Sunrise for Jack Kerouac

Sunrise for Jack Kerouac

(*as published in Drunk in a Midnight Choir on 4/29/15)

I gave Jake the last inhale

Watching  a willow tree in a cow pasture turn to gold in the

Acidic sunrise of a July we tried for years to forget.

The long streams of branch swaying in a breeze that bumped my gooses

From collar bone to sternum

Raised buttons of oooooh, of ahhhhh,

Of push them, push them – – we will never get out of here

if we don’t move faster

 

Before I fall apart

Jake falls asleep against the wind

Shielded dreaming of a riddle on a Popsicle stick

His tiny fingers clutching it

Jamming it into his mother’s wringing hands

Asking her to just tell him what it means

that he can longer read French (as I flip the tent stake

Mallet around and around, leav

ing bruises in the ground, wondering if it is God  or my child I should apologize to-)

 

I write tiny poems on the backs of his dirty toes

Odes to my dead father and Jerry Garcia

Jerry, someone once told me, drove a Beamer

As he beep beeped out of my drive

Way into the horizon like an Icarus in a silver bullet

Chariot master

Pieces of himself burning alive to be Matisse’d for as many years as there are

Hearts

A demon boxed inside blue exploding all over the page

Onto

me & on

toyou

Lucid Dreaming

I dreamt of Jordan Catalano last night.

We  were at a Buffalo Tom concert and he was smoking a cigarette he said he got from Jeremy Kelly. I asked him, in a scream, how he knew Jeremy. He shrugged the way Jordan Catalano does and I told him to stop lying to me and that saying that hurt my heart.

“You know, Buffalo Tom played Pink pop too?” He said ignoring me.

I woke up.

 

Writers Reading

Event Poster

Saturday, November 14 at 8:00PM!

167 Hackett Blvd. Albany NY

Come celebrate the release of Drunk In A Midnight Choir Volume 1: Welcome To The New Hallelujah!

With poetry readings from The Choir’s own:
Eirean Bradley
William James
Jacqueline Kirkpatrick
Ian Macks
Samson Dikeman

Drinks will be served. Hugs will be given. Good times will be had by all!

For Bernadette, Trying or An Exercise in Unmyselfing

Martin Luther Clings

To the Catskill Bananas

The red fox writes in a flower home to his great-ant Chevy

No, they are mangos

Table top ten-speeds

Zip whirling around the fruit bitch

Like a man unmade

Checking the lotto for a succulent heartbreak

Celebrate Thanksfornotgiving

With the moth of the month club

Your sweet pot of toes is quiet, Frank Lee, the best.

No welcome, your thank you.

Payphone impregnates an acetone

An Abscess found on Holly’s wood

I think my son met Cherie here

Take a foe and sign it from exes and hoes

Rock glands

Turn icicles to Xerox

Where do we put the static when the fridge has come undone?

Why the mustard rat sews so many quilts, we’ll just never know.

Apocalypse hardly

Smother an apple branch in the yard

95 pages ducked and raped on a bodega door

The whore of the thesis singing Monty killed the python in the kitchen I know, oh, oh, oh

After The Rumpus….

There is a distinct before I published in The Rumpus http://therumpus.net/2015/07/songs-of-our-lives-looks-like-rain-by-the-grateful-dead/ and a distinct after.  What a wonderful little creative world changer!  Since it’s publication last week I’ve received so many emails, notes, messages on my various sites about how important the story was to the readers.  I have received so many personal stories about others experiences as a Deadhead and I have also received just simple, powerful – “I love you”s – it’s overwhelming and beautiful and I can’t thank everyone enough for the support & sharing.

What a short strange trip its been 🙂

Sunrise For Jack Kerouac

DRUNK IN A MIDNIGHT CHOIR

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A poem for a poem I gave Jake the last inhale Watching the a willow tree in a cow pasture turn to gold in the Acidic sunrise of a July we tried for years to forget. The long streams of branch swaying in a breeze that bumped my gooses From collar bone to sternum Raised buttons of oooooh, of ahhhhh, Of push them, push them - - we will never get out of here if we don't move faster Before I fall apart Jake falls asleep against the wind Shielded dreaming of a riddle on a Popsicle stick His tiny fingers clutching it Jamming it into his mother’s wringing hands Asking her to just tell him what it means that he can longer read French (as I flip the tent stake Mallet around and around, leav ing bruises in the ground, wondering if it is God or my child I…

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