Table of Contents

PENGUIN POETS

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Introduction

FIRST BOOK

PANORAMIC CATALOG SKETCH OF BIG EASONBURG

SECOND BOOK

PENGUIN POETS

PENGUIN POETS

BOOK OF SKETCHES

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.

ALSO BY JACK KEROUAC

THE DULUOZ LEGEND

Visions of Gerard

Doctor Sax

Maggie Cassidy

Vanity of Duluoz

On the Road

Visions of Cody

The Subterraneans

Tristessa

Lonesome Traveller

Desolation Angels

The Dharma Bums

Book of Dreams

Big Sur

Satori in Paris

POETRY

Mexico City Blues

Scattered Poems

Pomes All Sizes

Heaven and Other Poems

Book of Blues

Book of Haikus

OTHER WORK

The Town and the City

The Scripture of Golden

Eternity

Some of the Dharma

Old Angel Midnight

Good Blonde & Others

Pull My Daisy

Trip Trap

Pic

The Portable Jack Kerouac

Selected Letters: 1940-1956

Selected Letters: 1957-1969

Atop an Underwood

Door Wide Open

Orpheus Emerged

Departed Angels

Windblown World

Beat 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, 2006

All 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 : 978-0-142-00215-5

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Dedicated to the memory of

Caroline Kerouac Blake

INTRODUCTION

Thoughts about Jack Kerouac

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

BOOK OF SKETCHES

JACK KEROUAC

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)

FIRST BOOK

Rocky Mt Aug. 7 ’52

Changed now to

dungaree shorts, gaudy

green sandals, blue vest

with white borders & a

little festive lovergirl ribbon

in her hair Carolyn prepares

the supper —

“I better go over there &

fix that lawnmower,” says

Paul standing in the kitchen

with LP at his thigh.

“Supper’ll be ready at

six.”

Glancing at his watch

Paul goes off - to his landlord

Jack up the road — a man his

age, of inherited wealth,

who spends all day in big

Easonburg walking around

or sitting in his vast brick

house (Jacky Lee’s father)

or walking down the road

to see his 2 new cows —

On the kitchen floor is

a pan of dog meal mixed

with milk & water but the

bird dog Bob isnt hungry,

just let out of the pen

he lays greedily sopping

up happy in-house hours

under the d.r. table — a

big affectionate dopey

beauty with great bony

snakehead & big brown eyes

& heartshaped mottled

ears falling like the locks

of a pretty girl do fall —

in the Fall a gliding phantom

in the pale fields.

Carolyn takes a pile

of dishes from the cupboard

& silverware from the

drawer & carries them

into the diningroom. Out of

the ref. she takes ready

to bake biscuit doughs &

unwraps them from their

cellophane, stuffs waste paper

in the corner bag that

sits in a wastebasket

out of sight — She

prepares the aluminum

silex for coffee — never

puts an extra scoop for

the pot — makes weak

American housewife coffee

— but who’s to

notice, the Prez. of the

Waldorf Astoria? — She

slams a frying pan on a

burner — singing “I hadnt

anyone till you & with

my lonely heart demanding

it, f-a-i-t-h must

have a hand in it — ”

mistaking “fate” — Out

comes the bacon & the

yellow plastic

basket of eggs — What’s

she going to make? Under

the faucet she cleans

garden fresh tomatos

from Mrs Harris’ —

She’s boiling potatos in a

pot — they’ve been there a

half hour — Thru her

little kitchen cupboard

window, framed like a

picture, see the old

redroofed flu cure barn

of the X farm — weary

gray wood in the eternities

of time — rickety poles

around it — the tobacco,

already picked from

the bottom a foot up,

pale & fieldsy before the

solemn backdrop of

that forest bush —

One intervening sad English

cone haystack — The

little children of the

Carolina suppertimes see

this & think: “And does

the forest need to eat?

