
Table of Contents
PANORAMIC CATALOG SKETCH OF BIG EASONBURG
JACK KEROUAC was born in Lowell, Massachusetts, in 1922, the youngest of three children in a Franco-American family. He attended local Catholic and public schools and won a scholarship to Columbia University in New York City, where he met Allen Ginsberg and William S. Burroughs. His first novel, The Town and the City, appeared in 1950, but it was On the Road, first published in 1957, that made Kerouac one of the best-known writers of his time. Publication of his many other books followed, among them The Subterraneans, Big Sur, and The Dharma Bums. Kerouac's books of poetry include Mexico City Blues, Scattered Poems, Pomes All Sizes, Heaven and Other Poems, Book of Blues, and Book of Haikus. Kerouac died in St. Petersburg, Florida, in 1969, at the age of forty-seven.
GEORGE CONDO is a painter and sculptor who has exhibited extensively in both the United States and Europe, with works in the collections of the Whitney Museum of American Art, The Museum of Modern Art, New York, and many other institutions. In 1999, Condo received an Academy Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters and in 2005 he received the Francis J. Greenberger Award. He is represented by Luhring Augustine in New York, Andrea Caratsch Galley in Zurich, and Sprüth Magers Lee in London.
THE DULUOZ LEGEND Visions of GerardDoctor SaxMaggie CassidyVanity of DuluozOn the RoadVisions of CodyThe SubterraneansTristessaLonesome TravellerDesolation AngelsThe Dharma BumsBook of DreamsBig SurSatori in Paris
POETRY Mexico City BluesScattered PoemsPomes All SizesHeaven and Other PoemsBook of BluesBook of Haikus
OTHER WORK The Town and the CityThe Scripture of GoldenEternitySome of the DharmaOld Angel MidnightGood Blonde & OthersPull My DaisyTrip TrapPicThe Portable Jack KerouacSelected Letters: 1940-1956Selected Letters: 1957-1969Atop an UnderwoodDoor Wide OpenOrpheus EmergedDeparted AngelsWindblown WorldBeat Generation
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First published in Penguin Books 2006
Copyright © John Sampas, Literary Representative,
the Estate of Stella Sampas Kerouac, 2006 Introduction copyright © George Condo, 2006All rights reserved
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA Kerouac, Jack, 1922-1969.
Book of sketches, 1952-53 / Jack Kerouac ; introduction by George Condo. p. cm.
eISBN : 978-0-14200215-5
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Dedicated to the memory of Caroline Kerouac Blake
Read this Book of Sketches and you'll be amazed at what a genius Jack Kerouac was.
These poems just breathe and flow, and when Jack plays the Blues, which he often does, his blues are truly sad --- they are sadness without humor, without the joking and backslapping that come from good times. They are the real unfunny truth. Like when his older brother Gerard died. This is one of the saddest poems ever written.
I learned a lot from Jack, and I can say all this not being a writer. At the age of fourteen he was the first radical I ever heard of. When I first became aware that he wrote his novel The Subterraneans in one long stretch, unrevised straight out of his head in three days, and that he had a "steel trap" memory --- it was the combination of these two very important factors that inspired a new way of painting for me. From then on I combined memory, speed, and spontaneity to create most of my work. I relied on the Kerouacian notion of "the unrevised method of creation," and it became the key to a pure uncontrollable mastery of chaos.
As a reader, you would think Kerouac was talking, not writing. Yet it was precisely everyday speech that he was able to conjure up. He, like Jackson Pollock, found a way to take something all of us see and use every day and turn it into Art. This new language of Jack Kerouac was the one we had always been speaking. You just had to know what you were talking about before you spoke.
Jack's concept of writing was also very art-inspired --- he drew on André Masson's Automatic Painting and Charlie Parker's informed improvisations to carve out his unique style and destination. He called upon Leonardo da Vinci's method of observation in his studies of flowers, storms, anatomy, and physiognomy. Jack is to literature what Charlie Parker was to music or Jackson Pollock was to painting. It's that simple. Proust should be invoked here, too. He must have been one of Kerouac's favorite writers because he used him to describe Miles Davis's phrasing in order to enhance a cultural value that had not yet been perceived --- he spoke of Miles's playing "eloquent phrases, just like Marcel Proust."
To look at Edward Hopper's paintings of the late 1920s and early 1930s is to see the destitute ambience of New York City and its existential paradox --- it is a place at once industrious and at the same time empty, lonely, and unanswered. These qualities are found in some of Kerouac's poetical sketches --- gas stations, old barges, oil tankers, silhouettes of a positive industry set against dark empty exteriors that have been forgotten and misplaced: Indian land or an old gold mine, towns at one time prosperous now distinctly gone, reflecting an America that no one wanted to admit was still there.
Jack himself had a cubist take on Hopper --- not unlike Joseph Stella's faceted Brooklyn Bridge --- cubist in the sense that the fragmentation is not of imagery but of time and space. The elements of chronology in these sketches are here of no importance. In fact, Jack has made a note, "Not Necessarily Chronological," this being on his mind --- in a larger sense referring to all the poems in the Book of Sketches, but also referring to the sequence of words within each poem. That's what gives a "sketch" its edge, the fractured, almost "cut-up" feel that the descriptions carry. They seem to be running straight at you and then split up unexpectedly into multiple directions simultaneously, ending on a resolved note somehow related and yet striking out in a new direction.
Unlike Hopper, though, Kerouac did not long for the past --- he did not reminisce for the sake of nostalgia --- or transpose the European masters' sensibility. Rather, in the 1950s he broke free and prophetically dreamed a future world of young people wearing Levi's and being cut loose from all the crumbling conventions. Jack saw into the future, he lived in the future. That is exactly what happened in the 1960s to society, but by then Jack was too old and self-abused to have any pleasure from the world he predicted.
As the sketches tell us, anything that Jack saw was important. Anything that caught his eye and that he wrote about became priceless. Because in the way that an artist like Picasso could see with his brush, Jack could see with his pen. He was able to capture the spirit of his time without making anything up. And as it came to us from nowhere it certainly was astounding how concrete it all is now. It is as if the only true picture of humanity we will ever have was given to us by Jack Kerouac. All else is false and dressed up. Only Jack and Vincent van Gogh told the inner truth.
--- George Condo, November 2005
Printed Exactly As They Were Written On the Little Pages in the Notebooks I Carried in My Breast Pocket 1952 Summer to 1954 December............
(Not Necessarily Chronological)
Rocky Mt Aug. 7 '52
Changed now to dungaree shorts, gaudygreen sandals, blue vestwith white borders & alittle festive lovergirl ribbonin her hair Carolyn preparesthe supper ---"I better go over there &fix that lawnmower," saysPaul standing in the kitchenwith LP at his thigh."Supper'll be ready atsix."Glancing at his watchPaul goes off - to his landlordJack up the road --- a man hisage, of inherited wealth,who spends all day in bigEasonburg walking aroundor sitting in his vast brickhouse (Jacky Lee's father)
or walking down the road to see his 2 new cows ---On the kitchen floor isa pan of dog meal mixedwith milk & water but thebird dog Bob isnt hungry,just let out of the penhe lays greedily soppingup happy in-house hoursunder the d.r. table --- abig affectionate dopeybeauty with great bonysnakehead & big brown eyes& heartshaped mottledears falling like the locksof a pretty girl do fall ---in the Fall a gliding phantomin the pale fields.Carolyn takes a pileof dishes from the cupboard& silverware from thedrawer & carries them
into the diningroom. Out of the ref. she takes readyto bake biscuit doughs &unwraps them from theircellophane, stuffs waste paperin the corner bag thatsits in a wastebasketout of sight --- Sheprepares the aluminumsilex for coffee --- neverputs an extra scoop forthe pot --- makes weakAmerican housewife coffee--- but who's tonotice, the Prez. of theWaldorf Astoria? --- Sheslams a frying pan on aburner --- singing "I hadntanyone till you & withmy lonely heart demandingit, f-a-i-t-h musthave a hand in it --- "
mistaking "fate" --- Out comes the bacon & theyellow plasticbasket of eggs --- What'sshe going to make? Underthe faucet she cleansgarden fresh tomatosfrom Mrs Harris' ---She's boiling potatos in apot --- they've been there ahalf hour --- Thru herlittle kitchen cupboardwindow, framed like apicture, see the oldredroofed flu cure barnof the X farm --- wearygray wood in the eternitiesof time --- rickety polesaround it --- the tobacco,already picked fromthe bottom a foot up,pale & fieldsy before thesolemn backdrop ofthat forest bush ---One intervening sad Englishcone haystack --- Thelittle children of theCarolina suppertimes seethis & think: "And doesthe forest need to eat?In the night that'scoming does the forestknow? Why is that dishcloth hanging there sostill --- & like theforest --- has no nameI know of --- gloop --- "Carolyn Blake is makingbacon & eggs & boiledpotatos for supper becauselately the family's beeneating up breakfastfoods --- just cereal & toast ---
"Hm what pretty bacon," she says out loud. Onthe radio now's theLone Ranger. Lingeringstatics clip & clopamongst its WilliamTell Overtures --- arooster foolish crows ---Hand on hip, feetcrossed, casually, a cigburning out in the ashtray,she picks the bacon overwith a long cook fork."Hum hum hum" she hums.
Paul, having fixed the Jack lawn mower, is in the yardfinishing the part of the lawnlast overlooked. Thedeep rich fat grass lies inserried heaps along thetrail of his machinewith the ditch, the road,& the white road sign"Easonburg" & yellow"Stop" sign beyond --- &signs on a post pointing inall the directions --- ←Route 95 2 → US 64↓ Rocky Mt 3 ↑SandyCross 4 --- Paul, hat off,sleeves rolled, glumly &absentmindedly pushes athis work; the motor makesa drowsy suppertime growllike the sound of a motor-boat on some mystic lake--- At the crossroads storegroups of farmers havegathered & smoke & sitnow. Heavenly mysticallights have meanwhileappeared in the sky asthe great machinerycontinues in the High.
Intense interest is being shown in the lawncutter ---Jack himself has just drivenover (on his way to town)& is parked on lawn's edgediscussing it with a youngfarmer in overalls & white &green baseball cap who app.w. to buy it --- LittlePaul runs to hear themtalk --- At the storefive people are watchingintently. Men are be-mused by machines. Americans,by new, efficientmachines; Jack had themoney to buy a deluxecutter --- 2 Negros& 2 white farmers stareintently at Paul in hislawn, from the store, ashe backs up the carto get to the grassunderneath it --- Not oncehas he lookt up & acknowledgedhis watchers --- works on.Jack has driven off proudly--- Still another manjoins the watchers --- &now even George stepsout to see --- now thatJack's driven off to whomhe hasnt spoken in years ---his twin brother. In Southernaccents --- "Thats whutah think!" --- theydiscuss that splendidgrasscutter --- Cars come& park, & go --- Carshurry on the hiway tohome,"Wait till aftersupper," says Carolyn toLP, "we're ready toeat now --- " ashe complains"Ah --- nao!"
but the complaint's not serious & doesnt lastlong --- And the airis fragrant from cutgrass. "Come eat!"And suddenly not asoul's at the store asfor other & similar &just as blank reasons,they've gone tothe silencethe suppers of their ownmystery.Why should a chair be farfrom a book case!P: "Well that confoundyard is mowed."C: "Fi-na-lee."P: "Eat some supperboy."C: --- "What is it 27now? 28? It mustagone up, I thoughtit was 26."P: (eating) (to LP) Eatyr. beans, boy.Better eat up chabeans, ---boy.
But all was not always so peaceful withthe Blakes
When LP was born & lay like a little turd in arich white basket in thehospital (& the Grandma& Uncle of his future peeredat him thru the slot inthe maternity door --- &the young nurse with glupclothon her mouth makingsmiling eyes --- & thelittle mother half deadin her bed. A prematurebirth, he weighed 2 lbs.,like so many links ofsausage or one modestbologna; the ordeal costPaul $1,000 --- which hedidnt have --- Only amiracle saved Mother &Son anyway. The youngdoctor said sententiously"Long before Christthere was a Greek whofound out why mothersdie from shock --- "he emphasized "long beforeChrist" in this nattymillion dollar Duke MedicalCenter where the only hintof Christ lay if any inthe English-style ministers'dormitory (studentsfor the ministry playedpingpong with their fianceesin a fresh painted basement,the emptiness ofmodern Southern & Americanlife) --- "long before Christ"said the young doctor --- asCarolyn lay in a comain the quiet shade drawnroom --- & the presenceof his Meek & SorrowfulHumility hung likemolasses with air ---
That was when Paul was being sent from one townto the other by the Tel Co& never had enough moneyfor all he wanted, theyhad a house on theother side of RM, makingpayments at a debilitatingrate of interest thatwould eventually forcethe house from them ---Paul a veteran of Palau& Okinawa, an infantryman of the island jungles,now being usured & screwedby nonJew Southern realtorswith bibles on their mantleshelves & respectablewhite shirts --- sure, sure, ---the dark rain splatteredon the lonely house ashe waited nights for C& the baby to come home ---"She can never have anotherchild --- " & across theroad from thehouse, in the thicketwoods, rain, rain of the Southwashed the sorrow & thedeep & something mourned--- & something whisperedto Paul: "You wereborn in the woods --- yourfather was a farmer ---son of these rains --- thiswilderness --- wretchedvictim of usurers &bitter pain --- yr. wifehas had yr. heir --- yousit alone in night ---dont let yr face hang,dont let yr arms fall ---Doom is yr name ---Paul Death is yr name ---Paul Nothingness in thebig wild, wide & emptyworld that hates youis your name --- Sithere glooming all youwant --- in debt, dark,sad --- Alone --- You'lllose this house, you'll losethe 5, 6 dollars in yrpocket --- you'll lose thecar in the yard --- you'lllose the yard --- you'vegained a wife & child ---almost lost them? They'llbe lost eventually --- agrave that sinks fromthe foot, that telegraphsin dirt the sinking of amanly chest --- awaitsthee --- and they --- &thou art an animaldying in the wilderness ---Groo, groo, poor man--- groo --- only theheavens & the arcswill ac-cept thee ---& Knowledge of heaven& the arcs is not forthee --- so die, die,die --- & be silent ---Paul Blake in thenight, Paul Blakein the No Carolinarainy night . . ."It took years to makeup the death; C. cameback feeble, pale, nervous;took nervous pains withthe frail & tiny child;
the months rolled --- one of the bird dogs died ofthe St Vitus dance ---in the mud --- Onlyold Bob survived, sittingin wait for his masterat gray dusks --- TheAutumn came, the winterlaid a carpet of oneinch snow, the Springmade pines smell sweet& powerful, the summersent his big haze-heatto burn a hole thruclouds & swillup steams from fecundearth --- lost earth ---The Co. transferredPaul from town totown --- Kinston --- Tarboro --- Henderson--- (home of his folks) ---back to Kinston ---Rocky Mt. --- LittlePaul grew --- & cried--- & learned to suffer ---& cried --- & learnedto laugh --- & cried ---& learned to be still ---& suffered --- Groo, groo,the heavens dont care ---It had not alwaysbeen so easy & calmas now at suppertime,in BE, 1952 ---Hateful bitch of aworld, it wouldntever last.
Yes, Yes, there they are the poor sad peopleof the South on Saturdayafternoon atthe Crossroads store ---Not so sad as heavenwatching but all themore lost --- all themore lost --- Thatpoor fat Negro womanwith her festive strawhat for a joke but hasto be assisted from thestore where she supervisedthe week's grocerypurchases --- on hercrutches; and oldAlbino Freckles hergaunt ghostly farmerhusband, comes totteringafter on his cane--- & they are depositedin the car, nephew Jimslowly wheels the oldfamily Buick (1937)from the store --- groceriessafe in the old boot trunk,another week's foodsustenance for the clanin its solitudes ofcorn ---Sat Afternoon inthe South --- theJesus singers are alreadyhot for come-Sunday tomorrow onthat radio --- "Jee-zas --- " 4, Five carsare parked on oneside alone of thatstore --- & a truck ---
and a bicyle --- The purchases are goingstrong --- inside rumblingbusiness, George cigar-in-mouth is storing up hisMidas profits --- onlythe other day he firedClarence for beinglate after seeing hisfather at the hospital,after five times drivinghis useless bucktoothwife to & fro the hospital--- out there's sadnessenough without havingto run into that ---Here comes a flatwagon, mule drawn,with fat Pop, son &granddotter, black,all sitting legs adangle,they didnt want toshop his prices at George,coming from anotherdown-the-road store ---eating the bought tidbitsof Saturday, --- poverty,sadness, name yr beef butPop is eating & is big &fat --- sits, maybe, onthe warpy porch in thewoods, lets son doall the work --- muching--- The little girl black &ugly like Africa eatsher cone --- Old Muleclops on --- Son-Bohas eye on crossroadsfor traffic --- , holds reinsloose, they turn, talking,into Rt 64 --- now son
doesnt even look ahead --- quiet road --- Old Muleis alive just as they, suffersunder same skies, Saturday,Weekday, Sunday shoppingday, Weekday fieldpullday, Sunday churchgoingday --- sharing life withthe Jackson family ---they will remember thatold Mule & how it livedwith them & slowly religiouslydrew them totheir needs, withoutthanks, theywill remember the life& presence of Old Mule--- & their hearts'll cry--- "Old Mule was withus --- We fed him oats ---he was glad & sadtoo --- then he died ---buried in the mule earth--- forgot --- like aman a mule is & willbe --- " Ah NorthCarolina (as they turninto the countrified home& slowly roll home withthe groceries of theweek scattered on theplatform) --- AhSaturday --- Ahskies above the gnawinghuman scene.
LP Mama slice me one of am --- slice methis kind of am ---what is this ---Mama whatkind is this?C Swiss!LP I want SwissNam nam nam(hamburg frying) (radionoon) (hot South)
Saturday afternoon in Rocky Mt. woods --- in a tanklinggray coupe the young fathercrosses the crossroads withhis 4 dotters piled on theseat beside him all eyes--- The drowsy store thegreat watermelons sit disposedin the sun, on theconcrete, by the fish box,like so many fruit inan artist's bowl ---watermelons plain green& the watermelon withthe snaky rills alltropical & fat to burston the ground --- camefrom viney bottoms ofall this green fertility ---Behind Fats' little shack,under waving tendrilsof a pretty tree, thesmalltime Crapshooterswith strawhats & overallsare shooting for 10¢stakes --- as peaceful &regardant as deer inthe morning, or NewEngland boys sitting inthe high grass waiting forthe afternoon to pass.Paul Blake ambles overacross the road to watchthe game, standsback, arm on tree,watching smiling silence.Cars pull up, mensquat --- there goes Jackto join them, everywhereyou look in the enormityof this peaceful sceneyou see him walking, onsoft white shoes, bemused--- Last night a fewhotshots & local sailorson leave grabbed those
reed fishingpoles & waved them in the drunkenFriday night dark, yelling"Sturgeon! --- catfish!--- Whooee!" ---They're still unboughtin the old stainedbarrell --- A trim littletruck is parked, eagerlyat the ice porch, thefarmer's inside having5 pounds of pork chopssliced, he likes em forbreakfast --- Ahesitant Negro laborerheaded home to hismother & younger brothersin the woods is speculatingover a hambone in thecounter --- Sweetlife continues in thebreeze, the golden fields ---August senses Septemberin the deeper light ofits afternoons --- sensesAutumn in the brownburn of the corn, thestripped tobacco --- thefaint singe appearingon the incomprehensiblehorizons --- the tannedtiredness of gardens, thecooler, brisker breeze ---above all the coolmysterious nights ---
Night --- & when the great rains of thenight boom & thunderin the South, whenthe woods are blackened,made wet,mudded, shrouded,impossibled ---
& when the rain drips from the roofof the G. Storein silver tragic milkybeadlets over the brightbulb-light of theold platform --- insidewe see the snow whitebags of flower, thewhitewashed woodwalls,the dark & banefulharness hanging, afew shining bucketsfor the farm ---Sat. rainy night,the cars come byraising whizzes ofsmoky dew fromthe road, their tireshum, they go offto a rumble oftheir own ---And the great falls ---The watermelons arewetted, cooled --- Theearth breathes anew rank cold up--- there's winterin the bones of thisearth --- Thunder ofour ancestors, Blake,Kingsley, Harris, ---thunder of our ancestorsrumbles in the unseensky --- the wood wallsof the store have nowthat tragic businesslikelook of hardships inthe old rain, use inold wars, old necessities--- Now we see thatthere were men whowore raincoats & boots& struggled here ---
& only left their ghosts, & these few hardhiphouses, to sit in theSaturday night rain.How different fromthe Saturday night ofthe cities, the Chinatowns,the harbors of theworld! --- This silentplace haunted bycorn shapes, thebeauteous shrouds offields, the white leerflash of lightning, thestern tones of thunder(the rattlebones ofbunder, the long buukbraun roll of munder,the far off hey - Callof old poor sunder,)--- Ah South! ofwhich I read, as achild, of coonskin caps,Civil wars, piney woods,brothers, dogs, morning& new hope --- AhSouth! Poor America!The rain has beenfalling a long time onthee & on thyhistory ---George hustles acrossthe road with abagful of his ownbeer --- a Grandetof the Americas,worse than Grandet!he wears no miser'sPuritan cap, orgloves, but smokinga harmless cigar ---
the bulb shines sad & lonely on the oldwood porch of theSouth --- I see it ---In the loam ofthe Blake yard sweetrain has soakedin greens & flowers& the grass, & inthe mud, & sendsup fragrances ofthe new cleaneternal Earth ---Inside the lowroofed homey rosylit Blake home, seethe little familythere, bearing Timein a rainy hourin the silence of themselvesLeaves thin-shadow onthe wall --- on themottled redbrick basefoundation --- on thewet variant tangledweeds & up-swaygrasses of the yard ---Rain glitters inlittle bark-poolsof the tree-trunk--- sweet cool night& washed up, heavyhanging vegetation--- Lights of passingcars dance in thedrip-drops of theawning --- Little Paulmuses at the sofawindow, turns &yells --- "Why isit cause, Daddy, whyis it cause?"
PANORAMIC CATALOG SKETCH OF BIG EASONBURG
(backyard)
From right 90° to left rich brick house where kidlives who rides pony thru tobaccofield, farmers say"Come on, work in the barn"& his father driving by says"If you wanta work, thatbarn is ready" & he gallopsaway saying, "The hellwith work" & niggerfarmers& pickaninnies in hotfieldchuckle & scratch heads ---Patrician little bitch he is ---his house has big TV antenna,8 white gables, biggarage, swings, trucks,Farmall tractor, white ironlawnchairs, Bird housesdog pens, clip't shrubs, lawn,basketball basket & pole,--- behind house we seetrees & pines of the forest--- a thin scraggle of corna 100 feet off --- Thedreaming weedy meadow--- then the redroof outbuildingsof Andrews oldfarm --- with brick chimnies,graywood built, ancient,lost in trees which in clearlate afternoon make gladyblack holes for the Sweenyin the Trees dream ofchildren --- distant raftsof corn --- then the tobaccocuring barn near astick ramp with piledtwigs or boughs & a redroofporch, & a door, smoked,at top,tho still with old hay
hook for when it once was a barn (?) --- theretoo black holes of greenwoods --- A brand newflu-cure barn with white tinroof, new wood, unpainted,no windows --- Then anotherold one --- over the yellowingtopleaves of the tobaccofield --- then the majesticnest of Great Trees wherehomestead sits --- darkshaded,hidden, mystical & ripplylit,hints of red roofs,old gray dark wood,poles, old chimney, still,peaceful, mute, withshadows lengthening alongbarnwalls --- The trees:fluffy roundshaped exceptfor stick tree in middleforking ugly up, & onright skeletal of underroundsilhouetting darkboughs against wall offorest till round of umbrellaleaftop --- Between here& there I see the rigidwoodpole sticks out ofhaystack, conical Stack,with a cross stick, surroundedby hedge of weeds, ofbrown & gray gold hairytexture in clear FrenchImpressionistic Sun ---After farm solidwall of forest brokensharply at road, wherewall resumes on other side--- There is the gray
vision of the old tenant shack with pale brickchimbley silhouettedagainst a hill-height ofSeptember corn turnedfrowsy & hay color ---with mysterious Carolinacontinuing distant treesbeyond --- & the faintestwedge of littlecloud righton horizon above --- Acrossroad forestwall is darker,deeper, pine trunks standluminous in the dark shadebespotted & specked withbackground browngreenmasses --- horizontal puff-green pinebranches, allover the frizzly corntop sea --- Then Rod'slogcabin, with pig pen(old gray clapboards) &whitewashed barrel & RaleighNews & Observer mailbox& telephone pole connectingup house with 3 strands ---his withered corn in yard,chimney, logs mixed withwhite plaster, rococolog cabin, horizontalwood & plaster stripedchimney --- Fruit tree inback waving in faintbrownof its California --- Similarhouse of neighbor where stiffgentleman sits in Panamahat in Carolina rockchairsurveying rusticities ---
Then, in deepening shadows: - (with him somewomen with lap chillun,Sun-afternoon, breeze, beezof bugs, hum of cars onhiway) --- Far off inpure blue an airlinerlines for Richmond ------ then the yellow diamondStop sign, back of it,with brown wood poleshadowing across it --- Astand of sweetly stirringtrees & then Buddy Tom'scorn, tall, rippling, talkative,haunted, gesturing, dogs runthru it, weeds run riot,trees protrude beyond ---Then his whitewashedpoles, chickencoop, doors,hinges, rickety wire ---weeds --- wild redflowers ---a tall stately pinewith black balls ofcone silhouetted againstkeen blue --- underit an excited weepingwillow waving likea Zephyr song --- 2 carsparked beneath it, bluefishtail Cad --- Tom's ---stiff big red flower ---folks visitin, talking ---children --- Lillian inshorts (big, fat) dumpsa carton in the rustybarrel --- The base ofpine whitewashed --- BuddyTom's shed, just & peekat interior shelf &paint can --- leaningrake --- Forest wall beyond.
They sit with the gold on their hair ---
AUG. 5, '52
The diningroom of Carolyn Blake hasa beautiful hardwoodfloor, varnished shiny,with occasional darkknots; the rag rugin the middle is wovenby her mother of thehistoric socks, dresses& trousers of theKerouac family in 2decades, a weft ofpoor humanity in itspain & bitterness --- Thewalls are pale pinkplaster, not even pink,
a pink-tinged pastel, the No Carolina afternoonaureates through thewhite Venetian blinds& through the redpinkplastic curtains & fallsupon the plaster, withsoft delicate shades --- here,by the commode inthe corner, profoundunderwater pink; then,in the corner wherethe light falls flush,bright creampinkthat shows a tinywaving thread ofspiderweb overlooked
by the greedy housekeeper --- So the whitepaint shining on thedoorframes blends withthe pink & pastel &makes a restful room.The table is of simpleplytex red surface,with matching littlechairs covered inred plastic --- But Ohthe humanity in thesouls of these chairs,this room --- no words!no plastics to nameit!Carolyn has set outa little metal napkinholder, with greenpaper napkins, inthe middle of hertable. Nothing isprovincial --- there isnothing provincial inAmerica --- unlessit is the radio, staticingfrom late afternoonCarolina Augustdisturbances --- thevast cloud-gloriousCoastal Plain in itsgreen peace ---
The voices of rustic- affectated announcersadvertising feeds& seeds --- & dullorgan solos in theradio void --- Maybethe rusticity of theprovince of NC isin the pictures on C'slivingroom wall: 2framed pictures ofbird dogs, to pleaseher husband Paul,who hunts. A nobleblack dog steppingwith the power of a
great horse from a pond, quail-in-mouth,with sere Autumnsin the brown swales& pale green forestsbeyond; & 2 noblenervous white & browndogs in a corn-goldfield, under paleclouds, legs taut, tailsstiff like pickets,with a frondy sadglade beyond wherean old Watteau wouldhave placed hismisty courtiers book
in hand at Milady's fat thigh --- Thesepictures are above thelittle dining table ---Meaningless pictureletsover the bureau inthe other corner (putthere temporarilyby finicky Carolyn)a dull picture ofred flowers & fruitrioting in the gloom ---One chair: - ablack high-backwood rocker, withlow seat, styled
in the oldfashioned country way, hintof old New England& Colonial Carolina ---a hint lost to thestatic of the radio& the hum & swishof the summer fanset on the floor tocirculate air in awide arc from oneextreme twist ofits face to theother --- a fanbrought home by herhusband from hisoffice at the TelephoneCompany.CB herself, cig inmouth, is opening thewindows behind theblinds --- she'd closedthem at 9 o'clockAM to keep themorning freshness in--- & now, near 4,the air cooling,she opens them again--- a fan canonly stir dusts ofthe floor --- Instantlyscents of fields
& trees comes into the pink room with thehardwood floor --- Agay wicker basketis on the floor beneaththe windows,full of newspapers& magazines & aSears Roebuck catalogue--- CB iswearing shorts, sandals& a nondescript vestshirt--- just did herhousework --- washedthe lunch dinners& is about to take a
bath --- The breeze of afternoon pillowsin the redpink plasticcurtains. CarolynBlake stands, cig inmouth, glancing brieflyat the yard outside--- beyond it stretchesa meadow, a cornfield, a tobaccofield, & faintlybeyond the wreckageof a gray flucuringbarn thewall of the forestof the South.
