‘Fuck being a dirty word that comes out clean’
Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums
Kerouac writes like Hemingway
at the opening of The Dharma Bums,
it’s all there, jumping on a freight train
out of Los Angeles, his relish at sharing
his bread and cheese and wine
with an old hobo in the boxcar.
Reading passages from On The Road on TV
to a gentle jazz accompaniment,
he looks like a Hollywood movie star.
I can remember when I abandoned
Virginia Woolf for Jack Kerouac.
And never looked back.