"upon hearing that Kerouac died fifty years ago yesterday"

Christ, I'm bad at anniversaries. I wrote this poem last year, and I've edited it a few times since. Earlier this week I remembered the anniversary of Jack Kerouac's death was coming up and meant to share this on time, but no dice. At least I posted it on the anniversary of writing it, for whatever that's worth.

Now would be the time to share some thoughts on Kerouac, but it's late and the poem says enough for the time being. Take it easy, folks.

DAS

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"upon hearing that Kerouac died fifty years ago yesterday"

Ti Jean drank his way outta here
50 years ago yesterday.
I wonder: was it
coming face to face with
the no-comfort of the Dharma?
Back to the bottle and Mother Mary
when it became clear that
all there was to rest upon
was emptiness?

I understand, Jack
and I forgive you for it.
Death and Florida
are sometimes all you can hope for
and the three marks of existence
can make for one sad hollow
flesh trip.

Hope you're safe in heaven dead
and I wish this world
hadn't been so eager
to show its ugly true face.

10.22.19