JACK KEROUAC’S FUNERAL
Where’s St. Jean Baptiste Church?
a sunoco gas-station
at the end of the Rt. 495 cut-off
DOWNTOWN LOWELL the sign
Oh, Saint John da Baptis’!
Hey, Harry (over the door H.H. Johnson)
where’s saint john’s
a guy draining the oil
of a car on the lift yells
jus’ keep goin’ til you can’t go no more
turn lef’ an’ you’re on mer-mak street
that’s frenchtown, up abouta halfamile
the second part is
finding jean baptiste in a rundown
wounded neighborhood
gaping spaced lots waiting for urban renewal
like an old hag waiting for false teeth
stop in a coffeeshop
cupacoffee at the counter, readin’ the Lowell Sun obituary
suffering a massive hemorrhage
a former Lowell Sun sportswriter
French literary
prizes Maggie Cassidy, which tells of
his life and times, in fictional form, at
Lowell High School
On the Road
“beat” refers to beatific
a bridge
between the Lost Generation ... and the heirs of
the Beat Generation, the hippies
educated at Lowell ... went on to
Columbia in New York where he played football
(me too, me too)
guy comes in
give me the two crull-er, eh? and’ coff-ee to go.
frenchtown
I thinks of maggie, the scene where
he’s sittin’ on the can and she’s blowin’ him
tryin’ to get him to stay home insteads goin’ off
to college, he wantin’ the city, writin’
leavin’ her and the life of a railroad brakeman behind
yeah, I thinks, this is where
the tenement three-deckers
the backlot pickup baseballs games in the twilight
before the mothers callin’ kids home
to Fridaynight fish fries
and the omnipresent sacred heart of Jesus calendar
hung on the inside of the bathroom door
in french naming the saintsdays
are
an’ wow here’s the merrimack river
rocks and the riverwater’s in the three channels
Jesus! I thinks, just like
southbridge I knew it
across the street from the church
a young guy says, They’re goin’ to have it
at eleven I says Where’s the home
(meaning where’d the kerouacs life) but
he says up the street at archambeault’s
so the third part is
in archambeault’s funeral hom
where I come back into the real french-canadian
idea of class
a room marked MR JACK KEROUAC
and there he is, in the casket
the place is empty except for this
like maybe crazy college kid standing against the wall
with a funny smile on his lips
I kneels and prays (one for cynthia) looks and
jesus jack you are still there, your
soul? yes, soul, is still there
you look mighty like my uncle pete
in your bowtie and check jacket, rosary beads
clasped in your hands (badly crinkled)
and your classic features, greek statue lips
long straight nose
noble, remember?
WORK LOVE SUFFER Kerouac motto
next to the bier a coupla dozen roses shaped into a valentine
the red satin ribbon bearing the gold legend
GUARD THE HEART
who sent it?
guy comes in whips off his winter jacket
plunks down on the pew wrings his hands
sighs loud tears O JACK I MADE IT JACK
mrs kerouac, stella, comes in
the guy comes up with rheumy words
are you mrs kerouac I’m VERY sorry
holding her right hand in both of his
until she pulls it away
tight jaw and dry eyes
deep lines and black depression trenches
in her face, the veil, anguish
like shot in the stomach but tryin’ not to cry out
Ginsberg comes in with Corso
(a long navyblue coat rasputin wore)
allen stands bending at the waist talking
to mrs kerouac saying how he and gregory
will make a movie about the funeral
and she looks up and says
Do what you want
but I never want to see you again
he bows (quiet guru) and goes to corso
and the sound of the goddam camera whirring
out on the street I hears the merrimack
rushing over its rock
standin’ on the high bridge the wind
bright with october morning blue sky
I hear
boys in bathingsuits yelling running barefooted
over 1935 rocks
a lowell tech kid walking by says
don’t jump christ, do I look that bad
I see
jack straying along the river thinkin’
about serpentine monster in the core of the planet
getting ready to rise, its sulphurous snake-eyes springing
into the atmosphere of lowell and rising
like a rocket menacing the cellstructure of the universe
it rises and rises
until it fall into innocent atoms
poor emerson
only dr sax KNOWS the universe cleans up after itself
there’s three-decker
with clotheslines of sheets flapping white
and jack is up there
with a jug of wine, only
it’s the GREAT AMERICAN NIGHT and stars
like headlights cruising down turnpikes of eternity
jack’s gettin’ a little high
lookin’ from off that rooftop to the river
thinkin’ of his old buddies
sampas maybe, thinkin’ of who and what
regrets, finally remorse
loving God in the mountains of washington
burnt out on his friends in frisco
buddha burns in the shacks of berkeley
go on loving, dying somewhere between
the artist and the man take your choice
be a artist or a human person
the artist
will make a movie of his friend’s deathtime
I thinks, judge no lest ye be judged
ginsberg is just then driven into the parkinglot
behind the church
judge not WORK LOVE SUFFER
the next part is the funeral
father morrisette speakin’ with that fren ch’accent
of the sins of israel (judge not)
so beautiful he prays
please Father forgive your servant jack
for any sins ‘e may ‘ave commit-ted in this life
in black vestments with gold trim
the church high vaulted ceilings, paintings of the saints
and jean, john, jack baptizing in the jordan the young christ
Are you the messiah?
No, I am but a voice crying in the wilderness.
The eulogy
jack lived around here and came to this church
even when he was a boy he used to come
to the rectory and talk about how he wanted to write
to express the feelings he had in words
we encouraged him
he left us and went out and made a great name
and wrote his writings
I read his books
some say his books are indecent
but I could see that they were a great force for good
because jack had a vision
of the freedom of the human spirit
and spoke against every form of bullying he met
now he is at rest
said father morrisette and I guess everybody just knows
jack’s going to heaven to be with gerard
around the casket shaking the censor
ncense rising to the rhythm of the bells
holy water beading up on the bronze
the old man with the crucifix leading the procession to the doors
the casket down the steps
into the tv camera
Anne Charters in cloth coat, creeley
a reporter takes jimmy breslin’s statement
and the last part is
out at the cemetery down along the avenues of the dead
mrs kerouac no tears not once
the priest, I am the life the resurrection
tv cameras churning corso’s camera whirring
mrs kerouac leaving as soon as the final
syllable of the glory be evaporates
ginsberg handing the camera to creeley
he using the one eye into the eyepiece
a shot of corso ginsberg laying a yellow carnation on the casket
the eternal celluloid record
I guess
creeley is another true artists
drivin’ down south home through towns
stow and bolton and marlboro I hears jack sayin’
all american authors are insane you gotta be crazy
to be a writer in this country
angleheaded hipsters in the starry dynamo
of the night all mad for life generating this
spontaneous bop prosody
exactly one year before
I write
dear jack,
please don’t die
write more books instead
now he is at rest
and I’m goin’ home to make a poem
of jack’s deathtime
I’ll just keep goin’ til I can’t go no more
turn lef’ and there he’ll be
from Crying In the Cheap Seats