We're all friends here, right?

Well then, here's some self-indulgent crap I wrote.

Helped write a show awhile back called “On the Road with Jack”. The premise of it was stories inspired by Jack Kerouac’s ‘On the Road’. I came into it a little late in the process but I wrote a few pieces for it and was happy with the results. The great thing about the show was that that’s a pretty large canvas to paint on, things that are inspired by that book and travel in general. My downfall was that I didn’t think about it enough and am still coming up with ideas for it 2+ years later.

One of the untapped niches in it, for my taste, was the Beat style. There was a couple of Beat pieces in it and some poetry stuff. I wrote a Beat-ish piece called Postcards, which was postcards to different towns I’ve visited, referring to the towns as if they were people. However, I would have liked to experiment with multiple voices going simultaneously. I wrote this today, thinking along those lines.

It’s made for four voices, male and female. Once one person completes their ‘beat’, they begin repeating the last words (think “Row, row, row your boat”) until the end of the cycle comes with everyone repeating their last line forming the sentence “Walking after midnight whistling a tune about my baby, trying to get home before the sun comes up.”

It’ll probably never be performed or used so I figured I’d throw it out there. It’s poetry, but it’s Beat poetry which is sort of forgivable, right?

"Walking after midnight whistling a tune about my baby, trying to get home before the sun comes up."

VOICE 1:
Stole a pack of cigarettes from out my mom’s brown purse,
Crept out through the window like a President’s black hearse.
Wind colder than vinyl seats in a pick-up out December,
Twisted my ankle on a dirt road path; I swore I would’ve remembered.
Only myself, the moon and air and no other care there in sight,
And the cherry warms my face up, when I’m out walking after midnight.

VOICE 2:
Runny plate of eggs, abetted by a stringy black hair,
Worked morning until evening and after dark still didn’t care.
And the diner is all quiet, just the clink from plates being washed,
Then Sally took off her hairnet, cleared her face off with a toss.
She asked if Derrick’s coming, and he answers, “I may be,”
I’m sitting by myself, whistling a tune about my baby.

VOICE 3:
He staggered out the backdoor, and fell off into the ditch.
It was afternoon when he went in, but now it’s strictly pitch.
And he went in with a longing, and left without it filled,
If there’d been oncoming traffic, he’s likely to be killed.
No job or name or no ID, a relative unknown,
Armed only with some sadness, just trying to get home.

VOICE 4:
Smelling sweeter than some honeysuckles, doused in Parisian perfume,
Decked out in my red dress, probably why he came too soon.
Check myself in a mannequin window, breath left where I had stood.
Can’t bring myself to use my jacket, even though I know I should.
I suppose I should be true to my lover, I feel like I’ve had enough,But I guess I’ll do this forever, if I’m back before the sun comes up.