This book is dedicated to Jan Kerouac, the late daughter of Jack Kerouac who I knew well in the 60's in Yelapa, Mexico, with the hippies, 30 miles from any road. She lived in a thatched hut next to mine there. I remember seeing later, in the English, Mexico City News, "Jack Kerouac’s Daughter, Jan Kerouac, has disappeared, whereabouts unknown."

The first poem in the book is a poem I wrote to the spirit of Jan. Here is a small quote from that poem:

        “We know the significance of us being a piece of the big puzzle but we don’t see all the pieces together melded as one demur picture…we seem so separate, but so cock-sure.

& n b s p ; & nbsp;          “Things slip by,” don’t they Jan?

& n b s p ; & nbsp;          My memory is flashing…this wheel is on fire!”

The first chapter of her Memoirs, "Baby Driver", is like a recording tape of everything she had echoed to me in casual conversation. I think she thought things out in plots from the very beginning.

      You can find out more about me by going to:

      http://sanfranciscopoetry.blip.tv

      http://mysticbabylon.podomatic.com

      http://littlebirdtoldme.podomatic.com

      http://poetryhotel.podomatic.com (A collaboration of videos with poetess friend Clara Hsu)

      http://writerunion.podomatic.com (Unofficial San Francisco Writers Union videos produced by me.)

The Ghost of Jan Kerouac

(Haunting divinity or random order)

Just as the truth is cloaked in mystery, you are a mystery Jan.

You are a mysterious query into tangled beauty.

You, that delicate jigsaw piece of the “One Mind”, have seen through the glass darkly, yet astutely.

Our brains, even though separate, are one in mirror mind.

Shattered glass doesn’t keep us from seeing our own symmetry beyond the, ego’s material bind.

We swept the broken glass under the rug…we kept our transient selves in our hats.

The clown mirrors that our fathers look at us with, reflect the delusions of an older generation.

We are to them like clowns who suffer indignation.

I can still see you in your peasant hippie dress.

My mind touches your mind… there is no need to confess your frustrations to your breast.

I feel your love, even as the memory of you blurs.

I can still see your demure face…and when your mind

desperately whirs, I can see in your eyes