Jack Kerouac

I used to write like Jack Kerouac. Words crumbling down paper. Stark thoughts marked by dots and dashes. Flashes of schoolyard brilliance The hill I would climb over to be someone different. I never saw life through a dot. LSD. My father was on mushrooms, when he and my mother created me. Psychedelic sperm meets bitter weed infested ovum. BANGED into existence. Transient spirit sloughing off afterbirth long after I hit the cold. I have chased paper ever since. Dipping my bones in ink. To paint a masterpiece of you. Broken, homeless, loveless, privileged, safe, warm, sheltered, shattered reconstructed. All in a backdrop of perfection. An abundant Earth housing an ungrateful patient. Most of us, doctored unconscious sedated. Waiting for something to wake us up. My own words often broken and falling off. Leaving only snapshots. I get ties and sketches along the road. I would bargain my dreams for pious acceptance and my revelations for wicked indulgent self flagellation. I have been bound to my vision of exclusion behind an iron fence of history. Trapped in pages. Tapped and wasted. I used to write as if I didn't I would die. On my knees shattered under that perfect silent sky. Head bowed shoulders cowed frail and pasty. Screaming raging breaking pages with my pen. Attempting to bring black and white to color. Now I write, because I die. A thousand times with you. Its glorious! Over your unfinished portraits. Your shortcuts your detours your ache your lust, and your mindless wandering. Beautiful and championed. I pray to make my prose like a Sistine Chapel after all, you deserve it! Only to fall very far from grace. At the Inadequacy I have at coloring your face. I used to write like Jack Kerouac, jotting a shot of you in between heaven. But I figured out that I would rather capture my own splinter. And be satisfied with a sliver of you, than die like him at forty-seven.