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- SPRING ISSUE #1 2010
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- WINTER ISSUE #3 2010
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TI JEAN
Kerouac is dead
& so the generation
that hounded him into his grave
October, 1969.
Hitchhiked across this vast landscape,
discovered the pulse of amerika
& recorded it
on rolls of paper toweling.
Slept in freight cars, adobe,
graying tenements on Haight Street, Chelsea,
typewriter singing jazzy confessions
of a choirboy from Lowell, Massachusetts
in search of the amerikan dream;
found refuge
in skid row visionaries
in basement bar rooms vibrant
with spontaneous nocturnal rhythms
of Bird Parker’s saxophone.
On the road
waited six years to be heard,
wrote novels
off the top of his head
from Mexico, Tangiers,
Amerika
never really understood.
Fame brought him nothing,
took to hiding on rooftops
from strangers, friends
drove him
to a small white house
in Florida,
shades drawn, needing whiskey to sleep.
Never quite understood,
loved his freedom--
back yard with a picket fence,
left curious reporters
unraveling question marks
from wild typewritten pages,
disappointed,
found a young man, tired and gray
beyond his years
blandly phrasing
republican politics,
crying over manuscripts.
SPINNING
In a world where objects
in the mirror are closer
than they appear,
vultures descend
upon the sunshine state casting
long dark shadows.
Without flinching,
these charlatans are quick
to unveil the latest martyr,
with the media comfortably
in their hind pockets
like a snakeskin wallet
posting photos in angelic poses
from earlier youth
and painting new skin tones
across the face of his assassin
to make of him
whatever is politically correct at the time;
spinning the same story lines
over and over,
aided by Photoshop edits
and spliced audio files
until you can no longer believe
your own eyes and ears
while the reverent ringmasters
make clowns of us all
and we are left
to consume the entire box
of cracker jacks
only to discover that this time
they forgot to leave
the prize inside.
Kerouac is dead
& so the generation
that hounded him into his grave
October, 1969.
Hitchhiked across this vast landscape,
discovered the pulse of amerika
& recorded it
on rolls of paper toweling.
Slept in freight cars, adobe,
graying tenements on Haight Street, Chelsea,
typewriter singing jazzy confessions
of a choirboy from Lowell, Massachusetts
in search of the amerikan dream;
found refuge
in skid row visionaries
in basement bar rooms vibrant
with spontaneous nocturnal rhythms
of Bird Parker’s saxophone.
On the road
waited six years to be heard,
wrote novels
off the top of his head
from Mexico, Tangiers,
Amerika
never really understood.
Fame brought him nothing,
took to hiding on rooftops
from strangers, friends
drove him
to a small white house
in Florida,
shades drawn, needing whiskey to sleep.
Never quite understood,
loved his freedom--
back yard with a picket fence,
left curious reporters
unraveling question marks
from wild typewritten pages,
disappointed,
found a young man, tired and gray
beyond his years
blandly phrasing
republican politics,
crying over manuscripts.
SPINNING
In a world where objects
in the mirror are closer
than they appear,
vultures descend
upon the sunshine state casting
long dark shadows.
Without flinching,
these charlatans are quick
to unveil the latest martyr,
with the media comfortably
in their hind pockets
like a snakeskin wallet
posting photos in angelic poses
from earlier youth
and painting new skin tones
across the face of his assassin
to make of him
whatever is politically correct at the time;
spinning the same story lines
over and over,
aided by Photoshop edits
and spliced audio files
until you can no longer believe
your own eyes and ears
while the reverent ringmasters
make clowns of us all
and we are left
to consume the entire box
of cracker jacks
only to discover that this time
they forgot to leave
the prize inside.