In the night that’s

coming does the forest

know? Why is that dish

cloth hanging there so

still — & like the

forest — has no name

I know of — gloop — ”

Carolyn Blake is making

bacon & eggs & boiled

potatos for supper because

lately the family’s been

eating up breakfast

foods — just cereal & toast —

“Hm what pretty bacon,”

she says out loud. On

the radio now’s the

Lone Ranger. Lingering

statics clip & clop

amongst its William

Tell Overtures — a

rooster foolish crows —

Hand on hip, feet

crossed, casually, a cig

burning out in the ashtray,

she picks the bacon over

with a long cook fork.

“Hum hum hum” she hums.

Paul, having fixed the Jack

lawn mower, is in the yard

finishing the part of the lawn

last overlooked. The

deep rich fat grass lies in

serried heaps along the

trail of his machine

with the ditch, the road,

& the white road sign

“Easonburg” & yellow

“Stop” sign beyond — &

signs on a post pointing in

all the directions — ←

Route 95 2 → US 64

↓ Rocky Mt 3 ↑Sandy

Cross 4 — Paul, hat off,

sleeves rolled, glumly &

absentmindedly pushes at

his work; the motor makes

a drowsy suppertime growl

like the sound of a motor-

boat on some mystic lake

— At the crossroads store

groups of farmers have

gathered & smoke & sit

now. Heavenly mystical

lights have meanwhile

appeared in the sky as

the great machinery

continues in the High.

Intense interest is being

shown in the lawncutter —

Jack himself has just driven

over (on his way to town)

& is parked on lawn’s edge

discussing it with a young

farmer in overalls & white &

green baseball cap who app.

w. to buy it — Little

Paul runs to hear them

talk — At the store

five people are watching

intently. Men are be-

mused by machines. Americans,

by new, efficient

machines; Jack had the

money to buy a deluxe

cutter — 2 Negros

& 2 white farmers stare

intently at Paul in his

lawn, from the store, as

he backs up the car

to get to the grass

underneath it — Not once

has he lookt up & acknowledged

his watchers — works on.

Jack has driven off proudly

— Still another man

joins the watchers — &

now even George steps

out to see — now that

Jack’s driven off to whom

he hasnt spoken in years —

his twin brother. In Southern

accents — “Thats whut

ah think!” — they

discuss that splendid

grasscutter — Cars come

& park, & go — Cars

hurry on the hiway to

home,

“Wait till after

supper,” says Carolyn to

LP, “we’re ready to

eat now — ” as

he complains

“Ah — nao!”

but the complaint’s not

serious & doesnt last

long — And the air

is fragrant from cut

grass. “Come eat!”

And suddenly not a

soul’s at the store as

for other & similar &

just as blank reasons,

they’ve gone to

the silence

the suppers of their own

mystery.

Why should a chair be far

from a book case!

P: “Well that confound

yard is mowed.”

C: “Fi-na-lee.”

P: “Eat some supper

boy.”

C: — “What is it 27

now? 28? It musta

gone up, I thought

it was 26.”

P: (eating) (to LP) Eat

yr. beans, boy.

Better eat up chabeans, —

boy.

But all was not

always so peaceful with

the Blakes

When LP was born & lay

like a little turd in a

rich white basket in the

hospital (& the Grandma

& Uncle of his future peered

at him thru the slot in

the maternity door — &

the young nurse with glupcloth

on her mouth making

smiling eyes — & the

little mother half dead

in her bed. A premature

birth, he weighed 2 lbs.,

like so many links of

sausage or one modest

bologna; the ordeal cost

Paul $1,000 — which he

didnt have — Only a

miracle saved Mother &

Son anyway. The young

doctor said sententiously

“Long before Christ

there was a Greek who

found out why mothers

die from shock — ”

he emphasized “long before

Christ” in this natty

million dollar Duke Medical

Center where the only hint

of Christ lay if any in

the English-style ministers’

dormitory (students

for the ministry played

pingpong with their fiancees

in a fresh painted basement,

the emptiness of

modern Southern & American

life) — “long before Christ”

