Jesse Glass
New Century Skeltonics For JACK KEROUAC: A TED TALK
MEMERE: Are you Groucho Marx?
TED: No, ma’m. I’m TED.
MEMERE: Are you Dorothy Kilgallen?
SHOULDER-HOLSTER: No ma’m, I’m Shoulder-Holster, a Folk-singing ECO-activist.
MEMERE: Is this the Steve Allen Show?
TED: No, ma’m this is a special TED TALK.
MEMERE: What the hell’s that?
[TED SHRUGS.]
MEMERE: Well, is this Heaven?
[TED AND SHOULDER-HOLSTER LOOKING AT THE AUDIENCE AND SPEAKING AT THE SAME TIME]: I don’t know.
MEMERE: I always thought I’d meet Hugh Downs in Heaven first thing. Where’s Hugh Downs?
OFF STAGE VOICE: Here I am!
[BLACK-OUT]
ACT I.
TED:
I am the hack
From the fishing smack
Who stayed in a shack
With Jack Kerouac
Near the streetcar track
That was pre-Road, and I
Knew that Jack by and by
Would be the famous one
Not just another bum
But a FIGURE OF OUR TIME,
transfiguring lit
even reinvigorating it
from where the false, Akademic
anemic pandemic
of college elitists
Van Dorens and Winters
and Lowells and Eliots
Shapiros and Nemerovs
Jarrells and other profs
had stranded
and branded
rank Individualism
wild spunk, Amerikan jism
as way out of order
as less-than-first-water
as barely pip-pip
what now we call hip
where one couldn’t go
without being in the know
about Latin and Greek
Et les autres classique-
s as the French say
and Love of another way
was found far away
in the darkest shelf corner
where a few could encounter
in meaningful mode
Verlaine and Rimbaud
Whitman and his beau
LGBT
(a new term to me)
the meaning of Gay
interest—but hey!
even that famous hick
who jagged off in the tropic–
s, And wrote Moby Dick
was a whispered-of-topic.
Ass belly cunt and weed
cock, heroin and speed
stripping gears on a T-bird
revolutionized the Word
we know that right now
but back then it was—like, WOW/
a secret Ka-pow!
[BLACK-OUT]
ACT II
TED:
Already Memere
with her stainless steel hair
sprawled in her chair
wrote to Jack “take care”
and that he could share
their single bed
now that Pop’s dead or fled
just like in the old days
when Jack played with marbles
instead of with odd girls
before Jack grew hair
“Here, Here” and then “There”
before his virility
strained his ability.
SHOULDER-HOLSTER:
Muscled legs spread wide
(she had nothing to hide).
on the shrill TV; Tide
commercials spun whitening
Myths almost frightening.
She gets up and stretches
then curses the wretches
her good son calls friends
and always defends.
Ginsberg she doesn’t trust
MEMERE:
(“ a nut-case Communist!”)
S.H.:
Burroughs who stinks of hash
MEMERE:
“But always has some cash,”
S.H.:
Needle marks up his arms
MEMERE:
“Mosquitoes bite him in swarms!”
S.H.:
Orlovsky who cannot think
Corso who reeks of drink.
MEMERE:
“How could he run with them
a good Catholic boy like him?
Communists
Anarchists
Nancies and nihilists
crooks and the Japanese
girls bowing if you please
offering strange disease
along with men’s fantasies
girls who dress up like men,
hookers and Mexicans?
They say Jack’s a crook
but not in my ration book!
who taught him to bugger
to swing hugger-mugger
and call it yab-yum?
where did he learn that from?
probably some street bum!
or a black-listed chum!
Do they think I’m dumb?
Yes I’ve read his writing
his notes, his inditing,
his scribblings all
since he started, this tall”
TED:
(she levels a moist hand
raw from hot water/ “Spic ‘n Span”
on the door-sill a penciled band
plotting Jack’s yeasty growth.
then growls forth another oath.)
