“Dear Father Jack: My wife says I look hot in a chasuble. Is it a sin to keep on wearing one?”

Rev. Fr. Jack Kerouac replies: You dingledoodie! How could it be a sin to wear the historic vestments of our Church!? How could it be a sin to delight that gone little lady of yours? Neal and I were shambling along the sad and forlorn streets of Denver, just the other day, after Neal had hopped this old Hudson and I was following along as I do after the people who interest me and it was down by the meat markets in the old city where Ginsburg and all the hobos hang and we didn’t see Alan that day, even though we looked, or Neal’s wino dad who we’ve been looking for time out of mind but we do see this old jazzbo priest coming out of the most beat basilica you’ve ever seen; I mean, it looked like it had been there a thousand years, the dome all faded, frayed, and weathered with the years, having seen the kings and conquering emperors come and go while this little beat building stands dauntless still like an outpost from another age and the slanting rays of the fast fading sun are glinting green and gold sunlight off the priest’s chasuble and it’s like the streets of the new Jerusalem are shining just for you man, just a little proleptic glimpse of the eschaton, a gift for you, even you all strange and ragged like the Prophet out of the desert who has walked across the land to bring the dark Word and the only Word I had was “Wow” with the sun sinking in the sky like a huge, blood red Host and all that sad and blank and lost life of the East all behind and all Denver and all the West all ahead, all shining green gold, all offered up for you by the hand of the one the Master put there just for you just to give the gifts and how could that gift giving God offering holy making hand not be wrapped in the gold and green and sun of a chasuble--like the jazzbo priest’s reflecting the life of the last day in that fading Denver light--and how could chicks not dig that? How can you not dig that? How can you even ask such a stupid question? How square are you anyway? Oh man, the mad ones, the only ones for me, don’t ask questions like that, no, no, no they are mad to talk, mad to live, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everyone goes “Awww!”

Yrs. In Chrst.

Fr. Jacko