tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63639756068288082732024-03-13T06:49:43.762-04:00The Eye of the Needle: Jack Kerouac Day October 21, 2010The Camel Saloonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17466326145539153263noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363975606828808273.post-74197140945286504512011-03-16T20:44:00.002-04:002011-03-16T20:44:46.700-04:00Haunted By Jack Kerouac's Ghostby Wayne Scheer<br />
<br />
Harlan hungered for the night, starved for the flashing of evening stars popping like paparazzi bulbs spotlighting the path to holy Vegas where glamour and greed blaze a trail to the American Dream.<br />
<br />
Harlan hankered for the night, after the streetlights zapped on and the safe suburban homes dim to only the ashen flicker of TVs and the sad gray gloom of computer screens, where guilt-ridden souls hide in work stations by day and play stations by night dreaming of dancing like Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire on the tables and walls of America.<br />
<br />
Harlan howled into the night, searching for a pretty girl who'd sing sweet songs of love to a stranger, dance to the hip hop of her heart and Velcro green florescent strips to her bare ass and roller blade nude down the Great American Road into the starry evening sky.The Camel Saloonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17466326145539153263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363975606828808273.post-53428635142855321542010-10-03T02:45:00.002-04:002010-10-08T19:31:26.420-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEy__JmkzGkzhjQ6gfaqaivQtob6pPaO6hapMeKH1GqFPIkbgTDNkXucappCteCKGhWNHhriwduqRvx6O8JBlFUXVe32zynXnlkrTy1WBKWMbnCCnVdD5jL5PTyacMUzj4Epgjxqut3Ew5/s1600/grave.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="486" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEy__JmkzGkzhjQ6gfaqaivQtob6pPaO6hapMeKH1GqFPIkbgTDNkXucappCteCKGhWNHhriwduqRvx6O8JBlFUXVe32zynXnlkrTy1WBKWMbnCCnVdD5jL5PTyacMUzj4Epgjxqut3Ew5/s640/grave.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>The Camel Saloonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17466326145539153263noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363975606828808273.post-49018771739047558242010-10-02T23:55:00.000-04:002010-10-20T17:58:44.564-04:00Still Madby Sean Pravica<br />
<br />
How many people must have sat on Big Sur beaches<br />
Dusted off their Rucksacks to join Snyder’s Revolution<br />
Turned to sky kissing views for summer employment<br />
And snapped their fingers to a poet’s beat<br />
Just to follow the footprints you left behind<br />
More than you could ever know<br />
And I’ll guess more than you’d want to<br />
I can imagine your pensive face<br />
Arms crossed and eyes down<br />
To the floor<br />
Or to your bottle<br />
Feet itchier than ever to thumb along the roadside<br />
To get away from all this<br />
The generations of followers<br />
Just looking for the next kick<br />
Across the America you showed them<br />
And as long as young kids still find themselves <br />
In the hallmark jazz of your madman prose<br />
Which, like it or not, Jean Ti<br />
You'll seeThis is still a beat generation<br />
And you’re still the King<br />
If you ever get a chance to look down <br />
From the Heaven you spent your life trying to find<br />
Look on all the road weary disciples<br />
Who got what they were looking for<br />
One way or another<br />
Just like you did<br />
Your Catholics say a man’s a saint<br />
After only three miracles<br />
I guess a countless number of Mad Ones<br />
Anointed by your credo<br />
And hell bent on being in love with thr lives<br />
Even if it kills them<br />
Wasn’t enough of a Roman Candle <br />
For the Vatican to recognize<br />
Meanwhile your spider legged visions <br />
Still smoke across the sky<br />
Which, like it or not<br />
Proved you’re not so alone <br />
After all<br />
<br />
The only ones for you were Mad<br />
And still areThe Camel Saloonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17466326145539153263noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363975606828808273.post-2155565605567040412010-10-02T15:05:00.001-04:002010-10-02T15:05:53.967-04:00THE SECRET CODEby Mather Schneider<br />
<br />
Do your push-em-ups<br />
be a good father<br />
steady dependable<br />
breadwinner so others<br />
can grow in safety<br />
and comfort within<br />
confines of absurd<br />
society seeming so<br />
rational and even<br />
dying with a smile<br />
on your face is<br />
victory happiness<br />
success by others’<br />
standards ignore your<br />
gut above all stay <br />
erect work hard sleep<br />
enough and only love <br />
one woman besides <br />