CB is a thin, trim little woman of 33 ---looking younger, withcut bangs, short hair,bemused, modern ---On her commode, twoshelves above a drawer& opening hinged door,pale wood, is awooden salad bowl,upright; two Chinaplates, upright; anearthen jug ofVin Rosé, empty,brought from NYby her mother;
a green glass dish --- for candy --- a glassashtray --- & twobrass candle holders--- these things luminescentin the glowfrom the windows,in still, fan-buzzing,lazy Carolina afternoontime. On theradio a loud prolongedstatic fromnearby disturbancesrasps a halfminute ---On the wallabove the husband'sdiningtable chairhangs a knickknackshelf, with 3 levels,tiny Chinese vasebowl with cover ---copper horse equestrian& still in itspetite mysteriousshelf --- & Chineseporcelain rice-girlwith hugehat &double baskets.These are some ofthe incidentalappurtenances inthe life of a little
Carolina housewife in 1952.
She turns & goes into the parlor --- amore elegant room,with green leatherchairs, gray rug, bookshelves, --- goes to thescreen door --- letsin Little Paul &Little Jackie Lee ---Her son Little Paul comesyells "Mommy Iwants some ice water!Me & Jackie Lee wantssome ice water!Mommy!" She shoosthem in with an absentmindedair ---Little Paul, blond, thin,is her son; Jackie Lee,dark, plumper, belongsto a neighbor --- Theyrush in, barefooted,each 4, in littleshorts, screaming,wiggling ---In the kitchen, ather refrigerator shepours out ice
cube trays --- Little Paul holds the greenplastic waterbottle ---"That water's warm,"says Carolyn Blake,"let me make yousome ice --- ""I wants somecracked ice Mommy!Is that what youwants Jackie Lee?""Ah-huh," --- assent,"Ah-huh Pah-owl."The little mothergravely works on theice; above the sink,with a crank, is anice cracker; she
jams in the ice cubes, standing tip toereaches up & cranksit down into a redplastic container;wiggling the little boyswait & watch --- Thekitchen is modern &clean --- She slowlygoes about taking downsmall glasses froma cupbord, jams thecrushed ice in them.They clasp theglasses & rush off ---to Little Paul'sbedroom.
"This is our home, that trailer's our home,"says Little Paul asthey wrangle overa toy trailer-truckon the white chenillebedspread.They have toy horses,"Now you kill yrs.""Kill yours" --- Jackie"He's killed.""Arent you glad?""They aint nothingbut big bad wolves . . .
Hey --- mine's got a broken leg.""Give it to me.""They're not yourhorses!"An incrediblecity of toys in thecorner, on a cardtable, a big dollhouse, garages, cranes,clutters of card,accordions, silos,dogs, tables, cashregisters, merrygo rounds with
insignia goldhorses, marbles, airplanes,an airport ---Little Paul ---"Here --- here's $12for those horses,"striking cashregister,Jackie: "12 dollars?"The bedroom haspastel green walls;the crib in the corner'snow only for toys ---Polo Pony for water,a balloon; rubbernaked doll; blacklamb --- At footof bed a hamperfull of further toys ---On a little tablewith flowery tableclotha small standinglibrary of Childrensbooks --- A hugedouble bed, four posts,the little Princegets up on it &walks around ---He opens thehamper, "Jackie!know what? Ifound a rake!"
Holding toy rake. "You can work onthe track."On the open hampercover they hammertheir horses. "Thisis gonna be ahorse race." Paulfinds a track fromhis Lionel Train box."Are they glad?""Yes.""Here comes anotherstraight track!"--- to distinguish fromcurve tracks ---"Dont let em goJackie!" he callsfrom the trackbox."I wont.""Ding ding ding!"shouts Paul poundingwith a railroad stopsign on the hamper."Ding ding racehorse!Ding ding track!"Jackie: "One of em's ourmain horse!""Huh?""This one's ourmain horse.""Pah-owl thehorses are goin outin the tunnel! --- ""The train's notcomin down thatway. I bettermake a turn race.No --- " adjustingcurvetrack to straighttrack --- "no, gottagit anodder racetrack --- Youbetter help meJackie."
"Why?" "Cause --- Causethis is a hard track.Sure. Sure is.Now let me put atrack right here.Hard. This hard.""Now it's goinright around thattunnel. Paul we'regonna have a wholelot. We havecrow-co-dals --- ""If you mess upthat train trackone more --- I'll
shoot ya!" Jackie: "Talkin to me?"Paul: "Shoo --- flooshy you."Outside, in goldday, the weepingwillows of Buddy TomHarris hang heavy& languid & beauteousin the hour of life;the little boys arenot aware ofGod, of UniversalLove, & the vastearth bulging inthe sun --- theyare a part ofthe swarming mysteryand of the salvation--- their eyes reflecthumanity & intelligence---In the kitchen thelittle mother, lettingthem play, bustles& bangs around forsupper. Somethingin the air presagesthe arrival of thefather old man ---Soft breeze puffsthe drapes in Paul'sroom as he & Jackiewriggle on the floor"Hey Jackie --- yougot it on the wrong wayaint ya? Nowput this in the back--- now fix it.(Singing) I thinkI'll get on this train,I think I'll geton that train,I think I'll geton the ca-buss.Broom! briam!"lofting his woodplane --- screaming ---"Eee-yall ---gweyr! " Onhis belly, smiling, ---suddenly thinkingsilently . . .
In the kitchen changed to yellowtailored shorts,tailored gray vestshirt, & white sandalsthe little housewifeprepares supper. Shestands at the whitetile sink washing thesmall squash underthe faucet --- preliminarymaneuvers fora steak supper shedecided upon at thelast minute ---"Hello Geneva ---he went to Henderson thisnoon --- I think he'llbe back --- bye --- "--- She slices them intoa glass bowl, standingidly on one footwith the other out-thrust at rest ---the little boys nowplaying outside ---The screendoorslams out front ---"Hey!" criesCaB not moving fromher work"Hey Moe" greetsher husband ---
He comes into the kitchen, Panamahat, white shirt, tie--- casual --- tall,husky, blond, hand-some --- smooth moving,slow moving, relaxedSoutherner --- Hehas mail & that afternoonat his mother'shouse in Henderson50 miles away, whileon a business trip for thetel. co., he wentthru his grandmother'strunk & found oldletters & a pair ofold diamond studded
cuff links, he stands in the middle of thekitchen reading theold letter --- writtenby a lost girl tohis uncle Ed alsonow lost --- the sadnessof long lost enthusiasmson ruled paper, inpencil ---But now a stormis coming --- "It'sgonna storm," saysJack --- From thewest the rankedforward-leaningclouds come parading--- stationary puffclouds of the calmare snuffed &taken up --- Fromthe East big blackthunderhead withhis misty gloomforms hugeing ---Directly above
the embattled roof of the Blake's thesea of dark hasformed --- the firstlight snaps --- thefirst thunder crackles,rolls, & suddenlydrops to the bottomwith a shake-earthboom --- More &more the rushingclouds are gray, aforlorn airplane inthe southeast hurrieshome --- Far inthe northeast
the remnant afternoon's still soft& fleecy gold, stillrich, calm, cloudsstill make noses &have huge mawsof incomprehensiblecomedy in theirsides --- Thundertravels in the Westheavens --- "parentpower dark'ning inthe West" --- Astraycloud hangsupsidedown & helplessin the thunderheadglooms, still retainingwhite ---
Mrs. Langley nextdoor swiftly removes hersheets & wash fromthe wire line --- looksaround timidly ---absent in her work,frowning in the glare,peaceful in thestillness before storm(as one birdy tweetsin the forest acrossto the North) --- Grass,flowers, weeds wavewith dull expectancy--- The first spraydrops wetten thelittle Langley girlin her garden
play --- "Hey" she says --- Childrencall from all sidesas the rain beginsto patter --- Stilla bird sings.Still in the NEthe clouds arecreampuff soft &afternoon dreamy.Some blues showin the horizon grays--- Now the rainpelts & hums ---gathers to a wind ---a hush --- a mightywash --- the
trees are showing signs of activity --- ,the corn rattles,the wall of theforest is dimmedby smokeshroudrains --- a solitarybee rises, theroad glistens. Itis hot & muggy. Carsthat come fromup the road roll ontheir own sad imagesgray & dumb ---The cooling thirstingearth sighs up acucumber freshnessmixed with steamsof tar & warp danksof wood --- Toadsscream in the meadowditch, the Harris roostercrows. A newatmosphere like theatmosphere of screenedporches in Maine inMarch, on coldgray days; &not like sunny Carolinain July, is seenthru the windowsabove the kitchensink: dark wetleaves are shakinglike iron. A tiny
ant pauses to rub its threads on aspine of leaf ---the fly solemnlyjumps from thebedspread to thescreen hook --- asbreezes rush intothe house from thatperturbed West."Close that door!"cries the mother ---doors slam ---"Paul I said youstay here!"Rain nails kissthe dance of the shinyroad.
The parched tobacco is dark as grass.Behind the storm theblue reappears --- it wasjust a passing shower ---CB doesnt even botherto close her windows.Inside an hour thegrass is almost dryagain, vast areas ofopen blue firmamentshow the cottonballhorizons low & brightover the darknessesof the pine wall woods,up the road in cleanwhite shirt & pale overallsthat lookedalmost washed by therain, comes the purefarmer, a Negro,limping, as orgones dancein the electric washednew air.All is well inRocky Mount, NorthCarolina, as 5 o'clockin the afternoon shudderson a raindrop leaf,& the men'll be cominghome.
AVILA BEACH, CALIF. (WRITTEN YEAR LATER)
Seethe rush longroar of seaseething in floorof sand --- distantboom of worldshaking breakers--- sigh & intakeof sea --- income,outgo --- rumorsof sea ---hushing in air ---hot rocksin the sand ---the earth shakes& dances to theboom --- I thinkI hear propellersof the big unionoil Tankerwarping in atpier --- A greatlost rock sitsupended onthe skeely sand--- --- Who thefuck cares
1954 RICHMOND HILL SKETCH ON VAN WYCK BOULEVARD
Before my eyes I see "Faultless Fuel Oil" writtenin white letters on a greenboard, with "11-30" insmall numbers on eachside to indicate the streetaddress of the company.The building is small,modern, redbrick, square,with curious outjuttingnew type triangularscreens that I cant reallyexamine from this sideof the boulevard but looklike protection fromoldfashioned robbers &stones --- The garage doorentrance for the oiltrucks: green. The
building sits upon the earth under a grayradiant sky --- I seevague boxes in the rightfront window --- Carsare going by with asound like the sea inthe superhiway below it--- It is very bleak& I only give you thepicture of this bleakness.By bleakness I mean:unnatural, stiff, lostin a void it cantunderstand, --- in avoid to which it has norelation because of thetransiency of its function,to earn money by deliveringoil. But it has
a neat Tao of its own. In any case thisscene is of no interestto me. & is only anexample. A sceneshould be selected bythe writer, for haunted-ness-of-mind interest.If you're not hauntedby something, as by adream, a vision, ora memory, which areinvoluntary, you're notinterested or even involved.
SKETCH WRITTEN IN OUELLETTE'S LUNCH IN LOWELL MASS. 1954
"Ya rien plus pire qu'un enfant malade ---a lava les runs --- j'aita assez découragezj brauilla avec --- ""Un ti peu d gravy\*d tu?" --- "Staussi bien . . . Mourirechez nous que mourirela" --- "L'matinyava les yieux griautteux"--- "J fa jama deuxjournée d'suite" ---"J mallez prendeune marche --- " "Commequi fa beau apramidi ha?"
"A tu lavez les vites?" --- "J ai lavez toute lesvites du passage" ---"Qui mange dlamarde""A lava les yeuxpochées --- tsé quandqu'on s leuve des foit?"
CAT SKETCH ON THE CONCORD RIVER (1954)
The Perfect Blue Sky is the Reality, all 6Essential Senses abidethere in perfectindivisible UnityForever --- buthere down on thestain of earth theethereal flower inour minds, deadcats in the Concord,it's a temporarymiddle state betweenPerfection ofthe Unborn & Perfectionof theDead --- the Restoredto EnlightenedEmptiness --- Compromiseme no more, "Life"--- the cat had noself, was but thevictim of accumulatedKarma, madeby Karma, removedby Karma (death)--- What wecall life is justthis lugubriousfalse stain in thecrystal emptiness--- The cat in waters"hears" DiamondSamadhi, "sees"Transcendental Sight ---
"smells" Trans. odor, "tastes" Trans. taste,"feels" Trans. feeling,"thinks" Trans. thotthe one Thot--- So I am notsad for him ---Concord River RRBridgeSunday Oct 24 '54Lowell5 PM
A ridiculous N E tumbleweed dancedacross the RR Bridge
Thoreau's Concord is blue aquamarinein October redsereness --- littleIndian hill towardsWalden, is orangebrown with Autumn ---The faultless skyattests to T's solemnwisdom being correct--- but perfect Wisdomis Buddha'sToday I start teachingby setting the examplenot words only
ROCKY MOUNT 1952 (again) WHILE HITCH HIKING BACK FROM NORFOLK VA.
"You done lost the man's hole . . . SmartAlex."
N.C. --- Near Woodland N.C. Hams hanging by wildbulb-bugs in hotN.C. nite --- sad dustof driveway, scatteredsoftdrink hot-daybottles, old cratessunk in earth forsteps, pumps (Premium& Pure Pep) ---
hillbilly music in car --- trucks growlingthru --- old tire,rake --- old concreteblock --- old bench ---& tufts of greengrass seen au bord duchemin quand lesmachines passes ---L ---
ROCKY MOUNT CAR SHOP (RAILROAD)
Yard in afternoon of August --- bright reddrum shining in bright green& yellow grass-weeds, buds, ---old used rusty brakeshoes& parts piled ---
Sooty old woodwarp ramp --- in weeds ---fat RR clerk withbaseball hat walkingacross, cigar, scratchinghead, removing hat ---will go home to dogs,radio, wife, blond boyon a tricycle in whitebungalow --- Old A.C.L.Railway Exp Ag. 441weather-brownCracked cars --- 2, 3of them --- namelessparts arranged inweeds by tired Negroworkers --- Puff sweetCarolina clouds in sultryblue over head --- myeyes smarting from freshpaint in office, fromno sleep --- drowsyoffice like school days,with sleepy rustles ofdesk papers & lunch-in-the-belly --- hate it ---SP is in cool, dryWestern, romantic Friscoof bays --- with ---hills of purple eve &mystery --- & Neal--- --- here is fuzzy,unclear, hot, South,hot turpentined polesat tracks that lead
to Morehead City, Sea & Africa --- & impossiblelead tho --- just dullfat cops & people inheat --- Easonburg isbetter.
DIDNT HAVE PENCIL with me to sketch thebluebells that climbup from beautifulfields of weeds tocurl around the olddead cornstalk thatis rattly cracklydeadbone & wreathsit purple, softens it,gives it a juicier(THE WOODS ARE SHINING)sound in the wind,droops it, embracesit, gives it theAutumn kiss forharvest stack farewell--- old Melancholy Frowseis wound round inCarolina in theMorning ---The piercing blue ofthe first Autumnday, the woodsare shining, theNor'east wind makingripples in theflooded tarns --- allis lovely this Sunday morn.The Weeping Willowno longer hangs butwaves ten thousandgoodbyes in thedirection of the wind--- The cleanlittle tele. pole withoutcrossbars stands lostin Carolina vegetations,some of the corn halfits height, & thatlush forest ofCarolina backs itsolemnly & witha promise --- thatwas here for boys killedin Palau in 1944, boys ---
that had sisters who yet mourn this Sun.morning --- hopethat was there forthe strange Cherokee--- & now for methat wanders roundmy earth --- amen.
Sitting in the middle of the woods withLittle Paul, Princey& Bob --- Little foxyPrince sits panting--- big mosquitos ---Big Bob pantinghard, tongue out,licks his mouth,blinks eye, bigtongue flapping oversharp teeth ---drooling --- Pineneedle floor isbrown, dry crackyodorless ---blue skyis sieve abovetangled dryvining green heartleafing trunkingcobwebbing ---now & then swaymassedly in upperwinds --- Sunmakes joy goldspots all over
The sand road is blinding old ---many gnats ---cars raise stormsof dust --- windsways grass
in ditch ridges --- straight thinpinesstand in vaultyraw blue, clean ---Negroboys bikeby smiling ---Princey's littlewet nose ---no more --- no more ---Oh Princey, Bob,Little Paul, woodsof Easonburg, no more--- (freedom ofthe blue cities callsme.)
SHORT TIC SKETCHES (TICS ARE FLASHES OF MEMORY OR DAYDREAM)
(1) Hartford --- when I was a boy poet & wrotefor myself --- nofrantic fear of "notbeing published," butthe joy, the shiningmorning, "This loveof mine" --- leaves,houses, Autumn --- andImmortality(2) Hospital, 1951, lettingthe images overwhelmme, not rushing outto lasso them &getting all poopedout --- NOW Coach(3) Oh when I was young &had a pretty little Ediein bright lavendersweater to hug tome --- big breasts, thighswarm, bending-to-me waist,--- now I'm cold asthe moon . . . no more womenfor puffy-eyed Jack ---who once posed in abuttondown boy sweaterfor a picture --- When ---O when, reading the N.Y.Times, he thought hewas learning everything ---& has learned but decayonly --- & sadness of partings ---
(4) Mr Whatsisname in beat ragged coatin r.r. office, has samehaggard anxious soulneglectedsorrow ashe searches amongledgers, mouth open,as my father in hisshop of old yore ---with glasses onnose, blue eyes, ---O doom, death,come get me! I cannotlive but to remember--- old puff linedJack, go put apoor blanket ofdirt over yournoble nose.Last night, under thestars, I saw I belongedamong the big poets(did I read that somewhere?)
(5) Raw, almost childlike slowmotion dinosaurideas of 1947bop on So. MainL.A. --- "You CameTo Me From out ofNowhere" --- Theideas of serious basicthinkers, young, energetic,powerful --- joy comesfrom the really new ---Bird was like that, butmore & most complex
Be like Bird, find y.self little story tunes tostring yr. complexitiesalong a wellknown lineor you will sound likea crazy Tristano ofthe Seymour-record(Bartok --- Bar Talk)( Bela BarTalk)--- Bird has visions betweenbridges --- So do youin visions between chapterlines --- --- !!!Shakespeare, Giroux'sShakespeare OperaBooks --- simple --- notthat simple but usestory-forms --- or phooey,do what you please ---
Never will be bored in the bottom --- at the hut, thesecret room, the weed,the mind --- the daVinciseries ---
I was in my mother's house, in winter --- I waswriting "The Sea is MyBrother" --- what haveI learned since then?I have written DoctorSax since last prattlinglike this ---
NEAR SANDY CROSS N.C.
Quiet shady sand road atlate afternoon, acrick pool-like& ripple reflecting& brown withfroth spit motionless,& exoticunderwater leaves,& tangled junglybanks under dryold board bridge--- vined sides of it--- a wild clawtree protruding fromsilent greeneries ---with 12 agonies
of fingers, & one twisted guilty body,the weatherbeaten barkas clean as awoman's good thigh,with a climb ofvines on it --- Thebrown & tragiccornfield shining inthe late sun up theroad --- The clearing,the negros, theflu barn, the whitehorse nibbling ---Coca Cola sign atthe lonely goldenlittle bend --- a cricket
I got up this road into my Maturity
And what will that corn do for you?--- will it soothe you& put you to bedat night? Willit call yr namewhen winter blows?Or will it justmock the bonesof yr. skeleton,when Augustbrowning breaksits Silence camp,& blows ---Immortality justpassed over me--- in these woods--- as it cooled ---& darked --- at6 PM ---The Angel visited me &told me to go on
THESE Mornings in A.C.L. office will be rememberedas happy --- the visionarytics, the dreams, the delicatesensations --- must bethat way on the roadof rock & rail.
Repeat --- let it come to you, dont run after it--- It would be and is likerunning after sea waves ---to embrace them up whereyou stand when you catchthem --- aïe ---TICSThe long dismal winterstreet where I'd go to seeGrace Buchanan --- & Mary ---(The prophet is withouthonor in his own family.)A "tic" is a sudden thoughtthat inflames & immediatelydisappears ---The Indians see a LittleCloud a Shining Travellerin the Blue Sky
TIC The yard with thebrothers & dogs in therickety back of OzonePark back of Aqueduct track--- Why' is it have to be Kentucky?
The Time-type executive --- "Ahuh, --- yeah ---That would be about500 kegs a month ---Well alright ifthat takes care ofyr situation thatswhat they want Iexpect --- Yeah ---hm --- We'll try to dothat this afternoon--- anything you wantjust holler --- ah huh ------ bye --- same toyou" --- click ---
TICS O fogs of South City,the rumble of the drag,outside, chicory coffee,the doom-wind-shedsof Armour & Swift ---waybills in the Night ---the clean mysteryof California --- thesesensations --- Why makesit me shudder to remember,if it aint hanted ---
The exams in University Gym --- Bill Birt, morning ---those smells, sensations,
rise to me from just standing at requisitionshelf where fresh paint& cool breeze blow --- usuallyrouses Frisco RR work ---Why? --- if not hanted,charged materially withsubstances that arelocked in (and asProust says waiting to beunlocked.) Ah I'mhappy --- Yet it's only11:30 & Time Crawls ---& I'm so sick of theburden time, everything'salready happened, whynot happen all atonce, the charge inone shot ---Old clerk to other oldclerk --- 25 yrs. sameplace --- "What are youtoday, Columbus?" ---as he searches lost ledger--- Sad? It's abominable
--- The names of old lost Bigleaguers Cudworthused to paste in his books ---1934, 1933 --- Dusty Cooke,lost names --- lost suns ---as more sad than rain ------ those 2 men drinkingat the old bar on Third& alley --- old MeeksBar 1882 --- why do I thinkof them? --- Pa & CharleyMorrissette spectralizingFrisco-Lowell ---
ROCKY MOUNT oldstreet with 90 year old BuffaloBill housepainter spittingbrown 'bacca juice onroof, --- & younger painterwho heartbreakingly white-washes that part near theporch reminds me of poorlost Lowell --- And oldlady sewing little boybluepants on historicporch breaks my heart ---& old black bucket &fire in negroyard & littlegal in scrabble remindsme Mexico & the Fella-heen peoples I love ---for old retired couple onthat porch aint justsittin in the sun, sitin judgment & Westernhatred --- not allof em ---
I am alone in Eternity with my WorkForas I sat on theburnt out stump onthe Concord River bankstaring into the flawlessblue & thinking ofearth as a stain,suddenly I realizedthe utter absurdity ofmy squatting assyhumanity too, theinfinitely emptycrock of form, likesuddenly hearing myselfsneeze in the quietStreet night & itsounds like somebodyelse --- Therefore, ismy pelvic ambitionfor girl's bone-coverthe True Me? --- oris it not, like thesneeze & the ass,absurd, like thesmell of the shitof a saint
THE GREAT FALL is rumbling in America ---in back of the Telephoneoffice in R.M. youcan see it in the profounderblue of the late aft skyas seen from amongthe downtown Southernredbricks --- in thebrown tips of leaveson trees over the garagewall --- The wholesalehardware wall --- in theparticular cold deep redthat has suddenlycome into the tobaccowarehouse roof withits spotted loft-windows --- inside,faintly in the
brown like Autumn tobacco brown, the pilesof bacco baskets ---Here watching Paul's car Isit --- poised for thecontinent again, Aug. 27 '52And in San Jose theGreat Fall is tangledbrown among thegreens of sun valleytrees, deep shadowsof morning make thewoodfence blackagainst the goldenflares of sere grass ---California is alwaysmorning, sun, & shade--- & clean ---
lovely motionless green leaves --- vagueplaster rocks lost infields --- the dazzlingwhite sides of housesseen thru the tanglyglade branches ---the dry solemn groundof California fit forIndians to sleep on--- the cardboardbeds of hoboes alongthe S.P. track up atMilpitas --- & theclean blue deepnight at Permanente,the dogs barking underclear stars, the
locomotive flares his big hot orangefire on sleepinghouses in the glade--- sweet California ---memories of Marin& the California nightare true & real ---& were rightAnd then I wentSouth to Mexico
And then I went North to New York
To New York, to the Apple, New York
(Remember, this isnt chronological) Mexico December '52
Plant without growth in Vegetable bleakness
The thirst, the mournfulness
The terrible benzedrine depression after bignight of drinking onOrgano St. withLa Negra & thecourtdancer queerchildren after whoresluffed me & I lostbrakeman's lantern,French dictionary,
earmuff hat, money, pages of writing,left piss in mynew pots & walkedoff --- long ridesin perfect Mexicoon bus, sad --- butat Tamazunchalebegin to feel good &see Kingdoms & homes& heavy syrup airof jungle ---& at BrownsvilleMissouri Pacific bus --- &then VICTORIA
"SIRONIA" --- my walk --- miss'tbus --- saw Xmasin rose brownr.r. trackwindows ---Sweet stars ---presaging monthsin Winter 1953Richmond Hill atMa's house writinggemlikeLOVEISSIXTEEN
After which flew back to Coast towork mountainsat San Luis Obispoputtin up & downpops --- ending Isail out the GoldenGate on a Japanbound freighter thatfirst goes to NewOrleans where Idrink & take off("Worlds Championshipjumper," saysBurroughs) & returnNY in summer, toheat & Subterraneans
& Alene Love & eventualRAILROAD EARTHbook of FallCome - ChristmasO rushinglife,restless gyre,seas, cots,beds, dreams,sleeps, larks,starlights, mists,moons, knowns ---
SKETCHES WRITTEN IN ST. LOU IS-TO-NEW YORK AIRPLANE
Winter in No. America, the sun is fallingfeebly from theSouth.
Getting rooked of all my money trying toget home for Xmasin time --- for achildhood chimerablowing all my pay ---flying TWA --- Lemmesee, can I findJay Landesman'ssaloon?it's going to bea Merry Xmasone way or theother
Winter in No. America, the passengers on theright in the TWA planehave a sea of incandescentmilk blindingin their eyes, fromwhere the feebleSouth American suncomes raying, plusthe dazzling sunball herself, buton the left, on eastbound58 out of St. Louis,on the fireman'sside, they see the paleblue North out thewindow, also blinding,but more seeable ---
It's like facing the snow on the North sideof the train eastboundin the morning, in astrange New Englandof snow created by theice-cap of overcastcovering the Easternlake & seaboard ---like Greenland, fromthe top of one ofits highest coastalmountains seeingbelow the enormityof the continentalinland polar snowfield a thousand,two thousand miles long ---a field of clouds,no buttercups there;a glacier offiery mad vaporextending in theair sea. Downon the world PremierMossadegh cried.Notre Dame, TerreHaute, Africasbelow. Unbelievableendless solid floorof clouds.