said the young doctor — as

Carolyn lay in a coma

in the quiet shade drawn

room — & the presence

of his Meek & Sorrowful

Humility hung like

molasses with air —

That was when Paul was

being sent from one town

to the other by the Tel Co

& never had enough money

for all he wanted, they

had a house on the

other side of RM, making

payments at a debilitating

rate of interest that

would eventually force

the house from them —

Paul a veteran of Palau

& Okinawa, an infantry

man of the island jungles,

now being usured & screwed

by nonJew Southern realtors

with bibles on their mantle

shelves & respectable

white shirts — sure, sure, —

the dark rain splattered

on the lonely house as

he waited nights for C

& the baby to come home —

“She can never have another

child — ” & across the

road from the

house, in the thicket

woods, rain, rain of the South

washed the sorrow & the

deep & something mourned

— & something whispered

to Paul: “You were

born in the woods — your

father was a farmer —

son of these rains — this

wilderness — wretched

victim of usurers &

bitter pain — yr. wife

has had yr. heir — you

sit 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 the

big wild, wide & empty

world that hates you

is your name — Sit

here glooming all you

want — in debt, dark,

sad — Alone — You’ll

lose this house, you’ll lose

the 5, 6 dollars in yr

pocket — you’ll lose the

car in the yard — you’ll

lose the yard — you’ve

gained a wife & child —

almost lost them? They’ll

be lost eventually — a

grave that sinks from

the foot, that telegraphs

in dirt the sinking of a

manly chest — awaits

thee — and they — &

thou art an animal

dying in the wilderness —

Groo, groo, poor man

— groo — only the

heavens & the arcs

will ac-cept thee —

& Knowledge of heaven

& the arcs is not for

thee — so die, die,

die — & be silent —

Paul Blake in the

night, Paul Blake

in the No Carolina

rainy night . . .”

It took years to make

up the death; C. came

back feeble, pale, nervous;

took nervous pains with

the frail & tiny child;

the months rolled — one

of the bird dogs died of

the St Vitus dance —

in the mud — Only

old Bob survived, sitting

in wait for his master

at gray dusks — The

Autumn came, the winter

laid a carpet of one

inch snow, the Spring

made pines smell sweet

& powerful, the summer

sent his big haze-heat

to burn a hole thru

clouds & swill

up steams from fecund

earth — lost earth —

The Co. transferred

Paul from town to

town — Kinston — Tar

boro — Henderson

— (home of his folks) —

back to Kinston —

Rocky Mt. — Little

Paul grew — & cried

— & learned to suffer —

& cried — & learned

to laugh — & cried —

& learned to be still —

& suffered — Groo, groo,

the heavens dont care —

It had not always

been so easy & calm

as now at suppertime,

in BE, 1952 —

Hateful bitch of a

world, it wouldnt

ever last.

Yes, Yes, there they are

the poor sad people

of the South on Saturday

afternoon at

the Crossroads store —

Not so sad as heaven

watching but all the

more lost — all the

more lost — That

poor fat Negro woman

with her festive straw

hat for a joke but has

to be assisted from the

store where she supervised

the week’s grocery

purchases — on her

crutches; and old

Albino Freckles her

gaunt ghostly farmer

husband, comes tottering

after on his cane

— & they are deposited

in the car, nephew Jim

slowly wheels the old

family Buick (1937)

