On: Jack Kerouac, Book of sketches.  

Jack Kerouac reads as a spindle, reads in a fever, hot, under the cool southern set.
His words without breath, dry lungs in liquid shape.
They jut like crowded confused teeth, interpreted into the brain.
He writes a bible in a generation that retreats noisely to safety, in vain.
Sketches world with experienced innocent eyes, in vain.
Jack Kerouac reads as a saint in a world convulsivley out of shape.
He reads, consumed under the eyes of public stain.
His adrupt, in failure and incomprehensible words fall off the page.
Did anyone tell him he had tics in his hair?
Jack Kerouac reads child like girth.
His genius spurred under his pen's ball point burden, under languages dictating realease.
Jack Kerouac reads.

© 2007 Layne L'Heureux