Jack Kerouac sat back ran his bony fingers through his black hair
his body sober but his soul drunk, hung over a typewriter
like a sheet on a clothes line
drying under the sun
madly dashing in the breeze
gruff and grumbling gears
spitting calculated ink tobacco juice aims
thought pounds being weighed at market
slaughtered and shipped wrapped up in packaging
and stacked neatly in rows.
The typewriter
made each word important
an architecture of black bone
free-standing
finite mechanical physical.
