Kerouac’s palm leaves

Jack Kerouac grows a beard—
his mouth stinks from fasting
on wine—he teeters—
a street drunk dead in
his skin he wore too loose—
on the road again
where bystanders scribble
little poems, unemployed—
an idol of the indolent—
bear into the world poets
and you craft too-nervous
boys—to all inherit—
to inherit civilization,
a cracked heirloom—

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~ by Jeremy on June 24, 2013.

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