προγραφές

POEM

I demand that the human race
ceases multiplying its kind
and bow out
I advice it

And as punishnment & reward
for making this plea I know
I'll be reborn
the last human
Everybody else dead and I'm
an old woman roaming the earth
groaning in caves
sleeping on mats

And sometimes I'll cackle, sometimes
pray, sometimes cry, eat & cook
at my little stove
in the corner
"Always knew it anyway,"
I'll say
And one morning won't get up from my mat

1962

* * *

HOW TO MEDIATE

--lights out--
fall, hands a-clasped, into instaneous
ecstasy like a shoty of heroin or morphine,
the gland inside of my brain discharging
the good glad fluid (Holy Fluid) as
I hap-down and hold all my body parts
down to a deadspot trance - Healing
all my sickness - erasing all - not
even the shred of a "I-hope-you" or a
Loony Ballon left in it, but the mind
blank, serene, thoughtlss. When a thought
comes a-springing from afar withits held-
forth figure of image, you spoof it out,
you spuff it off, you fake it, and
it fades, and thought never comes - and
with joy you realize for the first time
"Thinking's just like not thinking -
So I don't have to think
any
more"

1967

Jack Kerouac, Scattered Poems, publisher: City Lights Books