MEMERE:
“By the mother of God
my Jack is deserving
of the Nobel award,
but sometimes he’s unnerving.
writing of pimps whores and drugs”
S.H.:
(She stops speaking of thugs
and illicit drugs
to adjust her jugs
with a flurry of tugs
checks the time and then shrugs.)
MEMERE:
“Why not write of pleasant things
like authors in nice magazines
Reader’s Digest, Family Circle?
America’s a miracle
we can’t pledge to enough
why write this dirty stuff?
Red, white and blue
for me and you too!
And that Neal Cassidy!
A jail-bird, naturally—
stealing cars
sleeping in bars
beneath the pool table
to complete the fable;
leaving his beautiful wife—
to flick a switch-blade knife
you call that a life?
They all make me mad
teaching Jack to be bad—.
Snapping their fingers
to be-bop singers
on the radio
shouting ‘Go man, Go!’
blow, baby blow!
making a real show
‘Looka me!’
wherever they happen to go!
Passing bad checks--
I could have wrung their necks!
Hop heads one and all!
So ‘gonged-out’ one red eye-ball
crosses the other—
Jack and this so-called ‘brother’!”
I was never Neal’s mother!
TED:
She spit-shines the trash can:
MEMERE:
“My Jack’s a better man!
Ti-Jean got good grades!
He was our private sage
Writing page after page—
What an imagination
First-rate brain in the nation!
He could have been a movie star,
George Raft, Victor Mature—
‘cause his heart was pure!
But I can’t talk no more
‘cause my throat is sore!
Pardon me while I pray
for God to take my pains away
and for the Virgin Mary
to help me lift and carry.”
S.H.:
She pulls out the Listerine
she saw on the TV screen
sips it like hot champagne
then spits it down the drain.
Now she’s cooking the great
Canuck cuisine plate by plate
she was Jack’s perfect mate
early and late
this lies beyond all debate.
Jack and Memere were fate.
Those fine cooking smells
sustained Jack thru Bardo hells
TED:
If that rings any bells
to those who’ve read the text
of his Beat Buddha sutra, shelved next
to a brail “Howl”
then you can grokk Jack’s scowl
in those final pictures
of Jack wearing dentures
but I knew him when
we were studying Zen
and there’s me again
in the well-known shot
of us smoking pot
at City Lights
(I’m the one dressed in tights).
INTERMISSION
SINGS:
Meaning doesn’t matter much
But nothing else does either
So crowd around you witless bunch
And give your brains a breather
Can you reason? No you can’t!
Logic is old-fashioned
Can you write without such cant
As in your noggin’s fastened
By those modern studies types—
Pimps of every jargon
Who drive their students through the hoops
& Fleece them in the bargain!
So clap your hands and slap your brows
& say “by gum I thought so!”
Hang your brains upon the boughs
Of hat racks ‘cause you’re taught so
Poetry’s diminished now
Who cares about it anyhow?
I’ve heard the Text
Will get it next,
The written word’s a sacred cow!
Clear thinking is forbidden, dear,
As much a sin as killing
Fragmentation’s “scissor here!”
Is taught to all the willing.
Shakespeare’s gone the way of geese
Twain has done no better:
Any text must be suspect
Without a Marxist vetter!
So clap your hands and slap your brows
& say “by gum I thought so!”
Hang your brains upon the boughs
Of hat-racks ‘cause you’re taught so
Collaboration’s all the rage
For those who’ve “gone beyond the page”
Embrace a screen
To show you’re keen
& Soon you’ll be another Cage!
[NERVOUS LAUGHTER, A SCATTERING OF APPLAUSE]
[BLACK OUT]
ACT III
TED:
& Here is the dust
and some of the rust
that rose in a gust
from the famous, but lost
cook-out at Carolyn’s
Neal was out barreling
Ken Kesey’s, “Further”
American murder
proceeded apace
with progress in space
I’m speaking of ‘Nam, dear
that was a time of fear
you weren’t even born then
to witness this Nation
slaughter and burn
then land on the moon
clap claws and skip
at the end of that trip.
