Walking in the Shoes of Kerouac

Book of Sketches

One intervening sad English
cone haystack – The
little children of the
Carolina suppertimes see
this & think: “And does
the forest need to eat?
In the night that’s
coming does the forest
know? Why is that dish
cloth hanging there so
still – & like the
forest – has no name
I know of – gloop – ”
Carolyn Blake is making
bacon & eggs & boiled
potatos for supper because
lately the family’s been
eating up breakfast
foods – just cereal & toast –

The Original Scroll

concerned he said, “Go ahead, everything you do is great.” We went to New York, I forget what the situation was, two girls — there were no girls there, they were supposed to meet him or some such thing and they weren’t there. We went to this parkinglot where he had a few things to do — change his clothes in the shack in back and spruce up a bit in front of a cracked shack mirror and so on, and then we took off. And that was the night Neal met Leon Levinsky. A tremendous thing happened when Neal met Leon Levinsky … I mean of course Allen Ginsberg. Two keen minds that they are they took to each other at the drop of a hat. Two piercing eyes glanced into two piercing eyes … the holy con-man and the great sorrowful poetic con-man that is Allen Ginsberg. From that moment on I saw very little of Neal and I was a little sorry too … Their energies met head-on. I was a lout compared; I couldn’t keep up with them. The whole mad swirl of everything that was to come

On The Road

no attention to him. He was conning me and I knew it (for room and board and “how-to-write,” etc.), and he knew I knew (this has been the basis of our relationship), but I didn’t care and we got along fine – no pestering, no catering; we tiptoed around each other like heartbreaking new friends. I began to learn from him as much as he probably learned from me. As far as my work was concerned he said, “Go ahead, everything you do is great.” He watched over my shoulder as I wrote stories, yelling, “Yes! That’s right! Wow! Man!” and “Phew!” and wiped his face with his handkerchief. “Man, wow, there’s so many things to do, so many things to write! How to even begin to get it all down and without modified restraints and all hung-up on like literary inhibitions and grammatical fears …”

“That’s right, man, now you’re talking.” And a kind of holy lightning I saw flashing from his excitement and his visions, which he described so

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