Tribute To Jack

Endless ribbon of tattered poetry in pavement, Trail of tears for wandering vagabonds, Seek yourself from this time forth betwixt sunrise and senility, For the tides of the seasons grow weary with long-suffering, To the hopes thou clingeth unto, by breadth and bound, unwavering still, To where have thy troubadours vanished my heartland? Into the unforgiving sea of nights, long past beneath God's eyes, Tell me, oh mother, who wring thine hands in the terrible simplicity of despair, Where have thine young sojourned unto, beyond your grieving sight, Far across the smoking hills of sin and smoldering ash, to find beauty amongst anguish, Listen not to the cries of death that smite the heart with wild and evil abandon, And do you not hear the song of the mourning dove, low and yet with hope, And tell me, Mr. Kerouac, whither hast thou been these few milion moons before, Among the snow of the peaked mountains, hushed with the silent iron hand of winter Drifting amply with the loneliness of the four winds of the Swanee, and the mighty Mississippi So roll tides, roll, to take you back to the streets of long-lived, and still loved Lowell, There are ghosts in the alleys, but thou art no specter in the darkness, Let us focus, with unwavering desire and redemption, to life and death, body and soul, To you, the wanderer with pen and parchment, who told the nations of life on the road And the majestic unyielding awe of every eye and stillness fixed on every tounge, from the picture thou hast set before the whole of old America, For you had me at "Praised be man" in the senseless throes of unbridled youth, And left to dream of moonlit vigils, as can be seen from the pilot seat of a battered beetle, Following the footsteps and felt pen, driving across '66, to Seligman and Flagstaff, To loll and roll, with the unreal unfurling of your manuscript reels, to give freely your confusion For a timeless, aimless quote by thee, picturesque and wanting with gusto "Whether goest thou America, in thy shiny car in the night?" Blessings from the heartland, Mr. Kerouac. See you in Big Sur.