Do you believe me now?
Time is Krishna’s cow.
Handsome Jack would have told you
“Let the dharma enfold you”
and sleep in a tent
and drink till you’re bent
and write about love
and dance when you move
to something called bop
and jive when you stop
and grin when they scat
and wear a French hat.
He wrote about hope
his most quoted trope
was a “Poo-bear” God.
Which drug-blistered lobe
or alien probe
did that one erupt from?
at best it’s just ho-hum
weak sentimentality
bathos, banality
suckers them in
to the Kerouac industry
[BLACK-OUT]
ACT IV
TED:
I had to squelch
My need to belch
in front of Lew Welch.
The next day I went sailin’
with Philip Whalen.
He thought I was keen
as a piece of baleen
on the silver screen.
I called him “The Dean.”
He’d read “Paris Spleen”
in the original French
as he sat on a bench
in old North Beach.
He’d found his niche
dressed in his robes
writing his odes
teaching his kinda Zen
to all kinds of men
and women.
He wasn’t a drag, though
he lived in a Zen-do
wearing shoes with a hole
on his own Beat patrol
thinking aloud
before he bowed
to the adoring crowd.
He moved in a cloud
of great-smelling incense
bought for a few cents
(or in England one or two pence.)
I haven’t seen him since
his first great collected
poems were selected
for the “Mother Shucker” Award
of the year”—I was floored
but ultimately bored.
When I heard the good word
I was in a boat, moored
at Stinson beach, by a woven cord.
I ran to the phone
but could get no dial tone,
I felt so alone
when I put in my quarter
plucked out of the water
(I’d seen it out-gleam
the waves’ pearly sheen.
& I fished it out
without making a scene)
so I tried again
when I got back to town
and stopped for a drink
from Vesuvius’ sink
and to wash up a bit
(‘cause I’d started to stink
from my left arm pit.
Then I took a wild shit.)
Whalen’s words are so deft
if I don’t read them daily
I’m truly bereft.
Of Beats one and all
I’m here standing tall
because I can recall
a time when I hiked to see
Rexroth read poetry
and helped Gary Snyder
hunt down a spider
that bit him on the thigh
when he was eating apple pie.
JACK KEROUAC:
Is that you Ted?
TED:
Jack, I thought you were dead!
KEROUAC:
Well, I guess I am, TED.
TED:
Did you hear all that I said?
KEROUAC:
It’s right here in my head!
TED:
Jack, this is my daughter!
KEROUAC:
She’s a tall, cool glass of water!
Nice to meet you miss,
May I have a k…
TED:
So what brings you back?
KEROUAC:
Well, I’m Jack Kerouac,
arrived from the boney back
of old Baron Samedi
whom I rode piggy back and helped with his Santa sack. He’
s Beater than you or me,
and …I dig (as you well know) all poetry
and yours is pretty special, Ted
TED:
I grokk what you just said
so much my cheeks are turning bright red!
KEROUAC:
And your poetic forehead is also red Ted …
I recall way back
We lived in a shack
S.H.:
Near a fishing smack?
KEROUAC:
I see you’ve kept track!
But now I’d like to tie off the cut vein of this verse
which seems like an endless curse
though I’ve written much worse
before I return to my Oldsmobile hearse
and please the Kerouac Nation
with a long-predicted, FINAL BEATIFICATION!!!!!!
[DRUM ROLL BEGINS. THEN KEROUAC RECITES THE FOLLOWING WHILE CLIMBING A LADDER TO THE TOP.]
KEROUAC:
So take me up
You ages.
I climb the
Transparent
Ladder
Of the wind
Into the
Yes & No rain!
I dip my
Poet’s Prehensile Apprehension
Into the slot
In the belly
Of Things-In-
Themselves & hear
The sound of
Worlds worlding
As I clear
The Ground of
Being for
The Work
That must
Be done
For Men &
Women
Of the 21st
Century
To be
Truly
Themselves.
