Book of Blues (Poets, Penguin) by Jack Kerouac

By Jack Kerouac

Top recognized for his "Legend of Duluoz" novels, together with On the Road and The Dharma Bums, Jack Kerouac is additionally an enormous poet. In those 8 prolonged poems, Kerouac writes from the center of expertise within the song of language, using an identical instrumental blues shape that he used to fullest influence in Mexico urban Blues, his principally unheralded vintage of postmodern literature. Edited through Kerouac himself, Book of Blues is an exuberant foray into language and recognition, wealthy with imagery, propelled by means of rythm, and dependent in a reverent attentiveness to the moment.

"In my process, the shape of blues choruses is proscribed via the small web page of the breastpocket computer during which they're written, just like the type of a collection variety of bars in a jazz blues refrain, and so occasionally the word-meaning can hold from one refrain into one other, or now not, like the phrase-meaning can hold harmonically from one refrain to the opposite, or no longer, in jazz, in order that, in those blues as in jazz, the shape depends on time, and by means of the musicians spontaneous phraseology & harmonizing with the beat of time because it waves & waves on by way of in measured choruses." —Jack Kerouac

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43RD CHORUS Little Cody Deaver A San Francisco boy Hung by hair of heroes Growing green & thin And soft as sin From the tie piles Of the railer road Track where Tokay Bottles rust in dust Waiting for the term Of partiality To end up there In heaven high So's loco can Come home Con poco coco. 45 44TH CHORUS Little heroes of the dead Found a nickle instead And bought a Borden half & half Orange Sherbert & vanil milk Trod the pavements Of unfall Frisco Waiting for its earthquake To waver houses men And streets to spindle Drift to fall at Third Street Number 6-15 Where Bank now stands Jack London was born And saw gray rigging At the 'barcadero Pier, His bier commemorated in marble To advertise the stone Of vaults where money rots.

47 46TH CHORUS Babies born screaming in this town Are miserable examples of what happens Everywhere. Bein Crazy is The least of my worries. Now the sun's goin down In old San Fran The hills are in a haze Of Shroudy afternoon— Bent withered Burroughsian Greeks pass In gray felt hats Expensively pearly On bony suffer heads 48 47TH CHORUS And old Indian bo's With no stockings on Just Chinese Shuffle Opium shoes Take the snaily constitutional Down 3rd St gray & lost &c Hard to see. Tragic burpers With scars of snow Bound bigly Huge to find it To the train Of time &C pain Waiting at the terminal.

I also have loud poems: Broken plastic coverlets Flapping in the rain To cover newspapers All printed up And plain. 29TH CHORUS Guys with big pockets In heavy topcoats And slit scar Head bands down The middle of their hair All Bruce Barton combed Stand surveying Harrison Folsom & the Ramp And the redbrick clock Wishin they had a woman Or some money, honey Westinghouse Elevators Are full of pretty girls With classy cans And cute pans And long slim legs And eyes for the boss At quarter of four. 30TH CHORUS Old Age is an Indian With gray hair And a cane In an old coat Tapping along The rainy street To see the pretty oranges And the stores On his big day When the dog's let out.

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