I just found out it’s Jack Kerouac’s birthday. In honor of which, the title poem from my collection, Finding Oakland. I had been reading On The Road – and evidently Crime & Punishment too – and was inspired. I still can’t read the last paragraph of On The Road without being moved, sometimes to the verge of tears. The man had a way with words.
The epigraph was used with permission of Stella Kerouac. Really. It’s good to get permission and not just take.

FINDING OAKLAND

            “because here we were dealing with the
            pit and prune juice of poor beat life itself
            in the god awful streets of man.”
                                                            Kerouac

In my heart, I have come back to
San Francisco, which sprang up
on the edge like a condemned man’s
last meal, where patience and action
are futile. I have come to kneel
where only prayer is valid.

In the Steinhart Aquarium, my brother
longed to swim in the cool peace.
In a dream I saw him on the BART,
plunge beneath the bay, searching
for water. But he rose up,
finding Oakland. He stepped
from the train, saying “we are
like men who have lost their legs.”

 In a dream I saw him walking
south on Mission Street, turning
into an alley and a dark pawnshop.
Like poor Raskolnikov, the price
was just too high. The fog
lingered about the hills, anointing
the housetops, hanging from street lights.

Then Jesus rose up through the steam
in the street, parting the traffic,
leveling light on everything.
Dragging the curtain torn in two.
An army of angels marched
down from Bolinas,
swinging the broken chains.