from the store — groceries

safe in the old boot trunk,

another week’s food

sustenance for the clan

in its solitudes of

corn —

Sat Afternoon in

the South — the

Jesus singers are already

hot for come-

Sunday tomorrow on

that radio — “Jee-

zas — ” 4, Five cars

are parked on one

side alone of that

store — & a truck —

and a bicyle — The

purchases are going

strong — inside rumbling

business, George cigar-in-

mouth is storing up his

Midas profits — only

the other day he fired

Clarence for being

late after seeing his

father at the hospital,

after five times driving

his useless bucktooth

wife to & fro the hospital

— out there’s sadness

enough without having

to run into that —

Here comes a flat

wagon, mule drawn,

with fat Pop, son &

granddotter, black,

all sitting legs adangle,

they didnt want to

shop his prices at George,

coming from another

down-the-road store —

eating the bought tidbits

of Saturday, — poverty,

sadness, name yr beef but

Pop is eating & is big &

fat — sits, maybe, on

the warpy porch in the

woods, lets son do

all the work — muching

— The little girl black &

ugly like Africa eats

her cone — Old Mule

clops on — Son-Bo

has eye on crossroads

for traffic — , holds reins

loose, they turn, talking,

into Rt 64 — now son

doesnt even look ahead —

quiet road — Old Mule

is alive just as they, suffers

under same skies, Saturday,

Weekday, Sunday shopping

day, Weekday fieldpull

day, Sunday churchgoing

day — sharing life with

the Jackson family —

they will remember that

old Mule & how it lived

with them & slowly religiously

drew them to

their needs, without

thanks, they

will remember the life

& presence of Old Mule

— & their hearts’ll cry

— “Old Mule was with

us — We fed him oats —

he was glad & sad

too — then he died —

buried in the mule earth

— forgot — like a

man a mule is & will

be — ” Ah North

Carolina (as they turn

into the countrified home

& slowly roll home with

the groceries of the

week scattered on the

platform) — Ah

Saturday — Ah

skies above the gnawing

human scene.

LP Mama slice me one

of am — slice me

this kind of am —

what is this —

Mama what

kind is this?

C Swiss!

LP I want Swiss

Nam nam nam

(hamburg frying) (radio

noon) (hot South)

Saturday afternoon in Rocky

Mt. woods — in a tankling

gray coupe the young father

crosses the crossroads with

his 4 dotters piled on the

seat beside him all eyes

— The drowsy store the

great watermelons sit disposed

in the sun, on the

concrete, by the fish box,

like so many fruit in

an artist’s bowl —

watermelons plain green

& the watermelon with

the snaky rills all

tropical & fat to burst

on the ground — came

from viney bottoms of

all this green fertility —

Behind Fats’ little shack,

under waving tendrils

of a pretty tree, the

smalltime Crapshooters

with strawhats & overalls

are shooting for 10¢

stakes — as peaceful &

regardant as deer in

the morning, or New

England boys sitting in

the high grass waiting for

the afternoon to pass.

Paul Blake ambles over

across the road to watch

the game, stands

back, arm on tree,

watching smiling silence.

Cars pull up, men

squat — there goes Jack

to join them, everywhere

you look in the enormity

of this peaceful scene

you see him walking, on

soft white shoes, bemused

— Last night a few

hotshots & local sailors

on leave grabbed those

reed fishingpoles &

waved them in the drunken

Friday night dark, yelling

“Sturgeon! — catfish!

— Whooee!” —

They’re still unbought

in the old stained

barrell — A trim little

truck is parked, eagerly

at the ice porch, the

farmer’s inside having

5 pounds of pork chops

sliced, he likes em for

breakfast — A

hesitant Negro laborer

headed home to his

mother & younger brothers

in the woods is speculating

over a hambone in the

counter — Sweet

life continues in the

breeze, the golden fields —

August senses September

in the deeper light of

its afternoons — senses

Autumn in the brown

burn of the corn, the

stripped tobacco — the

faint singe appearing

on the incomprehensible

horizons — the tanned

tiredness of gardens, the

cooler, brisker breeze —

above all the cool

mysterious nights —

Night — & when the

great rains of the

night boom & thunder

in the South, when

the woods are blackened,

made wet,

mudded, shrouded,

impossibled —

& when the rain

drips from the roof

of the G. Store

in silver tragic milky

beadlets over the bright

bulb-light of the

old platform — inside

we see the snow white

bags of flower, the

whitewashed woodwalls,

the dark & baneful

harness hanging, a

few shining buckets

for the farm —

Sat. rainy night,

the cars come by

raising whizzes of

smoky dew from

the road, their tires

hum, they go off

to a rumble of

their own —

And the great falls —

The watermelons are

wetted, cooled — The

earth breathes a

new rank cold up

— there’s winter

in the bones of this

earth — Thunder of

our ancestors, Blake,

Kingsley, Harris, —

thunder of our ancestors

rumbles in the unseen

sky — the wood walls

of the store have now

that tragic businesslike

look of hardships in

the old rain, use in

old wars, old necessities

— Now we see that

there were men who

wore raincoats & boots

& struggled here —

& only left their ghosts,

& these few hardhip

houses, to sit in the

Saturday night rain.

