Kerouac’s Window
“Ain’t got no story, just verse…”
-Jack Kerouac
The sound of the universe
drifted
through your window.
Steps and utterances heard
under quivering cones,
illuminating humped paths
under stomping feet
I tap my window, mute.
Listening for that cosmos to mutter
something back
Ommmmm.
My universe, a lady nightingale
A flow, instead,
of hollow whispers, intoxicated
entreaties,
crescendoing
on the back
of blistering night air
and otherwise
silent
Ommmm.
Where’s the jazz that
poured
from your pen,
the ink, a cra--
cked tune,
scatting,
AOW DEE AW DEE WOO
jamming,
the page like neon-lit streets,
lined with addicts of a fix
never to come
My page is a black box: no song
Only remnants of disaster,
of a story
unfolding
backwards
s
i
d
e
w
a
y
s
up side
down, and passengers’ screams
mere
e c h o e s
The King of the Beats leads
me down humming streets,
the blues,
Mexico City.
I crouch
in nostalgia’s gritty corner.
And I listen, too, only hearing
pitter-patter
“Alright, well.”
“...a bite to eat...”
Sonic snapshots, not of blues, but
of the night’s cruel jazz,
the sirens, the horns, a duet
Ommm.
Your city sings solemnly
of sorrows, happily
of victory, bitterly
of defeat
And my city knows no
tune, only six packs
a-clinkin’ and brothers
drinkin’
And now I whisper,
my rhythmless voice
While you
holler,
holler,
holler
the voices
of the streets,
of the cities,
of America
and I grow smaller,
smaller still
Friday night,
my universe is
hussssshed.
So I turn
to you and listen
to hear a chorus or two, to hear
the blues
Om.

Jacob Hadley is a sophomore from Phoenix, Arizona, majoring in both English and Philosophy, and minoring in Italian. In his nonexistent free time, he enjoys writing prose, poetry, and sometimes incoherent scribbles. After spending a semester in Europe, he, unfortunately got a taste for fine art and culture and greatly looks forward to his next adventure, whatever that may be. This is his first publication.