& I didn’t
Have to stay dead
To do this!
I’m beloved
By Nobodaddy
So much!
I can still
Like Buddha
Attend
Great parties
Given in my
Honor if
I must. In-
Stead, let
Me look
Down upon
You from
My ever-increasing
Stack of post-
Humously pub-
Lished, pomes
Sketches, doodlings
Plays, letters,
And novels! I
Stand like
A ladder
To all
Lusty
Hands. This
Is my ascension.
I will not
Return.
Recall my
Sexiness, still
Aimed like a
Gun at the
Pimple on
Your brows? All
Questions are
Answered. I
Decree it.
See the stars
Clarified
By the lenses
In my palms
And the slit
In my side?
I always
Knew I was
Destined for
This. I knew
I would earn
My reward
If I worked
Hard, saved
Every written
scrap, said
Prayers,
Loved my
Ma,
& Cultivated
Connections!
TED:
That’s the mark of great poetry
if you ask me
some real Necromancy
bringing the dead back so you can see
the masters of post-post-post-modern literacy
and I ought to know
as these words ably show
I can go go go!
where only silk Skelton
once danced his Skeltonics
I dance them too in my muscular-rap-licks
that at first glance may seem an awkward meta-prance
but with the right music this old man will dance
with the gamest gals & guys here, I’ll quadruply enhance
the scientific atmosphere.
for I can foot the chicken wing
far better than Sting
and that old man Jagger—
I can run, stand or stagger
much better than he does
and I’m not just a bragger
for spoken or sung
by a poet well-hung
with poetic lore
will prove not to bore
those on chairs or rolling on the floor
END.
Jesse Glass writes: "This play almost appeared at the Boog City Poets Theater in NYC, a year or so ago but they couldn’t find anyone to play Ted’s daughter, Shoulder Holster. The play is written in Skeltonics and is a critique of the Beat industry."
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New Century Skeltonics For JACK KEROUAC: A TED TALK
ENTER TED, A BALDING HIPSTER WEARING A LAB COAT, WHITE PANTS AND WHITE TENNIS SHOES, ABOUT 67.85 YEARS OLD, AND HIS DAUGHTER, A YOUNG WOMAN STILL IN HER 20’S, A FOLK-SINGER/ECO-ACTIVIST WITH A GUITAR. HER PROFESSIONAL STAGE NAME IS SHOULDER-HOLSTER. [APPLAUSE FROM AUDIENCE.] ENTER JACK KEROUAC’S BELOVED MOTHER, MEMERE, GRAY-HAIRED, WEARING A HOUSE DRESS AND AN APRON AND ATTEMPTING TO UNDERSTAND WHY SHE’S SUDDENLY ALIVE. SHE MAY WEAR A STUFFED CROW ON HER SHOULDER, BUT THIS IS OPTIONAL. SHE GINGERLY EASES HERSELF INTO A KITCHEN CHAIR IN FRONT OF AN OLD TV SET. [DEAFENING APPLAUSE.] SHE LOOKS AROUND, SHYLY SMILING, SLIGHTLY AWED, THINKING THAT PERHAPS THIS IS “QUEEN FOR A DAY,” OR “YOU BET YOUR LIFE,” OR “I’VE GOT A SECRET.”
MEMERE: Are you Groucho Marx?
TED: No, ma’m. I’m TED.
MEMERE: Are you Dorothy Kilgallen?
SHOULDER-HOLSTER: No ma’m, I’m Shoulder-Holster, a Folk-singing ECO-activist.
MEMERE: Is this the Steve Allen Show?
TED: No, ma’m this is a special TED TALK.
MEMERE: What the hell’s that?
[TED SHRUGS.]
MEMERE: Well, is this Heaven?
[TED AND SHOULDER-HOLSTER LOOKING AT THE AUDIENCE AND SPEAKING AT THE SAME TIME]: I don’t know.
