… I think of Dean Moriarty. I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty_
(Jack Kerouac_On the Road)
—
in a pure desert you were conceived my mongrel
desired, procured, the shadow that won’t fly
{where should we go without you?}
I swear I saw a piece of you
a lazy one, a tongue, a weight on the plumb line
before such brave, bitter tools, such ill excuses
{what joys ?
what fucking joys?}_