Ode to Jack2

by alyssa bozekowski

Continuing on my quest to figure out my dreams and write about them I still turn back to Jack Kerouac. I really enjoyed this piece and wish to share it with you

Immense sagas all night long, fantastic detailed nightmares of me losing my pants twice in a row & being sought by the police also as a sex pervert because I have so much to do with young high school boys and girls while losing my pants- i talk to them eagerly with some flimsy scarf over my thigh- ugh-a strange exultant queer saint of some kind- The first time I’m getting on a local passenger train, it’s going down the line of white radiant land, commuting school kids are jammed in it- I’ve already been up to something all night- involved with youngsters in the same way as the flophouse of Chicago dreamed in the Greensboro Salvation Army- I get on the train a sort of official brakeman but somehow I lost my pants, I try to cover up but the cloth or scarf keeps slipping to show my thigh, my cock with no hardon, I hope no one sees- it’s “just like” the dream in the crummy 5 nights before, Waldo Walters’ wife is in a caboose with me, dotty, we talk excitedly and intimately and suddenly just as she’s going to show me the important point Waldo comes in and simultaneously her skirt falls open to reveal a tiny cock which is “a woman’s” nonetheless I insist- a woman with a cock, that’s all- and Waldo sees what we’ve been up to in a “wrong light,” we had “no sexual intentions”- same way, my little cock shows- and I’m blushing to cover up, my milky thighs without hair- somehow I get into the yard of a great lost school like the Horace Mann of my dreams but situated in a radiant New Britain California Land and there still pantless I’m plotting to get them back and some kids see me from the classroom windows (like the windows of the Queens General Hospital which were in an orange wall that bore the imprint dust stain of a former huge portrait there hung, picture of my diploma or brother or mother I forget, or me)- teachers are dissatisfied, call police (all the talk the details, forever elude us!)- I sneak around looking for my pants- Then in a gigantic house with hundred foot ceiling I have all my poems, manuscripts, all of them sexual, crazy, revealing, skewered around among records and books and a whole bunch of high school kids with me laughing at my antics and description of when I lost my pants but now they know I’m crazy and are cruel in jest, the cops are coming, I sneak back down there to recover my culpable revealing manuscripts, “shh” I say to Emil Ladeau, “the lady upstairs’ll hear you!”- we look up, in a 4th floor window is poor harmless Mrs. Garden!!!!!!- (Emil Ladeau I insulted once for his nose, in that John MacDougald workshop dream)-Mrs. Garden wont say nothing, I’ll have time-“It was horrible, I had no pants here the last time, cops are after me naturally, twice an offender” I’m saying-and a thousand rattly crazy things also-I have the same terror as in an old Henry Street dream where I murdered somebody or was a witness, and hid a revealing manuscript in a trash basket, it was pink, like lobsters, towels and walls of hospitals- Only yesterday I was feeling guilty for writing “Doctor Sax,” “On the Road,” a sheepish guilty idiot turning out rejectable unpublishable wildprose madhouse enormities- Ah, come to papa do, -the high school girls were cruel, the boys too- it wasnt my fault I lost my pants, they eluded me on the Aiken St. bridge somehow- it is such a terrifying bridge, you walk on narrow cables, it’s immense as the world- At the end, I’m watching from a tenement top window like Julien’s Dostoevskyan loft, like the George Jessel New York tenements on the upper east end- all the children are playing on the opposite roof, nets are stretched across the court to catch the ones that fall, when they do the other kids watch smiling- the fallen ones cries in the net- I told you it was cruel- the mothers are not too concerned- “why cant they play on the sidewalks,” I say,- “there’s no room, civilization is too vast now” -Guilt is a dream, pity is the only reality… (pg 21, Jack Kerouac)