http://slow.writerscafe.org/CountessKerouac The original writings of author Kelly A. Brown en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1775994122 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 The complexity between wanting so desperately to be alone, yet for some reason feeling absolutely lonely. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/1234700/ A poem about poetry that I wrote about 10 years ago. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/1227381/ Too Strongfor Poetry-sometimesone’s feelings areeven toostrong for poetry. as though nomatterwhich wordsyou write downon the pagewhichletters you manage to scrawl outon the backof your handor a napkinor a laptop. .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/1206731/ A poem I wrote about 10 years ago while still in high school. It's a simple exaggeration of a more serious topic. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/1206558/ This poem is about the philosophy of being happy rather than sad when a loved one passes away. Wrote this before my mother died. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/1206554/ About my experience finding out my Irish roots in Woodlawn. Please do not take this as an ethnicity or racial thing. It's something we all go through when brought up in America. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/1048671/ I need to ask you one more time, my sagePlease hear my voice when I call your nameI beg of youEven though I know you don’t wantI know you don’t want… I know you do not admire meThe way that I admire youSo purely and trueI sure do…Keeping your face always in myMind&rsqu.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/1043089/ I can see the tall mountains in the distance,shaded and covered with dreamsand thoughts and painfully shy feelings.desperation.I think the mountainiswaiting to be climbed and torn upand finished.The trees grow tall and the sunshines through their green summer leaves.staring up at the sight,it m.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/588154/  I've wandered through the maze pretty wellSlowly and steadily learningas much as I can,such ashow to walk and talk and speak well,how to take thesilly testsand pass life'stoughest exams,all whilelearning what it takes todiscoverand trulyunderstand.But, still t.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/563576/  I sold my soulfor400 dollars a weekthe children I will bearone daywill do the same.Sometimes one ishappier in thelower positionin life,maybe flipping a burger orbaking cookies in the localStop and ShoporA&Psinging the blue collar songswith the blue collar .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/406299/   Old Americaneeds a purposeto earn theirwaythrough thefoxhole, to makeit outalive,hopefully alive, butneverunscarred.Old America watches theHoneymooners andlaughs at thebits andtells tall talesand makes jokes about theweatherwell, we still do that,.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/404969/  Some things are so bittersweet,glorious, yetdevastating,half the heart joyous and halfthe heart breaking in pieces,for the same sweepingsecondfor the exact samereason.Like an 18-year old college kid about tomeet his roommatefor the very first time,so ecstatic,so sca.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/396552/ I clutch the seamsthat hold ittogether,but they die in my hands,hands white and palefromanguish.They unravelled by themselvesseemingly withoutmy helpnor myconsent.Sitting here, wishing I hadsomerum to ease thepain of losing somethingso preciousthat it became synon.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/390242/ The cold wind chills me to the bonestraight to the marrow.I shiver for hours on endeven after coming insideto the warm, cozyair.Two sleeping pills, one solitary swift hit of thescotch, butno tears yeteven though I did trymy hardestto cry.becausewellI've heard it all be.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/390202/ I feel peacewhen I awake at 5:30AMtoo tired stillto even think slightly about everything that hasgone terribly wrongthe nightbefore.Still asleep in many ways, too immobile yetto ponderwhywhenorwhat had happened.I feel peacein the first sip of the morning's cof.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/390045/ My TV is playing memoriesI've neverhad before.Feeling the dividebrings me closer to sitting in thegraveyarddrinking beers andcalling old friends andpondering all those feeling thatI haven't yetfelt.Unityis theplacewhere the mountions meet the ridgesand the Valley a.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/388675/ My mother bleedsfrom the torn skin on her arthritic kneesfrom her last big fall,she bleedsfrom her lungs when shebreathes,from her heart, her soft heart, andfrom her soul.She bleeds continuously and no one bothersto clean up the mess orapply a bandage orhug her orlet her.