Kerouac Dream No. 3
January 14, 2016
Kerouac was right, Jazz is a monster
gasping and grasping onto life.
He led me through a glass door into a hidden crypt that preserved the spirit of an aged world.
Smoke lingered in the walls
And the room was damp with sweat.
We weren’t the only ones in on the secret.
Bodies of the past bopped to every vibration.
Their jive talk hardly heard against the music.
Snappy and sinful, hot and heavy, ferociously fast.
They would dance to anything as long as it was Jazz.
Heaven or Hell, you couldn’t decide which.
It never tried to be anything other than what it was,
But there was nothing it was suppose to be.
The sounds made me pant and I could hear him doing the same beside me.
The Dawn of Jazz lingered on our breaths.
Roman candles were burning
And I was one of them.