Kerouac in Paris

 Bring me a Breton girl with seagreen eyes. Wearing a white knot sweater, golden bracelets, romantic raincoat. Not now. First, I must find the liquor man, the counterman. I have written much less than most people who write; I have drunk much more than most people who drink. My new friend Guy buys me another. Call no man happy until he dies, says he, or is it the Greek chorus in my Oedipushead? Where is Guy? Vamoose. My poor loneliness went unnoticed in the crashing busy night when all cows are black, and the owl of Minerva takes flight only at dusk. Tant pis. Neverthefuckingless. Slip down to the corner to have a cognac amid the smash of cash register and racket of glasses swimming in soapy water. Off to play pool in the back room. The black ball clocks in the pocket and the cue ball leaps onto the stairs. Unshaven, in a black raincoat with rain hat I go sploopsing the dark streets. I dream of a lone granite farmhouse, lights on in the kitchen, a vague hint of hills and moons. I think of Dean Moriarty, Carlos Marx, Victor in Gregoria and old Bull Lee, a crazy choir of baritones and tenors singing like sad angels.