your mother.The Camel Saloonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17466326145539153263noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363975606828808273.post-30375118390777750602010-10-02T15:04:00.002-04:002010-10-02T16:23:59.461-04:00One Last Attraction in Orlando, Floridaby Ben Nardolilli<br />
<br />
Apologies are in order Jack Kerouac,<br />
I completely missed your house,<br />
Forgetting that you too, have been here,<br />
Obviously when the city was a town<br />
And lay with the railroads,<br />
When it was a small shrine to sunshine,<br />
With orchards the closest thing to outlet malls.<br />
<br />
Your final berth wrapped in wood<br />
Before the outside world descended<br />
To find you, the ink dredging voice<br />
Of something lumped up into a generation,<br />
Yes I missed it, and I had a free day too,<br />
Disney and my parents did not own me<br />
The entire time I was down in Orlando.<br />
<br />
What did I do? I rode a boat with a fan<br />
Over the lake and through the reeds,<br />
We went to the streams and into nests,<br />
Making spinach green alligators hiss at me<br />
As they guarded dirty white eggs about to hatch,<br />
With passengers from all around the world,<br />
Looking for something to fill empty hours.<br />
<br />
Your house is still there, and who can say<br />
If you cared any more about it<br />
Than any of the other homes you had?<br />
Like a string of beads you amassed<br />
Addresses to span the country sea to sea,<br />
Like Edgar Allan Poe you let so many cities<br />
Give you a chance to rest your feet and head.<br />
<br />
And like Edgar Allan Poe, I hope<br />
All those former abodes will be spread<br />
Out as obstacles and frustrations<br />
For developers across the land,<br />
One day, people who never read your books<br />
Will fight to preserve your homes<br />
From being paved over by future highways.The Camel Saloonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17466326145539153263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363975606828808273.post-36966119535932928502010-10-02T08:04:00.002-04:002010-10-09T08:07:26.649-04:00ST. PETERSBURGby Steven Gulvezan <br />
<br />
Sitting at the end of your final road<br />
In the bedroom of the house you built<br />
A fence around<br />
Sitting there, in Florida, at twilight<br />
The scorching Florida sun sinking<br />
In the semi-darkness of your room<br />
You, wearing your famous lumberjack shirt<br />
Sweating<br />
Sitting at the typewriter<br />
Trying to channel “Duluoz” but finding nothing<br />
All the books, all the editions, all the<br />
Manuscripts and memories, arranged<br />
So precisely in the drawers and on the shelves<br />
You’re sitting there, sucking a beer deftly<br />
Maneuvered out of the kitchen behind Memere’s<br />
Back – or so you both choose to pretend – <br />
Few things pass before Memere <br />
Or Stella <br />
Unnoticed<br />
Sitting there in your room, in the twilight,<br />
Sweating, bored to hell, lonely, all the works<br />
Codified as best as you could codify them<br />
Ready for the bug-eyed archaeologists to<br />
Dissect them<br />
Waiting<br />
Perhaps pounding the keys on the typewriter<br />
Any keys, any words,<br />
Just to be typing…writing…<br />
At this point it doesn’t matter what…<br />
The ultimate spontaneous bop prosody<br />
The fat old clown goofing on the edge of eternity<br />
While Memere is speaking from her chair:<br />
“I don’t want that dirty Allen here –<br />
Never will he darken my door.”The Camel Saloonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17466326145539153263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363975606828808273.post-65928550159014054262010-10-01T15:05:00.002-04:002010-10-03T10:50:18.328-04:00Jack Kerouac's House in Winter Park, Florida<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYdABlti_0DAlbdobXV1CUXx-7Mei09PCL7d6X_cMyLzzlFXA9eL3WCiCOvnecLiYtcAAsuLpmy0Sb971dffT3UGf2h6bvySJbUGu5V4dJjj1XqSuX9I3pd3jUASdHsdcyTqOGxphoflZ6/s1600/800px-Jack_Kerouac_House_-_Winter_Park_Florida.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYdABlti_0DAlbdobXV1CUXx-7Mei09PCL7d6X_cMyLzzlFXA9eL3WCiCOvnecLiYtcAAsuLpmy0Sb971dffT3UGf2h6bvySJbUGu5V4dJjj1XqSuX9I3pd3jUASdHsdcyTqOGxphoflZ6/s400/800px-Jack_Kerouac_House_-_Winter_Park_Florida.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>The Camel Saloonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17466326145539153263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363975606828808273.post-62503222710261009862010-09-27T15:00:00.000-04:002010-10-03T11:35:02.712-04:00Hitchhikers Redux<pre><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">by Dennis Mahagin
I was about to call it a night,
when my Macbook channeled
Jack Kerouac, on brass knuckle
Blackberry, updating his web log
from an outpost on Antares:
"It's like desert, where nothin's as near as it appears,"
said Jack, "or that Time shooting craps, with Pascal
when I was but a greenhorn, fresh out of stratosphere...