MEMERE: I always thought I’d meet Hugh Downs in Heaven first thing. Where’s Hugh Downs?
OFF STAGE VOICE: Here I am!
[BLACK-OUT]
ACT I.
TED:
I am the hack
From the fishing smack
Who stayed in a shack
With Jack Kerouac
Near the streetcar track
That was pre-Road, and I
Knew that Jack by and by
Would be the famous one
Not just another bum
But a FIGURE OF OUR TIME,
transfiguring lit
even reinvigorating it
from where the false, Akademic
anemic pandemic
of college elitists
Van Dorens and Winters
and Lowells and Eliots
Shapiros and Nemerovs
Jarrells and other profs
had stranded
and branded
rank Individualism
wild spunk, Amerikan jism
as way out of order
as less-than-first-water
as barely pip-pip
what now we call hip
where one couldn’t go
without being in the know
about Latin and Greek
Et les autres classique-
s as the French say
and Love of another way
was found far away
in the darkest shelf corner
where a few could encounter
in meaningful mode
Verlaine and Rimbaud
Whitman and his beau
LGBT
(a new term to me)
the meaning of Gay
interest—but hey!
even that famous hick
who jagged off in the tropic–
s, And wrote Moby Dick
was a whispered-of-topic.
Ass belly cunt and weed
cock, heroin and speed
stripping gears on a T-bird
revolutionized the Word
we know that right now
but back then it was—like, WOW/
a secret Ka-pow!
[BLACK-OUT]
ACT II
TED:
Already Memere
with her stainless steel hair
sprawled in her chair
wrote to Jack “take care”
and that he could share
their single bed
now that Pop’s dead or fled
just like in the old days
when Jack played with marbles
instead of with odd girls
before Jack grew hair
“Here, Here” and then “There”
before his virility
strained his ability.
SHOULDER-HOLSTER:
Muscled legs spread wide
(she had nothing to hide).
on the shrill TV; Tide
commercials spun whitening
Myths almost frightening.
She gets up and stretches
then curses the wretches
her good son calls friends
and always defends.
Ginsberg she doesn’t trust
MEMERE:
(“ a nut-case Communist!”)
S.H.:
Burroughs who stinks of hash
MEMERE:
“But always has some cash,”
S.H.:
Needle marks up his arms
MEMERE:
“Mosquitoes bite him in swarms!”
S.H.:
Orlovsky who cannot think
Corso who reeks of drink.
MEMERE:
“How could he run with them
a good Catholic boy like him?
Communists
Anarchists
Nancies and nihilists
crooks and the Japanese
girls bowing if you please
offering strange disease
along with men’s fantasies
girls who dress up like men,
hookers and Mexicans?
They say Jack’s a crook
but not in my ration book!
who taught him to bugger
to swing hugger-mugger
and call it yab-yum?
where did he learn that from?
probably some street bum!
or a black-listed chum!
Do they think I’m dumb?
Yes I’ve read his writing
his notes, his inditing,
his scribblings all
since he started, this tall”
TED:
(she levels a moist hand
raw from hot water/ “Spic ‘n Span”
on the door-sill a penciled band
plotting Jack’s yeasty growth.
then growls forth another oath.)
MEMERE:
“By the mother of God
my Jack is deserving
of the Nobel award,
but sometimes he’s unnerving.
writing of pimps whores and drugs”
S.H.:
(She stops speaking of thugs
and illicit drugs
to adjust her jugs
with a flurry of tugs
checks the time and then shrugs.)
MEMERE:
“Why not write of pleasant things
like authors in nice magazines
Reader’s Digest, Family Circle?
America’s a miracle
we can’t pledge to enough
why write this dirty stuff?
Red, white and blue
for me and you too!
And that Neal Cassidy!
A jail-bird, naturally—
stealing cars
sleeping in bars
beneath the pool table
to complete the fable;
leaving his beautiful wife—
to flick a switch-blade knife
you call that a life?
They all make me mad
teaching Jack to be bad—.
