Kerouac Torch
Tom walked in
with the bouquet
of blazing
sacrosanct truths
the first sermons
he could ever really
get behind.
he passed his fever
off to Joe, who then
cooed the dharma
through my soul.
Jack would be 92 today;
peaked at 25,
geriatric by 30–
the richest poor man,
the denim clad bodhisattva
to an eight-measure
saxophone lead homilized
what it is to live!
Even through the deepest
tunneling blues ya gotta
stick it through to see the reds
the whites and greens
waiting, waving from
the other side,
calling you over for
a drink and a dance
to an old record.
Last I’ve seen it,
Brooklyn (from Denver)
carried it to New York
city and then back
again.
I pray it never flickers
‘til America glows
once more.
Kerouac in the Highest
Long time I’ve prayed
that old jazz soul spared
this prison of rebirth,
just a taste of the milk
and cream of heaven
to soothe your road rubbed
bones.
Oh, how your feet have bled!
Beat Christ, how the earth’s
reclaimed your leaking life
for its own! It’s kissed your soles!
The grass was drunk on you!
The mountains forever
peaking and peaking
there is no down!
Your final death–
my anachronistic soul
despairs
I will have never caught
the madness first hand
but I feel you in the trees
in the sidewalks
in the stone skipped ponds
burning, burning
through star specked skies.
—
Tiffany Tavella will trade a humble turn of phrase for a cup of coffee and a bent ear. She lives in Philadelphia.
