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Kerouac’s Grave 

I found his grave.
and, as you might expect,
there were bottles,
cigarette butts,
paper tributes
and the sharp smell of pot ash.

Everybody wants to party with Jack.
Everybody thinks they know Jack.

They shower his grave with addictive substances and bad poetry.

Six feet above his corpse they made love,
smoked and drank
while he slept on the couch.
I’m late for the party,
But Jack is still on the couch.
I watch him sleep for a few minutes
and go back home.

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Speaking of Poetry

  • A poem by D. Rush

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