Jack Kerouac Writer in Residence Program of Orlando » christine

The Race

christine — Mon, 23 Oct 2006 20:20:45 +0000

The Baptist boys stand side by side
hemming and hawing like wild ponies
with manes of shirttails
and hooves of patent leather.

The preacher folds his hands in prayer
of READY, SET
a rush of blur
a blue sky feather
GO, GO, GO! Fly-Fly!

Parents’ Night, 1979

christine — Mon, 23 Oct 2006 20:20:27 +0000

She called me the painted lady.
When my father said this his voice cracked, a sign
he was pleased.
He put his feverish hand on my cheek
A face as pure as a painted lady,
My eighth grade nun said
I hoped it would stay like that forever,
my face, my father’s hand.

She

christine — Mon, 23 Oct 2006 20:20:03 +0000

She sleeps the sleep of the loved
In this balled up bed, a rope of sheets
Morning sun touches her, and heats
Me – the memory of the hours before
While planets drowsed and stars wept
Like stolen nickels, my tongue kept
This silvery secret, wrapped tight, fisted

Kerouac

christine — Mon, 23 Oct 2006 20:19:50 +0000

He raises the bottle of Wild Turkey, enthralled
As sad as a clown, as restless as mercury
No rest to be found–buses, couches, a Mexican room
A translated soul, in feverish bouts
A lonely flag in unchartered land
Messiah, Buddha, drunken madman
Haunted by life, the death of a brother
The tug and pull of his own private moon
When he finally surrendered, they could not bury
The little boy who remembered all.

A Small Matter

christine — Mon, 23 Oct 2006 20:19:34 +0000

The first person Margaret spoke to after Claire left was the paperboy. He was delivering the late edition, the edition Claire always brought home with her on the train but Claire had not been on the train that evening and Margaret, not knowing what else to do, flagged the paper boy over and asked for a newspaper. It was almost seven and Margaret was sitting on the porch, meditating on the house across the street.
“If you’ve any extra, may I buy one?” Margaret whispered into the darkening street. It was late September.
The boy looked straight onto the porch, trying to see her, see if he knew her. Behind Margaret, the entire house was dark.
She came down the steps. She wore a large flowery sundress like the dresses she had worn all summer.
The boy offered a folded paper.
“Thank you,” she said.
The boy did not respond.
“What do I owe you?” she asked, feeling in her pocket for change.
“Nothing,” he said, “I always have a few extra.”
“Thank you,” she said again.
The boy shrugged and turned to go.
“Excuse me,” she said, “but may I ask your name?”
The boy hesitated.
He was no more than five feet tall and not much older than thirteen and this was the manner in which he stood: one hand in his front jeans pocket and the other holding his paper bag, out and away, as if he would have nothing to do with it.
“I’m Junior,” the boy offered the hand that had just been warm in his pocket. The heat of the hand surprised Margaret. She did not know how cold she was.
“Junior for what?” Margaret asked.
“Just Junior. My dad was a junior too, and his dad before, so we’re just a family of juniors.”
Junior sighed, as if this bit of information was the one sorrow of his life.
“I’m Margaret Marks,” she said. “My partner’s name is Claire.”
The paperboy nodded, as if he knew about names or partners or anything but being a boy.
He shifted his weight from foot to foot, impatient now to get on.
“Ma’am?” Junior waited.
“I’d like the paper delivered. Daily.”
Businesslike, Junior pulled the big route book from his back pocket. It was surprising how diminished he seemed then, with the bulk of the book gone from him.
In a moment she was penciled in and had said her goodnights. For a little longer she sat on the top step and listened while each rolled paper landed home on each porch down the block.

A Pollock Dream

christine — Mon, 23 Oct 2006 20:19:15 +0000

Red was in a fury. He discussed the issue with Black and White. The room moved with heated debate. As usual, Black and White disagreed. White went over and leaned against the wall, looking no less beautiful than sun rays through the slats of a Venetian blind. She knew this — without White these guys wouldn’t even exist. But Black was in a mood. He and Red sat in a corner, silent as a game of checkers. Then Yellow flew into the room like the soft giddy bird she could sometimes be. Yellow in pale comparison stood beside White. Neither said a word.

