What a weird day

What a weird day

I met Kerouac once.

He was wearing a white and pink

Short-sleeved button-down.

I met Neal Cassidy once.

He stood with him- -

that fateful day.

He wore navy blue.

Before that...

A woman was dealing—

Dealing bad.

She needed a piece

Of my spirit.

and

I gave it away.

Told myself I had it to spare.

I always forget how deep my grave

Of grievance and despair.

Dragging the feet belonging

To a vacuum of a man

Dampening his revving rapture to relieve.

A stranger's hand in mind.

I had stepped into

An altered reality.

Not actually, but maybe.

I cut through a brick tunnel

something different on the other side.

Lugging my craft

In the heat of summertime.

There is a young boy and girl dancing

To the song

Of a musician trying to make it.

Don't bother asking,

yes, I am addicted.

But there they were.

Jack and Neal.

In plain sight before me.

Walking towards them.

Jack looked at me.

I said, “Are you...”

And Neal grinned.

A truly sinister grin,

one that was electric with truth.

He was restraining

holding tightly the reins of his heart.

Words will always dampen

a moment of proof.

Jack chuckled out the side of his mouth.

“Would you like a beer kid?”

I looked down, and they were splitting a pack.

I grabbed it

Shook their hands.

“Are you…”

“Thank you.”

The only words I said to them.

That fateful day.

I have to stop writing this poem everytime.

I just stare out my apartment window.

Watch branches sway.

Listen to Jazz.

Presumably listening to jazz.

If you can listen to such a thing.

It's just sort of there

and you're with it.

The essence of the saxophone's swing.

“Would you like a beer, kid?”

I crossed the street-

And watched them walk away- -

Laughing and hugging- -

The back of their heads

More and more distant.

Until I take the corner- -

Until.

A n inferno behind the eyes

of red bricks once passed by.

I am alive again.

There is a sweaty beer

In my grip.

I think nobody

Will believe

My brief trip to the underworld,

nor do I care.

I have this beer.

This cold and sweaty beer.

In ones that wrote books--

books that set my heart on fire.

Now, in my shakey ones

the ones who try to create and aspire.

I tuck it in my bag

Later in my fridge.

Where it sits.

Waiting for the day

I publish my first book.

Or I have a kid.

Or the world is ending.

Or when it is saved.

Whichever moment is

bliss with jazz

I believe I will just know when, and

I will crack the beer's cymbal,

And I’ll have a toast

With my dead friends.

I took out a pen and paper

tried to write this poem that day

but all I could come up with was this:

Oh, moon river

Please give me a kiss.

Oh, sunny day

Hold me tight.

What a weird day.