kerouac dharmas into rebirth

decided to try a little emulation of Jack Kerouac; then decided to do it "live" for a couple friends; then decided to record it; then decided i'd like to try it at open mic night downtown this thursday (haven't decided which place yet - should be around 8's all i know, either at kinzie's or java roaster, both next to chumley's); then decided to post it on the blog. if you want to check it out, it's right below.

all i'm thinking at the moment is that when i heard OF Kerouac and when i LISTENED to him, i had two opposing emotional responses. i really dig his story-telling poetics and even if i didn't get anywhere close to what he did, i don't care. i'm having fun and i hope that you can enjoy imagining the story, too.

around the summer a few years back there were several of us who enjoyed the night air but couldn’t always be drug from the city like we knew we should be, so instead of taking the train to quieter country settings we’d head further in to downtown where storefronts were jam-packed, full of things we knew somebody would probably like to have but didn’t need. and the stores never looked closed because of all the lights on inside, but still we never really were down there to see them open; sometimes our musings made us believe those stores never really were open, ever. simply fronts for stores. made us wonder even deeper, high and in the kite’s manic yet patterned flow we’d find our way all the way to a table at the only place we knew for sure was open our time of day, night, and that was carillo’s grill. all the lights were always on there, too, but different lights, not trying to bleed our souls of loose change or hard bills; instead, luring us with the tempting smell that lead to the lingering beautiful taste of the fresh home brews and all kinds of grilled foods under those dazzling lights all blinking and changing out front and all somber and thoughtful in the warmer climes of the guts of the joint.

now we were deep in conversation, letting ourselves go to those dreams we had to hide away during our slumbering lumbering work-a-day days, making nothing that nobody would buy unless we asked ‘em, and then only “maybe” or “i’ll think about it.” so there were all were, the guys and gals we thought we knew but always tore apart and rebuilt every night, finding out new things and new ways to become friends all over again. there at those tables, candles just off-center and dripping out hot red wax onto pasta-stained cloth, drinks nestled against the bosom of their respective imbiber, half-smoked cigars and cigarettes waiting to be finished off and put down crinkled with the now smokeless, burnt-out many that had gone into and out of us before them, that is where we found the strength we already possessed, that is where the times were real and the music was loud and opened us up to discovery; that is where our ideals were invented and our mutual desires to spare ourselves of the wrath of suburban life were sprung. here we flowed, and the drinks flowed, and the jazz flowed just like us and us just like the jazz; and so our bodies moved and the smoke curled up around our ears and mingled with our hair before losing its shape and taking on infinite form before dissipating into the fans above that made us dizzy when we looked up but always drew us in to look up again.

that night we got into a conversation about how obvious it was that people died for a reason. spiritual implications arose and fell like the breath of a dragon after a duel with the greatest of the knights, and again rose up to strike once more, always circling the topic – a buzzard on its death soar, circling high up and always being the center of attention coming down slowly and closer until its wings almost touched its prey, but then out again after that quick check and then landing nearby would watch and wait to make sure the subject really was leading in that direction. we didn’t want to relate everything to some spiritual level we didn’t understand, but it was the only way and it pulled us in, a flower to a bee; no choice but to land on it every time. so we played the poker game with agility and vigilance, watching each others’ faces as we learned points of view and furthered the desire to talk more with more beer, more smoke in the room, louder music. higher and higher until our voices were drowned out by our thoughts. in the end we fell onto the decision that there is no answer to satisfy all, but that our talking about it was the only way to get to that conclusion. so our time together was indeed important, and the broaching of subjects usually left to quiet church counsel or to the bums on 3rd was not a choice but a deed that must be done.

from hereon the night poured us out onto the street where light mist had touched up the evening with a glow on everything, under every street light and into every corner a beacon called us to investigate and come back shaking our heads like we’d found out something new. there was nothing in most of those chilly damp corners but our imaginations coming up with the latest and the greatest notion that God was there when i went in and i brought God back out with me. most of the time, though, we’d go sprawling onto the main drag to find out who won the fight or see if there were more people we knew or bands we liked playing somewhere close; and then we’d find out and go into a spot that we didn’t mind adding to and the place seemed to be jumping even before we got there, hard spats of horn tracking out the front step and dancing with the mist now hanging thick in the air and staying in our ears and on our faces until we breathed it in and blew it back out to mix up with all the other notes that had caught up. we were spinning, the stars seemed to be spinning as we turned and looked up again at the moon instead of those choked fans and realized we were out in the shadows; and there was music to be heard, lessons to be learned, children to be born, hearts to be broken and won back in a matter of hours.