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Jack Kerouac,
Under a pine tree
Is trying to make love
To the empty mountains.
It’s true he sees knowing
Like some silly older brother,
Stems from knowing nothing really:
“There’s nothing to be afraid of
and nothing to be glad about.”
That’s his golden emptiness.

And chilled on-edge trying to drown
Out the semblance of emptiness,
I ring myself in remembrance;

You see I was shown a map last night,
And with the primal terror of a child
I saw bangs falling into bangs,
And the great ground swell coming back
And all of this sustained by pulse,
Pulse which would scoop you up in a wave
Try as you might,
To sit alone under a pine tree,

And It forbade you from saying profound words
To empty people, or nothing at all
After all your words can’t be taken back
There they are striving,
Only to be a little more child-like.