For Jack Kerouac

I wrote this as a homage to Jack Kerouac, its still a little ropey  but that’s the way it was born~ 

I have no mount Hozomeen Jack, no cafes in Mexico, no void as yet..except sometimes..
Here is a cup of black coffee with the sweetness of dark sugar, dissolving like lust after the full moon has blown its last shining chorus.

Maybe I  talk to you..

you turn up here, your hat askew in that way you have of wearing it, like your life.. a little to the zig zag

..as if the road was more slanted..the one you took that is.

You were nearly dead at my age..such gentleness you had…

a crazy wisdom and a love for the Buddha, you believed in the stillness and emptiness of things..

I  take notes on my beach walk, “scribbled secret nothings” the stones are shining in the darkening glow of thunder clouds, which are flexing slightly, warming up for the rhythm later…some symphony of light and rain.
I see, or try to see as you did the charisma that is nature, but I feel it more..its a bodily thing.. perhaps my pagan blood.. 
You wrote-one winter- or was it summer? About desolation angels and days and days alone on the mountain..  fire watching …waiting for a fire to break out, somewhere.
You drank black coffee and you ran out of sugar and you smoked.. each tender description detailed the moment to moment living..I was there with you, in the eye of the eye.
I write this as per Your instructions of spontaneous prose, except without the bourbon..is that what you drank? I can’t remember, I should though.
I know the colour of your eyes. I know you were French Canadian and English was not your mother tongue, I know I fell in love with your writing and the idea of you..your presence on the page and how you dared.  Dares were packed up neatly in your rucksack waiting for the card game and cigars. But it was deeper than that and still is. You fought them, at least you tried to..and they loved you for it, crippled you with their love. 
I look for “the eye within the eye” and I can see you..in my -minds eye- and all the others who came after, to shape the style and claim the crown. But you were the first, you barely had the dress of grammar, nor the stylists glamour, but you wrote… from your ever expanding heart and mind you wrote. You wrote as jazz chords blossom and the music lingers. You wrote of life and its rebellion which was yours in all its sweetness, Bodhisattva

You wrote the road, the road wrote you and left your face unlined..but your heart was spilt.
  You left your legacy like driftwood on the beaches, you talked of “swimming in the language sea..”..

you left a  stone for me..

kisses jack.