Adieu Ti Jean
Ashley Shelby
[ashelby@indiana.edu]
I dreamt of Jack Kerouac last night
Finally
A queer little plot thickened by
Tea and tables
His hair was perfect, I remember seeing the tracks
Of the comb in his moist, dark hair and the part
The part was ruler perfect and lily-white skull
Aaah, I was so close to him so close
I touched his scoop collar and his shiny cross
It was tangled in the hairs on his chest
He sat across from me at that long oak table
And spoke no words, no haikus, no blues
Knowing it all a bohissatva nursing a bottle of Port
So sweet, still
Shy eyes watching me listen to someone
Shyer than I thought although I might have expected it
Drink, drinker
Can you bear to talk to me?
Oh no? Fine then.
Let's just eye each other
And you can smile at me, Bashful
I know you are cataloging my eyes and my shiny
Face the music too in your little notebook
I see you pull it out of your breast pocket at least four times
During our tandem stare.
But just having your eyes turn to me, I felt
Holy somehow but not because you're
Holy
Holy because I was sitting across from the ghost that
I love more than my mother
When I awoke, I thought it might still be real
But I saw my image in the mirror and it was
Still me
Not
The girl who sat across from you at the table
She was prettier than this morning reflection.
Oh but it was me, mind you
It was me who you wrote about
In fact, I found that sketch on my bedside table
One of your
Pops
You said
Simple Imitation
Producing poor
Replication
Of sound and
Second-rate
Pops
You said
Elevated hearts
Sing in whispers
For me
Far better in death,
Sakymuni
Than in life
Fetch that word for me and lay it gently
On my Lowell bed
Then you may dream all you like
And I will see you and not your prettier
Mirror girl
I took that sketch and took
A match to it
Burning your words will do more for truth
Than looking in that morning mirror
My own abode in pain is safer
Than my preferred abode in dreams
Give me life with its pain
I'd rather
Feel myself than your ghostwhisper breath
Tyke is dead, sweet one
TragicCat upside down in your arms no more
Crawl back to your Sea and chase Joyce in the curling tide
Memere calls
I know you will fly but tell me
Are you okay now?
Good. Then leave the notebook
With me.
© 1998 Ashley Shelby, all rights reserved
appears here by permission
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Guess the only thing I should say about my work is that it is about
Jack Kerouac and my pseudo-obsession with him. He is my favorite writer
but I never had a dream about him. One day I did and wrote this poem.
Editor's note: I could not resist adding this sig-line
from one of Ashley's email messages to us [K.L.]:
"But let the mind beware, that though the flesh be bugged,
the circumstances of existence are pretty glorious."
-- Kerouac, The Dharma Bums
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