Noir Poets: Jack Kerouac

Jack Kerouac

I stayed in San Francisco a week and had the beatest time of my life… I stopped, frozen with ecstasy on the sidewalk. I looked down Market Street. I didn’t know whether it was that or Canal Street in New Orleans: it led to water, ambiguous, universal water, just as 42nd Street, New York, leads to water, and you never know where you are… And for just a moment I had reached the point of ecstasy that I always wanted to reach, which was the complete step across chronological time into timeless shadows, and wonderment in the bleakness of the mortal realm, and the sensation of death kicking at my heels to move on, with a phantom dogging its own heels, and myself hurrying to a plank where all the angels dove off and flew into the holy void of uncreated emptiness, the potent and inconceivable radiancies shining in bright Mind Essence, innumerable lotuslands falling open in the magic mothswarm of heaven. I could hear an indescribable seething roar which wasn’t in my ear but everywhere and had nothing to do with sounds. I realized that I had died and been reborn numberless times but just didn’t remember especially because the transitions from life to death and back to life are so ghostly easy, a magical action for naught, like falling asleep and waking up again a million times, the utter casualness and deep ignorance of it. I realized it was only because of the stability of the intrinsic Mind that these ripples of birth and death took place, like the action of wind on a sheet of pure, serene, mirror-like water. I felt sweet, swinging bliss, like a big shot of heroin in the mainline vein; like a gulp of wine late in the afternoon and it makes you shudder; my feet tingled. I thought I was going to die the very next moment. But I didn’t die, and walked four miles and picked up ten long butts and took them back to Marylou’s hotel room and poured their tobacco in my old pipe and lit up. I was too young to know what had happened.

On The Road, 1957

2 thoughts on “Noir Poets: Jack Kerouac”

  1. Hi! Tony,
    Nice photograph of poet Jack Kerouac…and poem?!?
    Unfortunately, I’am not familiar with poet Jack Kerouac yet, (With “yet” being the operative word) but I created a book blog…Therefore, I’am quite sure books about him (Kerouac) will “cross” my path.
    Thanks, for sharing!
    DeeDee 😉

    Like

  2. DeeDee, I am referring to ‘poets’ in a liberal sense. Kerouac did write poetry, but his greatest novel is On the Road, in which many passages are prose poetry – if that makes sense 🙂

    Like

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