Karagoo Karagin criastoshe, gobu,bois-cracke, trou-or,boisvert, greenwoodsbeezy skilliagooarrange-câssez,cracké-vieu,greenin buzzbee grash ---Feenyoniefeenyom ---Demashtado--- --- Greeazzh ---Grayrj ---
Or --- where a festive fly makes a bladeof grass snap ---Or --- Hurried antflies over a leaf ---Or --- Deserted villageclearing of my sitOr --- I am deadOr --- I am deadbecause everythinghas already happenedI must go aheadbeyond this deadto ---the ground
to --- the vastto ---the moss of theBabylon woodstumpto ---mysterious destructionfrom ---blistersbelliesstockingsfingers with hairtanssoresmuddy shoesSeulement pas, S.P. ---Aoo reu-reu-reu-a bee ---
The Woods Are Ave of Me
Ant town antics Joan is deadThe flup fell downI have an antcriolling thruthe rotstump"Yey" voiceof human child"oh! --- " ZzzzFinally: -Degradled fling lumpstick stump motionbump in the brothermump of ---skreeee --- lump ---Terre vert ---sflux --- seeee ---Spuliookatuk ---Speetee-vizit,vizit (bird) ---Vush! the wholeforust! ZhaamSabaam Vom ---V-a-a-m ---R-a-o-o-l ---m-n-o-o-l-z-oo --- ZZAY ---
Tickaluck --- (Funny) fiddledegree --- R-R-R-R-Rising vrezZung blumpdee-dooo-domm ---Deelia-hum ---Baralidoo ---Spitipit --- spitipit ---Ahdeeriabum, ahgrey ---Vee!Eee-lee-lee-mosquilee ---Rong big bongbee bong ---Atchap-peeAtchap-peeSkior! Viz!Sit!Deria-po-pa!Hit-ta-tzi-po-teel,Te de li a bo ---Vit! chickalup!
Oooeeeuoom Vazzh ---V-a-z-zFlip flip flip flupBung ground terre
Doo-ri-oo-ri-oo-ra
Zee --- Krrrrrr --- r-o-tCrickFueet!?Fueet!?Written in Easonburgwoods, at one point naked,Sunday, Aug 10 1952--- The Sounds of the Woods
When Buz Sawyer goes to South Americarepresenting Americanswho only think interms of paranoia & oil.--- bkfast. in thebest hotel is only atime to read the paper,across the park it'sempty & just aparanoiac Indianphotographer --- hetalks over thephone with Mr Boss,avoids women ---Woogh!
WATSONVILLE, CALIF.
Mechanized Saturday night --- the foggyWatsonville Main Drag onthe Mexican side haspeople on the sidewalksmilling but Mexican field& section hands dismallyknowing they cant findlove till they return toMexico, just wander, &mostly look into workclothesstores (!) like I do anda group of anxious Indiansfinished with the beet& lettuce season havebought an enormous suitcaseat the Army Navystore & are going hometo stern fathers
& good mothers who have taught themgentleness & the VirginMother so they dontclack around wise guyslike the Mexican AmericanPachucos --- but onlyhave great sad eyessearching into the lostblue eyes of America,& in the "American"part of the Main Dragthere are no people,empty sidewalks, emptypink neons for bars(like Sunnyvale) justcars in the street --- amechanized Saturday,
with occupants who look anxiously out forcompanionship of Satnite mill crowds butthe steel of themachines is walling themoff --- argh!Meanwhile I digthe woman in hersad furnished room aboveMex Mainstreet, herlittle boy in windowlooking out on the whiteness& mystery ofNov. 8, 1952 --- & theold wood building's beencovered at front withplaster --- She's in thewindow in her pinkdress, radiant, transparent,lost --- I would begreat if I could justsit in a panel trucksketching Main Streetsof world --- will do.God will save mefor what I do now,help my Mom ---he will ---
In his idealistic youth on railroad in Maine Old Bullsays "Why should I have aradio when I can hearthe music of a crackling fire& the steam engines inthe yard?" --- railroad Thoreau--- he sits alone in hiscaboose, in the dark, withthe fire, drinking --- OldBull Baloon the Manof America --- GuillaumeBernier of Gaspé ---& says "All thatmatters is the healthycolor of that fire" ---but too much bottle,not enough sottle, bringshim to his last lateyears ---
TITLE: - THE MORTAL UGLINESS
The Mortal Story (Haunted Ugly Angles of Mortality)
Did I ever get my kicks as a kid withdate pie & whipt creamcombining with "ShrineNorth South All starfootball game Christmasnight in the Orange Bowl"--- dug sports thenas something rich& at its peak onholidays whenit went with turkeydinners & peach shortcake--- Also, rememberthe joyous snowy morningswhen you playedFootball Game Boardwith Pop & BobbyRondeau? --- the oranges& walnuts in a bowl,the heat of the house,the Xmas tinsel onthe tree, the boysof the Club throwingsnowballs belowcorner Gershom ---Moody? ---On the Road thatif you will, SexGeneration thatif you will ---
Made Sick by The Night
My Father Was a Printer
The trouble withfashions is you wantto fuck the womenin their fashionsbut when the timecomes they alwaystake them off sothey wont getwrinkled.
Face it, the really great fucks in ayoung man's life waswhen there was notime to take yr.clothes off, youwere too hot & shewas too hot --- noneof yr. Bohemian leisure,this was middleclassexplosions againstsnowbanks, againstwalls of shithousesin attics, on suddencouches in the lobby ---Talk about yr. hot peace
The Sea is My Brother --- a figment of the graysea & the gray America,of my childhood dreams ---
Walked from Easonburg on old walking-road but3 miles --- in gray thrilling ---with bag --- saw Negropulled by a mule on abike! --- to junction 64,immediate ride young hot-rod speedsters to SpringHope, pickt up WakeForest boy too --- hegot off, went downroad--- Hotrod told, as hewent 90, of mantried pass truck hit
school child & turned over --- Old thin bumat S Hope, hitching east,from Atlanta, "Almostgot stuck in old car 10miles out" --- A blondhusky Hal Chase-truck-ride to Raleigh, arr. 4:30P.M. --- hates South ---nothin to do, bars close--- New Caledonia, LouisTranson, Noumea ---he said is Paradise ------ A bleakness I dontlike in air --- dulltrees of Raleigh ---I feel forsaken ---Old goodhearted taxi-driver to corner --- CuriousRaleigh Judge-typeto corner ---
Girls crossing --- man stops --- Relief mgrof restaurants ---Corn likker test, upin Old Port --- MickeySpillane, Faulkner ---Is going to rest finally at asteady Maryland restaurant--- Then young kid inold truck, married, who in1946 hitched to Wash. Statewith $500 & came backwith 21¢ --- Thenincredible beat old carwith old fat bum, onemile, incredible heatfrom motor, incrediblydirty shirt --- Then2 bleak eternal bakery
workers driving home dogtired from work thru red claycuts of Time, with winefaintly in gray westernhorizon, beefing about work--- I thought "Why doyou want men to bebetter or different thanthis" --- One talked, otherdidnt; one urged, otherbrooded; left me offat truckstop road toGreensboro N.C. --- broke$5 on coffee --- "Dinning Room"Tics of Eternitycalled me buddy --- goodhearted Charley Morrisettesof Time --- I must findlangue for them --- frazzlyeager one & Charley Mew-Leo Gorcey used-out legendedripened-beyond sad fat one--- O Lord
Great big G.J. burper picked me up in the rain, dark ---after I talked to old bum(70) in railroad hat whosaid country was worse offthan in 1906 (truckdriverfrom Liberty Tex. toBaton Rouge worried Mex,called it "tarpolian")--- GJ burper in newhuge Chrysler, was Chiefin Navy gun crews on Liberties,also bought requisitionfood (for Bainbridge Officers),at North River wholesalehouses --- ate 5 pound steak--- ate 2 lobstersat Old Union Oyster House,Boston --- used toscrew redhead at 7 PMon her beauty parlor couch ---used to beat up queers inWashington --- Drove meinto bloody Western horizonbeyond rain (!) into theglittering Lowell town ofGreensboro, gave me cardRobt J Simmons LilyCup Corp. --- to SalvationArmy --- was only gym,old Negro born in Hollywood("used to have a showon the corner with mysister & etc.") directedme accurately "ThatEsso Sign, this side,them real bright lights,707 Billbro St. ---bed & breakfast" ---Sho enuf --- a littleramshackle house ---dorm bedroom --- manwas 50, thin, gray; Redgot up in undershirt ---to talk about routes
("No sir, Winston Salem to Charleston waste yourtime, you in Charleston& Bluefield & you in themountains" --- hangingbulb, table, pictures ofwanted criminals onflowery wallpaper ---bathroom --- "take70 right on down theriver --- ") TennesseeRiver, from Knoxville toNashville --- rainstarts --- go to bedat 9 --- no eat --- talk
with Red an hour about rolling, wandering, sleeppolice stations, quit jobs,drink whiskey, itch ---etc. --- Dream allnight wild dreams ofbig Chicago SalvationArmy with wild younggang with me, & girlhorrors of mywallet, Salvation Armyunderwear --- incredulouslyall over me I see sixinch long & thick spongesof fungus growing offme --- so awful I dontbelieve it even indream --- spectral happenings,cellar, stairs,rooms, bathroom, girl, boys,wallet, (had it in mypillow case so Red mightntsteal it) --- Up at 6:30"Gotta go" says boss--- breakfast: 2 coffees,weak, cornflakes &evap. milk --- & my banana--- & blowing drizzle outbut I go --- & get spotride to junction --- & getslow ride to High Point,dampwet, dry in carman was at NewZealand & Melbourne,--- dry further inHigh Point Greeklunchcart with mottledmarble greasy counter
& aged grill & fry smells & comfort, withsteamy windows redglowredbrick Hi Point butgotta roll ---(I got in that truck,driver said "I'm quittinmy job so the hellwith the insurance spotters,less roll" ---bums in SA) --- alwayssay, for truck driver,less roll ---I got $4.85Blank Universe staredme on Main Hiway out ofGreensboro --- storm rose ---driving wet drizzly winds ---I was positive I was lost ---faces of passing cars --- Staringporch people --- bakery trucks ---but I got a spot rideto junction --- & there instorm, got ride to High Point--- but woops, already wrotethis --- Walked clear toFurniture factories at junction,& stood an hour 45 minutes, nearbleak aluminum warehousewith tin chimnies withChinese hats, & smoke, &Southern RR yards ---& funny Kellostone apt.house with Italian in-porcheswith potted palms, silent& dismal & unfriendlyin the blank gray day ---Certain again I waslost --- But --- ride to
junction from a guy (I forget now!) --- &there, on open hiway, Iget ride from new carto Hickory N.C. 90miles --- with furnitureveneer wood agent whoknows Yokleys of Mt. Airy& talked & was intelligent(Sheepshead Bay, book reviewfor High Point etc.) ---at Hickory I was atfoot of my worse trip--- mountains --- but hadno time to despair, ablond hero boy in ared rocket 88 ('52)with frizzly dog (halfterryland Terrier & Sheepdog) --- zoomed off to100 mile straightaway ---was only going to Kansas City--- 1000 miles! --- Ihelped him drive --- werolled thru Mountains fast,thru Asheville (Tom Wolfesign on road) --- (rightacross Woodpen St.) ---
to Knoxville, to Louisville at midnight (pickt uplost hitch hiker in rainoutside Mt Vernon, Ky.)--- but Oh those CumberlandMtns. from Lake City& LaFollette Tenn. thruJellico to almost CorbinKy. --- dismal, bleak,I dreamed em, hillbillyshacks, hairy buttes, smoke,raw, fog --- wow --- atLouisville the great Ohio,
the redbrick wholesale bldgs., soft night, --- crossto New Albany, Ind.,where I drove straightacross the Vincennes etc.to St Louis in the morning ---he drove to ColumbiaMo. --- I drove another 60 mi.to Boonville --- outsideWarrenton he wanted toshow --- attendant ---ranout gas --- on road ---went 117 M.P.H.!!!Kansas City Kansas atnoon --- I lost darkglasses in his car --- wildkid --- KC washed instation, spent moneyon cokes & crackers& ice cream --- rideto junction --- Two Texas
boys work in car shops for Santa Fe RR in ElPaso drove me Topeka--- got there just as boyswere coming out ofwork in Rocky Mt N Ccar shops! --- moving ---Then Beryl Schweitzer,Negro All American backfrom Kansas State, droveme to Manhattan Kans.--- we talked --- Thentwo cowboys, the driver14, drove to Rileyon Route 24 --- talkedabout horses, calves, roping,drinking, girls, cross countryriding on "Satan" theirunshod bronc --- etc. --- withred hankies of cowboyshanging on dashboard inold rattly car --- cowboySam called my seabagwar bag --- ! --- atRiley I despaired, gottruck to junction --- sungoing down --- 2 boyswho come home from workdrove me to Clay Center,where I ate tuna inbackyard --- & it gotdark, I was souldead,I wanted to die ---so got poorboy portwine, then $1.75 hotelroom with fan, sink ---right on tracks of R I R Ror C B Q --- slept 12hour log --- washed, shaved,wrote, ate sardines ---
500 miles to Denver, I have $1.46 --- butfeel alive again & eventhat I will be saved, i.e.,I am not a dead duck,not a criminal, abum, an idiot, a fool--- but a great poet& a good man --- &now that's settled Iwill stop worrying aboutmy position --- & --- concentrateon working for stakeson Sp. RR so I can gowrite in peace, getmy innerworld lifeworkunderway, Part II,for Doctor Sax wascertainly part one!
Clay Center Window --- creamy snowy silo risingFarmers Union CO-OP ---green roof & old gables(once English style) ofClay Center RR depot ---redbrick 1-story Plumbing &Electrical Co. --- cars& small trucks parkedon angle --- ricketybrokendown shacks on tracks--- rickety graywood oldhouseunder noble trees, signson small barn, weeds, pilesof barrels or bldg. materialin back --- someone is hammeringon a plank --- W P StarkLumber Co. hugetruck backinin a truckstop across thetracks --- fellow in bluebaseball hat in P&E doorway
is jacking up a car --- man in RR hat & man in Panamatalk & watch --- sun'scoming out --- US RoyalFarm Tires sign wavesin breeze --- small FarmersCo Op gas truck wentby --- Tourists --- Smallliquor store, was once gasstation, where I got wine,white plaster, white fence,green lawn, looks likeLA realty office ---music from a restaurantjuke --- junkyard in distance--- nobody on street--- everywhere the greenballs of trees over roofs--- last night a thousandbirds from the Plains wereyakking in this town --- fromthe Plains Clay Center isa cozy nestled settlementin the Huge ---
It's the thought of Nin that makes this trip sosad --- my sister didntlove me, I didnt knowit ---The drink that's bittergoing down, & sweet inmemory --- Life.I am now stuckoutside Norton Kan.with no prospect ofany ride, nightfall,hunger, thirst, death.Brierly saved my damneduseless life --- I wentto Prairie View Kans. in atruck, in a vale from behindwhere I was, phonedhim collect, he's sending--- but why make a record,he's saving me --- he expectsto see me & be all excitedin talk & joy --- like Iwas --- but am I dead?--- I want to say to him"I dont understand what'shappening --- any more ---I dont understand thedew --- I know there isno Why but I cant helpit --- " But he saved me--- I went from ClayCenter in a car driven byblond handsome youngreclamation worker --- wedrove 60 miles west toBeloit --- I felt veryhappy, the land of Kansassmiled ---
days that start good end up bad --- at Beloit Igot a ride from father &son (father roadworker, apparently droveto Missouri to fetch him forholidays, is married to'new wife') --- to alone-ass junction at281 --- hot killing sun--- no cars --- I thoughtI was done for (was,too) --- I prayed to besaved --- a man carryinga carseat load of deadside beef (smell ofdeath) saved me ---my meaty dumb bones--- & carried me zippingto Smith Center ---
wrecked his car Feb. 29! nice old fella --- (on 28!)I know the joy thoselittle girls'll remember,in Prairie View with theirmother --- yes I do ---And that cunt's tallgrandfather --- doesmy mother think Idont know thosethings? ---Nobody cares ---How can they carewhen they dont know?!--- At Smith Center aride to a country junctionfrom a farmer herostraight profile withlittle blond son ---
at ice cream stand, the mother said to her son"Dont hang around withhim" & I recognized herface & she mine --- mad ---but I got a ride to(this was off Agra) ---to doomed Phillipsburgfrom carload of kids drivby Marine ex & wife ---Okie --- on I go withdignified father & sonto that lonely holeon a hill where Ithink I die --- 2 hours,no rides, zoom, sungoing down, despair,--- Prairie View intruck --- but later ---
I walked in with seabag --- Old falsefront westernwood stores, dirt, or tarredgravel sandy road MainStreet, cars crunch overmajestically, on review onSat. nites --- but not asoul in sight, I'm goingdown over prairie hollowof trees bloodred, birdsthrashing in trees, ---I go to Public Telephonelittle old white house,woman long calls Nealfor me (San Jose), he'snot home --- her husbandin long overalls wasonce farmer, gives mehamburg sandwich huge,says (& also hugeglass water) --- "A mandont know what to doanyway." --- Sun goesdown, I wait, --- dark,Prairie Viewers come roundfor Satnite, men sit infront gen'l hardware, someon ground, talk soft ---little kids hurry tochurch suppers or whatever,mothers --- sodafountainopens, I sit, watch happymother & little Gaby Nashuajoy girls --- ate my heart ---& crazy castrated lunaticWellington chain smokingstuttering smelling somehowsweet & open air talksto me --- Ah --- "Bornsame date & year asA G Bell a great
intelligent" --- "hmph, a Swede, he's a Hollander,there's Mr. So and so,barn burned down in '49"etc. --- Pushes hat back,wild hair brow pasted, mad,somehow Fitz, I likehim, he's intelligent ---"Kansas City was instreet 2 nights --- wentto hotel --- need 55¢cutsays man --- next night,need 75¢ says man ---okay, --- not got it ---pushes me on left shoulder ---out" --- "Dont workany more since myheadaches started" --- "OldMr Jones lived to be98 --- died amile north of that
water tower --- couldnt climb it tho, guess he was tooold --- he was a Hollandertoo" --- Farmers: "Ottois it? Hello Otto!" yellsWellington --- He's sensitive--- listens when you talk,jerks to hear & reply ---We cross street, longpantsniceman driving to sixmiles east Norton --- MeanwhileOld Justin's sendingme $12 Norton --- goodbye--- they (longpants &thin heroboy of Kansasbut sad & attentive) driveme to hill of Western Nite--- hail down stationwagonbein whaled at 85 bywild cunt --- fixed mea ride as only farmercould --- man in carsays "Working late aintya?" --- (harvest hethinks) I get outcar --- "Thank you sir ---and madame." Forcedon them --- Go todepot, agent off duty,raging mad I tear uphandful of folders &hurl them screamingacross Rock Island tracksto where sad cows beingwaybilled to Santa Femoo --- I go to HotelKent, get a room, promisepay morning (first Irush for wine, Gallo port)--- back --- waterf ountain,grocery store, man
wallet --- hotel room hot --- windows --- showerno handles --- curse ---dancing below --- 5 shotswine --- sleep --- coldin Fall morn --- up ---wipe wine from things ---depot --- joy ofdark shadow morn onRR tracks etc. --- rushto WU --- back (waterfountain) --- cash hotel ---Melroy Cafe hugebkfast. --- go --- waitress ---read paper hurricane,Faulkner crash airshow"Please keep away ---for Gods sake keepaway" --- bus at 5:30!--- I hitch! ---Cursing half hour, decidingnever to hitchagain, to end On TheRoad (pure hitching)with malediction gainstAmerica --- a sunnyfuneral directorfrom Hope Indiana withparticularly irrelevantold bum carry me80 mph. to Denver!--- "Believe in helpingout a feller --- try todo God's will as bestI can --- " Never seena rattlesnake ora mirage till thisride! --- Zoom ---Arrive Denever
ZAZA (Barbershop in Denver)
Zaza's --- blue squares painted above longvertical panes, onglass --- says "Baths"& "1821" --- BarberShop --- little tinybulb light over dooron protruding bar, bent ---beat up doorway, graypaint below the madcerulean wash blue--- in window burleskad, whitewashed flowerpotof tub with soil & crazyredblossomed weeds ---smaller pots, weeds ---
no decoration, just bare chip-painted weatheredold planks in window-case, a can with soil& greentip, --- a milkbottle, empty --- a Wildrootsmileteeth ad card, asad tablecloth over arail --- an upsidedownancient piece of an adcard --- "Barber Shop"is flaked half off ---Gaga's --- otherwindow has ad cards,same --- Inside is woodendrawers, white --- chairswhite & black, old ---cash register --- barbercoat over chair --- (closed)--- sink, bench --- woodslat wall --- calendar--- next to beatWindsor shoe shop, usedshoes ranged in window
Late afternoon at the New England Sunday lakes ofmy infancy ---The Joe Martin truckdriversof the crosscountry Denvernight --- old lunchcarts ---
Early Autumn in Kansas --- I ate a big breakfast ofsausages, eggs, pancakes,toast & 2 cups coffee ---hungry on the road --- farmersin the Sunday morningcafe, the bright sun, theclarity of a ricketyKansas town alley outside--- heartbreakingreminders of Neal Cassady--- "The Energies ofCody Pomeray"!
Alley: telephone poles, wires, Firestone tire sign(flamepink & blue), oldgraywood garage door,redbrick chimney lashedto a house with bar,aluminum warehouse, oldstreetlamp overhanging ---Norton, Kans. ---Old shacks! --- OAmerica! --- What wasit like in Lincoln's time!--- Where are all therailroad men of the19th Century! They'veall slanted into theground ---The heavy-headedwheat ---
Golden fields flaming with the sunflower ---Thirst-provoking-while-chewing-gum mirages acrossthe dry plowed fields ---but a dust-raising tractorin the middle of a coolsweet lake is a blatantlie --- "Many poor devilsdied trying to reach one ofthem" --- (driver from Hope)The immense dry farmingspaces --- Maj esticalwhite silo at Bird CityKans. --- Distantdrunk phone poles ---A thirsty man looksfor mirages!
Colorado --- old barn, red --- pile of dry boards,barrels, tires, cartons ---dry wind, dry locust inbrown grass --- old ModelT wreck truck --- Windsings sadly in its dash-board --- & thru woodboards of floor --- just woodslats for roof --- incredibleerect, skeletal --- whatdeader than old car?--- haunted by olddead-now usages ---rusty skinny clutch handle ---no cap --- drywood spokes ---old ferruginous mudguardsI write on have tinnysad ring & sing whileI write --- pile of tarred
poles --- Cows grazing in the Plains haze ---sweet long breeze ---horse in the flat ---prairie crickets tipping--- hay mtn. withold dead wagon 2wheel --- old deadskeleton plows --- wreckagesof old covered wagons arehinted at in the scatteredjunk of backfield --- abackyard to a barn& station that facesinfinity --- tremendousopen dry white sandsquare to city, town ---west of Idalia ---
The Colorado Plains horse neighing in immensity ---Ah Neal --- the shaggywhiteface cows arearranged in stoopeddejected feed, necksbent, upon the earththat has a severalmood under severalskies & openings --- Ahthe sad dry Land groundthat's open betweengrasses, whip't baldby the endless Winds ---the clouds are bunchedup on the Divide ofthe horizon, are shiningupon thy city --- thelittle fences are lonely ---
The grassy soft face of earth has pocksof canyons, arroyos,has moles of sage,has decoration ofaluminum wheat barns,the one skinnyrevolving windmill inthe Vast, --- lavenderbodies of the distancewhere earth sighs toround --- the cloudsof Colorado hang blank& beautiful upon theland divide ---the line of man'sland is the bleakline of his Mortality ---soft crunches the cow'smunch in all eternity--- shining cloudworlds frowsily surveythe little farm inrolls immense ofdun scarred breaklessgrass --- Sadly theContinental Divide appears,dark, gray, humped,on the level horizon ---The first crosser of theseE Colo. wilds first thot ofclouds mountainshaped ---then --- "Hey Paw Ibeen lookin at themmountains for a hour" ---"I have too, son --- unmistakablymtns. --- nota cloud --- " then the
party went into a long hollow --- came upagain on a rise ---(shaggy gray sensualcow lazing along) ---but the rise not highenough --- for 5 hours ---: --- "guess it was a mirage"--- Next day ---"Yes, a mirage" ---Vast earth flat withthe blushes of thesun --- of God ---God is blushing onthe land --- throwing histints with a slant& sweep --- & soft ---"Yes, yes, yes, mtns!""Unbroken miles of em!"
Over the lavender land, snake humps ---rock humps --- squateternal seat forever ---promise of raw fogs ---(the beautiful humpnecked pony, white &black, with Indianblack strands personalizinghis sweet neck & darkthoughtful eyes ) ---Vast eternal peak pointsthere, shy to show theirmight till you come upclose --- Have desertsdamned up behind em ------ --- --- clouds vie abovefor mountainism ---they go darkening toWyoming territory North ---to Nebrasked dark graywall sky --- cycloneshave formed there ---The sad mountains waitforever --- (heavy-belliedpendant ringlet cow) ---(Madame Cow) --- --- ---The land of the Comanche!I already smell thatWestern Sea! --- Themountains (closer) aremisty, bright withhazel, silver, gold,territories of aerialbright hover & bathethem --- Sad dryriver here, helpingout the So Platte ---thru the cities of
railroad & telephone poles the mountains do clouddarkly --- Now Isee levels of them onehumping upon the other ---Smell the ozone & orgoneof the Plains wherethe Mountains appear!--- the mystery of themis like the gray sea ---because the flats rushto meet them --- &traffics hasten seaward ---The pale gold grass ofafternoon, the cakes ofalfalfa, the hairheadsof green sage in thebrown plowed field, thepoles on the rim ---Snow on the mtns! ---
Pure snow & tragedy of Great Neal's hometown --- Wild sweetMannerly of the Nighthere rages rushing ---Tiers of mountains supramassingnow --- the Event!Enormous golden roseclouds far towardsBailey, Sedalia, &Fairplay --- Themountains loom higher--- Father, Father! ! ------ Yes son, Yes son ---Lonely lost pathslead to them overrollhills of dark &pale land, Father ---
Ah Son the silver clouds above theirLoom & Huge, therains of them, thesad heaps of them, ---The monstrous blockthey've made to ourwestward grand march--- the flatland ishere upchucked &rockened to hard ---they swoop & slant,have sides --- The cloudsput on a splendorousair to oertop theseKings of Earth --- thewind blows free onthem from thislone prairie ---Estes has Showers oflight-mist --- theblue cracks to showopen heaven --- theWhole Plain descendsto be foothilled up ---yellow patches showon those early sides ---beyond is black, &wall drear, & Berthoud ---distant Pike the Giantsleeps, black --- hisshining snows now shroudedin gales --- Colo Spgsrooftops are gray &windswept now --- butDenver is snow, gold,sun, be-mountained,won. ---
Over the gold wheatflats they rise blue as mysteries,sweet, dangerous ---Oh Father the road isa thread to their knees!Their mottled hills areIndian Ponies! Thecornflower prairie istheir carpet of welcome--- Welcome to Bleak ---They are blank &muscular rock uponthis naked earth ---this earth naked to theblank sky, flat, opposite--- They oertopour wagon tops & rooftopsnow, & our trees ---
their smoky blue make trees a proper green ---Stay so, tree --- Ahthe sad ass of myPalomino buttocking tothe Great Divide ---In green clover hollowsthey fill the openingwith their Merlin lump ---Wild trailer citieson D's skirts!Old 1952! hallo!--- Rockies? thejigsaw fanciful cliffsof infant scrawlsare no steeper!they have sides thatsink like despair & riselike hope ---
with a still point peak --- Motels, Autels,Trailerlands! --- theyhuddle on the Plain ---The buildings & motelsfar out E Colfax areso new you couldntsmear shit on em,it would fall off!
Chinatowns, you look around, you see that everybody hasa vice, beautiful vice ---whether it's O, or wine,or Cunt, or whiskey ---you don't feel so isolatedfrom man as you doin AngloSaxon Broadwaysof Glare & Traffic wherepeople might be hung upon shouting preachers, orlynching, or baseball,or cars --- Gad I hateAmerica with a passionateintensity ---
I'm going to excoriatethe cocksucker & savemy heroes from its doom.It aint no atombomb will blow upAmerica, Americaitself is a bombbound to go offfrom within --- Whatmonster lurks there, baldhead, fat, 55, young wife,millions, Henry J Shmeiser,out of his pissing cancerouslife will flow (from thebelly) a juice of explosions--- dowagers& young juicy cunts withhigh mannered ways onbuses will gasp --- Istick my finger in the cunt.
