for D.M.




My lecturer picks corn

chip from his beard

before telling me

how his world turned

darker than a black bean

the morning it dawned

on him that Kerouac

possessed only one

emotional register—sad.

Lowell’s favourite Jack

found everything sad.

The middle-class

philosophy was sad.

His lover’s post-coital

yawning was sad.

(Parenthetical thoughts

between streetlamps

were sad). Even

spreading mustard

on salami sandwiches

in a parking lot toilet

was sad. But burning

the roof of your mouth

on hot joe or running

out of Benzedrine

was lugubrious. Despite

his thirst for adventure,

I don’t reckon Jack

would be my first choice

of passenger: at stop signs

and red lights he’d recite

scraps of Nietzsche

or spill his cask wine;

he’d detail how the folks

sharing a meal together

down the RSL were sadder

than most because they

didn’t know or accept

their sadness; he’d let

his cigarette grow

perilously floppy

with ash while he gaped

at a cloud that stuck

like a lump in the blue

throat of the sky;

and when cruising by

Cold Tea Creek,

I couldn’t bring up

the anti-tank ditch

in case the car combusted

with his disgust

for the faceless military-

industrial complex.
What would Jack make

of me eating all alone

this Saturday night

in an empty SUBWAY

opposite the highway?

Maybe he’d say no gal,

no digs of my own,

and no permanent gig

are ideal ingredients

for an authentic poetic

existence. Or he might

just think it sad. After

damming the river

of drool that floods

the cotton fields

of his faded plaid shirt,

he’d wonder why

his offbeat dream

had suddenly come

to a halt; he’d bang

on the windows or kick

the driver’s seat,

laughing as he shook

half a century of sleep

from his wandering

eyes; and then he’d cry

until we were back

on the road—a sea

of shadowy houses

ebbing in our rear-

view mirror and jazz

flowing through our ears

as daylight oozes

over the horizon

like God sat on a lemon

or upset his honeypot.
*The title of this poem comes from a passage out of Jack Kerouac’s novel On the Road (1957).