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Bison Mar 2016
She's aimless but she's right on target
Hits you right where the heart is
Cuz she's been around the world and back
She's blameless but she gives me heart attacks
Yeah yeah she's so Kerouac

Told me to take it all and go
Blaze a trail few would ever know
Well I lost my head instead on the edge of existence
I said, "Cut me some slack", and turned right back, she just stood there singin' "You're no Kerouac"

Walking on water wasn't built in a day
The life we're living is nothing but a daze
One mad dream is all it takes
To see that we are one with everything

Yeah, yeah, she's so Kerouac,
Ramblin through the world,
She's seen it all, the town and city
She's just a vagabond girl, spiritual monstrosity, like Neal Cassady, she gave her life to Jack

I was born to be a hero or nothin,
Knew my time was coming
To an end, I went away
In search of better days,
I stared at mountains for months and months, though they never changed, I couldn't stay the same. I am just matter bound by time and space, I saw the end of god, she took his place


Yeah, yeah, yeah, you're so Kerouac.
Pale cardiac rhythm, stood still
Frail insomniac prison, quietly shrill
Yeah, yeah, babe, you're so Kerouac
Matterhorn Jan 8
I got too close;
I had to take a step back.
Here I stand,
Trying to catch my breath.
There you are,
Looking so wonderful;
Even a Kerouac haiku
Would pale in comparison
To your sparkling smile,
Your huge, engrossing brown eyes,
And your tender words
That put my restless soul at ease.
You spend more time in my mind
Than even my own thoughts;
I miss your touch,
But you do not miss mine.
You don’t know;
How could you?
I never told you.
And you will never know
How much of my heart you have stolen.
You are the most beautiful—
And unwitting—
Of thieves.
There is nothing to do
But stand over here,
Hoping that you somehow understand
Why I can’t meet your gaze
Anymore.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Bryce Aug 2018
And now there would come a time
a swift sharp clock on the bed
Blaring its little chime in between the hard bells
Like an angry little arm
Charming if not for the alarm

And everyday I slap the face of it
Like an unwanted *****
And she is silenced
Quick unlike
Said chick

But I am a cruel guy and have no sense of wet and dry
Nor cool or heat
There's nothing bothering me

Time just ticks off and I laugh at it

But my cells divide and turn into little old protoplasmic men
And yet I am not called upon them
Because they are stupidly designed and I have no sympathy for arts and crafts
No masterman
who failing to raise his hand
Clams up
With such poor artwork

Slap that ***** in the dilapidated sistan

Now In San Francisco
Where the alley streets stink of ***
And the European facades are just that
Crumbling
Poopy
And full of ****
And what yet are they dreaming to be?

The church that survived fire
Great conflagration
God didn't make a rainbow at the end of that,
Now did he?

He's a water-sign
Dolt
And water only jolts your mind
When it scatters true light,
Ain't that right?

But it's all the same
Just different hues
And the news
Isn't new
Just Blaring and yelling
And speeding television crews
Riding their stories
Up and down the many stories
Trying to build a city of angels
On a bituminous hill

Shills

No life skills

And I walk the city streets with a **** old leather
Brief
Casing the joints and rolling my own
Unhappy and alone
Kerouac and the dreams on the monangular input where the triangular avenues meet
And he has no road

While airplanes shake their jets on the tarmac and trebuchet into the air
Going god knows where
Seeing a new piece of the sculpted pinball
Perpetually trapped in the machine

How bout Nippon
Or Hangujin
Or Han Chinese
Or Berlin
Anywhere but when
A little ways along the state
Of "in"

All these strange things
Francie Lynch Dec 2018
Tolstoy was a boy,
Ibsen was Henrik's son
Hardy had a father,
And see how well they've done.

Byron was a grandson,
And Wordsworth had a wet nurse,
Thoreau had a 2 to go,
Shakespeare a bad marriage,
Austen was a loner,
Poor Sylvia was a goner,
And see how well they've done.

Joyce had a ***** mind,
Fitzgerald liked to drink,
Richler liked to smoke,
And Wolfe enjoyed a ****,
And see how well they've done.

Fielding was a misogynist,
Wilde was a jailbird;
Virginia a misandrist,
And Kerouac a simple ****.
Yet see how well they've done.

Still with all their drawbacks,
Look how well they've done;
Like our old friend John,
We surely come un-done.
John Donne
James Floss Oct 2018
My car has got it’s brain back through
A trick automotive lobotomy hack

It was acting a little manic, the whacked
Human Machine Interface Module part

The screen was seen as a scary
Kerouac consciousness stream

An obscenity screed; a
Muddled fuddled car scene

HMIM installed anew—
Electroshock therapy

Zzzzzzhhhxt-phsssszzxt!
Initiating … initiating … initiating …

“Welcome!
Destination?”
Lost.
It’s pleasing.
Take it.
E.
E.
Ez.
Breeze is nice up here.
The dust must conjure.
The emotions ride.
Arrive from biscuit town.
Say hello to the scarecrow.
His ma works for a blues musician.
She is the blues musician.
His brother knows everything about Trump.
Even when he *****.
His sister loves Bruce Lee.
Or at least the aesthetic of him.
Bigfoot shot himself back in time.
To meet Jack Kerouac.
When he got there he learned that Jack was captured by the Yakuza.
He did nothing and went home.
Mr. Scarecrow was bigfoot.
A little girl told him that he was going to die alone.
That he wouldn’t mind the pain.
That everything he changed wouldn’t work.
It would all just be the same.
Don’t fall in love the little girl said to him.
What the hell does she know.
She’s 10 years young.
But i’m stuck here with Arthur Russell material.
Echoing a voice to the world.
Hoping to mean something.
Listen for a call back.
Peace within.
Call back.
Please call back.
I’ll stand of frozen bridges while they melt.
Then dive head first into the water.
Sink.
Sink.

Sink to the lowest point of my existence.
Words about nerds are made from the pointy beaks of condor birds,
dragged across oceanical deserts of unsalted shark ****, blue whale
birth canals & core channels bruised by Spaniards & cousin crooks.
I sink in cold water, propelled by recent drownings to the bottom of violent death in a state of a living animation that corpses bestow on
the thankful by the tankful, sipping pig-cream burnt by petro-steam.
I rapidly rise above the ghetto din minus oxygen or nitrogen neither
fat nor thin, as I'm without the born-dead Jessie, 1 bluish baby twin.
Ben Noah Suri Jun 15
One day
I found the right word,
and things were
much more simple
than Kerouac expected
for what he had anticipated
were words in plural
but a *** like me
found that Dharma
was not so cruel
it was just one word
and that word
did make the world
go round and round
My take on Kerouac's lines  “One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.”

― Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums
Bryce 2d
Lying poets, they take their words to street
And sweep their hidden eyes to the pissant stone of curb
And drink in the sound of vehicle
Dreaming to be heard as loudly
But soft
And dreary
As the cloud
that casts its watchful shadow
Over the golden hills at the edge of space
And perpetually disposed themselves
Of any real fluidity

The sun pecks at the skin of the earth, as the waves of heat dance for her
And I become lost in the very essential part of it
That runs across the blades of grass in a quiet park
Where children scream gleefully and rub up against the chain-link
And the dogs empty themselves in feeling

The church bells, a trolleycar, the hobo collecting cans from an oasis of free trash bins
I drink the taste of **** and flower fields in the sweet summer sun

I could not believe what I had begun

The dream of Milton, my friend Kerouac, the Republic
The marble columns on Sansome
They are a treat to my ever-aging eyes
Seeking something in the dirtied troughs of heat
In the summer sun

But when will I be done?

— The End —