poem of the day 06.18.10

this bitter redundant pill

standing outside another
jack kerouac home
this one he lived in from
1943-1949
someone stole the plaque
commemorating this feat of existence
so we go across the street
into the bar where jack used to
put back pints
with neal cassady, allen ginsberg,
and his oedipus complex

we have done this so many times
you and i
visiting these old tombs
from new york to frisco
all over london and paris

we walked until our feet bleed
the history poured out of our souls
taking photos next to fading plaques
and even more opaque memories
drinking in taverns, like this one,
places of legend without the shine

it satisfies for a moment
but it never gets us anywhere

i mean we never
really get to touch the times we’re seeking
we just fester in our own
half-forgotten already
before we even had a chance

i tell you
you know, seeing all of these places is fine
but it’s like swallowing a bitter pill sometimes
knowing that no one will ever do it for you

you look at me like i don’t know
what i’m talking about

i think
that’s good
that’s good

because maybe i don’t know
what i’m talking about either

and once we finish our beers
i promise that i’m going to get myself together
because we need to get on the train
back to brooklyn
because the address for henry miller’s
boyhood home
is burning a hole
in my back pocket.