I watched him press his Hard Way bets while I built up
my bank, until Double Fours blew me out of that game
like pink particle dust from a sunflower super nova!”
On chat platform, I scrambled to answer Kerouac
with my cheesy 3 - D Pulsar Avatar of Milky Way
Bar, typing on a wing-shaped keypad, just as fast
as my fingers could fly:
"Well other than that, how have you
been getting along, Master Kerouac?"
"Oh man, with gravity in a hermetic
vacuum it's nothing but zoom-zoom…
zoom – zoom - ZOOM!"
"Are you an angel now, Jack?"
"Heavens no! But yesterday in fact, I did catch a
glimpse of Neal's snow-white chin whiskers in the
Katherine Wheel sparks of a Haley's Sleigh Ride.
And man what a gas... What a GAS!"
"So it's true, we're not all alone in a vast
coal-black, frigidly-indifferent universe?"
"Nah, man. Just very, very Self Centered. That's all...
Remember: Even the most gaping, galloping Big Sur
fault line cannot stand up against a heartfelt rope
skip rhyme—"
"And all addictions, fratricide, and bad
tattoos have been spawned by boredom?"
"Where did you get that one, kid?"
"It is written: On the sweating wall
of the Cow Trough Pisser ... Club
Satyricon, Portland Ora - Gone
circa Twenty Forty Six…"
"It's not half-bad."
"Anyway, I think this post is gonna draw
a whole lot of freaking Web hits, Jack!"
"That's cool, kid—now, dig,
I gotta fly, but I just might
—be back."
"Well then ... Until Zen?"
"You're catchin' on, Dad ...You
really are comin' along just fine."
(first published in Unlikely Stories)</span></pre>The Camel Saloonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17466326145539153263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363975606828808273.post-35925560212679084332010-09-27T14:45:00.003-04:002010-10-08T19:19:21.722-04:00On the Road...Soonby Jeffrey Miller<br />
<br />
I felt the pull of the open road long before I heard of Jack, Sal, Dean and all those other hipsters with their jazz and smoky clubs; their yearning for something bigger than who they were and the freedom that went along with it; their rendezvous with destiny traveling from coast to coast while pounding out the rhythms of post World War II America and not looking back.<br />
<br />
The open road—it’s in our blood, I’m sure. It’s as American as apple pie. It’s that primal hunger to find America and ourselves.<br />
<br />
Reading On the Road didn’t hurt, either. My copy came way of my older brother who once hitchhiked across America to find himself before he went off to Nam and got himself shot up. Now that paperback hand-me-down was my ticket, Rosetta Stone and Bible all rolled up into one dog-eared, highlighted and underlined copy.<br />
<br />
When I felt the time had come to satisfy that yearning, I didn’t get too far that first day. Just got out of the driveway in the beat up Chevy my buddies and I worked on all last year in auto mech class before my mom yelled that I had to cut the grass. Said there were a few bucks in it for me. Hmm...gas money. She also made Sloppy Joes for me. Jack and the others would have to wait until tomorrow. Damn, I promised Steve I’d look at his bike. The day after tomorrow, then. Definitely.The Camel Saloonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17466326145539153263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363975606828808273.post-52148393103884658932010-09-26T15:03:00.001-04:002010-10-03T11:35:26.664-04:00Confuciusby Keith Higginbotham<br />
<br />
Will you ever<br />
aspire to unbridled<br />
sleepwalking, beat<br />
the emptiness<br />
of slow<br />
poison, across<br />
town no movement there.<br />
<br />
A year stretches to lackluster<br />
anymore, monotonous to<br />
rescue. Your mind<br />
is a remedy.<br />
<br />
What you do is trapped<br />
in the escape. The stream is ready<br />
to leave.<br />
<br />
A jealous colleague shuffles<br />
papers, how do you do.<br />
<br />