Snapping their fingers
to be-bop singers
on the radio
shouting ‘Go man, Go!’
blow, baby blow!
making a real show
‘Looka me!’
wherever they happen to go!
Passing bad checks--
I could have wrung their necks!
Hop heads one and all!
So ‘gonged-out’ one red eye-ball
crosses the other—
Jack and this so-called ‘brother’!”
I was never Neal’s mother!
TED:
She spit-shines the trash can:
MEMERE:
“My Jack’s a better man!
Ti-Jean got good grades!
He was our private sage
Writing page after page—
What an imagination
First-rate brain in the nation!
He could have been a movie star,
George Raft, Victor Mature—
‘cause his heart was pure!
But I can’t talk no more
‘cause my throat is sore!
Pardon me while I pray
for God to take my pains away
and for the Virgin Mary
to help me lift and carry.”
S.H.:
She pulls out the Listerine
she saw on the TV screen
sips it like hot champagne
then spits it down the drain.
Now she’s cooking the great
Canuck cuisine plate by plate
she was Jack’s perfect mate
early and late
this lies beyond all debate.
Jack and Memere were fate.
Those fine cooking smells
sustained Jack thru Bardo hells
TED:
If that rings any bells
to those who’ve read the text
of his Beat Buddha sutra, shelved next
to a brail “Howl”
then you can grokk Jack’s scowl
in those final pictures
of Jack wearing dentures
but I knew him when
we were studying Zen
and there’s me again
in the well-known shot
of us smoking pot
at City Lights
(I’m the one dressed in tights).
INTERMISSION
TED:
And now, ladies and gentlemen, let’s put our hands together for SHOULDER-HOLSTER! [APPLAUSE.]
SHOULDER-HOLSTER:
Well, we only have time for one mighty ditty, so here’s “The Organ Grinder’s Song” from my Album, Empty for You: Shoulder-Holster Unplugged.
And now, ladies and gentlemen, let’s put our hands together for SHOULDER-HOLSTER! [APPLAUSE.]
SHOULDER-HOLSTER:
Well, we only have time for one mighty ditty, so here’s “The Organ Grinder’s Song” from my Album, Empty for You: Shoulder-Holster Unplugged.
SINGS:
Meaning doesn’t matter much
But nothing else does either
So crowd around you witless bunch
And give your brains a breather
Can you reason? No you can’t!
Logic is old-fashioned
Can you write without such cant
As in your noggin’s fastened
By those modern studies types—
Pimps of every jargon
Who drive their students through the hoops
& Fleece them in the bargain!
So clap your hands and slap your brows
& say “by gum I thought so!”
Hang your brains upon the boughs
Of hat racks ‘cause you’re taught so
Poetry’s diminished now
Who cares about it anyhow?
I’ve heard the Text
Will get it next,
The written word’s a sacred cow!
Clear thinking is forbidden, dear,
As much a sin as killing
Fragmentation’s “scissor here!”
Is taught to all the willing.
Shakespeare’s gone the way of geese
Twain has done no better:
Any text must be suspect
Without a Marxist vetter!
So clap your hands and slap your brows
& say “by gum I thought so!”
Hang your brains upon the boughs
Of hat-racks ‘cause you’re taught so
Collaboration’s all the rage
For those who’ve “gone beyond the page”
Embrace a screen
To show you’re keen
& Soon you’ll be another Cage!
[NERVOUS LAUGHTER, A SCATTERING OF APPLAUSE]
[BLACK OUT]
ACT III
TED:
& Here is the dust
and some of the rust
that rose in a gust
from the famous, but lost
cook-out at Carolyn’s
Neal was out barreling
Ken Kesey’s, “Further”
American murder
proceeded apace
with progress in space
I’m speaking of ‘Nam, dear
that was a time of fear
you weren’t even born then
to witness this Nation
slaughter and burn
then land on the moon
clap claws and skip
at the end of that trip.
Do you believe me now?
