I found peace in Ginsberg County without the aid of new patois and peyote to bring forth
Dreams. No hard beer or soft women from the broken Morrison’s Hotel to keep words flowing,
All I was left with was the terms of a contract not yet signed. Kerouac yawned and smiled
With his teeth showing, baring at me across the table, daring me to join in some inspired anarchic
Game, a ritual, a joyful disease that saw leaflets dropped and new words learned.
Keep the flag flying high, the dream alive whilst offering me a full glass of dirty Bourbon.
Back at home I thought of you, you and you alone, the rigidness of your form in which W.H.
Escaped like some back-alley convert and found solace in his lovers, his muses, as he mused away
From the Bristol Road.
Sold upon the American Highway rather than the sound of the new by-pass skirting my town, I
Wandered from city to city, bar to bar. I took the Greyhound as far as it would go north, large forests
And rivers fall with so much majesty that the water rose a hundred feet in the air and I stopped and
Thought of you, you and you alone, my muse, my current amusement in which Kerouac would have
Swapped his Bourbon for my Scotch whisky in a heartbeat, my heartbeat.
I came across the band of sisters in black; I saw their protective husbands and their shyness infront
Of camera but willing to talk to a British boy about their belief.
Belief that made them pose for a picture, after much discussion with the sisters in black, one small
Lad smiling against nature, already a convert to this new American dream.
The memories of seeing a strip joint on Time Square both repelled me but unnervingly I found
Curious, as I thought I would rather see my French lady lift her skirt temptingly above her ankle.
The distraction of finding my Grandfather’s home still standing
Against all the odds, the sheet music his father had composed in celebration of life that would not
Last, still tight against my coat pocket and stuck unheard inside my head.
His baseball dreams, the lake he swam, the religion he was bought up to observe but failed brilliantly
At.
South I went, forests and rivers turned to urban, wide open spaces filled with people, consumed and
Being consumed but with love in their hearts as they thought of you, you and only you. Cleveland,
Pittsburgh in the fall, Philadelphia in the bright blistering autumn, the road
In between filled with talk to a woman who hung on my every word and I hung
Myself out to dry on her lips. Studying French Art by the Seine,
Driving me insane with her ideals and her love of humanity.
Media, oh Media, I found a friend in Media as I had in Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Toronto, Hamilton,
New York and for a while I forgot about you, you and you alone.
A bikers rally, people stop and stare as did I, my friend spoke enthusiastically
And with warmth of their behaviour. No real Hells Angels these, just humanity breathing for us all.
A drink with Charles Dickens, Kerouac would have disapproved and would shake me violently,
Dropping his beer and causing Ginsberg to cuss and swear at his mother.
Onto Washington, New Jersey, one day returning to meet Judy Garland’s friend
And feel moved as I try to turn away as I watch him cry as he remembers you, you and you alone.
Dinner with the Rich kid, mind still on Mickey’s tears.
I journey back to the French lady who offered me liberty but no Scotch to whet my whistle
I thought of Kerouac from the top of The Empire, my thoughts would return and go out to over 3,000
10 Years later.
The American Highway, on foot.
The American Highway, the romance of your work.
A glass half full Kerouac, refill it from the bottle, I will take the dirty Bourbon now
As I think of you, you and you alone.
Ian D. Hall 2013