Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

John Kerouac’s "Pax" is a stark and haunting meditation on extinction, solitude, and the futility of human existence. Written in a tone that blends resignation with dark humor, the poem captures a vision of the end of humanity—brought about not by catastrophe, but by choice. The speaker does not lament this fate; rather, they demand it. The opening line—“I demand that the human race ceases multiplying its kind and bow out”—is a radical declaration, one that places the poet in the position of both prophet and executioner, calling for the voluntary end of humanity’s presence on Earth.

The poem is not simply a nihilistic pronouncement but an act of poetic will—“I advise it Poetry”. This line suggests that poetry, rather than perpetuating life, should be the alternative to it. This reflects Kerouac’s Beat sensibility: the idea that art is not merely an expression of life but, in some ways, an alternative to it. By capitalizing Poetry, he elevates it to a principle, perhaps even a replacement for biological continuation. This echoes themes found throughout his work—his deep distrust of civilization’s expansion, his skepticism toward conventional progress, and his reverence for the spiritual over the material.

The next line, “A Pun for AI Gelpi”, adds an intriguing layer. Albert Gelpi, a literary scholar who focused on American transcendentalism and modern poetry, may be invoked here as an ironic nod to poetic tradition—especially given Kerouac’s own uneasy place in literary history, often dismissed as an outlier rather than a canonical poet. The pun remains ambiguous but could suggest a play on words between “AI” (as artificial intelligence or as a phonetic “I”), linking the poet’s self-destruction to a broader existential crisis.

The poem then shifts from decree to consequence. “And as punishment & reward for making this plea” introduces an idea of poetic justice—if the poet dares to wish for the end of humanity, he will suffer the paradox of being the last human. But this is no grand, post-apocalyptic survival tale. Instead, the speaker envisions themselves as “an old woman roaming the earth / groaning in caves / sleeping on mats”. The choice to embody an old woman—rather than a heroic last man—rejects traditional notions of the lone survivor. This figure is not triumphant, not a symbol of resilience, but a wandering relic of a world that once was. The imagery of caves and mats suggests a regression to the most primal forms of human existence, as if civilization itself has unraveled and the speaker has returned to the earliest state of being.

What follows is a portrait of quiet endurance. The speaker’s life is reduced to elemental actions: “sometimes I’ll cackle, sometimes pray, sometimes cry, eat & cook at my little stove in the corner”. There is a rhythm here, a cycle of human habits that continue even in the absence of an audience. The speaker does not seek salvation or meaning in this solitude but instead embraces the routine of being alive. The act of cackling suggests madness, or perhaps just the absurdity of it all; praying implies a lingering spiritual instinct, even as the gods have gone silent; crying acknowledges loss, even if there is no one left to mourn.

Then, in a moment of weary acceptance, the speaker reflects: “‘Always knew it anyway,’ I’ll say”. This line carries the weight of inevitability, as if the poet always suspected that humanity would reach this end—that extinction, or at least solitude, was the natural course. There is a fatalism here, a suggestion that everything we build, everything we strive for, ultimately leads to nothing.

The poem closes with quiet finality: “And one morning won’t get up from my mat”. There is no grand last stand, no revelation, just the simple cessation of movement, of breath. The phrasing avoids drama or embellishment; it presents death as an unceremonious fact. The repetition of mat reinforces the image of a bare, minimal existence—no bed, no possessions, just the simplest form of rest.

"Pax", Latin for peace, is an ironic title. The peace here is not one of harmony or enlightenment but of obliteration, of humanity stepping aside and vanishing into history. Yet there is also a strange serenity in the speaker’s vision. By removing humanity, there is no more war, no more suffering, no more struggle. There is just the last human being, moving through a landscape emptied of ambition and expectation. The poem does not mourn this fate; it almost welcomes it.

Kerouac’s work frequently oscillates between ecstatic celebration and deep existential dread, and "Pax" belongs firmly in the latter category. It is a poem of radical renunciation—of civilization, of reproduction, of survival itself. It imagines not just the poet as an outsider, but humanity itself as an aberration that has run its course. And yet, within this bleak vision, there is also a kind of freedom. The last human does not rage against their fate. They cook, they laugh, they pray, they lie down. And then, quietly, they are gone.

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