Jazz Killed Itself

 POEM

Jazz killed itself

But don't let poetry kill itself

Don't be afraid

  of the cold night air

Don't listen to institutions

when you return manuscripts to

     brownstone

dont bow & scuffle

          for Edith Wharton pioneers

or ursula major nebraska prose

just hang in your own backyard

   & laugh play pretty

        cake trombone

& if somebody give you beads

  juju, jew or otherwise,

sleep with em around your neck

Your dreams'll maybe better

There's no rain

    there's no me,

I'm tellin ya man

     sure as shit

1959

poem by Jack Kerouac

taken from "Scattered Poems", 1971