Posts Tagged ‘Kerouac’

Diamond Dog & Nickel Comparisons

10 Mar


Jack Kerouac


Whoa! Un mistek! It should read "and I reckon we'll see you Friday night at Howrey Simon near ten..."

You'll have time to sign-up at your new sportsclub, get your first sweaty whacks in, recover and greet us by then I would suppose. Batting cage residues: not as sore as you predicted. In fact, not sore at all, just tired, and that's as much a response to excess spirits in a bottle as pumped up team spirit in the batting cage. How's your arm feeling this morning? Uh, not that you were exactly slinging bullets, but it IS a new activity, and spring arm is simply a fact of diamond lifestyle. I feel a slight ache in my throwing muscles. Next week you should really try to flex your own a little bit more in that department, and you definitely need work in the fly ball depth perception routine, but I am confident your natural grace will aid you as quickly as your confidence, not cocksurity, or over-confidence, but simple humility-driven confidence, rises to the occasion. Even infielders must snag a pop fly on occasion...

As I write this I am remember Kerouac's fondness for baseball, and Bukowski's overwrought distaste for it...

CB was simply a jerk, preferring instead to stress his ingenuities and flex his flopmop muscles at the racetrack. A twenty spot staked on a figger-rigged mare of many sure beats running around the bases after just swatting the long ball, in his book I reckon, but man, baseball IS the game! Anybody can play at some level. And you don't have to lose a lot of money to the mafia in the process...


Steinway At Tiffany's On The Road

03 Feb


Jack Kerouac


Originally published on February 3, 1997

Andy Schoengold wrote to Martine on Landry's list, "It's not Gertrude Stein that said "That's not writing, it's typing." It was Truman Capote and I believe it reffered to Jack Kerouac. Steinway At Tiffany's On The Road, anyone? I've addressed this to everyone on the list just to make you feel that much more embarrassed. Of course, I couldn't restrain myself from piling on, "Andy's absolutely right on all counts. I was gonna clean that up but since I hardly knew you, I passed on the opportunity. However, in Andy's case, I think both Gertrude and Truman, given the chance, may have said of Andy's blurb that it was poor typing since he misspelled referred.

Jack Kerouac on the other hand, might have opined of Andy's writing, that it should have been written reefered.


"Don't ask me nuthing about nuthing, I just might tell you the truth."
—Bob Dylan

The Fillmore Was Much More Than An Acid Rock Shrine

31 May


The Fillmore


In response to the comments on my offhanded way of saying the Fillmore was sort of famous—I know what the Fillmore represented to the 60s and if you people really knew me you'd know that I don't really care about that. Especially anything associated with the Grateful Dead. When we were there, I wondered aloud to Jack what the Fillmore was BEFORE Leary and the Dead. I imagined jazz and dressed up ladies, Mambo music and dancers. My interest in SF was prior to the whiny baby boomer hippie types. I first really became interested in this city (aside from watching The Streets of San Francisco as a wee crawfish eater) when I read The Mediterraneans by Jack Kerouac. I liked the SF post war where rebels were hard to find and there were coffee houses and poetry and $.25 beers and Charlie Parker. I think ultimately the 60s "movement" won't amount to much in American intellectual history as the arrogant baby boomers want to believe. I think it was kind of interesting, but how much art and poetry do you remember of that particular time.

That's just one girl's opinion.

Hey—this guy Jack works with rode the bus with us this morning. He was kind of chatty in the surfer kind of way. He said that he was reading Burroughs last night and all of a sudden, his lens popped out of his glass frames. He thinks that there was some weird energy coming off of the Burroughs.

Trippy, dude.


John Wall's Pharmacy

11 May

Too little, I had driven past
Monica's fiance. No few acquaintances
of theirs had been bothered. We
smoked the exceptions,
then left. Trespassing became the neighborhood.
It then became the neighborhood emotional
issue of the month, breaking
tongue and bread with the long arm
of this decade's white dragon.

Extreme unction.
Friendship fees on high.

"Extreme unction should you proceed!"
read the dashed copperfield propped
against tomorrow's
shining leg zipperbound
model. We swelled, then agreed
that it was a constitutional command
better left to true believers. Frank decided
to visit Paris if he ever became French.

Famous bus-stop populations
melted that morning, the first of Maybe.
Monica's fiance chose to remain
standing in that colonial position
while the rest of us resting in the silver bosom of Sally's garage
took to fasting. Wheels spun winninglessly.
Monica spread during the anthem, quoting
Albert Camus, "For what strikes me,
in the midst of polemics, threats and outbursts
of violence, is the fundamental good will of everyone. From
Right to Left, everyone, with the exception of a few swindlers,
believes that his particular truth is the one to make men
happy." She said it was godsway
and middle class, so
to speak I didn't.

