'American Joyride' by Kurt Hemmer
An eminent Beat historian has written a dazzling one-hundred line commentary to accompany a US film project with the director Tom Knoff. Poem and short together commemorate the Kerouac centennial year
Next week, we will present the first performance of our centenary live show Kerouac Lives! The evening of conversation, music and readings, which takes place in West Yorkshire in the UK on February 4th, will also include a premiere public screening for a short film called American Joyride. Below, Rock and the Beat Generation is delighted to share the full text of the poem which is a central feature of this entrancing Kurt Hemmer/Tom Knoff collaboration…
‘American Joyride: 100 Lines for the Kerouac Centenary’
by Kurt Hemmer
you’re already the star of your own movie
you’ll just need someone to drive the car
passenger riding is the thing
destinations pale after the journey
journey is another name for life
we feel part of the truth-seeking bums
trapped in eternity
guttersnipes are more vital than celebutantes
pariahs are more honest than preachers
adolescent exuberance is part of the charm
roads of the world are yours because you are poor
chasing fame is like hunting Melville’s finback
fame itself is a deleted message
lost in the ether
pull the wax out of the ears of the mind
try for sympathy
even in your own labyrinths
compassion is the key
it was placed by the windowpane of your imagination
recognize the hands hanging from the desperate girl’s arms
they resemble your own peasant’s hands
it’s hard to have empathy with a hangover
read slowly
hearing Kerouac’s voice in your head
his cadence makes the pages
come to life
hear the roman candles explode for the first time
all over again
hear how rarely an unkind word is spoken
naivete is a calculated part of the message
give him more credit for his controlled spontaneity
he tricks us with false innocence
the struggle was worth it
then again
sometimes it wasn’t
we are seduced into pursuing more reading
we want to see
what he saw
we are led to other poets
and their visions are ours
an abundance of poets
benefit from our obsession
(they know it)
the man is flawed and fascinating
his characters are reflections—not reality
pay more attention
to the invisible craft
hear his playfulness
let his language
flow over you
just because it’s a dream
doesn’t mean it’s not real
music is the essence—
without music the writing would be a mistake
judge the writer
by the cymbal strikes
America is his playground
don’t grasp too eagerly for the buoys of meaning
his mind flow releases into a sieve
leaving nuggets before emptiness
dig through his word hoard for the gems
no one is a genius all the time
genius is something that happens
—suddenly disappearing—
not being
it’s not for nothing in the moment of creation
let the dead fly
out of the cabinet
for as long as there is love of language
there is a place for your volcano
writing for eternity
wasn’t built in a day
you are an observer
failure is the price of dreams
especially when you disappear
we spend lifetimes reliving
for most it’s a phase
for some it’s compulsion
there is perverse joy in the mania
it’s rock ‘n’ roll without meaning to be
it’s counterculture without meaning to be
it’s revolution without meaning to be
being receptive is all
read carefully
and you’ll see him reject the road
read carefully
and you’ll see him embrace the sorrows
of the working class
read carefully
and you’ll see
the flowers wither
kindness is the voice—not the author
separate the man
from the hero
we will remember
—even if that means we’ll forget
you wrote enough
kiss your daughter
drop the bottle
turn off the TV