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/365977/ The long morrowsits silently ahead, withno white noise to cloudit's ears.It has always been there,waiting steadily for myarrival andit's held the samepatient gazethat is content enough to wait through all of myyesterdays,todays,and tomorrows.I don't know what.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/365967/ The rug is stained againsoiled by myinability to behave like acivilizedhuman being in thatclean washed powdered kissed all over middle classway.It smells wretched, but I try to cover it upwith Carpet Fresh andbaking soda, but the smellalways comes through,burning a ho.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/363401/ My car was broken,it was in the shopso I called a cab.Shore Taxi cabs.I wasn't thinking anygreat thoughts that dayabout life, justdroning on, waitingfor my class to begin.I held a blank stare,pondering silently aboutprofessorsfriendsenemiesand what I would like to ha.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/348327/ YesterdayI tried to smokea cigarette torelaxeven though I don't smoke andnever smoked andfound itpointless, disgusting, and awaste of time.But, I started to wonder. I wondered why so manypeoplesmoke torelax, to try anddismiss the day's demandingand.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/347916/  Even when it feels likedeathis inching toward youand your blue eyesare turninggrayand even though you've tried your bestto stop themorningrain and althoughyou see old woundsthe pink scars where nonetrulylieand the skin is smooth likebaby a*slike a soft subtle.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/315435/ It's hard to write at home.There are justtoo many distractions.The old lady sleeping in the next room,a portrait ofa woman who has beenunhappy for too many years,she cries though no onehears herscreams,She's stillcounting her pennies,counting the stains on her .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/315319/ Humor me and tell me it's going to be alright in the end.Exaggerate falsify make up vacant lies and repeat them all while you smile like you don't even mean it. Please give me your fakest laughter and hold me although I've been very wrong and fallible. Take my hand an.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/310518/ And so it goesthe life...it whims past you asquickly as it camefor what is life,butspontaneous births anddesirousgenescoming togetherrandomly, notdesired byGod,a chaos theorya night out on the towna kind ofwhatever will bewill berow of baby genesjust one perso.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/300715/  I've always hated themild side, the one without infiniteadventure, without deepthought, withoutreckless abandon, withoutthe risk oflosingeverything important in asweeping second, onemoment intimecapable of meaningtheentireworld. I've always vent.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/289888/  I saw a Friendly's truck stridedown the highwayit said on it's back "Follow Me to Friendly's!"Years ago,I would have said, "Let's follow it, let's get some ice cream! Huh? Can we?"Years ago,I would have said, "Please, Mom, please, can't we? Can't we .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/276880/ Most Days--There are those rareextremely good days when I feelcompletely infinite and surreally euphoric,in harmony with theEarth---when my vegetarian diet, fitness regime, serious reading, aware selfkicks in for just a minute and those are truly genuinely happyday.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/275107/ reading the sick old poetin the morning lightthe breeze blowing upon my skinsashaying my poresthe clouds moving across the sky likeangels,knowing full well my peace of mindis so temporaryand will soon be disturbedby the nagging screaming motheror the phone or the dollar or t.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/274775/ Got my cold beerGot BukowskiGot KerouacGot my pad and paper or computerGot a lover sleeping in the next roomGot my favorite tv show on that I'm not watchingGot a huge sandwich, larger than life, with all the fixings andglorious taste that any other sandwich would be jealous of .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/274772/ They all curse the scamthey screech and holler and cry and stare and hide their feelings fromthose they love mosttrying to make peace and capture the idealto revel in the makings of God and see everythingin its finest formwhile ignoring the reality of thedrunkards in the streets, pissi.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/274612/ It's another dayIt's a sunny dayIt's a day at the lake with the aunts and unclesIt's a day where the moon stood still andheld it's rays.It's a day I don't want to touch againIt's a day that makes my hands tremble inanticipation. I loved those days, but hatedthem too. .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/266540/ We were lost in the mirage. We were still discovering, then. We were still looking closely for each other'ssecrets, mysteries, wilted flowers, sweetscary, lovelyimperfectionssoul tripshidden scars. We were still reading Thompson andBukoswki, talking o.