Listening to Kerouac read while Davis and Coltrane pray to a jazz god on high…the muttering coolness of notes hit with soul…as Jack’s voice gives voice to us all….

the wanderer’s…the soloists…the lovers…midnight philosophers in taverns whooping and hollering out, Go man go, as poetry is read…glasses are clinked….and beats are linked….

the sounds of solace…an inner peace despite the outer-limits…walking down Clark….or Broadway….or Grand….in rain…sleet…a cold morning fog…button-up and pray to the Buddha you get home safely…

but…where is home…an apartment….a room in a bedbug bitten building of old….maybe a park bench you’ve had your eye on for weeks….only to be lost in the last quarter….

and Kerouac reads while Davis and Coltrane pray…

let us all bow our heads…