" The Cream, "Strange Days"
The Doors...tell me about it...reads like an old recording catalog...GONNNNE.

[Arcadia]

wow!

I don't know if I read it or it read me or was it Dylan

yeah, you never know...!

[stilltrucking]

thank you for the poetry

like a writer of the impossible hoping for an opening
through the gray areas of hypnotic probability reflecting
dimensions of peace paintings left by beings once here
I did not read Kerouac until many used books later...by

[creativesoul]

i took a class at portland state that was a ginsberg -kerouac class= and the teacher was odd- insisted on having jazz musicians come into class while we wrote=
i was a richard brautigian chick-i am sure that the blackberries and the solitude of oregon drove him to take his life
however
prather forced me to go back to college at 40

but still i wish i had gotten more than a handshake from norman mailer
he autographed my book
but his humor his wit
oh i can see why marilyn monroe couldnt take her ears off him

[dadio]

You have dug deep for this. I remember those times. The book too. Well composed poem. Pax.

[revolutionrabbit]

when i dug deep
trying to dredge
some memories
i thought were
once there
just above
my childhood

[creativesoul]

where i found a child
playing in the sand
wondering
about depth
perhaps it was a sdeep as this hole
maybe the sand was all of this