+ Literary Series
Kerouac - Part 4
Key n. One of a set of bone levers abetting magically with the fingers
to infuse a musical instrument, or orchestrate a typewriter. Pair
n. Two cards of the same revolution, a pair of Jokers.
Kerouac muddles me to see my life through the fish. Receptive to
all, no complaint, no jury, no gas chambers. However the Deciduous
Oblongata grows, that's how I shall worship it.
Kerouac swims Oneness. Instinctual, caloric unfolding emotional
bond with the universe. Like the moon tides, like the caresses of
planets. Like the empty stretches of the Road. Like my box of rain.
I will splash around a bit before I weep and entwine any more of
The tippity tapping typewriter. Key of D minor. In "On the
he says "sad" in at least a hundred permutations. The
notes on the page are always exact, like the number of hairs on my
head, like the position of Uranus at birth. But it is up to the musician
to sing his music. Kerouac blasts double four time. With each line
his Old Soul engages our temporality.
Yeah, I looked through the Earth and all I saw were stars. The largest,
our sun, flaming in the empty vault of heaven. It tears at me. I
spill. Kerouac's gills turn red. red. red.