Here’s a little poem left over from my mid-life crisis. Now that I’m up to my Medicare crisis I don’t need it any more. ..
Jack Kerouac died.
It was an ignominious death,
he puked his guts into a toilet,
moaned to Ste. Therese,
and left his mother to carry on.
After all those miles.
Some outlaws of art were still young –
poets of armed robbery,
exiles on main street
But Neal Cassady was dead already
and John Lennon was fixin to die.
They met their rightful destiny.
But what happens to the outlaws who go free?
Whose sun-bleached hair grows grey?
Who have to walk the seacoast in a mothbitten overcoat
or raise a family?
What happens to bad mothers who don’t get shot?
when their time runs out and they’re still here?
There’s all those days to fill when the Muse won’t show – –
watering the geraniums
or teaching English to high-school gunmen
with slower draws than they had.
With sleeping in their cars,
answering the phone at the Institute for Parapsychology,
seeing their kids grow up,
looking into soft dead eyes forever in their dream.