Kerouac whizzed and hummed. He lived with smoldering zest a crumbling highway within. He took to this unlighted highway, equal parts tour guide and lost little lamb, nuzzling a candle, believing that even the littlest light would make him brave, being brave was important, he was not brave, he was very brave, the pendelum hosted two faces, and rebellion was never far away. Perhaps bravery is brightly colored balloons we blow up, hold for a while, then bequeath to the sky. Jack tacked up pictures of himself as a legend in the quaint bedroom of his mind, childhood as a kingdom would prevail within, if not without … without meant a consortium of doubts which would slay, assail, scour. How to claim the first gold of one’s visions? How to ennoble lyrics as if blessed by right rain and river’s memory? Mystical concerns. Littleboy ambitions. A beggar’s opulent banquet, untouched as thin blue baroque smoke woven into edible cursive.