Approximately the very hour
the sunny laundry of Frank's School Glue & Emporium
became clue, Monica's fifteen-year old sister
blurted out that her period was due, &
later speculation would prove
indeed her period was late. Ever
the conscientious ballyhoo gang, all
except the redheaded little virginboy
with the Bob Dylan
album collection, took off
for special assignment.
The redheaded little virginboy
with the Bob Dylan
album collection just sprayed
his pencil with falsetto
nausea, resigned his post
and called Monica the most
he had ever

He took exception, however
to the notion of her aimless talk.

Carrying far the issue of pornography
for its own sake, Monica's fiance sued her
for sanitary abuse. The rugged briefness
of his case, compacted into a single
blow single file delivery, rent
aspiring druggists miles
around. "Stay one more," she yawned.
"We can serve up the wife of malcontention."
Frank abstained. Monica's fiance just turned
the page in the open book closed to drifters
he kept on the mantlepiece, next
to his autographed photo Germaine Greer
had sent him in a weak moment.

"Let's pretend we're all William Burroughs
& read lines from poems that will suffocate
a ghetto in East Chicago at will!"

exclaimed Monica, looking for one last piece
of action. Needless to say, her speech
is our beautiful white-sanded
beach, our summer home in Malibu, our
heaven sent sex, our double edged sword
in hot buttered popcorn world.
Belushi, Akryroid, Murray
rolled into one pair.
We gazed, then died.

Live past fire
the way you dream Monica.
Dream the Monicalife. As it

Stretching. Scheming.
Close enough for laughter.
Where the marks meet.
Where past misery
chooses to call its own
friends, in fragile expressions
of the few mentionable mistakes-of-god,
luring us with somnambulant luxuriance,
pinch-hitter anonymity driving
us deep into the inner limit. Stretching
strength, strolls straight forward
patience. Monica I love.

6.Muffy songs are superfluous. Monica's
fifteen-year old missing period
sister decided to hurry
on by the orphanage lest she
be contaminated. And King Cabin Ernie
& his current have taken laryngitis. His
excuse is all of the above, and leaves little doubt
as to his Garden of Eden. We laughed
to chuck the chance of moot poisoning. Monica
shoved her angry leg into a bucket of yellow paint.

"Life is not yours until the final blow,"
Shrank the Shadow grew. "The paved
edge is yours," scoffed I,
wearing my January
drawers, still too obedient
to punk rock music to show
my checkstubs. Hours later around the bases,
flew groundhogs crying, "Sweet sweet he's
the dove we want to meet!"

I immediately fondled the new girl. And quoted
myself from one of my poems, "By words the serpent stings."
Enid knew the scam, edgy throats and hives. Enid was a friend.
Been to Georgia State
delivering a state address,
never been late
never early either—
Enid and her lipstick.

I could write these lines together.
I could make them swell and them swell.
(Anybody can write that,
but few are issued the intent.)
I have never been
late. Enid works in Chemicals,
handling slippery things in dark
rooms, closed to drifters. There need be no discussion. I am
a glad sack, meaningful, necessary, and somewhere
supposed. You dear youthful voyeur, have elsewhere
deposited the dangerous question
marking the spotted tapestry
lately behind bookless
quotations shown impotent
by default & timberline insult.

Time is space as answer.
Monica, her exposures, and the Bob Dylan
album collection whispered salty
somethings into the inkstained
ears of the redhaired little virginboy.
We departed as a moving force in America
only to arrive. Somewhere pointed! Pay Day.
Sally sold her garage to buy her wedding clothes.
Frank called it a fucking shame.
“No one knows what they did to the sandman.”
I corrected. By that time neither did I.

Little tits and nervousness.
Health conscience.
Lucy Biggs.
Heroes who live.
Jack Kerouac
Monty Python.
Heroes who die, sarcastically.
As a political enemy.
Every one of you.

I could have carved a noun for openers.
Is there a room in this planet for queer discussion?

Monica soon married.
The rest became. Enid still works in a photo
lab. Lucy Biggs grew up to write
a Canadian Poem. The real Frank
O'hara traded his religion
for the Boston Celtics.
The redheaded little virginboy dyed
his hair. Monicaâ€'s sister found
her period hiding beneath
Franz Kafka's slide rule, went on to establish
the underground newspaper for disemboweled
authors, 'Popular Semantics' Bobo the historical husband
used his prowess to sit in on a jazz festival, and loved her
for it. And Monica learned his favorite quotation. Sally
didn't leave a forwarding address. I just wrote
this stick.

P.S. John Wall made the headlines.

[ 1982, Atlanta, GA ]


"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""