America goes 'Blast' --- Fine people like Hinklewill be buried under thestucco autel ruins --- ah ---Lucien will rave ---
(Written when I was a railroad brakemancovered with soot mad as hell in 1952:I apologize now, America, in 1959, forsuch filthy bitterness but that's whatI said then, and meant it.)
The So. Platte at theCBQ railyards --- inSept. flows briskly fromthe hump mountains--- sand island, --- one sadsunflower --- weeds ---mudsides plopping off intide --- water ripplesfast --- banks steep,dumpy, reinforced withrocks --- pieces of tinstrip, sticks, pipe ---sewage pipes come out ---oil rainbowing the water--- many small beatbridges --- under theRR bridge an old
concrete foundation, --- oily rocks --- driftwood piled,a-ripple --- cans --- dirtypigeons --- rock villages ------ on bank old diningcar, red soot, for switchmen--- little trees growingon the reinforced bank ---but many tree stumpswhere trees cut --- longislands of rocks ---fast flows at sides ---above this sad streamflowing thru iron tragediesare the brass cloudsof solid Autumn ---Junk: - pile of tires, a child'scrayon book, broken glass,coldwind, black burntoutnear sewage steam pipe ---
bolts, bird feathers, anold frying pan sitting in thecrook of a bridge girder,old wire, flat rusty cansno longer nameable, ---is written on viaduct concretewall: "If anybody werein the Army in August1942 when I shotgent Slensa comeant tell the Sgt."(incoherent) --- & drawing
in chalk of profile with cloth cap, plaid,top bop button, astrange Skippy ---"All JudgeSuck Pussy"
Field of weeds, a plain facing "The CentennialSchool Supply Co." --- "TheMine & Smelter SupplyCo." --- aluminum sootedtanks --- red tin sootedsheds --- boxcars ---concrete silos --- redbrickwarehouses --- chimneys ---& Denver skyline behindnot seen --- in weeds ispiece of rope, pieceof car window stripping,nameless rusty perforatedtinhunks, newspaper, oldfold of handtowelpaper, old JewelSalad Oil carton,
a pile of junk, --- & thegirders of the viaduct havegreat black bolt headslike knobs of asweating steel blackcity, --- gray overcastclouds, cold --- pipeof engine, steam hisses,cars skippitybumpingoverhead, clang bells,iron wheel squeals,rumbles, --- over thesilent mtns. a bird ---
Near the Lee Soap Co. is a collection ofruined shacks --- sliveredburntout by time boardsskewered, under theviaduct, cartons &
newspapers inside whereold boys slept --- oldbottle Roma wine ---Old Purefoy Cassadyslept here --- manycans of many apork n beans supper ---strange festive weedswith big cabbageleaves & bunchy greensubstance you couldroll into seeds betweenpalms --- slivers ofwood cover ground ---old rusty nails long agohammered now lieuppointed to heaven &forgot ---
A bum fire, sweet smoke scent --- Inside shack:abandoned child toiletseat! --- Royal RivieraPears box --- flashlitebattery --- hole pluggedwith cardboard butboards spaced an inch ---The thrill of old magazinestime soaked --- ahaunted village --- woodof crossbeam this dooris decayed where nailswent in, mould of dusts,tiny webby darkgrayColorado shack color,a big old Rocky Mtn.tree overhangs --- thiswas once a thriving
Mexican or cowhandcamp settlement --- mebbea big Mex family nowgone --- Beautifullavender flowers 5 foothi in rich erotic weeds
--- A redbrick shack with torn "Notice" ---hints of onetime smilingpeople now the shitholebeneath theviaduct of Iron Americain which at last Iam free to roam ---Come on, boys!(Old Black Flag insectSpray! --- for particularhobos! --- but thrownfrom viaduct --- )
Deserted House --- on tar road, many ofem --- around back ---great weeds --- incrediblecellar stairs leading toblack unspeakable holenot for hobos but escapedmurderers! --- Shit onfloors --- papers, magazines--- Ah the poor sadshoes of some thinfoot bum --- wearywith time --- scuffed,browned, cracked, butgood soles & heels onlya little edgeworn ---wine bottles --- apocketbook "Troubleat Red Moon" ---Old newspaper with
faces of tragic Mexicans in hospital beds ofthe moment --- now upstarethis bleak rooftorn --- old bum intopcoat came in ---"Boys be around alittle later" --- oldBull Durham pouches ---planks --- trains goby outside --- plaster ---Boys who were coming were2 Indians --- one roundfaced,dungarees --- one thin, tragic,seamed, Colorado Wild,with workpants, jacket,red bandana & strangerust red suede cowboyslope hat of the Wides--- coming across UPtracks with big bags
(of sandwiches probably) --- tied up with old whitebum who had strange highvoice, was Irish, old butonly 45, rednose, tremendouslyhopeless, didnt talk to me,went next room, reador scanned thru floorreading --- what a movieof the Gray West I theremissed! --- never felt thethrill of the Westmore since childhood daysof gray tumblewagon serialsin the Merrimac Theater--- cold, cold wind ---Wazee, Wynkoop, Blake,Market --- dismallest ofstreets with RR track eachside, parked boxcars,coldwinds blowing downfrom all the gray Wyomings,
sheds with stairs, redbrick bldgs., shacks, deserted ---poor little Neal in thisnight! --- and the alleys!oertopped thickly withtelephone double polelines, barrels, concretepaving, dismal, long, cold,leading to gray Raweach way --- ThenLarimer, corner 19th,Japs, --- cluttered darkpawnshops with tools,guitars, lanterns, (someunusable), rifles, knives,stoves, bolts, anything--- & a poor Negrocouple quietly talking &speculating as they walk into sell something, theirchildren will hear of itone day the down & out past
--- beat Negros pile incar, "see ya later," garageNegro walks on, "Cool"--- but says Cool emphatically& like a revolution ---Two itinerants standingoutside Pool Parlor stillclosed 9 30 AM, everybodycold --- Coffeeshop --- cafe --- next toWindsor --- old bum infaded Mackinaw eatingbig breakfast gravelywith grizzled sorrow ---younger men --- coffee 5¢--- sugar & cream put infor you etc. --- Windsorlobby cold, gloomy ---painting of constellationof faces around Windsor,Cody, Edwin Booth,Lily Langtry, Baby Doe,
Oscar Wilde --- Ah this is all the JackLondon gray --- Deepdark stairways bloodmahogany --- bums sitaround --- one man atbar --- talk across 50foot lobby --- once agreat splendour is nowmutter hall of hoboes--- clerk at sumptuousdesk paces & whistles ---bums huddle in gray entranceto smoke & seeout, hands a pockets--- rattle rasp ofa truck out there, Isense the gray coldtragedy of N's boyhood--- & its joy, too,as he showeth ---
Bums sit forever, withthat hurt look, angry ---smoking --- waiting --- immovablefrom their position ---different type looksout door humbly, waitingfor he knows not what,
--- old tottering tall bum in plaid shirt withsquinty look of bewilderment--- old painterbum in white coverallsstruggles thru door ---men with hats, coats, handsa pockets, sauntering --- someof em weatherbeaten, hard,rough looking, Canyon Citywas their most recenthome ---
Glenarm poolhall ---rubber floor full ofholes, boards show --- ancientlost linoleum under ---tables have hanging basketslike balls --- Pederson's ---old tin panel ceiling,tan color --- cue racks ---pissery in corner hid bypartition --- greentop cardtables where Holmesin bleak poolhall timesat dealing blearfaced& grim --- "Onlooker'sbench" pale green, high,sand jars --- Candycounter, open phonebooth panels, juke ---parkinglot across street ---Denver Bears onsummernight radio ---
click, bounce balls on hard, laughs, "God-damn!"--- husky voices --- Stomp offeet angling around tables--- shuffle of shoes ---"Let's go, let's go!" ---voices of adolescents ---crash of break --- "Shhhhhit"--- impatient knock ofcuestick on floor ---bop --- click of ballin basket --- pocket ---Blackboard near counter--- groups of voices,Street --- Hotel DeWitt--- flash of liquor storeneons --- Drake (blue)hotel (red) down right,cold --- Bright orangeChinese neons up left ofcity center --- DenverAuto Park, lot, old redbrickHotel Southard one wall,DeWitt (brownbrick whitebordered) other --- overhead wire bulbs in lot ---Above poolhall Acme HearingAid Co. whitewashed brick--- barber pole --- (left)Hotel Glenarm pink neonon redbrick (right) ---Mirobar corner --- (flashing) ---
Counter --- old bronze gildedcash register --- framedlicenses near coathangerhooks --- dark brown cabinet--- cigar counter with Tops,White Owls, Red Dot --- ElProducto --- King Edward ---signs in entrance glass sideslow Coca Cola, Whistle
Oh Lord in heaven above what a holy moment, comingto Neal & Carolyn's house inthe gray fog day of SanJose, nobody in, the 9room sadhouse, the oldGreen Clunker filled withCalifornia Autumnal leaveslike the prophetic oldbirdhouse wreck of oldtravels & sorrows --- & findingall alone in the houseEternal house little Johnblond & beautiful as anAngel, taking him up,a spot of Tokay, sitby the radio with him& have there on mylap all that's leftof my life, as if hewere my blood son.
And he looks just like Carolyn --- how sadthe ten-balled years,how toppled the pinof myself --- whatGray Sorrows of Autumnfor this sailing soul--- and for Cassadys,nothing but love &attention --- beardeddoom boy Jack in OldJose, walked fromEasonburg Carolina ---with $5 --- & cameto the Angel child thatwas not afraid of theShroudy Stranger.
FRISCO Embarcadero Sept 8Cold fog winds blowingfrom the wreathed hillsof houses, I can seethe blazing fog shaggingover from old Potato Patchin a cold whipped blue--- bay waters clear toOakland are ripple & keenblue & cold looking --- thewind even whistles --- Themajestic Mormacgulf withher creamy white masts& rigging in the pure bluesits before me, a rustyredpaint waterline onthe green Jack Londonswell of old piers ---
Cold wind brings hints of all the good food in Frisco(& maybe all the love,& surely all the hate) ---Mormacgulf is tiedwith great cables, aratguard broke loose nearthe bowsprit canvas andbangs like a tin panin the wind --- Waterrushes gushing from a lowscupper --- In the wateris bread, a leaf of cabbage,a butt ---
SP train at night
The local --- sweetsmelling night soots --- crashbydingdang of oppositetrain --- the pink neonsof Calif., the cocktail-glass-&-mixer neon ofthe ginmills --- The hillsof supper lights --- theblear of fogs in from thebrown gaps --- blear oflights --- Redwood City toAtherton, clear, cleannight, with magic starsriding the dark over thehomes of the railroadearth --- plenty time ---I must believe in the livesof people & the history oftheir reality --- I must becomea historian ---
observe the history of society& write histories of the worldin wild hallucinated prose--- but a record of theangels personalizing all thehaunted places I haveseen, written for the angelsnot the publishers & readers--- a complete history ofmy complete inner life,also --- Wail of thetrain, chipachup of thelocomotive steams whenthey open a vestibule door--- brakes haul up train,old ornate browngreen coachsways --- Brown seatsof sticky stuff ---California Spanish neatcut houses & Launderettes& modernistic groceriesin the leafy black ---
nameless newbrick mortuaries or grass conservatoriesor waterworks withShrouds --- Oh old train,Wail my Lowell back,wail for my Lowell, makemy Lowell my only come-back --- Palo Alto, taxisat bushéd sidewalk, lightsevenly pinpointing in amain drag, --- Dodge Plymouthpaleblue sign exactly theone at Letran cornerin Mexcity --- but withbeautiful bloodclot glowDon Hampton beneath ---Strings of yellow bulbsin car lot --- A suddenview of muddy woodsupports litup in theconstruction night ---
Spectral palegreen greenhouseof a factory --- HerI dont like & dont haveto like & wont --- Fuckupshave a choice they make,in naked silence --- Ihave never been a romanticlover like him becauseI do not like to moo &screw --- I like straightrelations no show allballs come & comfort ---the slightest sadism makesme sicken --- I am ahero --- Distant bloodredantennas of Calif. ---Murder will out amongthese beasts --- thatpuffed feather She ---
I like my women tragic, silent, & ravenous souled--- Angel of Mercy,come to swirl my brain& teach me the truth &what to do now, I praythee from dark & ignorance--- In darkness reeling Isee bare naked ledge ofoldbrown wood lit bystreetlamp, brown, dim ---Distant geometric modernbluebright factory ofaircraft windows --- Thestar of my fame & pityfollowing far above --- Lightsof spread parks illuminatinglonely bits of walks--- Green lights too --- the
whistle calls on ahead ---Why did Sebastian live sointensely & romanticallyjust to die blear-eyed ---he was saved from middleagedbaggy eyed ends --- TheOld SP's all I got now,Sam --- I had loved you &you me --- Edie, I lovedyou too, deeply --- Theold stained glass of thecoach, the smoky tanround ceiling, the barbershopchairs, the engine callingfor our mountains & allthat's lost & was supposedto happen & didnt --- AhJames Joyce, Proust,Wolfe, Balzac --- I'llcombine you in my forge ---
Lovers like X. & Y. --- simper like snakesWAITING FOR 146 ATCALIF. AVE.Backsteps Caboose (crummy)bloodred --- hills seawardsmoke shroud --- sun orangeon its flare --- PaloAlto bank bldg. --- steamhiss, silence --- the longtrack Southeast --- thequiet Calif. cottages ---old paintchip trailerin backyard, overturnedcar junk, abandonedcab (black, white), clothes-lines with pins on ---Drive-In --- Restaurant ---Green with modern ranchstyle redwood sections,Swift's Ice Cream neonin window, big bambooblinds in window, carsparked around --- Sundayafternoon in San Jose,late sun, the hauntedmountains from the Eastrim of Santa ClaraValley appear only aftera second take look,dim, yellowish, faintlyrilled, round, bare asflesh, humping softlyfar over the flat offruit trees --- BeyondDrive In the night
lights of a ballpark ---traffic on road --- Shadowsof pretty girls passinginside Drive In --- newcars everywhere, & lots--- lost spiritualitiesof America dulled &buried in this lastbarbaric land --- emptyof meaning but rich,fruitful, golden, --- (theland is) ---Original home of theTender Indian --- the Pomo ---O Dostoevsky ofIndian Milleniums! ---Christian FellaheenPeotl Saint!
NOTES ON THE MILLENIUM OF THE HIP FELLAHEEN Oct. 1952, Calif.
With historical basis in this: -
(1)America is a pseudomorphological wave laid over the land of the cultureless Fellaheen New World Indian
(2)The American Race is West European, Faustian, Late Civilized, Decadent
(3)Faustian West will destroy itself; the New World Earth will return to its original Indian & Fellaheen
(4)The Indian is one with the Fellaheen World Belt thru Mexico, Africa, Aramea, the Near East, Mohammedan lands, India, China, Korea, the Primitive & the Fellah joined in one Underground Mankind beneath Western & Russian Marxist heels --- cultureless, non-critical, simplicity Mankind
(5)The prophet & saint of the World Fellaheen Future is a man of simplicity & kind heartedness & clarity; the various levels of the human godhead are defined in the separate religions which give decency
& richness in blank & blindEternity with everybodywaiting. Wm. Blake, &Dostoevsky are of the sameChurch! Jesus Christ & theblack Cunt are reconciled,the Virgin Mary is paintedon the back of an immensehardon of gesso plasterin the hut home of myCuliacan host, Mexico.
NOTE
(1) The Russian Christian of the next 1000 years belongs to the Aramaean Springtime of the Soul
(2)The Aramaean Springtime of the Soul coincides with the Millenium of the Hip Fellaheen which has in it the seeds of the Antichrist
(3)The next great conflict will be between Hip & Christ, will be resolved in the dark
The Millenium of the Hip Fellaheen has the subtleAntiChrist in it --- itis not serious Finally ---Not Race, but the Types,in Fellaheen Form, isDiscernible; the slopeshouldered cowboy switchman in dungarees, lowrolled sleeves & brimhat is the sametype as the samebuiltIndian driving a MexicoCity bus or lost in endlessmeditation on the desert.
The types come & go &never change, but historychanges; it is historylaid the pallor over theface of samebuiltRadio City executive --- thehistory of his Race. Buthe who surmounts his race,& sits beneath history, isFellaheen. Funny ideas.The realization of thedeath of a comrade isJesus; the Milleniumof Christ; the surprisednews of the deathof a comrade is Hip . . .Hip is Half.Meek is Full --- or Whole
The Millenium of the Meek (Fellaheen)
Hip, & Culture, is Arrogance
Hip is the final Dionysian culture or cult-form in the decayingWest Arm of Europe ---it wears a subtle mask, itcovers nothing.Fellaheen is Meek & Rageslike a Beast --- the facesof matricides in Athensor Cairo afternoon editions;over the hot rooftops awoman wails.The (Purely) Meek ShallInherit the Earth --- theChildren of GodChildren of Jesusof the Son of Man
A mankind of saints shalloccupy the final Earth,in endless contemplation ofHeaven ---Hip Fellaheen will leadto Meek Fellaheen, soulssitting round a fire inthe open nightAll this (My Kingdomis Not of This World) iswhy 1947 was the"happiest" year ofmy life.Now no more tea,but contemplation ofGood & Evil ---Lust & Sorrow
Burroughs the Boss of the Jungle ---Carr the Boss of WorldNews ---Ginsberg the tremblingSaint of the City ---Cassady the workerof the wheel on theland & cunt-manKerouac the Pilgrimof the Meek FellaheenHuncke: - criminal hipsterJoan Adams: - the Heroineof the Hip GenerationJohn Holmes: - theWestern "writer" &"critic" --- late Civilizationanxieties & word-torrents ---Solomon: - MegalopolitanHigh Jew Enigma
The Gospel of the MeekFellaheen, Bringing HistoryRound to Jesus, Begins inSweet Actopan --- &ends there
I love the railroad because it is laid out on theland, & requires theeyes of Indians --- butthe Rail is Evil"Brother have you seenstarlight on the rails?""Yes" --- but,the greatness of Wolfemust have been in hisrealization of the land ---
Come face to face withthe lonely grave now,beyond it is Heaven--- the lonely hole you'lllie in is the only holeyou'll have --- round itGod has woven goldenrewards the Fabricof His Glory ---My father only nowis blinking his eyes onthe other side of Light ---Jesus loved theIndividual ---America is Decorationnow --- planted palms inSan Jose ---
The City fattens on the blood of Towns,then bursts. TheAtom Bomb, or itssatellite Power, willdestroy New York City& all of Western Civilizationfrom Marxist-Faustian Vladivostokwestward round theglobe to San Francisco.Then the Milleniumof the Hip Fellaheenbegins, in all lands.But Eden Heavenawaits the Milleniumsof the Meek Fellaheenfor all timeThe Mankind of Saints,that shall come after& finally.The Men from Marsare really the baldheadedbespectacledlobsters of Americanbusiness. --- really &seriously --- theirbeady eyes, in fat,glint on the grave ---Rocky C.A boxer with thesadness of a saintFaustian society hadgood intentions
The latest sounds inhip bop are exactlylike the latest developmentsin N.Y. Advertising--- the latest ad showsan empty Coca Colabottle, a model witha black patch over hiseye; these trivial thingsare really milestones inthe History of Advertisingin Western Civilization, &are momentous in theconcerned (Balzacian) circles;in Eternity of the MeekFellaheen they have nomore meaning than thata walnut fell on thehead of the Patriarch thismorning --- or the
Messiah's pants fell off the chair ---
Crazy California of my Selma days --- tracksof old SP shining in hotbirdy-tweeting breezy afternoon,De Jesus & Rodriguezmarket of white stuccowith cars parked (2) indriveway & sign (sameas above, over PAR-T-PAKboard) --- I see awhole bookshelf of winebottles, GALLO too --- &here in field, in mattedbrown grass under anavocado tree, I see
an empty Gallo Tokay fifth & fillet of herringcan & beer cans showinga royal feast of hoboesin their California, &bed-down grass of theirreclinations --- In DeJesus (Vegetable, Meats)I see a woman selectinga brace of Cokes --- acar parks --- across roadis Ferry Morse Seed Co.,all spectral iron hellred last night withbrowndeep clouds oflocomotive steam inFaustian sky ---A little strange SPhandtruck (handcar)
(in Kansas Rock Island boys say "Nothin toworry about but a niggeron a handcar" --- pricks)goes by, with 5 MexIndians, one Negro ---they point to rails forforeman Mex who hassledgehammer --- a Jetscreams above, fromMoffett Field --- upper,paler B-29 groans ------ SeedCo. is modern flatplant, nobody insight, the machinesilent in the red sun, ---At night not ahuman in sight,just cars smooth in thehiway, the rails gleaming,cruel & cold to the touch,slightly sticky withsteel death, --- lights ofairport pokers, distantroar of Jets in windtunnels, far off jointsslamming, planes carryingEdison's light across thestars & freights ofMachine Humanbeings ---& the block lights inthe night that givepanic or peaceaccording to theswitch points asmanipulated --- toomuch iron, too much
for me --- but inafternoon, De Jesus &the Tokay wine, theroadbed rocks have littlesilver gleams & wavingdry tendrils of interspersedgrass & crazy shudderinglittle flowers & cracklywind-weeds & piecesof wood, hand towelpaper, cellophanechip bags, gum wrapper,little ants that bite ---the juice of the grapestored darkly in thecool interior store, I'mwantin a poorboy ---Beyond pink brick SeedCo. with its streamline
built in windows that hide controlled vibratinghorror (Rocky Mt. Mills)is a field of fruit trees,iron & barbwire fencedfrom precious Company ---little white cottages ofthe railroad earth, withend of day papa carparked, little fruittrees --- haze ofsun --- I'm sittingby silver painted SP
Telephone box & eq'pt --- wearing workshoes, asbestosgloves now black,soiled timetable, thicksocks, ankle strap fromswollen ankle missing
bottom climb bar &falling on rocks ingrim railroad dark ---blue work pants, tootight, --- gray workshirt,--- baseball hat for sun--- dreaming of my$500 stake & Mexico& the Millenium of theHip Fellaheen this winterbla bla ---The Millenium ofthe Meek Fellaheen
The intensity of D. H. Lawrence was not carnal
A woman's cunt is the soft avenue to herwomanhood, the godheadof human generations,the yearning pointof man --- I believethe celibacy in theteachings of Christ werePaulist & Jewish-Castration-Circumcision cultin origin --- for if HisKingdom is not of thisWorld, & the Soul is tobe Saved, it makes thatdifference inside awoman's legs when herpermission is given ---
Neal's Pornographiliais religiously intense ---
The Phallic Cultsworship generation ofthe species; the Aramaeanworships its Salvation
Jesus did not say, but I believe in awoman's permission
Retirement annuities that grow out of grouplife insurance & hospitalplans & sick benefits, sponsoredby the modern bigcompany, are only anattempt to cut out turn-over of employees ---imagine devoting yr. entire
life, its soul & meaningto a pineapple company& accepting its retirementannuities for reward ---"Stay with the Machine,boys, dont need to runaway or shift to othercogs, you're just as welloff in this one --- we offerYOU SECURITY TILL THEGRAVE." --- never mindthe Saviour, he never tooka shower. This company-sponsored insurance, thattakes bites out of thevictims' pay all theirlives to support itself (themoney clangs hollowlyfrom the Machine's
twidget to the Machine's twadget) is calledprotection --- protectionagainst their being leftto drift free outside the M.(M. for machine).Big Business in LateAmerica prides itself ongrowing figures, just asa spokesman for theGolden Age, "the AmericanExplosion," points withpride at the 3 inchesadded height average ofAmerican kids.If not the highest,then it's the "fourthhighest" etc.
The faces & demeanors of successful young Americanbusinessmen: - a guardedsense of one's owngentlemanness --- theface taut & ready tosmile the hand-shakesmile --- a terribleconcern in the expressionthat the subject wontreciprocate the sameescalator tension fromempty gesture to emptygesture --- these gesturesare the ritual of LateHigh Civilization --- theAmerican workingmenhave adopted a surlin superficial opposition ---but the Executive
secretly & queerly desiresthe Worker's "tough look"& the Worker (excuse me,the Man of Productionin New Overalls) secretlypractises Executive Smoothnessbefore his mirror.Ad infinitum ---First signs of theMachine really destroyingitself & People is theguided drone plane withAtom Bomb warhead--- "DRONE" is thehorror name, deeplynamed by mysteriousHigh Priests in the Forumsof the Pentagon Glare.. . (I worked on the Pentagon)
The gray drab Indian village near Actopan, noCoca Cola, no Orange Crush,just dysentery-riddenwater, & lizards on theold walls --- Jesus hasmade it hard on us.
But a maiden wears a smile, & a littlehidden ribbon of meaning,& at the brook thewaters ripple in theshade of shepherdtrees --- the flies areinsistent, but so is thesoul in its thoughts &loves, O Man, Poor Man--- Thirsts developed in us bythe Machine are insatiable
As for "freedom" ---there's no doubt offreedom in Fellaheen
Cathy says: "Write itright here now.""Look at her legsmove" (the bug) "shewants to eat."J: Nobody eat thebug.C.: The bug eats theshades up.J.: I bounce (bowtz)Pee-pit (paper)We baint (paint)
That paused look of a man pissing ---
"Silly Faust --- & the mystery of history"
J: Arent you dired? C: It's a nightgown ---
The Agrarian Americanis the strongest Americanbecause nearest to Fella-heen condition
Santa Barbara
1. New notebook
2. Spoon
3. Toothbrush
4. Lunch
5. Dostoevsky
6. Matches for lamps
The Fellaheen women let the men run things--- in the driveway ofthe country store onSunday afternoon, theywait in the car & smilewhile the men goof withbeer cans --- These areMexicans, Indians, of theCalifornia countryside ---Western Civilization womenwould say "Are youcoming John?"
American woman runthings, even kicks, ---have made life a drab &sorrowful for theirMilquetoast Machinehusbands, the dumb fucks ---also the American womenhave subordinated everythingto "my child" --- myso-called child --- (the childof God, lady) --- & somake the husbands attendto the children only ---Fellaheen children are inthe background silent,watchful, & awed ---American kids are loud,nasty, forward, disagreeableat 4, & bored at 16
The horrible bitches have no regard for mananyway, just theiritchy old twats & what'scome out of it --- Itwould never occur toAmerican women &American Old WomanSociety that a 80year old man's lifeis more valuable thanan infant's life becauseit has acquired itsvalue --- They thinkin terms of "My Child"with an almost-mysticalsense of the Futureas abstract as everythingelse Faustian ---
A jet plane is an abstraction because itserves absolutely nopurpose to body orsoul --- just flies ---All their other abstractions--- Communism,Freedom, etc. --- areabstractions within theAbstract Structure of the Machine ---Machines can'trun without a theoreticalbasis.The theoretical ofNature is still & willalways be "unknown"because it is nottheoretical, it is ---
Ah now the croakingbirds of California Afternoon,the tweeties too,the neigh of a horse,the breeze, the rustleof a paper bag stuckagainst a bush --- Godwill come again in allhis radiance & illuminateour souls with understanding& pity, & Jesus willdescend into our mindswith his Meek & SorrowfulLook & pierce us withthe pang & arrow ofour condition on theplain of life --- & blessus with a softshroud --- I wantto sit in the
desert contemplating the earth & the clouds &the insects & suddenlythe poor Fellaheensimplicity-souls therewith me --- I want tobe among them in thenight, soft lights acrossthe sand road, distantdogs of the Fellaheen Moon
--- the maguey rows --- the holy marijuana toenliven my Vision whenneeded --- the sweetwine --- to soften mycark & belly when needed--- the tender cunt ofmy Indian Love --- myFellaheen Wife --- &holy sleep among the Patriarchs
All I want to do islove ---God will come intome like a goldenlight & make areasof washing gold abovemy eyes, & penetratemy sleep with His Balm--- Jesus, his Son, is inmy Heart constantly.My brother Gerardwas like Jesus. Myfather I loved likeGod. My motheris sweet & golden-hearted & never meantharm to bird, insector person in the depthsof her simple heart, ---
My sister is dead to God now, because she putsmarriage to a tyrannicalbut simple-heartedman before her knowledgesof God & the soul thatshe learned once fromher father, brother (&mother perhaps) & Church ---She & I knelt indamp pews of poor GoodFriday ---I am working for therailroad to keep mystomach in food &drink but I want tothrow myself on theground & die for Godif it wasnt so awful
TO DIE & leave the joys of food & drink & cunt,& grieving relatives.To learn the lifeof sainthood is harderthan 8 years ofMedical or Law School--- I will come to itgradually, to celibacy& some fasting (by celibacyI mean of course simplicityof living, for instance nogum chewing & suchtrivial habits that attachto me still from theMachine of Anti Christ)--- come gradually to growingmy own food, to Patriarchy& Silence in the Earth& Ecstasy of Alyosha
SKETCHES NO. 3
Cowboys of the Wild American romantic West& the Horsey Set arehungup on horses' asses ---
Cows around an oil well pumpsay --- "Leave the oil inour earth." --- Later ageswill wonder why Faustianman extracted all kindsof stuff from the earth,dirt, mud, oil --- Sillypumps ass balling up &down the ground fornothing --- oil for horror ---
( --- Dostoevsky's moon --- )
Aping nature is not art, only a gospel will do ---
Tea --- backtracking thruthe universe ---
Not only a derangementof the senses but ofpersonal evaluations, moralevaluations of yourself--- tea is suicidal ---
I vant to be alone --- since that repudiation ofa human wish Americanshave become adjusted totheir machines ---
Baby crying in gray morning --- moments meshing withevery note ---
Pray to God for thegreat reality (onyr. knees in Italianrailyards near spectraltenements)
The first thing that strikesme about Dostoevsky in beginningany of his books isthe nervous anguish thatseems to have preceded thefirst page --- the hero isalways the same, comesto the first page out ofeternities of introspection,anguish, gloom --- justas I do every day.Hmm.