Time is Krishna’s cow.
Handsome Jack would have told you
“Let the dharma enfold you”
and sleep in a tent
and drink till you’re bent
and write about love
and dance when you move
to something called bop
and jive when you stop
and grin when they scat
and wear a French hat.
He wrote about hope
his most quoted trope
was a “Poo-bear” God.
Which drug-blistered lobe
or alien probe
did that one erupt from?
at best it’s just ho-hum
weak sentimentality
bathos, banality
suckers them in
to the Kerouac industry
[BLACK-OUT]
ACT IV
TED:
I had to squelch
My need to belch
in front of Lew Welch.
The next day I went sailin’
with Philip Whalen.
He thought I was keen
as a piece of baleen
on the silver screen.
I called him “The Dean.”
He’d read “Paris Spleen”
in the original French
as he sat on a bench
in old North Beach.
He’d found his niche
dressed in his robes
writing his odes
teaching his kinda Zen
to all kinds of men
and women.
He wasn’t a drag, though
he lived in a Zen-do
wearing shoes with a hole
on his own Beat patrol
thinking aloud
before he bowed
to the adoring crowd.
He moved in a cloud
of great-smelling incense
bought for a few cents
(or in England one or two pence.)
I haven’t seen him since
his first great collected
poems were selected
for the “Mother Shucker” Award
of the year”—I was floored
but ultimately bored.
When I heard the good word
I was in a boat, moored
at Stinson beach, by a woven cord.
I ran to the phone
but could get no dial tone,
I felt so alone
when I put in my quarter
plucked out of the water
(I’d seen it out-gleam
the waves’ pearly sheen.
& I fished it out
without making a scene)
so I tried again
when I got back to town
and stopped for a drink
from Vesuvius’ sink
and to wash up a bit
(‘cause I’d started to stink
from my left arm pit.
Then I took a wild shit.)
Whalen’s words are so deft
if I don’t read them daily
I’m truly bereft.
Of Beats one and all
I’m here standing tall
because I can recall
a time when I hiked to see
Rexroth read poetry
and helped Gary Snyder
hunt down a spider
that bit him on the thigh
when he was eating apple pie.
ENTER A VERY DEAD JACK KEROUAC WRAPPED IN AMERICAN FLAG AND WEARING SUN GLASSES. HE LOOKS LIKE A HAPPY ZOMBIE. [FIERCE APPLAUSE.]
JACK KEROUAC:
Is that you Ted?
TED:
Jack, I thought you were dead!
KEROUAC:
Well, I guess I am, TED.
TED:
Did you hear all that I said?
KEROUAC:
It’s right here in my head!
TED:
Jack, this is my daughter!
KEROUAC:
She’s a tall, cool glass of water!
Nice to meet you miss,
May I have a k…
TED:
So what brings you back?
KEROUAC:
Well, I’m Jack Kerouac,
arrived from the boney back
of old Baron Samedi
whom I rode piggy back and helped with his Santa sack. He’
s Beater than you or me,
and …I dig (as you well know) all poetry
and yours is pretty special, Ted
TED:
I grokk what you just said
so much my cheeks are turning bright red!
KEROUAC:
And your poetic forehead is also red Ted …
I recall way back
We lived in a shack
S.H.:
Near a fishing smack?
KEROUAC:
I see you’ve kept track!
But now I’d like to tie off the cut vein of this verse
which seems like an endless curse
though I’ve written much worse
before I return to my Oldsmobile hearse
and please the Kerouac Nation
with a long-predicted, FINAL BEATIFICATION!!!!!!
[DRUM ROLL BEGINS. THEN KEROUAC RECITES THE FOLLOWING WHILE CLIMBING A LADDER TO THE TOP.]
KEROUAC:
So take me up
You ages.
I climb the
Transparent
Ladder
Of the wind
Into the
Yes & No rain!
