The Return of Joaquin Kerouaco

Hey FAM Generation,

I don't know, but we gotta go. EN EL CAMINO. It won't be my dream that screws up this time.

So in Providence when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down draw bridge watching the long, long skies over Rhode Island and sense all that raw word that rolls in one unbelievable huge stanza over to the Western Front, and all that paper going, all the people writing on the immensity of it, and in Iowa I know by now the poets must be crying in the land where they let poets cry, and tonight the FAM'll be out, and don't you know that God is Captain Seaweed? The evening caesura must be drooping and shedding her semantic whims on the Eastern Shore, which is just before the coming of electric eels that bless the SAAB, darken all the shades, pour the wine and indent the final line, and nobody, nobody knows what's going to happen to poetry since the formal rags are growing old. I think of Stevie B, I even think of Old Stevie B the father we never found, I think of Stevie B.

Love,
JK