The morning of me liberation --- Oct. 4, 1952--- I go live alone ina 3rd St. room, leavingNeal's --- for the 1sttime since 1942 ---(in Hartford) --- Allset to write On theRoad, the big onewith Michael Levesque--- the only one ---have renounced everyone,& myself dedicate tosorrow, work, silence,solitude, deep joys ofthe early mist ---
Train 3-419 is waiting outside Oakland yards--- it's 7 30 AM ---fog --- great clutter ofbedsprings & screens &rusty fenders for wallsmake a house offerruginous barrels loadedwith iron mucks --- Isee whole interiors ofhotplates, grates ofold stoves, the armsof antique washing machines,tubes, buckets,--- two bos justpassed it, found aninterest in a piece on theground --- Strangebird flies overhead ---Saw 1000 ducks Milpitas ---
Next to junk crib is concrete blockhouse hutwith protruderant polewith climbing ladder &iron pipe --- a smaller,sloperoofed concrete housewith no meaning (hidesa dynamo?) --- littlewindow --- in chalk"Nixon is broke" ---Armour & Co. loadingplatform has yesterday'sdebris --- a Filipinofishes in blue barrel ---October & the railyardsagain, & the great novelin America ---The Cook is Grooking ---Jacky Robinson's atbat again ---
OCT 4
Saturday morning in a Friscobar, October, it's theWorld Series as in 1947when Michael LeVesquewas in Selma Calif.& the old railroad clerkspoke to him in thelong dust of anafternoon of sorrowfulfarewell, when Mike'dturned for one last goodbyeat Teresa in thelong grape row ---
I'm getting my kicks in typical Jack Kerouacway, refilling a tokay25¢ shotglass frommy poorboy pocket bottlein railroad-grime jacket
& writing & watchingW. S. while Negro &Filipino cats sit inbar watching gamewithout buying ordrinking anything atall --- Mike Levesqueis like that, thePilgrim of the Fellaheenis a simple & joyfulfellow & no "innocentboy" camper like PeterMartin --- but nomore words, now forthe scenes ---(She was born in Montreala simple-intentioned pureheart, & remained so fora lifetime thru histories, paranoias& grief)
You've got to put a superstructure of loveon yr. life or you'lljust be a skeleton inthe grave of yr.mortal days, shudderingnaked against the mainnerve of yr. being,unclothed for theRaiment Halls ofWill, Severity of Purpose,--- God is a superadditionto the frame of Man,like the flesh & eyes ---Therefore unravel thedrama of yr. soul beforeyr. eyes, be strong &thoughtful, be not naked scared
The personal legend ofDuluoz is for communicationon a later level ---
When I walked in 20th Century Fox office in 1949 I knew thecorruption of certain types &the City; but now I see thecorruption of all America& its broken head on an iron wheel
Ah what's happening inthe world! ---
I woke up --- 2 flieswere fucking on my forehead
It's hypocrisy makesthese hills grim ---
The pue of the sad Malley --- listen to the sad Malley ---the phew of the sad Malley ---song of the sad Malley ---(Mallet locomotive)
You have an inordinarynack to inult meevery nimeThis is the end ofthe handball gameTO CARL SOLOBONE
SKETCH . . . .
Watsonville, valley --- the sun is setting in a mysteriousorange flameball over theflat green lettuce fieldsinterlined with brown dirtrows & roads & rails --- beyondthe milky haze of thisdusk is the sea, unseen, thePacific to the Land of theRising Sun --- the grass islike hay, full of antsthat go to sleep at sundown,dry shrubs, dry cottonwoods,weeds, tart spice ferns ofSpring are now fuel forAutumn Seres, --- littleweedflowers close theirblossoms as the dusk birdsongstitter --- a farm in thedreaming vale below, white-washed barn, flat reposantchickencoops & toolsheds ---I hear the distant hiwaytrucks --- sitting on themat of earth on the westernmostAmerican hill facingthe unknown east allpink now --- Sweet dewybreeze hints of sea ---The railroad cries theroundroll --- I sleep onthe ground under thestars like an Indian,baseball hat, brakeman'slantern & tucked inLevis & workshoes &jacket, arms folded tothe moon ---
a cow mourns below ---adios --- now the sunis bloodred, sinks behindthe mighty mountain trees--- the distant sad hiwayof little soundless cars ---the Salad Bowl of theWorld sinks to dark, allyou need is a plane tospray mayonnaise & choppedscallions --- eat a wholevalley raw --- the figstrees are shitting on theground, Mexican Motoristspick walnuts from theground, the bums haveleft a Tokay emptyunder the avocado tree ---ripe California
Where once I'd quake at the thought of ajawbreaking caboose hittingin the slack, Wham! ---now, this morning, inmy bemused equicenterI look up & see thecaboose crazy disheveledblurred, as if I was seeingit momentarily photographedthru a trick mirror, &feel no shock or wondernor hear a sound normove from my seat ---just see it as itrocks to the bang
Now that I understandthe railroad with my ownsenses I see that Nealwas only jabbering aboutthe obvious again, & in hisunnecessarily involved &confusing way --- which hasto do with his sadism ---to confuse --- unclear& befrought with subtle"lies" or "hiddens" ---"hidings" --- concealings ------ from weird guilt ---
The Bird of Chittenden
OBRA PRIVATA When you were a kid,Duluoz, & the perfumedaunts visiting & thepromise of quarters &ice cream & lipstickkisses & long afternoonsof gossip in the kitchenas the sun gets red ---The Immortality &Eternalness of allthat & everything thatever happened to youstill waits forthat Obra Privatapen, sorrow & faith ---(some of it in French!)
MORE SKETCHES CALIFORNIA
Sexy young Wop motherwaiting train at Burlingamein Gray West Void withblond son, campy meetsher brunette sister in asuit --- a semi wino inbrown & white saddles &beat pants passes themsmoking with that "HeyJack, I'm tired & shoreweary" expression --- Big
sad baggage boy pushes trunks on orange truck,crepesoles, buttondown sweater,short hair, his mother'smaking chocolate puddingfor him right now, his Pa'sputtering in the garage ---
Hundreds of cars parkedin concrete back ofBridge & Dugan CarpetSpecialists --- A bigyellow squash in theweeds near the railroadfence of a Californiabungalow settlementwith same backs ---Pale green dobe oilcompany buildings ---(ranch style) ---Bay Meadows, thestarting gate highon the far turn abovethe immense Bayflats & wreckageof cranes & poles ---blah --- The Machine Plain ---
The California Okie businessman with bushyeyebrows & red faceclumpin along adjustinghis belt butt in mouthnewspapers sticking outof shroud coat, infirst rain of year ---in Hillsdale --- thousandsof cars everywhere halfof them new (now'stime to buy jalopy)Brown-grass hills, greenredwoods, alpine lodgehouses of 30's Calif. ---Gray murk on palms ---Western Awning Co.palegreen stucco ---
& Dentist in Spanishstyle --- Dullness ofTexaco station, "MarfakLubrication" "Motor TuneUp" --- attendant pissingwater on windshield ---
--- Rain on the parched Calif. browngrass hills --- the seabeyond --- Ha! ---What will be debrisby Europe track? ---here is oil cans, beercans, paper (brown),oiled tie-piles, boards,cartons, lumberyards,junkyards, cellophane ---
The winter in Italy? ---April in Paris! ---January in Venice! ---Summer in England& Scandinavia!Fall in North Africa!Winter in Baghdad!--- !! ---
CONSUMER CREDIT & the new E. A. MattisonBudget Finance PlanInc. is just a loanto someone to finance,manufacture, distribute &sell a product, such ashome freezers --- But this isgoing in debt in orderto pay it off withsavings. You borrowmoney, buy or invest, &then save to pay off yourdebt: leaves U.S. withrecord savings & recorddebts at same time.Consumer credit is onearm of machine reachingout to help other, butunder conditions of debt.
In other words, Debt(Neal's big hassle) is theform, financially, the Machinecreates to enslave theindividual to It --- forinstance, Sinatra owes taxes,back taxes, & is "forbidden"to go to Europe, alsoDick Haymes --- Thecollusion of Debt, the"Tax," & "Insurance"are tying people closer
& closer to the great Wheel Rack ---Don't accept "Loan"or "Arm" of Machine ---it is a deceptive enslavement--- simple souls mistrustoffers of loan for noidle reason ---
The traffic problem ismerely that cars by themillions enslave us tonew city systems requiringhours of driving to & fromneeds, on "congested" arteries,naturally --- where onceyou'd-a walked --- Theseare all conditions pointingto the imminent cancerousdeath of America, theFinal Cog in the WesternCiv. Machine --- thesupreme end-result ofearly Gothic Phallic formsis the skyscraper & theoil drill & poweredcompressor & pistons ofgreat engines --- the Machinecopulates, men aren'tallowed to any more ---
The flesh gets numb, but the soul doesn't.N's feeling for "Marylou" inthat pix --- her sexualpinched pretty face --- hedoesnt realize about fleshis numb --- till she'd die,I say --- Candlelight ina beat room
The rat of hungereats at your belly,then dies &'s leftto bloat there ---
WATSONVILLE GRAYMORN, a barbershop near parkis doing big business at 9:45AM --- gray overcast, raw,cool --- The park grassclip't to the sward --- athin grayhaired fastwalkinglady in low heels hustlingtowards Main St. of 5&10's(Woolworths), "City DrugStore," Ladies Shoes,Stoesser 335 Building,with Physician X RayDoctor windows above, &"Roberts" Just Nice Things(Store) --- In the barbershop a Brierly-like barberin neat glasses & white frocklowers little boy from
littleboy chair --- Nameof shop is "Virg's" ---with an Anson Weeksband ad in glittering window& a few bottles ofhair lotion --- Little boywas with mother whotrots him pushing himalong across park in herbig ass gray slacks, bandana& crepesoles ---little boy has wool capover new hair cut ---Trucks of supermarkets& Oakland Towel Co.& just pickups withoutlettering grumble aroundpark --- The palmshang dull in bleak
green bug-specked Void --- California on agray day is like beingin a disagreeable room ---Here is lineup aroundbarbershop: "SodasShakes Sundaes" in oldfashioned Watsonvillesidewalk roof corner butnot Western; solid &Victorian, once respectablywhitewashed, with basrelief drape regalcords
& a "Surgeon" goldpaint flecking off a roundbaywindow --- "AthleticSupplies" --- Sharp's SportingGoods next in same bldg.--- fancy fishingpoles
in rich interior basketballgloom --- then "Ben'sShoe Service" not clutteredbut prosperous & shiny likehe sold shoes --- thenthe old arched wooddoorway of old bldg. withbas relief sprigs --- & adoctor plate --- ThenSteve's Cocktail Bar,shuttered with Frenchblinds, black tile baseof wall, cocktail glassdrawn under "Steve's"--- Then City Clubrestaurant, same shuttered,but open door, red "Beer"neon --- (bells ring now)--- (for Ten) ---
Then barbershop; then "Smoke House," anordinary cigar newspaperstore --- "Pajaro ValleyHardware" sandwichesin old Colonial Hotelbottom of 2 story ofwhich is Sporting Goods--- Then rich creamyconcrete streamlinedbank on corner, withofficial Main St. globetype(5 globes) streetlampannouncing bleak officialclock district officercorner of bus stopstraffic & stainglassdoors
In Pavia, 18 miles south of Milan, the ashes ofSt. Augustine, the greatmonastery Certosa diPavia, junction of theTicino & the Po, fortificationsof Old Ticinum,thousand yr. old university,manufacture of pipeorgans, makers of wine,silk, oil, and cheese.Must go to Pavia
Taranto for oysters
San Remo for swimming
Padua for pictures
Stone Age village near Terni
It not to pay is not
a sin to Jesus
ON THE ROAD BYJack Iroquois
Billy Caughnawaga
The "angelic" lightbehind Joan in that"radiant angel Mary"dream --- if so, Edisonis God because it's theelectric light gives herher glow --- Only in Americaa woman is condoned forputting the man out of the house
Half of mankind is Snakelike
Ah Duluoz, --- when you left home to go tosea in 1942 --- thatwas the beginning --- thenyou'd sing Old Black Magicin the night, & loveyr. thoughts, & Margaret,& yr. good little friends ofLowell --- Sammy GJSalvey Scotty Daston
--- what have you gotten since? Edie inthe Fall led to JoanAdams Summer 43,which led to Carr,
Burroughs, Ginsberg, Chase,which led to Neal ---& Tea --- What wouldyou have if you hadntwritten Town & City? ---NOTHING --- At least youmet Holmes, especiallyEd, & Tommy (they'll alwaysbe yr. friends) ---& now you know that youmust depend on yr. self,& love the few who loveyou, & try a disinterestedlove of even yr. enemies,but must work likeJoyce now, "silence,exile, & cunning" ---All on your ownterms, in yr own intelligence
--- Never mind what Burroughs, or Ginsberg, haveto say about anything--- start by exposing themall in your parable aboutAmerica: -THE MILLENIUMOF THE MEEK FELLAHEENThen work on "Vanityof Duluoz" withoriginal ms. & allnew Duluoz memories ---in Mexico or in Spain ---in Paris or in Pavia ---Fish out that old"Liverpool Testament" ---
concerning Duluoz ---For now --- we'll start(& remember yr FrenchCanadiansoul) --- Compren tu?Bon --- commence ---Oct 28 '52
The old cowboys of 1930's pulp westerns werealways in river bottomseavesdropping on the rustlersat late afternoon --- thePajaro River in dryCalifornia, brush, sand,cow turds, trees ---ashes of old campfires ---Nowadays the wino
there realizes the old cowboymust have had thatcanteen of tequila foreverupended, the way thingsare --- Peeking thruthe brush at the doingsof other wino-rustlersjacking off or cookingpork & beans makes yourealize once & for allthe world is real &pulp & pocketbook BMovie magazines areunreal --- the late sunon the cattle tracks, theflies, the sad westernblue ---
The flame of the woodfire grows more profound& mellow on the firstNovember nights, inthe caboose ---
Remember that picture ofEdw. G. Robinson, a Bowerybum drunk, visiting aClass Reunion --- saw itwith Pa --- it's as thoughI, of the Pajaro Riverbottoms,should attend the ColumbiaLou Little Reunion of$6 a head & $4 forgame tickets --- inpoor Halloween! ---Oh Soul ---
"The trouble with me is thatoutside my mind it seemsthe world hasn't got noass," speech to Alumni,Dostoeyevskyan, embarrassing,significant
The poor little Mexican gal in Calexico, writingon Oct 1 1952 to ManuelPerez in Watsonville whoseclothes & belongings I foundintact on the Pajaro leveedump, wants money tobuy a tablecloth --- canyou picture an Americanwoman asking money forsuch a humble, usefulpurpose --- "unos mantelespara la mesa." "Honey,"she says, "dime porque nome has escrito" --- "tienetan . . . pensamientos para ti."She loves him --- I amwearing all his clothes notknowing whether he's alive or
dead - or in the Army?I found several of hersad letters on that dump,in October, --- in the drydust, just before the rainySeason, ---
Me: a man made tostand before God ---
Who is the MontgomeryClift Stanford kidreading Shakespeare inthe 12:30 local onOct 31 AM 1952--- what ignu? whatsonnets of his own?does he realize Kerouacis writing the Milleniumnext to him, in workclothes?
OCT 31 1952 Evil dies, but goodlives forever ---The evil in you will die,& your flesh with it, butthe good in yr heart &soul will live forever ---Evil can't live, goodcan't die ---Your angrinesses, impatience,hassels, even that & yourshit, all --- will die, cannot,wills not to live; but theflashes of sweet light willnever die, the love, thekindness of hope, thetrue work, joy of belief ---
As for reforming others,let them reform themselves,if they can't they weremeant to die; theyare barely alive now if theycan't reform themselves tomorrow;better a cleanerof cesspools than a reformer.Let every manmake himself pure asI have done --- that'sthe "reform" ---Work on your own soul ---experiment to see if oneman can be saved, asthe whole lot en massecan apparently not ---on yr own soul first,
then the angels of your soul, yr mother, yourwife (a new, good wife),your children. If a sonor a daughter is bad,throw it in the sea ---Your few good friends.Cultivate yourself like aflower; pull out weedslike Cassady, Ginsberg,Burroughs; accept thenourishment of White,Holmes: --- water yrselfcarefully --- & keep yourflesh fit so as not toburden the soul withtemporal strains & removethat much energy
for its prime consideration& meditation ---God, & Good --- Direct
contact between you & God means no church,no society, no reform,& almost no relationships,& almost no hope inrelationships --- butkindness of hope inherentin that what is good,shall live, & what isbad, dies --- Yourflesh will be a husk,but yr. soul a star ---The greatest & onlyfinal form of "good"is human ---
Because intellectual& intellectually willedgood & so conceptualgood is only a word ---"Almost" no hope inrelationships, means,no foolish hope, buttrue hope ---Everyone to his owntrue work --- Thereis no good in workwhich does no good.Railroads, factories,solve & give nobodynothing, serve theflesh only, at greattime & sacrifice, areevil ---
The true work is on belief; true beliefin immortal good;the continual humanstruggle againstlinguistic religiousabstraction; recognitionof the soul beneatheverything, & humor, ---Lights in the foggynight are not necessarilybleak & friendless, butjust lights (in fact tolight yr. way), & fogfrom the necessary sea ---Stupid, fatuous menare not necessarilyall stupid & fatuous,
nor all on the horizon, nor completely devoid ofgood, or hope --- The evilin them will die, thegood will live --- Bleak& friendless universe isonly one of severalillusions, the greatest &only immortal one ofwhich is good ---Enough, the words tothis "idea," or belief,are limited, the combinationsto describe italmost exhausted already--- Manifestationsof this in humanity, thereforein your writing work,are endless however ---
This is the return ofthe Will
Just the sight of the "snow"under the locomotive, brings backsweet light of the boy soul inLowell, the human earnest desireto revisit Lowell this New Year's& soak up the sad hints ofthe past in a grateful soul,from just . . . "snow" --- Soimmortal love also hidesin things --- talisman detailsfor the temple soul ---but soul, soul, soul, the"details" is the life ofthis thing ---GO NAKED TO THE WHITE
(End of SK 3)
EN ROUTE MONTREAL BUS Mar 20 '53
I keep thinking of the acorn trees outside Lowellon that gray day Mike& I hiked to the quarry ---Kirouac will be likethat, gray, fated ---
MONTREAL (in "taverne") Montreal is myParadise --- &they almost didntlet me in ---Railroad restaurant Friscocombined with MexicoFellaheen girls taverns& Lowell --- Othanks Lord
N.Y.StateCrows are insane inthe mist --- Americais thrilling on a grayday, Quebec non ---America has historiesof wood & Robert
Frost fences ---McGillicuddy'llmake his comeback ---The Canucks areignorant, vulgar,cold hearted --- Idont like them ---No one else does ---
Moreover Kirouac
has always been anunpopular nameamong Canucks, forBreton reasons Iguess --- somethinghotheaded independent& brilliant makesyr paisan bristlewith suspicion ---Noel was a wholechunk of suspicion--- I shouldaspattered him inthe street
And that would tear my clothesbreak my watch nothanks ---
In America the birch is grievous,lost, rich, poetic--- the woods arehaunted --- a meaningwas united in thisbleak --- I knowthe dead Dutchmanof Saybrook nevercared for thename Kirouac ---
but I have caredfor ye dutchmen ---It is my prerogativeto believe, in myown way, in whathaunts my conscience& fulfills my hope ---I know there's nothingdown the line butgray indifference, theearth-covering excrescenceof mean men ---That I was born into
a beastly world with all the traits inmyself --- & Godwill crown my headwith grave dung ---but I have sungthe pale rainy lakesin this chokéd crawof mine & willsing again --- &mine enemies lookme in the eyeif they will, orbe still
The moon'sdropping atired piousdrape
A Whitman song of New England inWinter! --- thecoasts, the whitesprays of shipping offN.B., the r.r. brakeman's
eyes slitting in thelong New London dawn--- the covered bridgesof Vermont, tunnelsof love of old hayrides in other harvestmoons --- The shineysnake in the bog,the mad bongoeerin the dark shoreof Nancy Point ---the blue windows ofmills, of Boston ware-houses --- Wink of Chineeneon in Portland Maine
A big piece of myself is stuck is choking me in my throat
My belief in the Holy Ghost less and less --- it's fading--- It must not fade, butreturn --- Return, Holy Ghost
March 30 1953
PLANS FOR NEW WRITING"Newspaper accounts"of what happened, shortones or long "novel" ones,with moral theme . . . sincethat is the final question,do we live or die bleak.
--- Fullscale explanationsin unpausing sometimeshallucinated prose, ofthese things, ---(No --- continue withDuluoz Legend)
Spring in Long Island
Not a blue sky clean Spring but a mixednew-haze day smellingof faint Spring smokes--- a chill windmakes washlines sway--- a gray horizon, aradiant sun behindclouds --- in littlesnake mottled treesballs of Spring bolehang like decorations,wave ---Six million dieselschurring & vibratingin the yards, waitingfor fueling --- Thetenderness pale cloudsthat in the exactzenith mix withthe pale pureblue --- Among thebushes the carpet ofcaterpillar hair ---The basketballplayers of theopen cement courtare wheeling &
whistling --- a ball's suspended in air, aScandinavian sweateredyouth is stiffneckedwatching it, othersin attitudes oftwistback & turn,"Ya-y-y-y" ------ gesturing, talking ---watchers have armson knees --- a ballis bounced ---
A mother works eagerly in thisorgone ozone
day pushing a teeny child in thepark swing --- Shewont throw himdown the airshaft--- she says "It'schilly here" ---Figures on theplain of the parkin various throwings,strollings, pushingsof carriages,scufflings, thegraceful walk of
a beautiful young girlwho doesnt care ---How can an oldman like medevour what she has,it is a namelessnewness insouciance& style as ephemeralas gain, as heartbreakingto see as loss--- as lost tome as smokeor the smell ofthis day ---
nothing there is left for me, for us,but loss --- yet wechoke & gain afterraces & rush &nothing's to comeof it but ticktack time ---A little paper onthe cement isjust as gladas I am, justas won ---
Young girls in Leviswith little asses,little pliant waists& ribs wrapt ingray jacket coats, ---green skirts ---I see them walkingoff with the hugeLIR R coal bunkeras their backdrop--- But yet Iaim to write booksbelieving in life How?
In the heat of my blood it all comesout & good enough& like birth ---It still isntSpring, the windin my neck'snot April's,March's ---insistent, beastly,knifing --- Ahcars! Ah airplane!
SKETCHBehind big engine 3669in the bright day ofSan Luis Obispo themtns. of hope riseup, treed, green, sweet--- a rippling palmbehind the pot steams ---the young fireman ofCalif. waiting tomake the hill up tothe bleakmouth panoramaplateau ofMargarita wherestars of night are holy ---
I love Calif. more &more --- if everyone lovedit as I do, dearabandoned Jack, they'dall be here --- Thisrippling land was thePomo's --- There'sa cool sea windthis noon --- WithF M Hill I'm goingnow to swing the hill ---to learn --- long afterNeal, & hopeless --- astrange estudiantewriter-brakeman
Only when that work which oertops myhopeless men-amongbones will save meup & back to enthusiasticinsideme personal needbreast ---
The Pomo word for person is animal ---So they spoke tospiders & hawks,& thanked theground they slept on ---
SK People in L I R R Station
Gray skies, man glances at wrist watch, ---not people --- bigbleak blackwater windowsof an upstairs Jamaicaloft with French blindsrolled up matted at top& bank building marbleor smooth concrete blocks--- does God care?do I care?Say What you Want orDrop Dead
You're the boss . . .
Move silently, serpentThru the crisscrossing swordsof afternoonThe shining grassMove broadly, servant
0................................................0
Sign in Sunnybrae, Calif. : -
BAY PEST CONTROL Our Business is Simply Killing
Man is to be aYoung animal notan Old carbon copy
NEW! Brand New!Daydream SketchNeal & I are in Mex City ---buying tea off queers --- we'rein a hotel room --- theyare very weird, young
dirty --- The hotel is likethe Hunter, with 2 rooms,2 bathrooms, $10 pesoa day & we're in MConly a week just forweed & a few Organogirls --- Neal's blasting& rolling & bringing myattention to the weirdnessof the boys "Dig them ---dig their lives, man --- Theway they live --- how theyhustle on that crazy Organostreet --- look at theirclothes, their eyes --- heehee, now dig him, seethey're talking now, wonderinghow much they oughta charge
us & the little one with the curly hair & theairforce wings on hisT shirt who's just likea little kid --- he'shot for you, Jack --- hedoesnt talk business, letsold Mozano handlethat --- " & themothlike dense eternalmoment of a thousandthings --- caught --- I getso hi I see the historyof nation, Indians, America ---"But Mozano's notinterested in the moneyeither, he's just anxiousfor La Negra to enjoyhimself --- he watches"Add Achievements: -Met Glenway Wescottin the Kitchen
Oil cups flaring in the misty night, the sand,the ditch in the streetwith jagged concretesof old making little dustyledges for little livingstrange dusts that are nowblowing in the night ---the flicker of theflares, the saw horses,the sand piled ---
somewhere on the mysterioushorizon of the suburbannite like scenes in MexicoCity or Montreal &equally Strange --- equallyweird --- equally & Omost hauntingly likethe little man with themustache, a strawhat,a salesman saying heis dying, the golden davenportof his house at thetop of the street ---the wind from the rivercold & inhospitable,dim lights in houses, creakof pines, lost Lowellin a winter night in
1922 & I am not yet born but the oil cupsflare & smoke in thenight --- little rocks onthe pile have eyes ---everything is alive, theearth breathes, thestars quiver & hugen& drool & recede & dryup & spark --- no moon.Black. Shuffling figureof a man in a derbyhat handsapocketsgoing to the latticedhouse, the kellostonepine, the great soulof my brother insadness hums over thescene --- Hear theriver hushing under aload of ice --- Smellthe Smoke of the dump--- the little man inthe strawhat is going home,newspaper underarm, he'sleft the trolley atAiken & Lakeview, bota new Rudy Valentinobox of chocolates for hiswife for tomorrow nightFriday, I amdying he said tome in Eternity inMontreal years later
& that afternoon Frank Jeff & I took the 2girls, sisters, to thebleak roadhouse outsideMex City & dancedto sad lassitudinalLatin mambos & slowtempos & tangos ---the rain came, outsideit was a pine, a graywindow behind brownpink Mexican drapesof decoration --- Thehand drummers dreaming ---I saw the oil cupflares of the construction
job at the middle of Gregoire St. in Lowellin a night before I wasborn, the moths flyingmillionfold around, thedense happiness oftimeless reality andangels --- the incomingsoaring whirlwindcloud of thoughts, eyes,the whole shroud, theBlakean wind &the voice in the windsaying "Ti Jean vavenir au monde, Ilva savoir le mystère,il va savoir le mystère --- "& at the foot of thestreet the house wherethe woman had analtar in a room, wholestatue, candles, flowers,this dame instead ofa TV had in & for hersittingroom of settees& kewpie cushions abloody sadness inplaster, loss & vimof kicking candle flameshundreds darting tothe rescue in airscreaming pursuit oflost atoms ---
The mist of the night,the river beyond, the dullstreet lamps, the pit ofthe universe not only likethe Mass. St of MaryCarney in another roomof the Level Time but(as dark, as fragrant)like the night ofthe dream of the crowdplaying leapfrog aroundthe racetrack with dice,knives & interests--- in Denver, inShmenver, when silentlyI a goof following
a cop who later turned into a woman camepadding in my dustyshoe of dreams, amazed--- the last gloom, thelast barn --- horses? ---& in the rickety sadimmortal Now-housethe swarming vision partingover the heads oflittle children on thebed & I'm singinga saying --- "Where'sNeal?" --- & thatlittle salesman sippedhis beer in Montreal,put it down, adjustedpackages, said "Benj m en va chez nous""T'est t un vrasoulon --- ""Ben weyon, parlpas comme ca --- Ondit pas ca --- ""Aw --- " I wassorry --- "En anglaisen amerique --- c'estune joke --- on dit --- "And he said: "I'mhalf dead anyway --- I'mgoin to die soon" &off he goes, 98 lbs.,dark, blessed, offinto the spectral
Montreal night of suburban streetdiggingswith oil cups, flaresilluminating sandpiles,as the Angel bendsover, Gerard bends over,leering sadlyin this night ---
A great unequivocal dogIs all a wolf is
I am Mallarmé's grandchild
The locomotive comes swimming thru the newsy city. Ina deep cut, houses on bothbanks, full of living lights,talk of families in eventfulkitchens. This is where I comeriding my Maine white horse.
