Tag Archives: Jack Kerouac

Away They Go

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~In my head this is played with an acoustic tune through a variety of minor chords and finger pickin’. Feeling the home grown roots tonight! I hope you enjoy :)~

She was sitting on a curb
Pillow and blanket in her hand
Watching the cars fly by
Seeing the predicament they were in
People boxed away in their
Containments of metal and glass
She turned her back to them
Feeling their fire burned up
and turned to ash

He floated down from the sky
A Kerouac book in his hands
And sat next to her
Like good ol’ lost friends
He talked about nothing
As strangers often do
He shot up from the ground
After a minute or two
and she waved goodbye to him

A light burst from the sky
He came back down to Earth
Grabbed her by the hand, and said
I could use some comfort and warmth
He took her on a trip
A journey of possibilities
Taking her to the house where she
Dreamt of knives and heard her own screams
and then he left her there

The murderer tried, yeah he did
He tried to kill all of us
She ran away from him
She ran away from them all
The girl found herself
Standing on another curb
Throwing out a thumb
Getting picked up by a trucker man
and he said

“Death will surely find you
Sooner or later he’ll come
He’ll have Bright Eyes you can stare into
And an instigator’s tongue
Telling you your stories
Until you think you’ve heard enough
Yeah, that death will show up
on your doorstep
Wearing a suit vest and
a shaggy haircut.”

And away they go
Off into the sunset
Away they go
Off into the sunset
The time is NOW, when
the shadows catch up with the light
And away they go
Off into the sunset

Away they go
Away they go
Away they go

I am grateful for all of my old neighbors who loved to play music at every gathering ❤

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Gypsies

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I’d never grow the beard

The billowy cotton ball of distinction

A definable mark of classification

From one great thinker to the next

Getting frustrated with infant limitations

And becoming lost within the movements of the day

To gaze into any mirror

Eyes to eyes, I’ve seen them before

A mane to border jawline and highbrow

Tempting lovers and hiding those looks of

questioning wonder

What will become, if and when, red turns to gray, to white

Mimicking the strands down the

faces of whiskers and partially hiding the whispers

of the deep introductions into the

very being of the various lives to live?

 

The state of mind that seems, within each tiny fingered grasp

Of holding fate closer to heart than balancing the weight on top of head;

The heaviest of utopian dreams that seem

attainable, worthy of the burden to carry, says Sally Paradise

of that place of mind that often changes

to accommodate

what can be said over and over

Written words that claim anything

wondered upon

Thoughts of the everyday, of you and me, of creation

of anything colorfully flourishing at all,

until color does indeed dye a softer hue than the once brighter shade that

loses saturation as the excitement of youth slowly subsides

and succumbs to the affordable gray of wisdom

 

I feel misrepresented in choice, this

belief of growing old

Learning the lessons, one by one, until gray hairs

remain the only memories of the past;

But call out for attention demanding the acknowledgment

of character, from all of the other quilted bodies with their

mismatched undertones and uneven layers

of relatable temptations, of whatever,

calls to exist

To call a polymath anything, to give it a name at all

instead of the classical tradition of student to master,

and then again master to student,

Age being mistaken for the roads taken

of gaining knowledge, rather than the movie-like perception

on the road

 

Where we find the

Gypsy trains of Renaissance men and women

dancing through the jungles in their colorful

patterns of metal jingles singing above the group of

women mysteriously chattering, in the story

Where there is always some ancient white bearded man

or semi-toothless, sometimes also bearded, granny

offering their tales of mischief and triumphs and

reliving emotions once passed;

Our elders, who once questioned the kind of feelings examined

by all, and determining our own way of thoughts, right now, like

Remembering those Da Vinci quotes, picturing how

he might look saying anything through his own billowing beard; that

led me to question if there is anyone looking for the

brain in the gilded painting hanging on the wall

or do we all just inherently stumble upon it at the

last stages of life when drawing conclusions is

loud enough for even the next group to hear?

 

I am grateful for all of the storytellers ❤

A Master of the Call

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Passion seeping, seething to begin to tell the story of an introduction of the most extraordinary kind
A kinship of identity, feeling apart of something at the very first discovering of voice.

A master of the call patiently carrying out thoughts and creating thinkers who long to continue the traditions:
Of thought provoking, mind boggling, completely ordinary phrases that trump any trained structure taught to little boys and girls;
Who paint pretty flowers that represent the generics of an underground world, but not him.

Disregarding the perfectly placed soapbox and stepping off into the crowd, emerging self to penetrate the barriers of the weak mind
One of the brightest stars known to our eyes,
I can still see him burn, burn, burn
Igniting the fuel in those who feel alive.

I am grateful for motivational conversations, especially about a hero. This might not be the last of Kerouac ❤