I dip my
Poet’s Prehensile Apprehension
Into the slot
In the belly
Of Things-In-
Themselves & hear
The sound of
Worlds worlding
As I clear
The Ground of
Being for
The Work
That must
Be done
For Men &
Women
Of the 21st
Century
To be
Truly
Themselves.
& I didn’t
Have to stay dead
To do this!
I’m beloved
By Nobodaddy
So much!
I can still
Like Buddha
Attend
Great parties
Given in my
Honor if
I must. In-
Stead, let
Me look
Down upon
You from
My ever-increasing
Stack of post-
Humously pub-
Lished, pomes
Sketches, doodlings
Plays, letters,
And novels! I
Stand like
A ladder
To all
Lusty
Hands. This
Is my ascension.
I will not
Return.
Recall my
Sexiness, still
Aimed like a
Gun at the
Pimple on
Your brows? All
Questions are
Answered. I
Decree it.
See the stars
Clarified
By the lenses
In my palms
And the slit
In my side?
I always
Knew I was
Destined for
This. I knew
I would earn
My reward
If I worked
Hard, saved
Every written
scrap, said
Prayers,
Loved my
Ma,
& Cultivated
Connections!
[KEROUAC BALANCES AT THE TOP OF THE LADDER, PULLS NOTEBOOKS AND SCRAPS OF PAPER AND MANUSCRIPTS AND PICTURES OUT OF HIS SHIRT, PANTS POCKETS, AND CROTCH, SHOUTING OUT THE NAMES OF PUBLISHERS. HOLDS THE AMERICAN FLAG OUT LIKE WINGS AND JUMPS. LANDS ON AN OLD MATTRESS WITH THE WORDS “TRULY BEAT” PAINTED ON IT. [DEAFENING APPLAUSE.] MEMERE HUGS JACK AND FRENCH KISSES HIM. JACK WRAPS THEM BOTH IN THE AMERICAN FLAG. TED AND SHOULDER-HOLSTER HOLD UP SIGNS THAT SAY “BEAT FOREVER!” AND “AIN’T THAT SOMETHING?” [NIAGARAS OF APPLAUSE!] KEROUAC AND MEMERE WALK OFF STAGE HOLDING HANDS. BOTH SHOUT: “BUY JACK’S NEW COLLECTED LIMERICKS PUBLISHED BY THE AMERICAN LIBRARY AND ALSO HIS “ADVENTURES OF CLIO THE CITY KITTY” JACK’S NEW EARLIEST DISCOVERED NOVEL WRITTEN WHEN HE WAS BARELY 9 YEARS OLD BUT “A MASTERWORK OF BUDDHA WISDOM THAT SHOWS GREAT INCARNATIONAL POTENTIAL” ACCORDING TO ALLEN GINSBERG AT THE LAST SUMMER PAN-NAROPA SÉANCE AND SOON AVAILABLE FROM SIMONIZED AND SCHUSTER’D.]
TED:
That’s the mark of great poetry
if you ask me
some real Necromancy
bringing the dead back so you can see
the masters of post-post-post-modern literacy
and I ought to know
as these words ably show
I can go go go!
where only silk Skelton
once danced his Skeltonics
I dance them too in my muscular-rap-licks
that at first glance may seem an awkward meta-prance
but with the right music this old man will dance
with the gamest gals & guys here, I’ll quadruply enhance
the scientific atmosphere.
for I can foot the chicken wing
far better than Sting
and that old man Jagger—
I can run, stand or stagger
much better than he does
and I’m not just a bragger
for spoken or sung
by a poet well-hung
with poetic lore
will prove not to bore
those on chairs or rolling on the floor
END.
Jesse Glass writes: "This play almost appeared at the Boog City Poets Theater in NYC, a year or so ago but they couldn’t find anyone to play Ted’s daughter, Shoulder Holster. The play is written in Skeltonics and is a critique of the Beat industry."
posted by mark young at 12:37 PM
1 Comments:
100% readable
100% pleasurable
100% right on the nose
There's your dagger!
Robert Thompson
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