You
hear the words Jack Kerouac and you think road trip, right? You think the
quintessential post-war male flip-the-bird-at-society
drug-and-alcohol-propelled stream-of-consciousness adventure.
Well,
okay. Does it kill your buzz to know that Kerouac was actually a devout Roman
Catholic who also delved deeply into the introspection of Buddhism?
Propelled
by drugs and alcohol, of course. But still.
And he
wrote poetry that reflects all of this. Mexico
City Blues is an example, written largely during a 1955 stay in Mexico City
and the product of a whole lot of marijuana and morphine. It’s a collection of
242 pieces, which Kerouac called choruses, exploring what poets explore—existence,
meaning, the whole megillah.
It’s
really hard to choose just one to share for National Poetry Month, but today I’ll go with number 235. Close
your eyes and imagine yourself in a cellar club on poetry slam night, breathing
in cigarette smoke and drinking strong, bad coffee. You may express your
appreciation with the snapping of fingers.
"235th
Chorus"
Dont
camp,
You
know very well
What’ll happen to you
When
you die
and claim
you dont know you’re dead
when you die and you know
“I know dont know that I’m dead”
Don’t
camp. Death, the no-buzz,
no-voices, is, must be, the same,
as life, the tzirripirrit of thupsounds
in this crazy world that horrifies my
mornings
and makes me mad wildhaired in a room
like old metaphysical ogrish poets
in rooms of macabre mysteries.
But
it’s hard to pretend you dont know
That
when you die you wont know.
I
know that I’m dead.
I
wont camp. I’m dead now.
What
am I waiting for to vanish?
The dead dont vanish?
Go up in dirt?
How do I know that I’m dead.
Because I’m alive
and I got work to do
Oh
me, Oh my,
Hello – Come in –
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