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/262763/ What is our minds will die with us. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/261433/ I am sitting here, cold drink in handwondering why I even bothered getting up this morning.Hell, I didn't even dress myself.I am websurfing in my panties. It all seems counter-intuitive tomy purpose, when my days are wasted inbad reality television andwild daydreams.All o.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/259112/ A complete stranger told me about hercrippled motherfor no other reason than toshare heartache and turmoil withanother complete stranger. A soul bearing ceremonyat work. She said she feels terribly guiltyfor seeing her lover on weekends.She said her hea.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/256253/ There seems to be a perpetualanguish inAmerica. We have the housesrather, 70% of us have the houses.We have the food, rather90% of us have the food.We have the freedomrather 95% of us havethe freedom.That's more than most have.Many have nothing, rather40% have nothing... http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/256248/ I wish I lived inside the TV screen. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/256243/ I feel a dark cloud approaching.It's out to kill meIt's out to get mehooked onmarijuana andrum.It's out to make me meltunder the fire.It's out to crumble myfragile soul.It's out to tear apart myloving heart.The truth is out now, bare and rawand soggy with innocent bloodstai.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/255881/ Everything is coming to anend Church on SundayFriday nights The wheel keeps on turningall through thefight It's all okayIt's like a purple sky A leaf in autumnor a lullabyIt'slike a deathbed Philosophy.It's going to kill usall. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/253640/ Thoughts on Jean Paul Sartre~JeanPaulSartre. He said that if we lack purposewe lack lifewe lack meaningBut, it is good to knowthat the purposedoesn't mean much ofanything. It sounds confusing, but it's not. Purpose is relative and isdifferent for ever.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/251140/ We crafted God in our image. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/250258/  The fanfareThe racing heartbeatThe thrillThe surpriseThe working man's plightThe Sunday mornings inparadise with breakfast inbed with our soulsbared,open tointerpretation andquestion.Yeah...it's allstill there in themorning light. In the moments when.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/248800/ The crazy nightswere the bestnights, like the night when I slept on thebathroom floor by accidentand you didn't knowI drank so muchpinot.But, we laughed and cried andsmiled the next dayand we knew we wereinlove. When we ran through the woodlandscarving nonsense words.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/246946/ Millions of feet beneath my feetlieall the Haikus,premium Sake,Samurais in waiting, waiting for thesunrise,I feel infinite in mysmall abyss here in theland known asNew Jersey. I feel safe.But, alasI shouldn't feel safe. The world could be blown to bitswithin.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/246824/  The world is made up ofhypocriteswho don't know that they areindeedhypocrites.They say one thing todayand do anothertomorrow without realizing theirownutterstupidity. I knew a man who would sayothers were too selfishothers were too mean, too harsh, too angry .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/246230/    She's on the top of the worldlooking down at theturmoilShe carries on without a trouble, thinkingall the while that she'sLuckynot to be one of them.She dances in the street and smellslikechrysanthemums andsage with a hint ofamaretto.Yeah, she's.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/246188/ You asked me to go to Church with youtonightTo find a new reasonTo live a fulfilling life We were scared.We were alone. The bells chimed as wecried into ourGodsouls andbegged God not toDie again. We walked through theChurch's graveyard in search ofourse.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/246099/  You're sitting on my shelfbetween Kerouac andPlath, all the way to the right.It's dusty there, just a tad.Your covers are torn a bit fromwear andtear.I don't really clean much unlessI'm expecting someone to inspect theshelves.Every so often, you sing softly into my ear ev.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/244069/ Bukowski, seems to me, a geniusperhaps greater than Hemingway, but no moreeloquent than a piece ofdung,a piece ofleftover lemon chicken,a piece ofnothing,nothing morethan thetruth.Simple truths and simplewords.But, we are so very scaredto hear the truth, especially when.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CountessKerouac/244049/