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.