Get Your Own Damn Lighter

If you ever ask Jack Kerouac for a light he'll say "Fuck off" and then quietly under his breath, "get your own damn lighter" Then he'll go back to his booze and his crazy thoughts you wish you could have but they're so far gone you'd have to sit under a tree for 17 years to think them but you've spent the last 17 years in between four walls running around with nothing to show but pale skin and a dollar bill with a picture of the last great American hero on the front and on the back it says "One" One what? One hour one day one week? One answer one word one sound? Are you one? And if you are, what next? Are you going to go save the world? Are you going to do it one oil spill at a time or do you start small and feed your cat, as if that's your good deed? You're doing it a favor by feeding it but you're out of cat food so you run to the store to get cat food. You drive by a whore and start thinking about sex. Sex with a girl, that girl, your girl, any girl. You stop yourself and calm down. You stop yourself outside a bar and you go in to see Kerouac still drinking. You get your ass out of there and buy a damn lighter.