By Charles Bragg
Reading: Jack Kerouac - Selected Letters
"Since when is a bookie more important than a man in a motheaten coat."
"O peace, mother, for the mammothness
of the coming & goings of the ladders of life."
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"O my soul, slip the cog"
I recognize this as a poem that haunts me from thirty years ago. Whose is it? His mother, her face turned towards the left, and a victrola, someone, an indian maybe, in the corner of a room...
Tell me anyone who knows.
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