a poem dedicated to Jack Kerouac
Stuck in park is the motion of the comfort zone
When a man refuses to read the news
In three inch headlines
Written on his circumstances.
Sooner or later the craving comes.
Packing up your memories
And loading up your own ride
Gets you one step closer
Once you decide to take the wheel
And put yourself in drive.
Riding with strangers and carnival caravans
Make for entertaining companions
On a journey to nowhere special
Especially when you wake up alone.
The greasy spoons and apply pie
May fill the belly for a good time
Until the wait staff and the whore
Comes to collect for the quickie.
It\'s best to carry homemade sandwiches
Then bellyache over wasted time.
Listening to the radio is landscape for the soul
When your toes tap to Credence Clearwater Revival
And your windswept hair declares freely
“I\'m no fortunate son.”
Your own hands imitate your heart\'s desires.
A man can only do what he has in front of him.
The rear view mirror and the horizon
Bear eerie resemblance when your eyes
Stretch out to make sense of past or future
And accepts either way is beyond control.
The driver\'s seat is all about going forward not straight
You\'ll find curves are all too numerous
Nobody makes headway without trouble
Even the experts will tell you
New wheels get worn out sometime.
We all outgrow the cradle sooner or later
And find that pure water always remains in motion
The essence of purity is the ability to change
You can stay on the porch and fade
Or write your destiny anew on the road.
Copyright © 2015 Charles Edward York
No part of this poem may be used or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any way or form or by any means electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise without the written permission of the author.*