Kerouac Was Here

Idle miles between towns make for great fertile ground for speculative thinking. Germs of hyperspatial ideas stream through open windows to enter the brain and plant themselves in the folds of the intellect.

The whine of the tires spin a hypnotic web over the mind and cloud the eyes to the road ahead.  White broken lines on the pavement penetrate the endlessness of the asphalt and concrete.

Far off int he distance, tiny shapes begin to materialize in the hot, dusty air and time and distance merge to become a town.  Buildings appear as if grown from the ground and stand as silent sentinals against the march of time.

Red, brown, white.  Colors of enterprise covered with the patina of age and decay.  Here and tghere the colors merge to form new shapes to mask the old.

On the side of a tired red building, cut off from the other buildings, several streaks of white appear like grafitti-from the old school-a poem from Jack Kerouac.

In its isolation from all things beat,it gleams as a neon sign flashing . . ."Kerouac was here."