Where Kerouac Got His Shoes, You Can Too

 Named for a mountain on Mars, Lowell sits standard beside the river assumed of countryside. Embolisms spread everywhere, the beseechcraft of unlocked rule, neat tent cities of unaffordable scum. Smoke flex parenthesis, Lester Young afloat. Open on Kerouac town. Inculcation admitted as habit, in the midst of deity throng. Churches piled high, almost toward heaven. Someone said Modern Day, and behold, water runs downhill. The hill possesses, with a current so mighty: Babylonian, like sway. A sentence can only be completed, the thought cannot. Gods of pure exult gave unto all soap dispensers, lubricious belts, pious bits of rock, hard landing, natural upheaval, synonyms for guilt, lake-sized entrapment, a better bop. And then waking up on the seventh day thinking, again, thinking. Jack says the donut rising from the fryer’s oil speaks of ancestral towers and go back. The President holds forth a tone, not quite mapped. Later forms of isolation will prove just as stable. America in the meantime allows for phrases like “goodbye pork pie hat”.