Carson Wolfe
Jack Kerouac Volunteers at Tiny Ted’s Stay & Play
For the free coffee and concentration of women
with low self-esteem. It's practically a service:
The way he winks at Evelyn, summoning her
first smile since the emergency c-section.
Bites his lip for Dani when she bends over
in her maternity leggings, still worn postpartum.
He hangs around the tray of wet clay,
near the mother who clicks her tongue, demands
her son come look at the ladybug she found.
Jack enjoys a woman who gives direction—
like his own mother, who ruffles his hair
and questions his drinking. Jack isn't like
the lads on Tinder whose bios say swipe left
if you have kids. Jack doesn't mind a family
that isn't his, a mother who wants
to keep the lights off and her bra on.
He will stay a while, so long as no child
looks up at him with the baby blues
of his own eyes, that need with no end.
with low self-esteem. It's practically a service:
The way he winks at Evelyn, summoning her
first smile since the emergency c-section.
Bites his lip for Dani when she bends over
in her maternity leggings, still worn postpartum.
He hangs around the tray of wet clay,
near the mother who clicks her tongue, demands
her son come look at the ladybug she found.
Jack enjoys a woman who gives direction—
like his own mother, who ruffles his hair
and questions his drinking. Jack isn't like
the lads on Tinder whose bios say swipe left
if you have kids. Jack doesn't mind a family
that isn't his, a mother who wants
to keep the lights off and her bra on.
He will stay a while, so long as no child
looks up at him with the baby blues
of his own eyes, that need with no end.
Jack Kerouac Teaches Me What Poetry Is on The Transpennine Express
He leans against the red of a no
smoking sign, sparks a Marlboro.
It's not poetry unless you’re hungry,
he nods at the Awards Menu
open on my laptop screen, smirks
at the vegan option: gnocchi parcels,
chocolate orange ganache. Ain't poetry
unless you're slurring to the sponsors
that your prize-winning manuscript
was spewed on coffee and benzedrine.
It's never poetry to take the table card
printed with your name and use it
as a bookmark. You girls,
forever holding on to everything.
You sit in this forward-facing seat
hurling toward a handshake on stage, a steady
applause, when you could have hopped
this train like a freight, gripped between
carriage E and F, one slip from the track.
smoking sign, sparks a Marlboro.
It's not poetry unless you’re hungry,
he nods at the Awards Menu
open on my laptop screen, smirks
at the vegan option: gnocchi parcels,
chocolate orange ganache. Ain't poetry
unless you're slurring to the sponsors
that your prize-winning manuscript
was spewed on coffee and benzedrine.
It's never poetry to take the table card
printed with your name and use it
as a bookmark. You girls,
forever holding on to everything.
You sit in this forward-facing seat
hurling toward a handshake on stage, a steady
applause, when you could have hopped
this train like a freight, gripped between
carriage E and F, one slip from the track.
Jack Kerouac Reads My Tarot
The King of Swords is a role model in your life
hah! he elbows me, flips over my future—
The Hanged Woman, well you see here now,
ahem, all the best lady poets kill themselves.
hah! he elbows me, flips over my future—
The Hanged Woman, well you see here now,
ahem, all the best lady poets kill themselves.