Torture is a victim.The Camel Saloonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17466326145539153263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363975606828808273.post-27163851484166228792010-09-25T11:35:00.002-04:002010-10-03T11:36:56.731-04:00Keroauc Alley, Chinatown, San Francisco<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtgpFLc39r7zD5sKb9yzb45EBDDgX9O7EGNW6GJPbnDTA9c2MB91O5O75ocQOsVb5FHv3px1pzPvBHUr4evy5wrxUCLEOujQ5UxUnSbKKzbwF9TnFG4aAkf24VIQvkFx8u7YVBnL0AatKL/s1600/PoemInJackKerouacAlley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtgpFLc39r7zD5sKb9yzb45EBDDgX9O7EGNW6GJPbnDTA9c2MB91O5O75ocQOsVb5FHv3px1pzPvBHUr4evy5wrxUCLEOujQ5UxUnSbKKzbwF9TnFG4aAkf24VIQvkFx8u7YVBnL0AatKL/s400/PoemInJackKerouacAlley.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>The Camel Saloonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17466326145539153263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363975606828808273.post-78164097336392712992010-09-24T14:58:00.000-04:002010-10-03T09:01:32.766-04:00Norm<pre><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">by Chris Butler
Normal Norman is a normal man,
the neighborly stranger greeting
his fellow beings with a musical hello
and a handshake contacted by eyes,
but as a boy he was the one
who marked each day on the calendar
as the anniversary of his
classmates’ assassination,
later he recreates his crescendo moment
as a Twentysomething nobody trapped
within a geometrically imprisoning office,
alongside his co-prisoners shot with
.22 caliber bullets from his thoughts,
but now as he’s displaced by middle age,
fantasizing of serial killing while
stalking milfs breastfeeding their infants
two-percent milk down the cereal aisle,
but everyone only knows him
as Normal Norman,
or norm for short.</span> </pre>The Camel Saloonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17466326145539153263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363975606828808273.post-34503131087814989012010-09-24T14:55:00.000-04:002010-10-03T10:57:38.731-04:00you're a bastard...<pre><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">by Ross Vassilev
if your mother and father
scream all the time
if you prefer blue sky
and white clouds over people
if you picked your nose
on 9/11 and dream
of Slavic paradises deep
in lost forests
if sunshine on red bricks
makes you think of Kerouac
Jack, we forgive your awful
poems
your daughter Jan
forgives you for abandoning her
the world will always remember you,
Jack
we'll just try to remember the myth
and not the man.</span> </pre>The Camel Saloonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17466326145539153263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363975606828808273.post-32655801015691601042010-09-24T14:50:00.002-04:002010-10-08T19:15:39.921-04:00Bastard Haikuby Jessica Otto<br />
<br />
a voice in the ash<br />
of a lonely, dead tree:<br />
Jack's night in OctoberThe Camel Saloonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17466326145539153263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363975606828808273.post-18265942355132264032010-09-24T14:30:00.000-04:002010-10-15T19:31:55.396-04:00El Giganteby Michael Frissore<br />
<br />
A giant in a body suit,<br />
seven feet, seven inches<br />
of Argentinean steel<br />
shooting hook shots and <br />
fighting Ric Flair for the title.<br />
<br />
Sadly, I knew when you <br />
chloroformed the Undertaker<br />
that you were destined for<br />
him soon, even sooner<br />
than most – most – in<br />
