Jack Kerouac was a friend.

All right, not literally—I never met the man—but we’re kindred spirits. His writing spoke to me the way a friend’s voice does. We even share a birthday, forty years apart. He was one of the early beatnik bohemians; I’ve been told I’m one of the last. That may or may not be true. Either way, it’s not something I’d claim for myself.

People romanticize the idea of living with reckless abandon. Others think it’s foolish. I don’t believe that’s what Kerouac did, and it’s not what I’m doing. I live true to myself and make no apologies for it. So did Jack.

I’m a creator—but not the modern kind that posts constantly, chasing clicks. Too many of today’s “creators” skim across life like stones on a pond, touching only the surface before moving on. The content is fast, compressed, and shallow. Worst of all, it’s rarely original—just recycled fragments of other recycled fragments. It cheapens the creative process.

I enjoy that process. I like the time it takes to understand something and the moment when the fog lifts. That’s where Kerouac influenced me. Not in style, but in his commitment to making sense of the life he was living, even when others saw only chaos. People assume bohemians value freedom above all else. It’s an easy assumption, but a shallow one. Freedom isn’t the goal; it’s the tool. It gives you the space to say, “Today I learn. Tomorrow I create.” But freedom is a choice. You have to choose learning first and posting second—maybe third. Social media is an echo chamber for writers. Jack never faced that problem, but I’m certain he would have hated it. I certainly do.

I am a poet at my core. I take life in, let it move me, let it change me, and then I write from that place. I’ve had success, though I’m not a household name—and that was never the goal. Not every poet reshapes the world the way Kerouac did, but we do create the first small tremors that can lead to larger shifts. That’s enough for me. My poetry’s audience is the ones that consider the point my writing makes, not the ones that necessarily like it. Love and hate aren’t opposites. Love and apathy are. If you love my work or hate it, it’s done its job—you considered it. If you feel nothing, if you are apathetic, I failed. Jack believed engagement mattered more than approval. I agree.

He and I differ on one major point: self‑destruction. I’m not sure he recognized how destructive his life was, and I’m not sure he would have cared. It was simply who he was. My only vice is coffee—by the gallon. Black is best, though I’ll take cream if I’m forced to drink Starbucks. And unlike Jack, I edit. I revise. I rethink. He believed spontaneity meant honesty. For me, spontaneity means confusion. My thoughts come out as a cacophony of noise that needs an editing hand to orchestrate the symphony. I do need to see them develop on the page, and rearrange them into order. His work arrived in thunderclaps. I suspect that the volatility in his personal life was a means to edit his thoughts.

Jack shook the world because his time demanded it. His writing challenged people to see differently. Without him, we might still be stuck in a “Ward and June Cleaver” mindset. He and the other bohemians of his era opened the door that led to the free‑spirited sixties. I am sure the publishing world did not know what to do with Jack and his novel on a roll of paper. Thankfully, one (Viking Press) finally took a chance on the unconventional work. In a sense, it changed everything. He caused an avalanche of change. It came fast and hard. The beatnik bohemians moved mountains because they had to.

As a poet, I look for the smaller patches of snow high on the mountain to move—the ones that take effort to reach. My mind is more singular. My poetry is about the smaller things in life. I try to see the world in a single snowflake. Jack saw a world full of complexities and pushed to break them into pieces. Both views are true, but neither is the whole truth. That requires more than any one—or two—creators can offer, even ones as gifted as Jack.

When I began writing, Jack’s work and his life had ended. The 60s gave way to the 70s, the 80s. Beatniks became hippies, then bankers. Most were fair-weather bohemians at best anyway. I felt as out of the mainstream as Jack must have when he started writing, but I had his gift to fall back on—his writing. I knew if I chose to be free and learn what I felt, and write it, I too could make a difference, just at a smaller level. The generations that followed became the content creators that skip across the pond. No time to digest, reflect, or develop original thoughts. Andy Warhol famously said, “In the future, everyone will be world‑famous for fifteen minutes.” He had no way of knowing even that would be too long.

I’ve tried not to edit this with a heavy hand, my nod to Jack. Please forgive any meandering in that spirit. What I really wanted to present is the world needs to change, to always change. Bohemians understand that. Sometimes a lot, sometimes not so much. I came up in the latter and don’t want to change everything in a day; I just hope I started the quiver in the snow.

I’m grateful to Jack for what he did. Without him, Huncke, Carr, Ginsberg, Burroughs, and the rest of the early beatniks, I’m not sure I could live the life I do. I hope, in a small way, I live up to his example. Even if you disagree with his choices, you can’t deny he changed how we see the world. In that way, he will always be a kindred spirit and a mentor.

That’s why I say Jack is a friend.