Saturday, June 14, 2008

Kerouac’s Home in Orlando Working

KerouacOrlandoHome

Writes to William S. Burroughs, February, 1958 …. “…writing every night by candlelight, with windows open to moony yards & trees of Muckland Central Florida in Febiary…..”



Little known but Kerouack had a home in Orlando.
On hard ground under a dome of cypress trees
After On the Road. Before the Deluge. About the time He’d hit some money.

Of late the historically & literary minded people in the area bought the home to create a writers retreat. In homage to Jack. It’s a regular neighborhood. A simple street. I got up there this year and got by at the end of day.

Back then. Seemed like the next place for him. But definitely UnKerouacian. The place is northwest of downtown Orlando & far from today’s DisneyWorld & Universal Studios.


The screen door opens & the bebop negros are singing
The blues & jazz & Jack half winking is thinking golden eternity.

It wasn’t happy - The time in Orlando - So far from Lowell.
The grinding cicadas. Looking at the Falstaff - & working at the Underwood.
Taking long buses to New York with a bag of White Castle burgers.

The moss - Hanging glom-like from the trees - Enough for Poe
To ponder – Did it Put Jack upon his knees? Grey in day & night the southern moss at which the Canuck poesy champion looks.

For Jack - Foot up on an orange crate. Mamere calling to check his progress - and
the bleeding heart of Buddha was calling collect.

But then the screen door opens & the bebop negros are singing
The blues & jazz & Jack half winking is thinking golden eternity.

No more On The road. That teletypic experiment event.
Now ducking & now diving. Now In a stream of whiskey. But things Might Work Out.

In the Publisher’s Advance cottage
Writing every night by candlelight
The bungalow & things go south.

It wasn’t happy the place Today We pray
Imaging the Skeeters on the porch
At the end of the road eventually for this whole train holy mother of God.

Snapping mental pictures In haiku notebooks
Of the folks at the bus stn At the grocer cutting the ham.
Jack looking into dharma but mindful restless & weary was packing a steamer trunk of black

He lived with his mother around the corner from sister nin. Makes sense, n’cest pas?

It might have been Swamp gas On lake Adair But he still could wink
And see the secret god grin. Could See the way, awakened, sentient, God-headed, justified, happy.

& then the screen door opens & the bebop negros are singing
The blues & jazz & Jack half winking is thinking golden eternity.

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