your tragic circle.The Camel Saloonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17466326145539153263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363975606828808273.post-88279493084087589932010-09-23T10:53:00.001-04:002010-10-03T18:59:41.070-04:00Jack Kerouac<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqHuv2MHj5iHu6MOoL9UmCY5vPxUpCnOwReq0ayRycho-a3Oqo80fN9Po0InmuXCwFOqTUWVHE93jxAQo19dFe_hyphenhyphenoknd_2MB4ZOoNBqOMVRS-f5s-Mwred_8JqvBIo-SxcVRh0tsQ050l/s1600/Kerouac_by_Palumbo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqHuv2MHj5iHu6MOoL9UmCY5vPxUpCnOwReq0ayRycho-a3Oqo80fN9Po0InmuXCwFOqTUWVHE93jxAQo19dFe_hyphenhyphenoknd_2MB4ZOoNBqOMVRS-f5s-Mwred_8JqvBIo-SxcVRh0tsQ050l/s320/Kerouac_by_Palumbo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The Camel Saloonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17466326145539153263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363975606828808273.post-89486905591937654332010-09-22T14:54:00.000-04:002010-10-03T09:00:47.836-04:00Nod to Jackby Robert Vaughan<br />
<br />
My first cross-country<br />
car trip was a nod <br />
to mentor Jack Kerouac <br />
Gregory and I scaled the<br />
arch in St. Louis, ate<br />
Rocky Mountain oysters<br />
sat on the great Grand Canyon <br />
wall imagining possible<br />
new beginnings in our <br />
house on Harold Way<br />
Turns out that trip was<br />
the highlight of transition<br />
The flop house in East <br />
Hollywood, a dissolving <br />
relationship, the strange death<br />
of a childhood friend<br />
made Los Angeles seem<br />
cold, austere, the novelty of<br />
t-shirts in February wore<br />
thin in one day, meanwhile<br />
I missed the Lower East Side’s<br />
harsh amenities, smoking weed <br />
on the stoop, stealing timeThe Camel Saloonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17466326145539153263noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363975606828808273.post-6563071349396756482010-09-21T14:53:00.000-04:002010-10-03T09:00:21.571-04:00A Sunken Ship Named Benzedrine<pre><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">by Melanie Browne
At Midnight I feed the dog,
I read Kerouac
to imaginary chickens,
they cluck at the
mobiles called
stars,
They follow me
as I drive to
to the 24 hr
pharmacy for
cashews,
a yellow highlighter,
a gallon of milk
when I come
out of the store
they are lingering,
trying to
rent videos
from the Redbox
machine,
a horror film,
direct to video
I whistle at them
tell them it's time
to go,the streets
are slick, it's 2 am </span></pre>The Camel Saloonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17466326145539153263noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363975606828808273.post-71849827535266832622010-09-21T14:52:00.005-04:002010-10-08T19:31:54.275-04:00Three Poemsby Suchoon Mo<br />
<br />
<br />
A White Flower<br />
<br />
a white flower alone<br />
in the sagebrush desert<br />
you are too beautiful<br />
I shall not touch you<br />
or hold you in my hands<br />
you are too beautiful<br />
I have come your way<br />
and I shall be gone my way<br />
alone<br />
<br />
<br />
On A Wooden Cross<br />
<br />
in an abandoned chapel<br />
in a ghost town<br />
a young woman sits<br />
on a wooden floor<br />
naked<br />
facing a young man<br />
nailed and dead<br />
on a wooden cross<br />
naked<br />
<br />
<br />
Flowers In The Cemetery<br />
(after Ko Un)<br />
<br />
Flowers come<br />
To the cemetery<br />
Flowers die <br />
In the cemetery<br />
No memorials<br />
For flowers<br />
In the cemetery<br />
Not even in the cemetery<br />
<br />
(previously published in Dissident Editions)The Camel Saloonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17466326145539153263noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363975606828808273.post-37807516219773438802010-09-21T14:52:00.004-04:002010-10-03T18:53:59.486-04:00Landscape with a Solitary Traveler<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik6_EYOEhRuSkEdvJ3-qWCaqTI86vs8y1nHSFHYEBr5VhE367DwVMG0_RFw9cetjpX1Iy-TQQKcieY8CHIeaETO0IgUDhW9TZ2GuaHs9Pwoank1Qk3yh6Vv2lUyK-uP3KAXFoDiuBUrnJm/s1600/213px-%2527Landscape_with_a_Solitary_Traveler%2527_by_Yosa_Buson%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik6_EYOEhRuSkEdvJ3-qWCaqTI86vs8y1nHSFHYEBr5VhE367DwVMG0_RFw9cetjpX1Iy-TQQKcieY8CHIeaETO0IgUDhW9TZ2GuaHs9Pwoank1Qk3yh6Vv2lUyK-uP3KAXFoDiuBUrnJm/s640/213px-%2527Landscape_with_a_Solitary_Traveler%2527_by_Yosa_Buson%5B1%5D.jpg" width="227" /></a></div>The Camel Saloonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17466326145539153263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363975606828808273.post-43733197901638673542010-09-21T14:50:00.000-04:002010-10-13T20:28:35.101-04:00Mother Road Feverby David S. Pointer<br />