Red and Black noticed the women and forgot their own solemnity. Red went straight over to Yellow and, let me tell you, it was like watching a flame ignite, orange, hot, liquid, Red, Yellow, fire. And when Black grabbed hold of White it was as thick and grey as smoke in there. The two couples stayed that way for a while, swaying, fire and smoke, fire and smoke. Yellow soon broke away, flighty as ever, and went over to Black, buzzing like a bee. White took this in stride and began to dance with Red, who flushed a deep pink. Black brooded. He just couldn’t take these guys in. He was the hole, the absence. Black imagined himself the last Beatnik.

The room took on a hazy glow — hot and soft, pastel, and then bold and primary. If Blue hadn’t cut into the place at that moment, so cool, humming those old blues, the tragedy might never have happened. But Blue couldn’t help himself. He was like water on the driest, hottest day, like the sky after a storm. And he loved the girls, he really did. First over to Yellow, cutting in and making the guys turn green with envy. Then he flowed so smooth over to White and whispered: the sky’s the limit, baby.

Red, whose fury to begin with had to do with this very dude, this very cool dude, Blue, flew at him in a purple rage. Yellow tried to break it up but only made an ugly mess. White talked at them, softened the blows, but it did no good. Black had to jump in and make it all crazy and bleak. The women pulled one way, the men the other. It was like a Jackson Pollack nightmare. And then it ended, a piece of everyone everywhere, and all dried up.

The Barn

christine — Mon, 23 Oct 2006 20:18:55 +0000

The barn sits in the high weeds, behind the house, between the small Presbyterian church and the house. It is a red barn, like most barns. There’s an old horse in there. He stands inside, chewing the grass that comes up over the bottom door. The horse came into life here, blood everywhere. He grew tall and strong, beautiful, and rode soft as black paint across the fields.

Behind the horse is the biggest cobweb in the county, but no one knows it yet. A man could get caught, his whole body could hang, on that cobweb. It shines diamonds in the mornings and the higher and whiter the sun gets, the more it vanishes against the wall.

And up above is a dusty loft — scattered hay, a place to kiss and roll around and want and wait and still and always want. The loft window looks at the church. When the sun sets, the church goes from white to dusty pink and when the last bit of light is left, the church can go to deep red, as red as the barn, redder even and then all is perfectly silent, and another day has passed.

Two

christine — Mon, 23 Oct 2006 20:18:37 +0000

What does it mean to share?
The wide river continues, unaware
Of the room, the time, the woman
Who loves you

Winter persists in age-old stubbornness
Splintery ice, like glass, falling
She surrenders to gravity, calling
You, love

What do you share, you two?
A house, a life, a kiss, new
Like every Spring
As permanent as air

Journal Entry #3

christine — Mon, 23 Oct 2006 20:18:19 +0000

Where did Jack Kerouac go?
Like the Merrimack River, or mountain air,
Kerouac flows–across America, across our minds
Impatient Buddha, paint-by-numbers Arizona sky
On flatbed trucks, cross-eyed stars, he finds
The road less traveled, where poets meet
Hungry and hot and drunkenly sweet
Heaven? This pen, this paper, a cup of Joe.

The Neighborhood

christine — Mon, 23 Oct 2006 20:17:51 +0000

I’ve named the black-and-white cat “Checkers”
S/he scatters when I see her, hides behind Kerouac’s tree
A fool, I greet her: You’re a visitor, like me
Let’s be neighbors in this place not mine
See? Sam in his Superman shirt says “hi”
The man over there waves hello morning and night
And I sit on the porch, rereading “On the Road” (the cat inches back)
As neighbor yells at a speeding car of boys: “Slow down, you peckers!”