taken from a collection that I’m working on called “Novel Words: Spontaneous prose poetry & other thoughts had during a pandemic. By Andrew H. Kuharevicz. To Be Published by West Vine Press. May Contain errors and appear differently when book comes on. These are mostly unedited draft pages typewritten on a typewriter. Thanks for reading.
“Signs Point to Yes.”
This was the day, the day when I felt young, when the rain felt like the spring. When everything aligns when time pauses at just the right moment. When the concept and the rhyme of reason is nothing more than something that just happens.
And I couldn’t remember so I sat down on the stoop, didn’t want to read it was the midafternoon so I lit a smoke and just stared at nothing but looking through my blurry eyes the day was a beauty, and I don’t remember how it all happened, this life and this what-ever-it-is; I’m not sure how I am here; sometimes things just happen, and there’s always a cause.
Sometimes things just happen. Sometimes your knee begins to hurt. Sometimes you grow a little bit older. Days and clouds change, and the biggest moon you’ll ever see the rest of your life, tonight; it’s going to happen, and it’s all going to end. Not now-maybe not next year, but one day, it will.
Sometimes it just happens. Call it a bluff or a stacked deck of cards. Call it arthritis settling in, and who’s that reflection in the mirror it’s … YOU.
And sometimes it just happens. Sometimes you’re no longer relevant, and sometimes you lose sleep for things that make no sense. Sometimes there’s a killer virus on a planet in space somewhere near the middle of a milky way galaxy. And it happened, I don’t know why. Null in void please see the customer service desk. Sit down. Pull a number. Take a rain check, please wait for the answer.
Kid, did you know, that what you’re looking for might be a number, at least it was in a book about hitchhiking not written by Jack Kerouac…
And I wonder how Sal Paradise would have handled the pandemic. He’d be sitting on his duffle bag on the porch getting sticky. Bug bites looming…
He’d be nagging ma saying, I WANT TO GET ON THE GREAT BEYOND MA. NEED ME SOME FRESH WORDS. STUCK IN THIS HOUSE MA. WITH NOBODY AND NOTHING NEW MA. WITH THIS CAT MA. STUCK INSIDE WITH YOU MA. I NEED THE ROAD MA. CAN’T GET OUT NOW MA.
And good ol Sal if he was born today his story of America and Dean couldn’t be told. No endless sentences without break, and no spontaneous creation nor no beat in Detroit, with no food and sleeping in the library reading about the woods and the Oregon trail. There’d be no highway and no popping bennies or sleepless nights in Denver. Be no Brooklyn bridge and no close calls with cops. There’d be no Marylou and no dying in Mexico City. There’d be no protagonist and there’d be no writer, at least the same kind of writer that actually happened.
There’d be no old man drunk man-no-big sur- Kerouac-man. He’d say, COME ON MA. DON’T KNOW HOW TO MOAN ME NO POEMS MA. DON’T NEED ANYMORE PROUST OR WHITMAN MA. DON’T WANT TO READ MA. DON’T KNOW HOW TO DREAM MA. DON’T WANT TO JUST BE HERE NOW AND BE ME … MA.
I WANT TO WRITE A NEW ERA MA. I NEED TO SET SAIL AND TO LEAVE IT ALL BEHIND MA. NO FUTURE HAPPENING HERE MA. I LOVE YOU MA BUT I HAVE TO GO NOW MA. I AM A WRITER … MA … I CAN SIT AROUND AND DIE LATER MA. ZEN … ZEN … IT’S NOT WORKING MA. I’M READY TO FIND HELL. MA.
And, sometimes it just happens, and Kerouac is gone too, but somewhere Sal is alive alone quarantined thinking back on his life. But no Jack Kerouac wasn’t made for this world. But then again, I don’t think any of us are meant for any particular time. We just are, when we are…
Sometimes, it just happens.