POEM
Jazz killed itself
But don't let poetry kill itself
Don't be afraid
of the cold night air
Don't listen to institutions
when you return manuscripts to
brownstone
dont bow & scuffle
for Edith Wharton pioneers
or ursula major nebraska prose
just hang in your own backyard
& laugh play pretty
cake trombone
& if somebody give you beads
juju, jew or otherwise,
sleep with em around your neck
Your dreams'll maybe better
There's no rain
there's no me,
I'm tellin ya man
sure as shit
1959
poem by Jack Kerouac
taken from "Scattered Poems", 1971
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