“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.” 

Jack Kerouac, On the Road

 

for Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty

 

“The only people for me

are the mad ones”

was my credo. Then I became

a sub-editor and father,

and put away childish things.

Wary of accidents, literals,

legals, getting too excited

over anything.  Hunkered down

for the long haul to retirement,

careful not to allow

a word out of place.

Kept my eyes on the road ahead.

But the paper was losing money,

I was let out of class early,

no longer had a train to catch.

Freedom began to dawn on me.

 

 

They say euphoria writes white,

or, if you try it, badly.  Not true,

not the way Jack told it.

I know my destination,

but trust there’s still

a chance for a detour or two,  

something left in the tank.

For route 66, read Glencoe,

Fort Augustus, the Orkneys.

Could always write a headline

if I had a deadline to meet.

Kerouac left before his time,

from drink and football injuries.

Rough that the road ran out

for Neal and Jack

before they got to Phoenix.