Kerouac told me the other day
about downs, and ups
broken tibias, and long yardage,
then the pull of words
to Columbia

the push of words when he soured
when he fought, when he failed. (Fuck Lou, hard.)

He was hurt, i think, i wonder.

I am sure
i heard him downtown, it was his echo

he was drunk
on Moody street, muttering in french
I think embarrassed to go home
and let his mother see
how beaten he was

I told him, “Ti-jean, life is not a garbage pile
it is a junk store.”

he slurred a laugh
i wish i knew him better, i wish
but he is gone.

so we disappeared Good men
very very good men, back into the poetry of his liver
there by the gate of Edson cemetery.