Mister Kerouac,
that’s all I can fathom as I sit
at my desk weaving my hacky
sack between my fingers.
This old hacky sack has seen
much, it’s a handmade ball of
beans, the leather is worn, the
stitches are torn the logo is faded,
but I never waited to fade it
off my shoeless foot.
It’s like you,
simple
yet
Profound,
is the right word
for what goes on
in your head, in
your hacky sack.
But as I sit here, thinking…
I only know you as a photo
a dismal,
content,
forceful,
thoughtful,
imaginative,
smoking,
cool
black and white
photo.
Yet your ideas resonate throughout my head…
I think of a flower nodding to a canyon,
I think of a man sitting in a black and white
chair, in a black and white room, wearing a
black and white shirt, smoking a black and white
cigarette, drinking a black and white glass of
scotch, writing with black ink on white paper.
The thoughts and pondering wandering to
the black and white respective pen and paper,
or the click & clack of your black and white
fingers depressing on your black and white
typewriter.
So I can only come to one conclusion,
you’re not just a black and white photo,
doing black and white things
in a black and white world,
you’re an idea. And although
the image is black and white
you’re the color, sparsely
pouring over the world with
the colored ink spatter
from the place in your
hacky sack.
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 1:59 AM UTC
Mister Kerouac,
that’s all I can fathom as I sit
at my desk weaving my hacky
sack between my fingers.
This old hacky sack has seen
much, it’s a handmade ball of
beans, the leather is worn, the
stitches are torn the logo is faded,
but I never waited to fade it
off my shoeless foot.
It’s like you,
simple
yet
Profound,
is the right word
for what goes on
in your head, in
your hacky sack.
But as I sit here, thinking…
I only know you as a photo
a dismal,
content,
forceful,
thoughtful,
imaginative,
smoking,
cool
black and white
photo.
Yet your ideas resonate throughout my head…
I think of a flower nodding to a canyon,
I think of a man sitting in a black and white
chair, in a black and white room, wearing a
black and white shirt, smoking a black and white
cigarette, drinking a black and white glass of
scotch, writing with black ink on white paper.
The thoughts and pondering wandering to
the black and white respective pen and paper,
or the click & clack of your black and white
fingers depressing on your black and white
typewriter.
So I can only come to one conclusion,
you’re not just a black and white photo,
doing black and white things
in a black and white world,
you’re an idea. And although
the image is black and white
you’re the color, sparsely
pouring over the world with
the colored ink spatter
from the place in your
hacky sack.
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