Selected Poems from Jack Kerouac On Tears
Tears is the break of my brow,
The moony tempestuous
Sitting down
In dark railyards
When to see my mother’s face
Recalling from the waking vision
I wept to understand
The trap mortality
And personal blood of earth
Which saw me in—
Father father
Why hast thou forsaken me?
Mortality & unpleasure
Roam this city—
Unhappiness my middle name
I want to be saved,--
Sunk—can’t be
Won’t be
Never was made—
So retch!
Tree
But a tree has
a long suffering shape
Is spread in half
by 2 limbed fate
Rises from gray rain
pavements
To traffic in the bleak
brown air
Of cities radar television
nameless dumb &
numb mis connicumb
Throwing twigs the
color of ink
To white souled
heaven, with
A reality of its own uses
Tenorman
Sweet sad young tenor
Horn slumped around neck
Bearded full of junk
Slouches waiting
For Apocalypse,
Listens to the new
Negro raw trumpet kid
Tell him the wooden news;
And the beat of the bass
The bass—drives in
Drummer drops a bomb
Piano tinkle tackles
Sweet tenor lifting
All American sorrows
Raises mouthpiece to mouth
And blows to finger
The iron sounds
Selected Poems from Jim Carroll Prologue Poem Starting with little in mind Some trust the wolf the best you might do is begin it they have raised since birth over and over again. Transforming not to turn on them.
the real earth to a texture and strength Some trust their lives beyond control. I am thinking of a wave. In the hands whose fingers Are five silent lives.
We sit, huddled in winter coats, transfixed to the logic of stars collapsing. The fresh Some will be reminded gravity pulling at stones we grip. of nothing, or perish by that mermory.
Locked tightly to the seams of night, the moon rears like a fenced stallion Poem and, its rage subdued, turns back.
The people down
Then the hour is loose as the music, The hallway who a vapor passing through. It defies Stab each other each change, As the wind outdistances Each Friday night…
each word spoken, and replies with
a promise already broken. Is that a ritual Our Desires Or just something terribly unresolved?
There is a wind that seeks the crevice under my heart
the way insects file at night
beneath a doorway
Its edges are rough, it slits
the cords. It trips my steady breathing.
When it comes there is no one
I can trust.
It seems, at times, I have designed too well this vision of you.
I cannot survive your eyes
when they are scarred with a need
for some lesser form of love.
I admit to this conceit.
And though you will not accept it
You love it nonetheless
It is just like you. Our desires
will always be kept sharp
by a kind of perversity. A need
to be each forever alone….
Its color is violet, like lips
that have been smashed by nights
or robbed of blood by lack of breath.
The wind I was speaking of does this.
I can feel it now.
Jack Kerouac, Selected Poems of Jack Kerouac: Shichosha Series of Contemporary American Poets
(Series: # )
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