take your head out of the mud baby

I’m stressed. Here; have a Kerouac-inspired poem.

Photo by…ME! HA.

JCD Kerwin

I was born of concrete and
scorching sun on black top.
Mothers swayed in doorways,
calling for
sun-tanned boys
to dine.

In another life.

Tomato juice tastes sour
a hangover tongue leftover
3 a.m.

I’ll buy a git-tar,
and strum tunes
down the block
when it rains.
I’ll wear
a cowboy hat
and pretend I’m

It’s just a lie.

The ceiling fan don’t work.
My t-shirt melts
like it’s
a second skin.
I’d walk ‘round nak’d, but
this ain’t

That was a dream.

Take a drag,
Have a
Pass out on


May, 2012
Revised September, 2015



J.C.D. Kerwin

Now there I go again
falling over my toes and
make-believing like I’m dreaming
I’m not really staring at the carpet.
I’ve got a smug little smile on my face
like I’m someone different than
who I see in mirrors.
(I look a little thinner but
I’m still the asshole who can’t
turn pencil sticks to cigarettes.)

I hold out my finger and pretend to pull the trigger.

Got headphones on my ears because
when I got the swagger
I think I’m something better, as if
the pen flicks I carve in paper
will stick around like cave paintings.

I watch them fade like electrical storms in the desert.

I got a twinkle in my eye
like I can see through walls but
I’m no superman and kryptonite
is my breakfast of champs.
(Can’t even spread my cape and fly right;
I just fall like a frown.)

[I dream the dreamy hero tales but
each time I’m named the winner,
the big bad wolf comes howling through the picture,
and my world comes crashing down like I’m bad
and Little Red’s got a shotgun full of tacks.]

Skip-trip over my shoelaces
and suck down runny eggs
while I contemplate my fate today.
Another hardcore meeting while I discover
which way I’ll fade away and how
I’ll kick my feet to keep my head above the water.

In my younger days I ran with Mario and Link.

I drink black coffee from my irises
‘cause I stay up late and walk, slow-motion
through the places I created in my mind.
(I’d lay out the welcome mat but
you wouldn’t find the way through jungles
without a machete and a map.)

I’m shooting for the Somewhereland I won’t ever find…

Now there I go again
falling over my toes and
make-believing, make-believing, make-believing
like I’m dreaming that I’m dreaming—

PS, post this:
I imagine I crush the world
when I clench my fists;
I set the world on fire
when I recite this script.

May, 2012