<br />
Bleeding words at a writer’s desk-<br />
seeing every empty alcohol bottle<br />
as a desktop replica of another<br />
dead writer hearing Kerouac’s car<br />
engines in every poem knowing<br />
you can get better than cabin style<br />
stars leaning back in a convertible,<br />
or a speed loader limousine filling<br />
up with girls and gas on Route 66The Camel Saloonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17466326145539153263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363975606828808273.post-51666918850399849982010-09-21T14:30:00.000-04:002010-10-08T20:01:45.219-04:00HOW ABOUT YOU?by Randall Rogers<br />
<br />
I HAD A DOG.OR, MORE CORRECTLY,<br />
MY DOG HAD ME.<br />
SAME WITH MY<br />
FUCKING PET GOLDFISH<br />
WHEN SHE LET <br />
ME OUT OF <br />
THE BOWL,<br />
AND FLUSHED,<br />
SAME'S ME LEAVING<br />
SINBAD<br />
AND SLEEPING GRANDMA<br />
AT THAT REST STOP<br />
THEM MANY YEARS AGO.<br />
FREEDOM, BABY,<br />
WHAT IT'S ALL 'BOUT.<br />
AND<br />
YOUTH IN ASIA.The Camel Saloonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17466326145539153263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363975606828808273.post-80218589509111083082010-09-21T14:00:00.001-04:002010-10-08T19:32:25.066-04:00AFTER THE FACTby Steven Gulvezan<br />
<br />
Naked body cold on a table—<br />
<br />
“He looks so small—<br />
I thought he was a much bigger man”<br />
<br />
“A poseur”<br />
<br />
“Pretending he was something he<br />
Never was”<br />
<br />
“Still, he had a certain quality—<br />
The way he looked at you sometimes—<br />
A sort of knowing sadness…”<br />
<br />
“He knew too much for his own good—<br />
That’s for certain—<br />
He knew what he wasn’t—”<br />
<br />
“…Not a normal man…”<br />
<br />
“Okay, a misfit, a freak—<br />
But, in death—<br />
Why don’t we just<br />
Let him alone”The Camel Saloonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17466326145539153263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363975606828808273.post-37454437587175881402010-09-20T23:07:00.000-04:002010-10-03T11:12:21.505-04:00Jack Kerouac Memorial in Lowell, Massachusetts<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik4La08J1k-Qbs6AY6OhiqEZeqMFXJ9FQyfWS3AapCaebswjB1blbzGrINc6fWBPv0b5P4bSP0jKqcYIVq0qYEQFmEeUuHTLWDXj9gVLUTbTA0VLuPolkwyuplkkk_iEUcDwfaRveJqIVU/s1600/Jack_Kerouac_Memorial.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik4La08J1k-Qbs6AY6OhiqEZeqMFXJ9FQyfWS3AapCaebswjB1blbzGrINc6fWBPv0b5P4bSP0jKqcYIVq0qYEQFmEeUuHTLWDXj9gVLUTbTA0VLuPolkwyuplkkk_iEUcDwfaRveJqIVU/s400/Jack_Kerouac_Memorial.jpg" width="242" /></a></div>The Camel Saloonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17466326145539153263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363975606828808273.post-84966205831790357422010-09-20T14:49:00.001-04:002010-10-03T08:59:39.227-04:00Falling<pre><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
Planes sound like they’re falling.
The sun feels like it’s coming down.
The wet rain doesn’t fall and we
need rain more than anything.
Our hearts feel like they’re falling.
Floods of tears are coming down.
The skirts of lovers are not falling.
The wounded legs of walkers
are limping in the streets.
The falling walkers are hurting.
The blood keeps falling like rain.
Worn mattresses fall from trucks.
The east side sky is falling.
It is falling on our heads.
It falls on us as we walk up
and down streets and avenues.
The night appears to be falling.
The earth is falling apart.
I am falling for the lips of
the woman inside my dreams.</span> </pre>The Camel Saloonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17466326145539153263noreply@blogger.com0