A woman in a Clipper berth foam-rubber mattress beingserved bkfast. inbed over the jungles ofEcuador ---she's going down to Guayaquilas an administrativeassistant tosome Aid deal --- "tohelp develop the economic'security' etc. ofIndians --- etc." --- planefalls --- her thots,running, her whole life ---crash --- she ends up
being treated kindly in a dirty village bysweet meek Indianswhom she fears --- shegets hysterical --- herhusband comes to gether & takes her backto her bedroom in someexclusive section outsideChicago --- she's hadher taste of "GlobalDemocracy" "Anti-Communism" & all thathighblown Time shit ---A movie idea ---She appears on TV& you see her lie abouther "experience" ---
Add to Sam Horn the idea of moderncowboys with FordMercuries
Man, the terrible laugh of those who thinkthemselves special--- élite --- ithas a goryhungry soundlonelydirty
Apr 28 '53 San Luis ObispoBlue 2 PM SkyMtns smokyGrowl of motor ofbigtruck on 101Who caresEverything is alivethe blue glass domeson tphone poleThe skittering birdsRippling palm leavesWaving pine branchesValley of hope palegreen with dark bushes
A completely pastless man smoking acig in a darkbedroom --- fuckliterature! ---write like at 18! ---cracked insanity ofT & C yearsesply 1948 ---enjoy --- daydreams
Unbroken word sketches of the subconscious picturesof sections of thememory life of animbecile genius resting
in the madhouse of his mind --- The wordflow must not be disturbed,or picture forgotten forwords' sakes, nor thepictures stretched beyondtheir bookmovie strengthexcept parenthetically.
Work from your own side of literature & room fetish, not "publishing's" ---It's the Holy MemoryIt's the dinihowi ofMemoryIt's fit for dunes &desert huts & railroadhotelsLet them pick the storyout of the house of yourwords, floor by floor, roomby room
Work on Railroad
DRUNK: Know I can handle it (OVERCONFIDENCE)
HIGH: Fear I cant handle it (UNDERCONFIDENCE)
SOBER: Know I can handle it with reservations (NORMAL CONFIDENCE)
Same with work on mind & memory ---Automatic interest inthat you write what &how you like, on spotPresent tense ---LIKE
The following Sketch
Late afternoon in San Luis, the Juillard Cockroftredbrick courthouse warehousebuilding stands in theprofound 6 PM clarityto the stwigger of allthe birdies --- some ofthe birds trill, some singlike humans --- a faroffracing motor --- the still"suburban" trees --- alwaysthe rippling pine fronds,the breeze --- The greenpale grass mtn. with itsraw earth cut telephonepole & scattered cows ---
the green dazzle of grayfence bushes --- shadowof a porch across theleaves & whitened buds ---Moving shadows of bushon white house --- Theold Indian's beenrubbing his antiquetruck all day to getthe rust rid --- now'sinside working ondashboard --- Thatsweet little cottage shack,Southern style groundlevel porch,purple flowers in a rockfront, little slopey roof,broom, doormat, with aTV in SJ fine ---
"What do you mean, There are no people?Isnt Hawk people?Isnt Dove people?And RatAnd FlintAnd all the rest?"--- Jaime d Angulo
My father in his dying 1945 year thought DannyKaye was funny --- we'dlisten to the radio, go toshows --- how humble ineternity can you get?--- We'd sit in the Ozone Pkparlor on Fri nites listeningto the Pabst Blue RibbonAds between Danny'sjokes like O Really?No O Reilly! ---& Hal Chase thotDanny was funny too& that too is a strangehumility in eternity--- that these gigantichearts shd. have latched
onto such a stale & narrow clown ---& all for what?--- for waste of time ---I even used tolisten to Jas Melton,dreaming of SERENADEby James M Cain,just as today I wastetime on boxscores, onPhilley's last hitor Greengrass'shomer --- or onTV stupidities ---how mediocre everything'sgot since 10 years!
Intensity must be all RipenessIntensity is allAll night eager paleface Chinatown talkin eternity wearymysteryHealth is for clamssnails & shellsIntensity & sorrowis for Geo Martinsof TimeFor Zagg Big O'Zaggus
ALLEN G.
O Allen Dear Allen Ah Allen Poor MeWalked the streets ofEe ter ni TeeWith me ---O Allen Sad Allen AhMystery --- Ah MeGhettosEast SidesDenver PigeonsDoldrums of CoastsSuicides of Seas& Hart Crane SubSea DeitiesAnd Corals & ShelvesImmemorialHallos
I have nothing to say to yeExceptDont trod the wrongtightropeWeird Mind will wrassleTheeTo a meet in theHole of DestinyWith an Angel Whiteas HeavenGoldSnowCobalt PearlAnd Fires of RoseThen remember melong dead.
Stormy mad Irish SeaSex and boneCane pipe peatDeath stoneConstantinopleDostoevsky of MachreePatriarch of MayoPard of InnisfreeIsle of ImageryA.E.James J.Leopold BloomCurmudgeon ConnaughtPatrick O Gogarty BemulliganSilt throat
LONG DEAD'S LONGEVITY
Long dead's longevity Coyote ViejoUgly un handsome oldpuff chin eye crackBone fat face McGeeIn older rains sat bynew firesPlotting unwanted predoomed presupposingOdes --- long deadRiverbottom bumRaunchyScroungeBrakeman bumWine cans sand sexlessSilence die tombPyramid cave snake Satan
I was a naive overbelieving type
Half wanting to live Full having to work
Sketching is successful but not fun --- notartistically absorbing,like making jerkyor building a fireor writing aCody Pomeray inThe Poolhallsor sketching from the mad mind itself
The metaphysical mayor broke down
That which has not long to live, frets ---That which livesforeverIs full of peaceAnd there is no man who'll live foreverHere it is California,little young girls going toschool in the fresh &dewy sidewalks of sleepySan Luis --- birds arenoising up & down ---a mist sweetens themountains --- the coolsea beyond the hillshas been all night& will be all day ---ever eating sand, creamingrocks, washing worlds ---The rail is sticky, wet,dewy --- clean architecturaltrains & perfect red &black signals ---
my life so lonely & empty without someoneto love & lay, & withouta work to surpassmyself with, that Ihave nothing nothingto write about evenin the first clear joyof morning --- TodayMay 5 1953 I'mgoing to decide on mynext book --- theidleness is killing ---WILL to decide ---
The pristine leader who made & lost this househas none of my sympathy.
In the desert there was a sign that said"SNAKE CHEF'SDAUGHTER DOVEXNDJOSEPH CHARLES BRETONHERE RECOMMENCEDTHE WORLDFROM THE GREAT FIRE OFJULY 1845URP RAIN AGAIN"though no one had seenit except the fatherof the later generationBretons, John."Urp what again?""Rain""What's that mean.""Nobody knows Lookslike urp. It mightbe something else.It looks like SnakeChef's Daughter Dove.It might be somethingelse.""When did you seethis sign? Why didntyou bring it with you?""I saw it in 1895with Uncle Bull BalloonI didnt bring it I didnt
even touch it. That was my father's sign yourgrandfather He wasgiven the name SilverFox by the Indians Hisson his eldest son hisfirst was called Coyote& is now somewhere inthe Mexican desert orwalking along a railroadtrack in California& known as Whitey tothe bums & CoyoteViejo to the Mexicans& has a flowing whitebeard. That is youruncle Samuel He isI believe in theZacatecan Desert &
like a ghost." "How old were you in1895?""How should I know?""How old are you now?""I ceased I dontcount any more Iceased & deceased . . .And that little hotboxin yr car wasnteven formed in yrunborn brain cellswhen I made my firstpayment on thisfarce --- & you, butjust an idea buried indirt at the back ofmy brain.""I remember OldJim when his eyeswere moist --- "
Sun Apr 26 SWING THE HILL
(The railroad is a steely proposition)
Animals dont have pride Men shouldnt --- healthymen have no peacockprideI've been imitating Gerardin reverence since hedied --- his death wasmy one real tragedymore than Pa --- hisdeath my death --- Butimitating & adoring himI grew exclusive, special,prideful, found Turf, later"literature" to do in my room
--- in fact life insulting me because it no longerincluded Gerard ---Get rid of prideGet rid of sorrowMix with the PeopleGo among the People,the Fellaheen not theAmerican Bourgeois Middle-class World of neurosisnor the Catholic FrenchCanadian European World--- the People ---Indians, Arabs, theFellaheen in country, village,of City slums --- anessential World Dostoevskyif you want to Gauguin on ---but mainly, fulfill yr.needs, live, --- sit staringin the yard all day, ifthe other men laugh atyou challenge them& ask them if "you wouldlike it if I laugh atyou" --- Screw, drink,be lazy, roam, donothing . . . gather yr.food --- Get out ofAmerica for good, it'sa Culture holding you,no Life --- The Peopleof No Good & Evil ---of No Culture, noProphets --- nothing butessential politics & literatureas Tales of the People ---
Gauguin practised a neurotic civilizationimpressionism amongprimitive fellaheenpeople --- is hisart so good as theysay? --- is it betterreally than all-outculture bourgeois dutchcome-&-honey Rembrandt?--- of course not --- Impressionismis & has always beena breakup & compromisein the art of picturingnature & is now awild scatalogical paintblur call'd Surrealism etc
Primitive art nevertheless is closer to Surrealismthan "Naturalism"(which is unnaturally technical)--- but primitiveart does not considerSubconsciousness orPrimitivism --- & is inany case Decorationfor Utilitarian Purposes,not so called "expressionfor expression's sake"& the difference ismillionfold down deep ---Gauguin would have donebetter decorating their pots& boats --- This humilityis the true artist's ---
& explains the vast greatness of Bach writingfor the Sunday Service,Raphael painting forthe church wall, ---the essential uselessnessof Goethe --- Shakespearewriting to fill thetheater seats --- (ashoddy purpose) ---Homer singing to hislisteners is the essentialfellaheen poet ---There are 3 basicpossibilities in fellaheenHunter, Priest, WarriorThe hunter has to be experienced,the priest political, the warriormindless --- I'll have tolearn to be a hunter
The railroad is the hunt in America, for me (&Neal & Hinkle) --- huntdown the rail for bread ---I gotta learn manyessential things now
Hit my natural male level after awhile ---It aint easy to getaway from the inworkedinfluence of Civilization--- which is an avoidanceof reality finding itsgreatest symbol inembalming fluid ---Sad that even the fella-heen are stupid --- wantradios & soap operas ---Thoreau made the 19thcentury intellectual mistakeof reading theKoran & the Bible insteadof following hissoul to ultimate . . . thetales of creation amongthe Indians & evenfurther the methodsof hunting & nomadry--- instead he pored overthe stale Goy Hatredsof the Old Testament,the aristocratic "middle-class" Arabic cultismsof Mohammed ---The People Need noReligion, no Art, no War
A healthy man imitating an invalid ---me imitating Gerard ---men imitating ChristCockless Christ ---
Culture, & Civilization its later millionfoldsubdivision intotechnicalities red tape& by laws, is anincredibly useless clutterof substitutes forsex & real life ---Anyone interested inthe million details &sensations of a Cultureis interested in clutter &
is now (sic) longer in contact with the Life Flow underneaththis junk & thereforeNeurotic &Dead in Life ---Reich's Orgone Boxdoesnt compare to a screwin the noonday sun --- norBogomolets' serumto sexual & thereforespiritual (joie de vivre)longevity ---Needs from theearth bleeding --- pulque,cocaine, marijuana,peotl, gangee, herbs,woods, vegetables, acorns,greens, & the rabbit
Remember that everything is alive --- the Spider,the Rattlesnake, the TreeWish no harm &none will come yr way& tell it to theworld alive,the Animal, the People
I shall become a goatherd --- goatmilk, goat butter, &tortillas & beanswith goat cheese
And yet most of these observations arise from the fact Icant get a woman anyhow ---too "bashful," too "scowling" ---
Tho it would be hard to surpass the profoundnostalgia of the smokeof an American cigar,you would have to surpassit. --- To find theFellaheen Realitymeans to find aprimitive country lifewith no morals ---Country life withmorals, as in NorthCarolina, is the mostdestructive life onearth --- City life withmorals offers a fewdiversions more, nothing more.
Yet whenever I get the most rigid & philosophising& dualizing as now,is when I most weaklyfeel like reacting tothe allurements ofwhat I seek to castout ---
I dont know when this eternal dualcircle will end ---In 1949 it wasHomestead vs. Decadence1951Mexico City vs. Work in U.S.1953Fellaheen vs. AmericaBe decadent, work in U S &Have a Fellaheen Homestead too
All is I want Love when I want itRest when I want itFood when I want itDrink when I want itDrugs when I want itThe rest is bullshitI am now going outto meditate in thegrass of San Luis Creek& talk to hoboes &get some sun & worrywhere my soul is going& what to do & whyas ever& evershit
So that writing will finally in me end up to be theworking out of the burdenof my educationfor personal Surrealisticself-therapeutic education-burden time-fillers inAgrarian & Fellaheen Peace
No radio TV education or papers --- a sombrero, amujer, goats, weed & guitars
I blame God for making life soboring ---
Drink is good for love --- good formusic --- let itbe good forwriting ---
This drinking is my alternative to suicide,& all that's left
And marijuana the holy weedIt isnt anybody's faultthat I am bored ---it's the condition oftime --- the burdenof putting up & fillingin with tick tacktime in dull dull day--- How humorous itis that I am bored,that it's no one'sfault, that timeis a drag --- that Iwould rather commitsuicide than go onbeing bored ---Men are new creaturesnot built for this oldearth --- the lizard yes
The lizard lost all his children long beforemen began being boredin this Eden of Harshness
Alcohol, weed, peotl --- bring em on --- &bring on bodies ---Why does the Indiandrink?Because he never knewhow to make himselfdrunk with weeds &brews --- only stoned
The carefully exposedsipper's bottle issuddenly rapidly sinking
Every year be writing 3 books simultaneously--- a morning sober book--- an afternoon high book(the greatest)--- a night drunk book
hee hee hee! & girl& friends& universal tipplingforgivenessWRITE IN SMALL PRINT WHEN YR. DRUNKThe charm of the original drunk ---Vermont --- the mtns. of Manchester& we all got drunk --- Kids --- toreup trees --- the earth got drunk withus as I remember --- weaving, swaying ---
THERE WERE OUTCRIES\*\*\*NASCENCES OF LOVE\*\*\*I FELL HEADFIRSTout of the car to greet theladies --- GJ protected me& goofed with me in the romanticAmerican starlit nite ofyouth --- G.J. --- still greatis G.J. --- huge-in-eternity GJ ---
Goodbye, San Luis Obispo
July 1953 One of those downtownManhattan cobble cornerson a gray afternoongiven so much more gloomto its already gloomydimness --- the bigbusy trucks of commerce& even occasional horseteams clattering & boomingby --- The corner wherethe old 1860 redbricknow weatherbrick bldgsags, with Mexican likesagging black sad brokensidewalk roof suspendedby bars attached to thewallfront --- it's like
a vision of the old Buenos Aires waterfront & beaterstill & like the bleakmerceds of So Americabut the heart of modernsophisticated Rome-NewYork --- A rain ofplips & day-mosquitosfalls across the blackdank gloom of thecorner --- profoundly hiddenwithin is an almostunnamable man ona crate bent & thought-ful in the day darkover his order book &by mountains ofcabbage crates --- Thegray sky above has ahurting luminosity to theeye & also rains withtiny nameless annoyingflips & orgones ---life dusts of Time ---beyond is the vastarcadium green Eriepier, a piece of it,with you sense thescummy river beyond ---The West Side hiway,gray, riveted, steel,with automobiles crisscrossingin the narrow sceneto destinations likebright silver ribbons
North & South in the city & no regard, notime for the dark sadlittle corner with its whiteoneway arrow, blue St.Sign (Washington & Murray)leany lamppost, litterof gutter, curb as ifpressed down by yearsof trucks backing up ---The lone blue pigeontrucking along, thesquad copcar stoppingmomentarily to think ---a scene wherein insome darkfog midnight2 seamen stagger, oran anonymous clerk
in rumpled July summer- shirt hurries meekwith Daily News ---or by gray hot noonof dogday August somesmall merchant inbrown coat, whitehaired,clutching a box underarmslowly walks --- onlate October afternoona rusted & forgotten spotin the great joysplashof Manhattan withits glittering bandof rivers, ships exudingbooms, shrouds ---smoke, of railroads,trucks, boom of timeCloser up you see theactual pockmarked grimeof this sad Manhattanscene, an old hydrantwith 2 black iron stanchionsbeside it as ifobsolete ruins of oldwater or horsetroughequipments of 1870when where you now seeErie Pier's green parthenonishfront was the jibboomsof great sailing vessels,the boom of wagon wheels& barrels --- Overwrittendoublepainted all-lostwriting friezing aroundthe crumbling warehouse
says BABE HYMAN & SONS & also DAVE KLYDAN SPEinterwrittenOn the 4th floor, cornerwindow, a black hallwhere a pane of lessblackdusty glass is missing ---the 5th floor itself ishome of a savagepoet who lies on hisback all day staringat cobwebs above,fingering his beard onlyto --- poems on thefloor covered with dust,black dust --- his shoesa half inch deep indust --- not dead ---yes dead --- a Bartlebyso beat that it
is inconceivable to see how he can live muchmore than 5 minutes ---The bldg. is for rent ---The sun comes out,illuminating the cobblesbut the grim edifice staysgray & wears theaspect of the city'sgrave --- Thereis no poet up there, justrats
& a few sacks of nibbled-into onion
urg
LONG ISLAND WAREHOUSE In the night it's thegreat sad orangenessof lights shining onorange backgrounds forred letters, like asideshow posterthe colors but nothing
so flimsy or entertaining --- White creamy huge stuccowarehouse of Kew Gardensmovers, the back of thebldg. has silent stairswith no one on themnever at night if everat all, iron stairs thatlead to a green doorin the whiteness of thestucco wall just by theorange & red writing, hugehalf seen half litpicture of a truck,Chelsea, movingphone numbers ---territorial towers ofa inexistent Kingdom
that once lived but had to be embalmedto survive the ages& but now in ourage finds itselfmisplaced as amoving company &no one noticesthe Algerian splendorof those wallsramparts creamyness& disk Mayandesigns scrollpaintedby union brush sawhacks on boardplatforms hung up& rolled by ropes
2.15 an hour but not knowing theEgyptian Kingdomsplendor of theirwork now in themisty Rich Hillnight, theProustian Goof ofthat thing
Evening, aftersupper evening in Richmond Hill ---the cool sweet sky is fullof fine little white puffsseparated angelicallyin regular--- over the tree thepink hint sensation whiteis calm, the tree quiversat the leaf --- sweetis the coolness, even thefilmy wire on my TV antenna,the new transparent aerialcurve is cool, white, blue ---but in the sound & thesensation the cricketsmuscle whistle, othersrepeat the idiot creekcreek from denser yards,cats lap & lick,bugs hover, night breathessweet soft vastnessinto heaven ---
the motionless green grass is like iron, chlorophyll,Chinese, denselypersonalized, rugged, almostpockmarked, rich, asif chewed --- hangingpajamas & rugs onlines move majestic& slow in a crossmovement, now theyhustle a little up ---flowers blaze in theirown radium world ---in night they aureateto no human eyesunseen magical dartsof prismatic Violetlight, for mosquitos
to whir in front of --- Huge purple transparentphosphorescent nightfall now pinks thewhite page of life,faces lost in hate& personal pitbottomdislikes, hasseled heavyfooted too-much-withhimself man fawdlingin yards of pride,whining at the dogsof time, overheadgroans the airplaneof his far reachedfolly ---
and so the crickets creek, cree, cree ---eaves darken & getinky gainst whiteneddusk --- the paledawn dusk cloudsmove not but silentin a mass advancesomewhere slowly ---it was in evenings likethis I'd lie in my skin& jeans in Californiawaiting for the Apocalypse& for Armageddon,ready, head on lamp,feet in big shoes,pants tight, wallethanky knife tight,
no money no home no need but a canof beans & theresponsibility of engineson the sticky steelrail --- As now thegrape of thatCalifornia Wine spreadin the West, shootingphosphor glory overthe Come of theWorld --- Thegreen weeds likewith glaze on themtough skin as now didcommunicate withme a vegetativefriendliness
Mardou's --- the gray light of Paradise Alley fallsdown the draining gray stainedwall with old gray paintchurred windows, outside'sthe scream of a littlegirl --- The hum big buzzcity flowing in by thousandmothwaves --- Thesilence of Mardou'sclothes, the water bottle,rumpled bed --- faceAmerican goofing insheets --- little sweetsad radio --- Loveshoulders of MardouLittle tree & bush buds onthe screen outside --- someare dead little dry ravelledquiverers in a dry void ---some almost that waybut still organicallyvine likely tangled by stringsof green life to the twigbough of the bush & willreceive their comedownancecome October soon ---some still green & juicylifed, twirled lifelikelyaround on a yellowLonestem to droop inthe August sorrow ofpeace & gas fumes fromhiway --- some twig
ends are so small almost unseeable & bear nothingbut dead leaves who notonly sucked it dry buthad taken a chance &pitched a mansion oflife there but father-twig missed, castrated,cancered out & donedid die so now it's apale Indian stickletwith rorfled doodleaves bup to doodedno-life & shake toquiver of earth on ageneral bush bearingno relation to world--- insignificant, skinnyas sticks in graves ---
the big healthy deep green leaves have etup all the juice of thebush, they spring fromelastic stems straightfrom the gnarly roothowa'dbough bone ofthe bush-proper &shake to the wind withheavy weight & thruthen see the paleday light in veinsabsorbed to suckblushing phosphor greenslike chlorophyll--- the one recentlystillgreen deadleavedangling on a broken stem ---
East River
The old blackgarbed watcher of cities sittingon the Live Oak JimNewYork barge in thedry cool afternoon ---watching tugs warp infinished excursion boats, rivertankers, barges pass ---his interest in the river,the names of Tug Captains& Excursion Steamer deck-hands, the arrival &departure of greatocean going orange mastedlike the WatermanLiberty today dockedat Jack Frost Sugars
across the river in L I City --- This old guy, withwhitefringe hair aroundbaldspot but wearing hisblack soothat, sits onthe bit on the swaying barge,smoking, --- to him thecity & the world is sucha different thing as it isjust across the Drive inBellevue Hospital wherein density of world interestnow gloomy psychiatristsconsult with patients &aint interested in the sunon the river, the freegulls floating in thesleepy tide, thegay littleboats,but in problems ofmarriage & emotional adjustment& all such dark,gloomy, indoor preoccupations& with such contempt forthose like those on theriver who dont interioratewith them in this ByzantineVault of Mind Horror ---the walls of Bellevue,dirty rosebrick grim beneathshining purities of cleardayheaven, the ink ofthe windows, the sootdarkness of the bars inthe windows, the formidablemass & camp& hangup of the
great structure --- & only beyond, above the whiteclean modernisms of anew bldg. N.Y.U. MedicalScience bldg. there risesthe screwpoint phallusEmpire State Building withhis new TV Frenchtickler on the end,clouds of lost hope,sweet, impossible, passbehind it high, therethe interests of millionairecorporations high abovethe tangled human streets--- old Live Oak Jimaint interested in but justthe river & that
Lehigh Valley barge with the 2 cuts of carsbeing loaded, meeting ofrailroad & seawater railto railpoint in theactual workingmanafternoon of the realworld --- And yetabove all, the mystery,Live Oak Jim really isan old ex Bellevuemental patient, flippedin '33, knows it well,has his back to it nowin studies of his river,--- now's inside napping,his brother is a lawyerin the Empire State Bldg.
