Day 7 of Poetry Month...a Prose Poem/Flash Fiction Piece

          JACK’S RELOCATION & THE CREATION OF VITAMIN M

            Jack Kerouac, in an effort to re-invent himself, placed a forty-two cent postage stamp on his forehead and mailed himself to Uzbekistan, an obscure, small country, which had recently (unbeknownst to Jack) relocated itself to the third star south of the handle of the Big Dipper, the thought being that with easier access by air there would be fewer intrusions by Turkish nomads who had begun to sneak across the border in row boats, which they carried over their heads (four hearty Turks to a boat). The rowboats they hoped, would serve as effective disguises enabling them to slip into the country unnoticed, or to be taken for wandering fishermen in search of a river, instead of the conquering and annoying Turks that they were. (The Uzbekistani powers-that-were also hoped with this move to help the beleaguered nation make a smooth transition into a market economy).  Postal service being what it is, with the necessary forwarding to the new location and all, it took Jack considerably longer than anticipated to arrive at his destination, and by the time he did arrive, he was of course, deader than a doornail.

An Uzbekistani skilled in the ways of modern extra-terrestrial medical science dragged Jack’s lifeless form over to the space heater and cranked the controls way up.  This remedy, thankfully, proved very effective, and in no time at all Jack sat upright, alert as ever, and asked for a pen and some unlined paper.  He began to write furiously, the experience having opened up a window within his brain, which revealed to him a whole new approach to writing vastly different from his previously irreverent and cynical style.

He began a treatise on motorcycles as a vegetable, a spiritual journey into the world of metaphor -- motorcycle travel to nourish the brain.  Vitamin M, he called it. A vegetable with miraculous qualities, which promised to revitalize one’s inner spirit, restore man’s instinctive urge to explore, and in addition, burn unneeded fat cells off the asses of humanity. But the harsh literary critics in the newly relocated Uzbekistan took a leather punch and with great enthusiasm, filled Jack’s treatise full of holes. This is the way of Uzbekistani critics.  They are brutal, insensitive, and unreceptive to the ways of true artists.  It is not unlike the climate of censorship that prevailed during the late 50’s in Glendale, California, where a fourthgrade teacher ripped this promising young writer’s hopes to shreds. But the heart of an artist is strong.  Witness the courage of Jack Kerouac.  Witness the courage of myself. And more importantly, witness the lackluster, ignoble career of that fourth-grade teacher from whom no one has ever heard since the late fifties.

© Sally Stevens 2005