Jack Kerouac by "Weird" Ace Blues

On scrolls of paper rolled around his typewriter,
he wrote the cinematic reals of his life,
he rode the enigmatic musings of his stir,
he rowed the crazy racing rapids of his strive,
attempting to get more than just an ordered flow,
an ordained flood he'd follow merely to survive,
an ordinary fold. He wanted so to go,
go, go, to keep on moving from all that he was.
He was an arrow speeding through axe-handle holes,
a kerosine acetylene, lit, beat, pure jazz,
wherever he would go, a river of raw nerve,
a braZen Dharma bum upon Mount NeveRest.