Black Tanker
Gloomy black tanker being tugged in, the graysuperstructure as tho theyhadnt in 10 years yetscraped the war paintcamouflage off, theblue stack with white"T" --- the blacksinister hull, --- "MichaelTracy" --- deck gangchipping hatch coversupstood --- stewardshuddled at stern inidiot white, watchingwaters --- "I'mgonna git drunktonight!" In fromPersian Gulf
New York Panorama
The UN Building with white marble side, littleladdrs of workers strungup the side --- QueensboroBridge with archaicpinpoint boings & bigsuperstructure withminute traffic & lookingChinese in thesod besoiled sootstained cleanpalelateafternoon sky ---the river tide swells& is somber belowthe sad slow paradeof truckforms & carinsects inching to the
Eternity --- In Long Island City antique breweryred oldbuildings likeJamestown in 1752,steeples, wine red ware-house pier, orange cleanstacks of ships ---1837 written on a hugegrim dirtybrick gallow-house nameless ironrack cluttered warehouse--- lost unknown bloodbrick factories spewingsmoke --- behind themother smokes of furtherdim cement rackfactories pale & vagueas dawn in the paleworm of the sky ---
rosy clouds above --- like off the coast of Manzanillo ---
Subway Sensations
Smell of burnt nuts in the power of thecar & the aromaticalmond dusts of thetunnel --- Growlingwhine of the shurrymoveahead car asit balls from onestation faster light-flashing to anothertill wasting thebrakes crash tostop & the whineamid knocks &
wheel bumps lowers, till the stop, the doors,the bump, therestless churry churrywurd wurd wurd ofthe power as it waitsto resume --- carsswaying, vestibule swaying--- The switchpoint ta tap too boomlike a song crossinganother track onbumpy parts oftrack --- The Mexicocafeteria tile ofstation walls --- thestart-up again, the
growing whur of the power to fly anotherblack halfmile withsmashing crossings ofposts & dark reelbyof pipes, lights,concrete curbs, darkness,Egyptian mummy niches,--- till the stationagain,the "QuickRelief Tums AndIndigestion" sign
MY MOTHER'S FRENCH CANADIAN SONGS
TI SAUVAGE NOIR C'est un ti savage noir-eNoir tous barbouillez wish-téS'en vas' t' a la rivièreC'éta pour se baigner wish-téTou-ma-né-got-a-wiltawiltaTou-ma-né-gét-a-wiltéwiltéManégé --- wish-té
De la premiere-e plonge Le savage a chanter wish-téDe la second-eplongeLe savage c'ai baigner wish-téTou-ma-né-got-a-wiltawiltaTou-ma-né-gét-a-wiltéwilté
De la second-e plonge --- Le savage s'ai baigner wish-téDe la troixieme plongeLe savage c'est noyer wish-téTou-ma-né-got-a-wiltawiltaTou-ma-né-gét-a-wiltéwilté
ÉLANCETTE (sung fast) (Caughnawaga Indian) Élancette me tonté (Song)Ma ka hiMa ka hawBaisserMa ka hi cawsetteO bé go zoMa gou sette-a
Encore un ti coup Ça raidit toujoursVire la manivelleMamoiselleMam-selle-aEncore un ti coupÇa raidit toujoursVire la manivelleMamoiselleÇ'est tous
New York tenement window sill, they want tohold nature close to theirlives, they have patheticlittle pots with deadroots & stems --- Onetiny earthen pot sitsin an asparagus can,its produce is 2 stemswith dry dead leavesfawdling houseward &as tho falling in ---Another clay pothas a completely justdied green that hasshot up & thendown to die on the outsideat the base of the potthe stem completely bent& despairing --- Two namelessblackpainted tin cans,small ones, former frozenorange juice cans, withjust dry white earth inem --- A larger blackcan with nothing in it ---A tiny new-shining claypot with a littlefwit hollow stalklike dead cornstalksticking out --- Anotherclay pot with asprig of last Autumn'sdead leaves torn witha stem from sometree it would seem ---One final jar with akind of scallion lookinggreen growth the onlylive thing in the sadwindow the sill ofwhich is incrediblychipped dry sliverywood painted onetimesick blue --- thewindow frame sickgreen --- The insidewall bilious yellowishwith stains --- theoutside wall of the
building at that point out in the back alleya kind of stucco cementwith gaps showingunderneath concretes--- the sill's outerextremity is a slab ofrock --- Here in thehot dogday last daysof August the windowsillhangs in bleary realitymeaningless with cans& dry roots beneathan open unwashed windowpane,clutters ofwrinkled huskleaf thatsuddenly jiggle in abreeze ---
The person who has it is off to work, hishandiwork window inthe great symphony ofNY throws one mitelittle note into thegeneral disharmoniousirrationality of theworld & its world city,as pathetic as ajob, useless as tightlippedmute unhappinessof people rising on rainySunday afternoons totheir further tasks ofcarrying the burden of
time to a conclusion they cannot know & wouldnot want to knowif they knew --- thejunk in the windowis like a young woman'sdisappointed eyes ona rainy Sunday, in thedraining dank gray roomof tenement life, hersad feet shiftless, thehang of her thoughts,the angel of graybrooding reality, theGuardian Angel overher sorrow, over
her little humilities as humble as clay pots,modest as deadstalks & fallen vines,--- as strange & somehowpathetically sweet asthose little frozen O Jcans painted blackby concerned handsin a moment ofserious press-lip'd goofin this Open VoidWorld forever sonostalgic with the voicesof mensinging
for nothing & all lies --- idealistic lies of love ---
"Men are tricky-tricksy" --- D. H. Lawrence, afacetious Englishman whostumbled on a serious truthabout love."Yr. mainspring is broken,Walt Whitman." ---Whitman should have livedso long to hear anirrelevant English tubercularsnarl thus at him as ata cocktail party inManchester
"The Mystery of the Open Road" or"The Road Opens"
Great quote from D H Lawrence whom I justcastigated & underestimated
"Stay in the flesh. Stay in the limbs and lips and in the belly.Stay in the breast and womb.Stay there, O Soul, where youbelong --- " D. H. Lawrencein "Studies in ClassicAmerican Literature"... on Whitman ...The thing that eludes ---the working walls ofAmerica, the dry yards,the nameless meeoosand micks you hear inthe night as if catswere being bitten ---The endless decision ofstreets.like when he waded thruthat New Mexico flood &lay down soaking in araw old gondola, tryingto light fires, & thewater all around theboxcars of thedrag
Bring Visions of Cody to Cowley
Sunday Night TV
Ed Sullivan looking at audience with big dumbnod as they applauseyoung girl singer withsexy female laff ---audience applauds asEd inveigles themfurther, says "Tremendousjob" --- long-faced serious facingSunday night millionsas my mother in
kitchen bends tongue on lips tying her garbagebags carefully fromroll of strong browntwine, she pauses momentarilyto see TVset from the side withan expression ofskeptical peering curiosity--- "T's aNigger?" when abaritone comes on, withhuge voice, shecomes up winding string,says, "S got agood voice huh?"as outside in Americacars gleam dully in
the August heatwave Sunday night ofhumidity no breeze,the trees hanging leavesstill as stone, airplanespassing in the overheadLong Island softness &the Negro is singing"Because," little mustachetouching almost his noseas he says --- "tome" --- clasping handsto finish, little hankyin suitcoat ---
Kittigindoo sits on his haunches on thecement drive in theshade turned halfaround listening --- henow with prickingears is looking up athouse windows, eyesgreen & dissatisfied--- when I call himhe is in atrance looking straitahead & his earsprick & he moveshis little mouth ---
Sometimes he hangs his head & sulks withmuscle neck, thenyawns, then movesslowly tail a-poppin --- He lovesto eat & lick hischops & paws --- Hemoves with the majestyof a gigantic tigeronly to sit again,lick at his paw &look up --- I wonderhow he makes theafternoon, the day,the time of life
& its whole long burden there with histail & paw lickings& chest nibblings &cheek-diggings-with-foot & neck-workingswith lowered tensebody right pawsupporting him --- howhe overcomes boredom& the burden of timeeven in his 8 yearlifespan (which isso long).His isolateness inthe world, theripple afternoons ---little shadows ofwindows at hissoft white feet,the dumb prickingrueful realizationshe has crossing thegreen span of hiseyes & the loweredpause & male wonderof the Fall, theconsternation oflookup, the chewon claws with grittinggreek teeth, thelong contemplativelick on long upheldback leg ---
The green eyed slit & stretch offorepaws & backup, y-a-w-w ---Mangy, he keeps workinon that ear of death--- I noticed inhim seeds of mangelast winter on mypoetry desk (MAGGIECASSIDY) --- Now heregardant reclinesto continue the dayin the breeze &sweetness, cleartime opes around
him, unperturbed he flicks his sore ear &mulls, rumes, moons,mokes, mulges withhimself the longdread afternoon thatold humans kill withbeer or cubab ---the honest innocentclean all sufferingcat, no kicks ordrugs available hissupple sad body,just lies therewaiting for theend of his 9 years
or 5 years --- waiting without comment,complaint or companion--- lickinghis fur in the bleak,with no expression ---listening, pricking,watching, waiting,cleaning himself forthe Day of the LordO Smart NotCrazy!
Saturday Afternoon Window
Bugle bubble blower --- freckled kid bubbling ---Sad lill blue yellowrubber wallet ---Bldg. blocks half inchthick --- "Junior Architects"bldgs blocks ---Star Stamper,lill girl stamping \*'sLil pickaninny pennydolls with safety pin,cloth, lil red cherry lipsin black face --- Lilplastic bulldozers ---Tiny Tim bicycles ---Nickles Dimes QuartersAmt. Dep. cash registerplastic black ---Nameless old halloweenfluff papers --- babycarriages big as yr thumb ---Lil boy in jeans &stripe jersey whistlesPop Goes Weasel
at this window --- Plastic tiny oldtime locomotive, ------ Bronx prrt'erssaying Japan ---Plastic bags ofdull samesize marbles ---Sad goggles with garterholders & canvas ---Play money $25,000 bills--- ray guns --- rubberguns --- big
pearl handle champ guns --- rubber cigars ---rings with monkeyon face --- Italiantenor singin somewhere ---Rubber Knives --- (blackhandle silver blade)Solar Commando Gunwith Darts ---Handcuffs of littletin & boypolicemen with
captain badge & whistle --- Sadplastic flesh palelil doll falling backnaked in a brownpaper box witha tiny mouthharmonica "Robin"--- Fishing hooks,"You land the bigones every time withOle's Genuine
Fishing hooks fashioned by experts ofFinest temperedsteel, specially imported"--- Plasticlil Space Ship, &imitation lead Spacemen --- Jump ropeswith red woodgrips ---
Expensive Nin toy dish set --- cups& saucers, spoons,with sad lil yellowdesigns braided on ---Tiny pushdowntops priced inblack 19¢& shows lil boykneeling in toycolors in lostvoid ---
Volga Inn Music
Ez tu p a vatez - tomata- tomata ---Ami topy ollmayay ---Ena oo eePeñooti maya govinOora pey
(Meanwhile night in its October form softas Indian silkslink in the doordark, glitters ofNew York night besaddening & showingwhere leaves dojiggle & bloss bluffon boughs' come Autumn"dominant" doom--- King Sizefirst in Sales!First in Quality!First in Good Taste,--- there's yr ironbars of the parkshine shadowing onthe cobbles ofthe oldworld tiredstreet --- There'sthe halo lampmaking seen thegoldhair backnapesof Jacky O Hara'sbestlastfirstdoll --- MinnieGallagher ---
& that sensation in the pricking gut,of winter, rivers,ships, aye yegreen city &grand land onrollingit ---Hail Hail theGang's all Here,in Polka, bruitsin the juke ---oonyateez teyayetez withmuddy boots' beendone
3rd Ave Bar
4 PM the men are all roaring likethe EL in clinkbonk glass brassfootbarrail 'where yagoin' excitement ---October's in theair, is the IndianSummer sun of door--- 2 executivesalesmen who beenworkin all daylong come in
young, welldressed, justsuits, puffingcigars, glad tohave the day done& the drink cominin, side by sidemarch in smilingbut there's noroom at the roaring(Shit!) crowdedbar so they stand2 deep from itwaiting & smiling& talking ---
Men do love bars & good bars shd. beloved --- It's fullof businessmen,workmen, FinnMacCools of Time--- beoveralledoldgray topers dirty& beerswiggin glad--- nameless truckbusdrivers withflashlites slungfrom hips --- oldbeatfaced beerswallowerssadly upraising
purple lips to happy drinking ceilings ---Bartenders are fast,courteous, interested intheir work as wellas clientele --- Dublinat 4 30 PM whenthe work is done,but this is greatNY, great 3rdAvenue, free lunch,smells of MoodySt exhaust riverlunch in roadof frime by-smashing
the door, guitarplaying long sideburned heroessmell out thereon wood doorstepsof afternoon drowse--- but it's N.Y.,towers rise beyond,voices crashmangle to talk& chew thegossip till Earwickerdrops his load ---Ah Jack FitzgeraldMightyMurphy where areyou? --- semi baldblue shirt tatteredshovellers in brokenend dungareesfisting glasses ofglisterglass foamtop brownafternoonbeer --- The Elsmashes by asman in homburgin vest but coatlessexecutive changesfrom right toleft foot on yebrass rail ---
Colored man in hat, dignified, young,paper underarm,says goodbye leaningover men at barwarm & paternal--- elevator operatoraround the corner ---& wasnt thiswhere they sayNovak the realestater who usedto stay up latea-nights linefacedto become right
& rich in his little whiteworm cellule ofthe night typingup reports & lettingwife & kids go madat home at llPM --- ambitious,worried, in a littleoffice of the Islandright on the streetundignified but opento all business &in infancy anybusiness can besmall as
ambition's big --- pushing how manydaisies now? &never made his million,never had a drinkwith So Long GeeGee& I Love You Tooin this Late afternoonbeer room ofmen excitedshifting stools &footbottom railscuffle heelsoles ---
Never called Old Glasses over & offeredhis rim red nosea drink --- neverlaught & let thefly his nose useas a landing mark--- but ulceratedin the middle ofthe night to berich & get hisfamily the best--- so the bestAmerican sod'shis blanket now,made in uppermills of HudsonBay MoonfaceSassenach &carted down byhousepainters inwhite coveralls(silent) to rimthe roam of hisonce formedflesh, & letworms ram ---
Rim! So have anotherbeer, topers ---Bloody mugglers! Lovers!
Crazy Old Homehouse ofthe Sea& Drowse Afternoon
At 28th St & East River--- the greatseagoable hull
of iron is mossed, in green at the foreverwater line --- The anchor'sunrusted, gray, whitebars, balls --- unused--- Ah thewood sides & hallwindows & Navycontests inside ---the dormitory rowof it! --- themadhouse barnacledpaint fleckchip'tgull shadowedbulk huge of it!the pissing shovelscupper --- voicesin the helm, ghostsof Billy Budd, oldEastSide dreams,the blue Navyflag --- theside doors & openDawiovtsHandel Frenchjoywindows ofwinter it!--- preliminaryworrying draft &study of it!Something sad, Whitmanian& Navy-like ---gulls --- that sameafternoon hotdrowseof gulls & slapwaterdream I noticedin 1951 getting seapapers & 1942too --- the Melvilleanyouth dreaming insea pants, athis clerical docksidework --- with nightto come --- theTurkish bath madnight& cunts
in parks --- The house where allthe sad eyedOkie sailorboysin T Shirtsmadly sleep--- The longdream eternity andafternoon madhousesolemnity of it!--- the long planks& Colonial windowson the actual waterof the living(When the H bombfinally hit NYone afternoon thefirst living act Isaw was a mansurreptitiously pissingwhile lying on hisside)
Dream Sketch
Some doctor is talking to us about the guywho broke his legclean in half ---we've just seenhim hobbling aroundwith a curious limp,some old guy notNeal --- "He'llwalk alright in afew months butcome 55 & 60 &it'll reappear &be pronounced ---the nerve is
affected when you snap yr leg cleanin half like that!"--- I think ofNeal & the hobblehe'll have at 55
Paradise Alley
October in the wash hung court ---wash pieces flip & kickin the cool breeze,on the radio's theexcited World Seriesvoice & the nameAlly Reynolds(secretly smiling Indianpadding back todugout) ---airplane drone abovein the buzzing worldafternoon of LowerEast Side --- someonewhistling --- hone buzzhum of Vibratos Manhattoesin Millionblowers humming inthe Void Wait Time--- kids battering, yelling--- a little red wagonhung from a hook ---a moan, namelessspeetz, the rack ofFrench blinds being
pulled --- October in the Poolhall, the clack ofa sodapop box noballs click till bigdense swarmnight ---all this so well &good --- Somewhere amotor straining ---nylons waving --- acrazy inside-deephigh thin Porto Ricanmonkey rapidwoman chat blattering"Yera mera quiente tse que seta . . ."Too independent to gobe begging atanybody's portsfor more than amonth
Plucking at Her ha! --- harpstring
To whom rapture meansrupture
Oct 13 1953
Applied for job at Jersey Central --- offeredground switchmanjob, stand in coldwinter liningswitches & sendingkicked or humpedcars rolling downvarious tracks --- bleak--- healthy ---$100 every half ---4, 5 days aweek --- Plenty kickswith Mardou, plentyjazz, wood for
fireplace & dig the big NY this winter ---Spectral OleJersey Central islike the SPat 3rd & Townsend,right on water whererail meets river ---sea actually ---now I have coffeein JCRR lunchroom& remember 1951Xmas the Hardingat Am Pres LinesPier --- etc. ---
A barge graveyard outside J Centralyards --- NY Skylineof Wall St high &serene in pristineOctober afternoon ---October sitsgolden on theiron old wood &white gulledrivers --- TheStatue of Liberty herweatherbeaten greenbeak close loomingover sunk barges,pier, masts, inspokeless blue ---
ferns ghost swiftly in the channel ---excursion lowboats ---This old barge teetersat angle, abandonedcoverless stove, stovepipestill in, still a lotof dry dust coal,table, colorlostchair --- the barge'sbottom is sunkenmosquito hive &tenement of beamsbird limed &boards flowing intarn, the tenementof gulls!unspeakable hiddenhome, they allflap flocked whenthey heard mecrank up the boardplank --- Bigiron black bitsstill solid in bargedeck --- The brokenbarge deckhouse islike shacks underDenver viaduct lastsummer --- instead ofweeds, tarns ofgreen bilge slime& one old soakedmattress of gray
--- chick gug gug Keree Keree ofsome crane motornearby, insistent callsof tugs --- I sawshrouds freightersstanding in the Bay--- harbor --- TheS of L, her back,her torch upheldto a smoky uncaringstrife torn waterfrontstriking Brooklyn ---Barnacled gulledpiers standing inlow water as theold piles of
ancient Princeton Blvd Lost Generationroadhouses with riverporch dancefloors &oldtime lamps withtassels & beer ofyore --- October'slittle falling whitepuffs from giantweedfields ---Jerseyward thegloomy men in rubbage,the smoke ofold switch pots,industrial & sometreehorizons in theOctober Gold ---
I'll live on the West Waterfront,--- be Wolfe--- on a day likethis exactly 12 yearsago I grabbedher golden cunt themoment she jumptinto the car inManchester Conn. ---I was 19, horny,October Gold wason the hill thentoo --- Oilin a map tranceslowly passes,pockmarkt shit
with it --- a ruined submergedbedspring like thedump in Lowella giant 20 footplank moves overlike a long deadsnake waitingfor the sea ------ warm sun,peaceful distantsmokes maybe ofhospital boiler rooms--- nameless faroffyowls of trains ---Swaying newbargeorangepainted--- the great shipsfatbottomed crookedstern strange atthe foot of Manhattanbulkwalls --- the mysteryof their world goinghulls slightly slanted& tied up at thedoorsteps of Time& the World City--- Good Godthe great oceanone way sparklingwine white to dryred Spain sunriseto come ---
& all the green harvestland t'otherway, to other SanJoses --- other yards ---blam! be-krplam!the running slacksk-c-l-to-clankof a cut beingrammed or braked& I saw the yardbrakeman riding headhigh in mid airover emptyreeferlines --- Therusty playwheelsof the railroad allwaiting for me Ah
The long blood dozes
3 POEMS OCEANS KISS
Oceans Kiss in Land that lipsEncompass with suckOf love ImmortalUnder the moonOf America sickAnd pale blondAshen tuberculosisIn Sanatoriums ofColoradoFar in the WildEssential Indian
Dawn's gray birds Herald hoppéd AngelsBroken-backedFrom fucking all nightWith San RemoQueers IntenseAnd Eager to learnThe latest LiteraryAvidity --- CameChirping to EnvisionHorror, Teach it toThe Millionaire inThe Rail road Hair
Poets were Glad When Success a SmileSent Wine-likeSmile WarmingTheir way but whenDross Failure Rain& Doom of ExcitingGray Day Coal ChutesEnveloped AgainThey thought theyHad to Go to WorkInstead --- aSuccessful American
Let us see which of these leads writes bestin the softly applied laptouch originated in 1912by Swim Ward B. Thabo ---President of the AcmeIndustrial Foundationmakers of Corsets forModel T Fords in theNebraska Primavery ---For by applying the lighttouch in the manner whichyou see here prescribedsomething of the Primaveryis retained & preserved like Penshades
"Sketch" Sunday Afternoon NY
The great bulk of Wall St you'd think'd makethe lower tip of Manhattantoessink is rising pink assalmon on the edge of theblue mouth harbor watersas you see it from the sadJersey Central Ferry --- about4:30 PM, long sorrow rayshide between the colduncaring-of-human wallsof Wall St but there's aheart beating in the rocksomewhere --- in thebreasts of little girls comingon the ferry in little
ribboned hats & lacy drawers & Go to Communionshoes their eyes avid wildto see the big world & learn& to understand how theirhappiness is to be securedfrom the Macrocosmic Stoneof Awful Real, how atleast they can adjust toit just as the dying fish adjustsitself to the swerve& swerveback of the waves--- awright so we're allgonna die but now is thetime to sing & see, to behumble, sacrificed, late,crazy, talkative, foolish,mailteinnottond,
crawdedommeeng, all the cross megoney's& followsuits to bemardabonelated or Bug,--- they'll be saying youlost yr touch & you're onlya one day old Balzacon Sun Oct 18 1953balls
Time, rather, to be proud, indispensable, early,sane, silent, serious,not mailteinnottond at all
Death of Gerard
The original late afternoon of Fall when I was ina wicker basket crib& parked on dusty skinnywheels at that long grayconcrete garage with ediblelooking blockstones cremepuffed & as if puddingedto cook & eat & unforgettablein the One Reality,the sun has warmth init (& the single twickof a little Novemberbird hid in the twiggishbranch on the otherside of the coolredpink lateday
air) --- & I'm swaddled to the eartips in pinkFellaheen swaddling clotheswith rose cheeks & poormorf mouth muxed tosee the day --- a droneof 1922 Fall airplanesin that unrecoverable bleak& the river's old manin the valley bed wailingarms out elbowed toswell the muff ofshore aside & on, carryingjunk fenders tothe cundrom's drownedimmaculate coveof oil sticks underthe Boott mill door
walls where eyes of drowned boys mix withink rags & sweat ofdye vat devils with agedmothers at home dependent& enduring like yonsadchild in basket thewait of the late redafternoon to see whatParadise will bring --- thesun fairly warm, theair cooling to supper ---the pines scenting towardwinter where blacksledders will swirlthe dizzy sticks
in traceried Netherlander fields & I shall seeGerard float downpinkhappy to yipe inthe few-year'dmystery of his days,Nin behind him --- theheat of the faint redsun on the garage wall,on my basket, & Ilay in T like aweeyes fixed on the incredibleimmortalityof fadebrown almostpink clouds salmoningmotionless in theirsinged Nov. blue ---
simultaneous with voices from a passing car &the croo croo ack suddenyark yipe bark ofa big pup attendanton some turmoil in hissight & part of plain,so I lie there (& faroff now, antique firecrackers of last Julyof back fart of pipesof trucks or torpedoeson rr track, echoingfar, like skaters nearLakeview Ave. ) ---all Lowell waits,the Kingdom, all
earth, for the babe's comprehension --- forsomeday I shall beking, & lord over thehollows & corridorsof my mind indivine memory'ssincere recallPrince of my own Peace& Darkness --- cultivatorof old soils fornew reasons --- herecomes my mother, thebasket quivers toroll --- the wheels dosweetly crunch
familiar Autumnal dry ground of littleleaves & dry sticksof grass & flattenedcontainers & cellophanecrumples & coal pebbles& shinyrocks & dustyold graydirt scragglespebbly gritty likethe living ground Iwould get to see 3000miles & 30 years laterin the railroad earthof California --- homewe roll to supper ---I see a redbrick wallbefore returning little
face to final pillows so by the time I'mundone out of the basket& put to bed in thehouse I'm asleep &dont know & theworld goes on withoutme, as it willforever soon ---My sweet Fatherwith sincere eyes &out stuck ears isin a tight darksuit hurrying beneaththe filament traceryblacktrees inpale blue time
to get to the last client & hurry onhome --- Nin's onthe porch, red cheeked,playing with splinters ---Gerard broods in thedank parlor in brownswarm holy lateday dimness, thinking,"Gerard whomthe angels of paradiseshall save from theiron cross & makefriends with God, onhis side, hero, saved,despite all sins ofdizzy now" ---
"Gerard qu on va amenez aux angesavec des lapins,des moutons, des loups,de tite filles, destite souris, desmorceau d'terre,Ti Jean, Ti Nin,Papa, Mama, lesanges de la souterre,les anges cachez danscave, les giboux dansl'cemetierre entourdu sidewalk, lesgiboux dans lalune Indian, toute
ensemble avec les crapauds auciel et onva toute chantez ---je sera mou pourprier dans lacreme au pieddun throne de Dieu,ma tete pendu surun aile chaudetoujours pi apresMama viendra mecherchez joindretous --- "
"Gerard whom we shall bring to the angelswith rabbits,lambs, wolves,little girls,little mice,pieces of earth,Ti Jean, Ti Nin,Papa, Mama, thesubterranean angels,the angels hidden inthe cellar, the gibberers inthe cemetery beneaththe sidewalk, thegibberers in themoon, all
together with the frogs toheaven and weshall all sing ---I'll be soft forpraying in thecream at the footof the throne of God,my head leaning ona warm wingforever and thenMama'll comefind me joiningall --- "
Along the rusty track in throbbing pink twilight thatcasts a faint veil glow onthe iron blackbound soot &coal, 2 tank cars & 4 coalhoppers tied in one unmovingdrag, waiting mute underthe soft November moon ofNew York for voyages that willtake them to nostalgic plainsof snow in the great landwest --- those same rustbottomed wheels will roll& clack over switchpointticks of other rails, drivehard rust mass to newIdalias somewhere &where you'll see the rosejawed freezing brakemanstanding by a North Dakotaspur in a blizzard withhis gloved hand momentarilyat rest on the old hopperhandrail, spitting, cursing"When the hell they comingback anyways! I gotto put a meal of porkchops inside my belly beforethis local Godforsaken takesus further away from thelast restaurant --- " --- hewants to eat, be warm,drink coffee --- but
stands in great weary America which I see nowhaunted redpink in thewest & a parade of shadowyboys handsapockets walkingalong the boxcar topsin the vast delicate dusktraceried by trees of theliving looking like littlejigglets & little CoolieChinamen howling forthe Formosa, their feettopping down the singsongwalkways along which Iused to run puttin popsup & down --- Asif this was what a
man would want to write who has nothing left to doin his life but keep hisjoy in secret scribbled note-books --- no, I'll haveto try again, start all over,again --- Enthusiasmis a design that has tobe re-woven in thisbare barking heart, Ihate my life now notlove it, damnLeaves dont respond,sticks lie broken,dead leaves gather dust,the West reddens& narrows coldthe moon mawks topurse her still lips ---lavender over the lightsof supper home, --- windsweet memoried ofCalifornia, I die, I diewhen I am not enthused& full of meek raggedjoy, please dear God again!The prayer of mymother that I needa father, answered!
"Enthusiasm is a design that has to be re-wovenin this bare branch heart"says the Goddammotherforsaken fop
who calls himself Kerouac & cant even slurk up & slackslop out them old jaw crack& spit, flurp, I'm gonna be awriter if I have to be agoadamn bom bum moppingup the shithouses --- of ---Ah --- go on with it, Jean,Jack Kerouac, & no morefoppery, jess plain westerntalk is what I say &let me see them boxcarsin the moon of real NMexico --- fags hankingback their asses in Sundayafternoon ballets, toshow they aint justcocksuckers but know allabout art & studied ---(advertise themselves ascoming from Europe, toimpress old Queens of OzonePark Ladies, & have Bach& Shakespeare to Backtheir shaky spears up)The old Chinaman of RichmondHill who's been in hislittle brown store for Godknows how long before wegot here & for 4 years since& never have I seen himunalone, with a friend,looking sometimes out thewindow with those crazyred sploshes of paintmaking a rail-off-effect3 feet from bottom, hehas his face over there& is contentedly puffing hispipe not with opium somnolencebut like anordinary Bourgeois
tradesman at the end of day & he's digging that dismallittle 95th St with itsfewtrees & the redbrickside of the bar & the fewdull lamp homes where inthe evening old walkers ofdogs mop up the last TVnews bdcast with a cupof tea --- The bare bulbthat hangs from his ceilingis so bright it lightsto the other side of 55thSt on a dark night ---you see the red paneglasswainscot, the washedstrokes of red Spush--- then the little
alarm clock on the back shelf --- bundles offinished shirts in shelves ---
I'm bored
--- the gray brown lace in the windows of TVparlors & he sees the shadowstherein of a race ofnabors he does not speakwith --- at night yousense his presence anywayin the brown backroom,a solitary white Chinateapot on a shelf ---The sadness & brownloss of his sonlessdaughterless &
exile from Fellaheen days indicated by thelittle narrow mirror tothe right which has aJoshua Reynolds Blue Boyin its upper half panel,now faded into a greenerblue of mouldy time,& the mirror surfaceitself impossibly smokiedby ghosts of time --- thepoor sad calendarfinally, with monthflap under a greatgolden breasted womanwith gold velvetlow cut gown --- Isee the piles of whitelaundry bags on floor,the sad slant boards,the counter --- & thehuge guillotine like shadowthrown by the parcel wrapper& string-feeder gadget5 feet (much higher thanWon Ming) high, castingon the wall from theFrisco forlorn bulb amonstrous China shadow& prophecy of morepatience, more fires ---somewhere brown opiumlurks --- & nightcappeddeath
But he goes on year after year, alone, never nodswhen you nod, looking outon the street, interiorwith his own Asia ofthots --- His littleeyes in the wrinkled worryof his pone YonkersMongoil bone, broz--- his thots in the backsecret does-he-live-there room & how hewhops his lil brownpecker, all forfuture spec ---
There's a place in Jamaica where I walkedfor several months whileI was there in my lastmonths, north to the gastank, --- a side alley thereran between brokendownfences, puddingsoft &dark with mud holes, pits,wrecks along the way,the dank ramp under theLIRR track up, parkedtrucks with wood rails,darkness of hidden thieveslike the backalleys ofThieves Market Mexicobut no lettuce &jungle rainslime on the ground,just dry American Long Island& the threat of150th St Negroes maybehiding gone mad with thetiger bottle or Italianjunk stealers hiding withstolen cases of grapes ---The giant tank to thewow bloody upnight blackleft with as you pass thecemetery on the other side ofit lights down a shroudof spotlights so you seesad hair grass, shroud oflight, hunk bulk hugetank,gravestones of Hallowed Ghosts
--- you see the little row Colonial houses redone& with new quarantinesigns in the street & theshadows in a goldenwindowshade of inkblackshack across the smoothnewblock garage & darksoft nights a tappinalong to my boreydeathdearGodplease makeme awriteragain
DECEMBER 1953
The dead man's lips are pressed tasting deathas bitter as dry musk
- - - Soft yards of old housesare not for travellersof the late afternoon sun& long shadow on the ground,and women of 35with soft used thighs& dust motes in theold bed roomTime & SeaPhilosophyThis quality of late afternoonin the blonde hair of mothersin sad new parks is asthe taste of Springtimein the violently parturiatingMind ---
so make no more leaky vows
The poisonous mushroom is malignant becauseit is inside itself, thesac, & does not derivefrom the earth, butfungitates in itself,like a corrupt &unhappy man; theedible mushroom stemsdirectly from the earth,is in contact with it,like a happy openman free of cupped-inmalignancies.In all writing, creativeor reflective, there's gotto be only one way--- that is, the immediate,the free flowing, unplannedway. For all is pure;the word is pure; the mindis pure; the world is pure.In the beginning & amen.Because the word issacred it cannot bechanged.The same as inDoctor Sax as in thereflection on the water.The water does nothesitate; the mind canknow no mud, butwhat is clear in
heretofore unknown words & word sounds ored upfrom the Conscious ofthe Race. But whenthe words are clear, &everything is clear, thenthe other minds seeclear to think itclear; but when theclear words are unclear to the otherminds, they are clearin themselves, as isthe reflection on thewater.Amen.
