KEROUAC'S OFF THE ROAD

Not even recounting
your days off the beaten road
for seven smokes
and cups of hashish
eating you up
as you are mounting
as motorcycle ride
up and down
with the hip folks
over the Pacific highway
up to a heaven's kingdom
of a Beat poet freedom
not seen since Blake
in his panegyrics and lyrics
awakes us from our sacristy
in the lilac doorways
Jack puts up his feet
on shimmering sun whitened
stones, seaweed, shells
and whale bones
along the California shore,
his wind song has a verse harem
of Whitman's universe
on a day's ink dream
at November's first light
reciting from his hiding
of Dharma Bums
after mountaineering
near the Sierras'
based on a thinking character
of the drama drumming poet
Gary Snyder
taking on the unanswered
questions in the carbon
and ribbon of Kerouac's
typewriter as editor
from a Buddha's end run.