Oh the road, to be on the road roaming, going away from home only to go home, and back yet again. The road- Kerouacian inspired, mellow, an art gallery in itself constructed by man in the same way mother earth constructed herself.
Concrete beaches, and metal palm trees loom over and cast meandering shadows on its inhabitants. The road, so short and so long, so busy and yet so empty. Hard trotted roads, history filled and history being emptied only to be retold on the road again.
An adult fairy tale- long bread crumbs seep outward from my cigarette swirling towards the sky to create a path to the way back home, upwards, and forward on the road, destinations are unknown, but are at every turn. Making my way to the corner of Rosencrantz, second hand shops litter the left and right sides selling wearable, worn out books with written stories in tongues that nobody but the author knows of.
The cobble stone floors dimly lit by cafes and street lights, making every other step the centre of a stage for actors to pass through- laughter, and dialogue speak louder than the distant cars. The busy hustle on the road- new jacks in their fitted caps, neo-fashioned poster boys and pre-Madonna’s mingled in with the old timers, all creating their own myths, or retelling the stories lived on the road.
Philosophers in long coats with ragged hands holding pipe flairs that shine a dim amber colour to eventually distinguish itself into nothingness. To question nothingness on the road amongst all the happenings. Passing through- the corner of my eye taunted by the sun setting, the road painted a cool orange by the mellow sun no longer burning with passion, but as passionate as high noon itself.
Poor artists singing tunes through metal instruments in a language that all passer by’s can understand, standing on the road with safes open to collect shiny coins that feed the habit, while they feed the road with music that resonates for days on end.
A lover’s haven, old park benches leaning back on lone grassy fields, hands and hearts being held and caressed, kisses shared and secrets spoken in private amongst thousands of moving ears that hear the love birds sing with giggles.
The road, curving paths, and street signs that light up, making it impossible for the night to settle in. Restless and yet calm, every alley leads into the lost and there is no way of getting lost on the road. Oh the road- to be on the road roaming, going away from home, only to go home and back again. The road.
© Rami Kaawach 2013
Todays featured piece is a work of short flash fiction by Rami Kawaach, a 24 year old writer from Canada. We thought for today, it’d be good to celebrate this kind of prose poetry which can be said to have been influenced deeply by contemporary 20th Century writers, notably Kerouac. It’s in no small measure that the name chosen for this piece should be profound and fitting, for upon reading this accomplished, beatific piece, one is immediately reminded of Kerouacs “On the Road”, and to a lesser extent “October in the Railroad Earth”. A piece that speaks of the eternal journey and travels of the writer seeking something deeper in this world, some meaning in what may be seen as the ordinary, everyday goings on, and the poetic compulsion to sit back and just observe.
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