The words are clear as in the reflection ofthe world on the water.Therefore write theWord at once, everywhere,from now till yourhand is paralyzed,for there will be yourwork for God, sinceyou can not workfor God in other ways,and would not, & dontknow how, or bend thatway, from habit, & fromtalent in the use &signification & arrangementof the Word.
The elephant receives the arrows of illnaturedwar; youreceive the arrows ofyour genius, & workyour hand in theland beneath theskies till it cramps& pains thee, forthat is yr dutifuldestiny.The last love allowedyou & the least forgivableof yr finalpassions, Vain.Cast out thedevils, & be pure,
--- add no lines to the finished line. Drawno horizons beyond &underneath the realhorizon. Blat in yrbrain the bleet sheepbone --- falsify notthe cluckings, thecluck-tures, in yr.drooly brain, brainchild & Babe ofSweat & Folly. Thisyour final body, finalshame, last vanity,greatest indulgence,greatest farmiture,& boon to Man,kind literature.
SELF byFOOL
be the name of yr lifeworkAnd forget thyselfto tell the word ofthe world
"Watch yr. thoughts!"
False humbleness, false self-depreciation, leadsto useless explanation.
At the end of a meaning is a tangentof brain noises,avoid them &finish where youfinishThe brain noises belongonly in the paragraphof brain noises
Canuck, dont pile up reasons for yractivities
The stars in the sky In vainThe tragedy of HamletIn vainThe key in the lockIn vainThe sleeping motherIn vainThe lamp in the cornerIn vainThe lamp in the corner unlitIn vainAbraham LincolnIn vainThe Aztec empireIn vainThe writing hand: in vain(The shoetrees in the shoesIn vainThe windowshade string uponthe hand bibleIn vain ---The glitter of the greenglassashtrayIn vainThe bear in the woodsIn vainThe Life of BuddhaIn vain)
2 ineffectual old men standing in the wildernessthey created but not bytheir own hand, their innocence& stupidity rather, &all the Devil had to dowas the rest --- Both inhats, topcoats, infinitesimaldifferences of brown hatvs. gray hat (felt, themold of custom), paleblue vs. dark blue coat,both hands apockets inthe same lost way --- pantsof 2 shades shading samesize & color shanks(white stick variety,
as befits old men sedentary & corrupt withproperty, fear of death& arrogant sons) --- Thewilderness of their makingis the children's parkwith gigantic knee-abrasingconcrete, concrete benches,brick double shithousefor boys' & girls' differentshameful peepees, &over the sooty brown footballfield Atlantic Avewith its blank vehicularpassers & the huge LIRRcarshop yards witha dozen Dieselsthrobbing & exhaling badgas in the gray chillDecember afternoon,all around the bleakdeserted rooftops of suburbanhomes, bare trees withboles & half dead becausehemmed at base byconcrete groundworks ---the old men earnestlydiscuss some ineffectualabsurdity, pointing, takingturns, both have glassesbecause they were taughtto be myopic --- goodold fellows neverthelessas harmless as children
(children throw rocks at beggars)only more culpable & ashade less intelligent --- discussingeagerfaced in theirconcrete horror & scraggleof iron machines & air-stinks some unimportantsub problem amongthe problems of theProblem of the West--- neckties, collars,stamping their bloodlessfeet now & ready togo back in the hotparlor to paper &TV
--- glancing at wrist watches, waiting forgut fattening shame-obesity-making supper--- slaves of the bleakwithout hopewithout actual earnestnessbut momentary profitableappearance of so ---contemptuous of theolder fool is the oldfool --- Their doublechinned cigaret smokingwomen call the childrento home thru theprison of iron fences--- The older man holdsto his point, he'll soonbe mush to a newmonument in Long IslandCity Cemetery --- hishat is battereder thanthe younger oldster's,his mouth more twistedpathetically --- too latenow he knows he'sgot his last body ---"Paragon" is writtenon the oil truck deliveringfuel to uselessfurnaces --- Clouds ofsoot rise from anold locomotive
in the yard, harking to memories of oldAmerica as the Dieselgives 4 blasts --- The2 old men part, onehomeward, the othertoiletward, hobbling,lost, tired, hopeless,looking linefaced &worried around the graypark for nothing orfor a temporary unimportantdirection ---the sight of them remindsme of the white light inthe shiny wax of thecorridor of the hosp. morgue
To drive out Angry Thoughts
Whatever anyone does, anyone says, in thepast, now, everything, letit bounce off the rockof yr gladness (yr mirror)
Guys talking you down about girlsNovelists publishing bigTowns & CitiesWriters saying nothingabout your new writingsReally let it bounce offthe rock of yr gladness,because you areinnocent
(Free) Let it bounce off therock of your gladness thecold, rub your hands,drink hot brews of coffeetea or herb, rush to yrnotebook of MEMORY BABEwith every Memory TicCHURCH MUSIC ---Organ clamoringwith the rising chorus,the holy voices ofoo-lips of littleboysin white lace collars,the overvault gloomOO huge
SATURDAY dec. 12 ETERNITY BOYS
The tall sexual Negro boy on the junkyardstreet near the GasTank Jamaica, about 7or 8 yrs old, he wasrunning his palm alonghis fly in some Sexualstory to the other littleboy Negro who had hisarm around him as theycame up the street inthe gray rain of Saturdayafternoon --- smokeemanating from junk fires,smell of burnt rubber, pilesof tires, junk shopswith old white stoveson the blackmud sidewalk,rusty clinkered grates,black mudholes, the puddingsoft rained-on tar. theboards with rot in em &old nails, piles of plaster& lath, dirty neons oflate afternoon bars beyondthe wet sag of thewoodfence --- the thrill& mist & hugeness ofit & all on Saturday,the 2 boys have beenarm in arm buddyingall day in this wildernessof their souls & nowthe tall one to the
littler kid his personality so huge, hobloo-goobooAfrican, vast, is demonstratingthat boy-sex &they are grave discussing it--- as I come along Isee but pretend not to& they peek to see ifold Walt Whitman seebut old Walt Whitman'sin a ragged secret coat,holding down all his lids& not Whitmaned ---inconspicuous --- I thought"How infinitely Hugeis the tall one's personality& the Epic of their
Graymist Saturday today as Jamaica Ave. swarmswith Xmas shoppers, thesad Americans with childrens& families spending all theirmoney, the phoney XmasSantas & cups & tinselstorewindows --- These 2black angels of RaggedySaturday Real demonstratingin their freedomboyhood how great artslike bop are born,arm-in-arm & interestedin nothing but themselves,lovers and pure as they'llnever be again ---in the backlot toothey play with theircocks & show the shiver& itchpain to the rain& rub the rotwood &try to come, the shudderingout-to-the-world push ofloins, & wonder --- butin the face the inescapable& eternal Personality(the tall one a clothcap, the littler awooldown) vastnessof nose, cheek, informativepush tout bedra man talismaneyes of the
King of all the gangs & possible Prophets ofthe world, Littler is soamazed & what he couldtell you this minute aboutTall would fill 17 Visionsof Codys 8500000pages of tight proseif he could only talk& tell it, in the shackwhat he done yesterday,the madness of hissecret humor, fact,let Littler talk": -"Why he in thebed mattress is the
long black funny boy Sam I seen himtho a rock clearthu the smoke &had sixteen harmonicasin his eyes & in hiseyes I seen Sixteensigns & he says 'Boy,dear Lord, I'm seenthe ghost agin lastnight & Paw comehome & Howdie DoodieTelevision Show &Silvercup Bread & MySister bought it &smile" --- however
one can do it, it is the Enormousness ofthe Universe that makesthe Microcosm its tiniestunit even Enormous-er,--- so 2 little Negroboys arm in arm onSaturday rainy afternooncontain in themselvesthe history ofmankind if they couldbut talk & tell itall about themselves& what they done &if an observer couldfollow them around
& see & judge the vastness of every tinyunit --- Who knowsthe vast religiousnessof that cloth capwhen it shines radiantin the mind of thelittler boy, or whengrown up & 's forgotSam & gone 3,000miles to nothing the suddenmemory of Great Sam(MY BOYHOOD PAL)will be as rememberingthe Angel of Heaven &All Hope,since dying
Girl in front of me with green sweater redlips gentle thin coldfingers at her hair &she's explaining (at herhigh stiff hair like hairdosof Africa) explaining togirlfriend whose smile Isee reflected in shinymirror back of JamaicaAve. Lunchcart CashRegister --- 5 P M ofan October afternoon, theyoung counterman unshavedgoodlooking hangs aroundswaying & half smilingpretending to work withchecks at that booth ---Tired puff eyed Greekoldworker who spendsSat nites in Turkishbaths of NY
voyeuring Americans & heroboy queers ofLower 2nd Avenue comes infor big exciting afterworkmeal of Chicken Croquetteswith Sauce & will behere T'Giving day for bigTurkey with works ---sad to live, quick toeat, early to work,slow to sleep, long todie --- Now so thegirl uncaring of old men& pain has her fore fingeragainst her templewhile listening to other girlspeak & therefore innodding seriousness hasravelled all her eyeboneskin up in a maskof ark ugly furrowdestiny having no relationto the hazel glitter,the nutty mystery ofher sweet eyes & suckkisslips & long drawndownbosh flop face discontortedby further arrangementsof leanface on palm ---in her delicate edibleear a dull metal thing ---her lips fully lipsticked& curved like Cupid &stain the coffee cup ---her eye on her girlfriendcold, watchful, secretive,pretending to be curious,like she'll make theparody-story of thisgossip tonight inearwigging dreams inher fragrant thighsheets! whee
LATE AUTUMN afternoon, the birds are whistle-singing zeetfeor in the dry tinder twig trees,they 'fleet' & in the generaltraffic ("Spr-r-e e e t")rush on Atlantic Ave. & the doublego ahead Diesel BOT - BOT inthe LIRR yards they waitbetween calls as if, in theactivity of their own afternoon,they had intervals too, time too& orders from the parchesi chessboard to air conditioner machinesof the Glum Window Worldmake their little fluttery waitwake, leaves falling not evenwith you could hear the tickof their little fall on the concreteground beneath which Indianslie ancestral bone by skull in
tomahawk New York --- the fishtail back end ofsome new car parked beyondthe Eternity Porch (like theone in San Jose where I wasso high at gray dawn I heardbetween the vibrating yowls ofNeal's baby the great rushof wave sounds wave on waveshuddering & Vibrating like onevast electric or bio electricor cosmic gravity "struayill" --- --- zoongg ---scared me & made me hearthe moment moth sound ofTime, good or bad old TimeI'm in, and'll writefor --- So now to"INDIANSIN THERAILROADEARTH")
--- late afternoon Autumn in Long Island, the leaf slantsdown in the wind & hits theground & bounces & goes 'chuck'--- as dry as that --- the othersalready fallen lie heaped inchlorophyll green grass betweendriveway concretes --- thesky has a rose tint in itsgray demeanor --- the leaves/rose brown yellowtransparent/& like drunken poets emptying/uselessness in pagesNever did try to geton a car via standingon a journal box exceptone time on a splinteryflatcar & even thenI was as helpless asa baby, one slackbang pop I'd havebeen as helpless asa bread bun rollingoff to get run over& flattened in themiddle & be toastby Fall --- --- ---
SAN FRANCISCO SKETCH (1954 now)
America's truck and car kick has made it place twin radio antennason the last hill of hope overlookingthe Pacific to the Orient Sea.Clouds of sorrow pass over andinto a nameless blue opening beyondthe storms of San Francisco. Lonelymen with open collars and grayfedoras take long drear streetwalks where oil trucks turn intogray garage doorways at 2:30Sunday afternoon. Wash hopelesslyflaps on the roofs of Skid Rowwhere the great Proletariat hascome to stake his claim, orclaim his stake, one.
Everything is taking place inside dark windows that have thequality of inky pools inside whichwhite fish are swimming motionlesslyacross extended arm rests, nowand then peeking out to take aquick look at the street, flappinggrayed muslin curtains back toshield the furtive sorrow. Rainspats across the scene in a suddenshower from the tormented skyall radiant with sun holes andFrisco Gray and Black rainclouds radiating from the sealike a vast slow unfolding ofits rainy tragedy where drivingrains smash futilely on theblank waving void.Hopeless blueboxes intended for plants orfor the outdoor coolness ofSpreckels' Homo Milk and8¢ cubes of Holiday Oleo-margarine, stick out fromwindowsills in and around whatthe City Managers call the "blighted
area" that must be torn down within 5, or even 3, years. Dispossessionand complete lonelinesshaunt the empty sidewalks infront of old stores for rent.In a tenement a little Negrogirl in dumb thought at hermother's sofa alone in theafternoon room reads "Hardenedvegetable oils (soybean & cottonseed),skim milk, salt, monoglyceride,lecithin; isopropyl citrate (0-01%)to protect flavor, and vitaminA and artificial color added.2 oz. supplies 47% of adultsand 62% of child's minimumdaily Vitamin A requirements,"from the cube of oleo paperand stares for 90 seconds in aBuddhist-like trance at thelittle ®(apparently meaning'registered' trademark) at theside of the brand nameHoliday, wondering if thelittle ® is meant to be asecret of the recipe not mentionedin the long paragraph, or asign of some authority hiddenbehind the butter in a suit andbriefcase withon it and® on his Cadillac and hedrives around with bulging eyesand a Texas Truman hat inthe streets of the City.
"I, poor French Canadian Ti Jean become a big sophisticated hipster esthete inthe homosexual arts, I, mutterer tomyself in childhood French, I, Indian-head, I, Mogloo, I the wild one,the "wild boy," I, Claudius BrutusMcGonigle Mckarroquack, hopperof freights, Skid Row habituee,railroad Buddhist, New England Modernist,20th Century Storywriter, Crum, Krap,dope, divorcee, hype, type; sitter in windowsof life; idiot far from home; nowood in my stove, no potatoes in myfield, no field; hepcat, howler, wailer,waiter in the line of time; lazywashed-out, workless; yearner afterEurope, poet manquée; pas tough!
stool gatherer, food destroyer, war evader, nightmare dreamer, angelbe-er, wisdom seer, fool, bird, cocacolabottle --- I, am in need of advicefrom God and will not get it, notlikely, nor soon, nor ever --- sad sahaworld, we were born for nothing fromnothing --- Respects to our sensitiveKeeners up & down the crime."
O Melville! thy Soul Sustains meMore than all the BuddhasThat have passedWith the waterUnder the Brooklyn Bridge
Dont let your New York be modified & shrunken by local transitory dislikes (suchas Tony Bennett-Laurels-bleak N.Y.) (inall this Applish Apple) --- but the Libertésteaming in in brightgold afternoon, ofthe Daily News, 4 AM bars, Birdland,Jackie Gleason, Italian restaurants,5th Avenue, Lucien, Wolfe, CharleyVackner the race results, West St. water-front, Friday night fights in the TV saloon,the Columbia Campus in May, the Remo, hep-cats on corners bent, Pastrami at the Gaiety,an ice cream soda at midnight on Broadway,beautiful gorgeous blondes, brunettes, ---But I hate the fumes of 34th St.A strange aura of masochismand even of homosexualityin Christian Catholicism--- "He will give you ataste of joys & delights thattranscend anything" --- etc ---. . . That's the homosexuality . . ."praying to God to rid you ofyour desires and abase you thus"the masochism ---Why?You cant beat the Tao ---the Buddha --- the Guru ofthe Far East --- "and Jesuswill make it easy" --- Reallymy dear --- Nothin's easy.
The difference between Mertonand me, is, I didnt fallfor the columbia jester
TANGIERS 1957
Blowing in an afternoon wind, on a white fence,A cobweb
March wind from the sea --- a lonely dobe house with red tiled roof, on a highway boulevard,by white garages and new apartment buildingsin ruined field --- everything in place in the inscrutablesunny air, no meaning in the sky anda girl running by coughing! It is very strange howthe green hills are full of trees and white houseswithout comment. I think Tangiers is some kindof city. Man and son cross road, wearinggreen Sabbath fez caps, like papercup cakesgood nuf to eat --- I think I'm sposed to bealive --- I dont see anything around --- Dropsof whitewash on this red concrete plaza withthe whitewashed tower by the sea forMuezzins of the Sherifian Star --- Theother night, here, Arab bagpipes ---
Spring is coming ---Yep, all that equipmentFor sighs
ZOCO CHICO --- TANGIERS ---
a weird Sunday in Fellaheen Arabland with you'd expectmystery white windows &do see but b God the broadup there in whitenmy-veil is sitting & peeringby a Red Cross, above a lilsign says PRACTICANTESServicio PermanenteTF NO.9766the cross being red --- thisis over a tobacco shopwith luggage & pictures,a little barelegged boyleaning on counter with afamily of wristwatchedSpaniards --- Limey sailorsfrom the submarines passtrying to get drunker & drunkeryet quiet & lost in homeregret & two little Arabhepcats have a brief musicalconfab (boys of 10) & theypart with a push of arms& wheeling of arms, the cathas a yellow skullcap &a blue zoot suit
I am now hi on MAHOUNMAHOUNCakes of kief boiled withspices & candies ---eaten with hot tea ---the black & white tilesof the outdoor cafeare soiled by lonelyTangiers time --- Alittle bald croppedboy walks by, goesto men at table,says "Yo!" thenthe waiter throwshim out, "Yig" ---A brown ragged robepriest sits with me attable, but looksoff with handson lap at brilliantred fez & red girlsweater & red boyshirt green scene
A priest who looks exactly like Bing Crosby but with a long gray beard,chewing bread, then rushes out, with beret andbriefcase. . . . .
Now, on sidewalk in sun, the racket of going-to-work same asin Houston or in Boston and no better ---But it is a vast promise I feel here, endlessstreets, stores, girls, places, meanings, I cansee why Americans stay here --- Firstman in Paris I looked at was a dignifiedNegro gentleman in a homburg --- The humantypes are endless, old French ladies, Malayangirls, schoolboys, blond student boys, tallyoung brunettes, hippy pimply secretaries,beret'd goggled clerks, beret'd scarvedearners of milk bottles, dikes in long bluelaboratory coats, frowning older students stridingin trench coats like Boston, seedy littlerummy cops fishing thru their pockets (inblue caps), cute pony tailed blondes in highheels with zip notebooks, goggled bicyclistswith motors attached, bespectacled homburgswalking reading Le Parisien, bushy headedmulattos with long cigarettes in mouth,
old ladies carrying milkcans & shopping bags, rummy WCFieldses spitting in the gutter handsa pockets going to their printing shop foranother day, a young Chinese looking Frenchgirl of 12 with separated teeth lookingLike she's in tears (frowning, & with a bruiseon her shin, schoolbooks in hand, cute andserious like Mardou), porkpie executiverunning and catching bus sensationallyvanishing with it, mustached long hairedItalian youths, regular types coming inthe bar for their morning shot of wine,huge bumbling bankers in expensive suitsfishing for newspaper pennies in theirpalms (bumping into women at the busstop), piped jews with packages, alovely redhead with dark glasses pip pippip on her heels trots to work bus, awaitress slopping mop water in the old oldgutter, ravishing brunettes with tightfittingskirts succeeding in making you want tograb their rounded ass (tho they dont deignto look), goofely plup plup schoolgirlieswith long boyish bobs plirping lips overbooks & memorizing lessons fidgetly, lovelyyoung girls of 17 on corners who walkoff with low-heeled sure-strides in longred coats to downtown Paris smokepotOld Napoleon wonders --- leading a dog,an apparent East Indian, whistling, withbooks --- bearded bus riders riding toaccounting school --- dark similar-lippedserious young lovers, boy arming girlshoulders--- statue of Danton pointing nowhere ---
--- Paris hepcat in dark glasses waiting there, faintly mustached --- little suited boy inblack beret, with well off father --- EnglishFlag waving, red and white crisscrossing ona blue field --- (for Queen's visit)
Sitting in a little park in Place Paul Painlevé --- a curving row of beautiful rosy tulips rigidand swaying, fat shaggy sparrows, beautifulshorthaired mademoiselles (one shd. never bealone at night in Paris, boy or girl, but I'man evil old man & world hater who willbecome the greatest writer who ever lived)
RESTING BY A WINDOW IN THE LOUVRES
--- Seine outside, Carrousel Bridge, gray rain clouds, pushing overhead, blue skyholes, Seine ripple silver, old darkstone & houses, distant domes, skeletalEiffel, people on sidewalks like Guardini'slittle brushstroke people --- (with blackdot heads) --- In this Vast hall where Isit, more'n 600 feet long, with dreamgiant canvases everywhere, the murmurblur of hundreds of voices --- Seine watersrestlessly greening near the bridge, treesblooming, tomorrow London ---
Downtown London Spring 1957 (sketch) --- hammering of iron, banging of planks, adrill, rrrttt, humbuzz of traffic, morbleof voices, peet of bird, dling of wrenchfalling on pavement (or of bolt screwer),truck going brruawp, squeak of brakes,the impersonal bangbang & beep beepof London still building long afterShakespeare & Blake lie bedded instone & sheep --- April in London,Where is Gray?
Brain trees growing out of Shakespeare's fields --- dreaming meadows full of lamb-dots ---The dreary town of St. Denys, a church with apasted-on concrete arch on the roof, thecrowded row of redbrick houses, old man ina garden blossoming a new English Springwhich seems to me hope-devoid. . . . .
SOUTHHAMPTON --- ridiculous little boxcars in the yards . . . cranes in the haze . . . cyclists . . .little boy sitting a wall horse style, with boots... fweet of our engine ---
BACK TO AMERICA AND MEXICO SKETCH SATURDAY MEXICO 1957
For a long time I didnt notice that a big dog was laying in the grasssix feet behind me, completelylicenseless, no collar, naked &glad the true dog sleeps, whenI call him he pays no attention,right in the middle of the citypark he stretches & enjoys ---Meanwhile 2 little girls playwith a ball (too small to throwit) as the mother waits patientlystanding with shopping bag --- 2boys kick the soccer ball &then quit, one falls flat onhis back in the grass arms outspreadto the sky while the otherdances little steps & sings ---An ordinary man carrying anempty pail --- Two guys pullinga roll truck with one tire onit, talking --- A little boycomes by playing with aplastic bottle tied aroundhis neck with straps ---Gangs of little childrenrush up to push the park-worker's lawnmower withhim, he grins --- A darkMexican kid with handfulstringof huge balloons blowinghis little air tweeter ---The dog is up, near theball boys, watching nobly ---he hops on 3 legs, his rightfront foot is broken or hurt,now he hops up to see aragged boy's white dog onrope leash & a short fightbreaks out --- The little boybrings his dog over to tell methe whole story (in Spanish)of his wounds & bravery ---The ordinary man returns withfull pail, hobbling --- The mother& little girls, sit now on theold iron cannon, she readsas they crawl gladly --- (I'm notinterested much in sex anymore, butin that mother smiling patiently whilethe little girls play)
The strange Allen Ansen-looking but fat chubby Mexican beggar standingin front of Woolworth's on Coahuilabehaving spastically, with short haircutof bangs, brown suitcoat, white shirt,big pot belly, rocking back & forthjiggling his hand (left or right, as / accordingto which other he rests in his pocket)& he really makes it, / I just saw 3 people give himmoney in one minute, as onecharitied him he turned away &scratched his brow (murmured something?)--- He cant conceive thatsomeone (as I) can be watching fromacross the street 2nd story window& so I see all his in-betweenactions & attitudes, a definite(holy) phoney, (I mean hislife is harder than mine by far),when it came time for him toblow his nose after sneezinghe didnt shake spasticallybut efficiently withdrew anapkin from his coat & blewhis nose hard 3 times thenput it back in his pocket--- Even poor women give himcoins & he places all of themin a funny space behind his backbelt --- His feet are tired, hewhomps them up in a dance &down ---
When fat businessman glides by blowing smoke contemptlyat him he hangs his head incontemplative shame --- Helooks up, scratches his neck,feels his coat pocket, sways,& waits beneath the light(as I)(Who've just finished a T-bonesteakin Kuku's)
Above him I see dim figures in the Woolworthstorerooms as of dance-class-ing & mamboing
Being as I am now off drugs, after a fine meal I feel likeI did as a kid in Lowell, anexcited happy mind --- It'sSaturday in Mex City & the streetslead to all kinds of fascinatinglighted vistas, movies, stores, pepsicolas, whorehouses, nightclubs,children playing in brownstreetlamps & the sleep of theFellaheen dog in some oldgrand doorway
YES, the end to a perfect meal is always the grand cup ofblack coffee, here or inSweets Seafood Restaurant, NYor in Paree, anywhere, thewarm rich comforter (whichprepares the appetite for chocolateson the homeward walk, preferablymilk chocolate & nuts) ---It's the exciting hour in MCityor anycity, 8 on Sat nite, whenthe 5 & 10's closing & the showcrowds rush & newsboys shout,trolley bells clang, like softlike Lowell long ago whenI had that swarming vision
Selected Poems
Self-Portrait in aConvex Mirror
The Sonnets
Fear of Dreaming:
The Selected PoemsLiving at the MoviesVoid of CourseALISON HAWTHORNE
Genius Loci
New and Selected
Poems 1974-2004Practical GodsRanking the Wishes
Loba
Dig Safe
Mystery, So Long
Velocities:New and SelectedPoems: 1966-1992
Crown of Weeds
Ghost GirlNerve Storm
Drivers at the Short-
Time MotelHoodlum Birds
Desert Fathers,
Uranium DaughtersGodWestern Art
Hip Logic
Wind in a Box
Sentinel and Other
Poems
Viper Rum
Book of Blues
Book of HaikusBook of Sketches
Hum
If in Time:Selected Poems,1975-2000On a Stair
Mercury
Macbeth in Venice
Night BattleThe WhisperingGallery
Huge Dreams:
San Franciscoand Beat Poems
David's Copy:
The Selected Poemsof David Meltzer
An Octave Above
ThunderRed Trousseau
The Descent of Alette
DisobedienceMysteries of SmallHouses
Generations
V: WaveSon.nets/
Losing L'una
Kill or Cure
Marriage: A SentenceStructure of theWorld Comparedto a Bubble
Riding the Earthboy
40
Overtime: Selected
Poems
Lives of the Animals
Reign of Snakes
Unrelated Individuals
Forming a GroupWaiting to Cross
Borrowed Love Poems

