my dream about Kerouac

A poem about a dream I had with Jack Kerouac in it

last night I had a dream
with Kerouac in it
he told me that
this land was a body
the highways its veins,
and we were cocaine
shooting raw electricity
through the nervous system

we became libertines as
we raced against reality,
and time, against poverty,
and our own impending insanity

but mostly we just raced,
because for us cool cats
life is just a
benzedrine dream
blurred faces
strange beds
and stranger women

we clung to the road
like an orphaned child
clings to his one
tattered picture of
his biological
mother

after awhile
each new trip became
the junkie's latest fix
at first sublime
but never enough,
this land is a body,
we’re merely track marks

if home is where
the heart is
then what becomes
of the homeless?