…the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars… Jack Kerouac
The yellowed pages had been many places before.
Just as I have.
In truth, the book had been many places more.
From candlestick to wrinkles in time on the road.
Fabled lines where dreamers who dream can go.
in numerous ways,
an outlet for the abused to avoid the scold.
Everything between leather and lace.
Recollections of wonderful sin…
Where the journey begins.
the ecstasy of paper-thin pulp.
A library amassed with the texture of worn wafer.
An effortless phrase would slay a demon.
Chapters bound with heroic souls who made us safer.
Smoked stained pages absorbing all our childhood fears…
All our childhood wages.