How different from

the Saturday night of

the cities, the Chinatowns,

the harbors of the

world! — This silent

place haunted by

corn shapes, the

beauteous shrouds of

fields, the white leer

flash of lightning, the

stern tones of thunder

(the rattlebones of

bunder, the long buuk

braun roll of munder,

the far off hey - Call

of old poor sunder,)

— Ah South! of

which I read, as a

child, of coonskin caps,

Civil wars, piney woods,

brothers, dogs, morning

& new hope — Ah

South! Poor America!

The rain has been

falling a long time on

thee & on thy

history —

George hustles across

the road with a

bagful of his own

beer — a Grandet

of the Americas,

worse than Grandet!

he wears no miser’s

Puritan cap, or

gloves, but smoking

a harmless cigar —

the bulb shines sad

& lonely on the old

wood porch of the

South — I see it —

In the loam of

the Blake yard sweet

rain has soaked

in greens & flowers

& the grass, & in

the mud, & sends

up fragrances of

the new clean

eternal Earth —

Inside the low

roofed homey rosy

lit Blake home, see

the little family

there, bearing Time

in a rainy hour

in the silence of themselves

Leaves thin-shadow on

the wall — on the

mottled redbrick base

foundation — on the

wet variant tangled

weeds & up-sway

grasses of the yard —

Rain glitters in

little bark-pools

of the tree-trunk

— sweet cool night

& washed up, heavy

hanging vegetation

— Lights of passing

cars dance in the

drip-drops of the

awning — Little Paul

muses at the sofa

window, turns &

yells — “Why is

it cause, Daddy, why

is it cause?”

PANORAMIC CATALOG SKETCH OF BIG EASONBURG

(backyard)

From right 90° to left

rich brick house where kid

lives who rides pony thru tobacco

field, farmers say

“Come on, work in the barn”

& his father driving by says

“If you wanta work, that

barn is ready” & he gallops

away saying, “The hell

with work” & niggerfarmers

& pickaninnies in hotfield

chuckle & scratch heads —

Patrician little bitch he is —

his house has big TV antenna,

8 white gables, big

garage, swings, trucks,

Farmall tractor, white iron

lawnchairs, Bird houses

dog pens, clip’t shrubs, lawn,

basketball basket & pole,

— behind house we see

trees & pines of the forest

— a thin scraggle of corn

a 100 feet off — The

dreaming weedy meadow

— then the redroof outbuildings

of Andrews old

farm — with brick chimnies,

graywood built, ancient,

lost in trees which in clear

late afternoon make glady

black holes for the Sweeny

in the Trees dream of

children — distant rafts

of corn — then the tobacco

curing barn near a

stick ramp with piled

twigs or boughs & a redroof

porch, & a door, smoked,

at top,

tho still with old hay

hook for when it once

was a barn (?) — there

too black holes of green

woods — A brand new

flu-cure barn with white tin

roof, new wood, unpainted,

no windows — Then another

old one — over the yellowing

topleaves of the tobacco

field — then the majestic

nest of Great Trees where

homestead sits — darkshaded,

hidden, mystical & ripplylit,

hints of red roofs,

old gray dark wood,

poles, old chimney, still,

peaceful, mute, with

shadows lengthening along

barnwalls — The trees:

fluffy roundshaped except

for stick tree in middle

forking ugly up, & on

right skeletal of underround

silhouetting dark

boughs against wall of

forest till round of umbrella

leaftop — Between here

& there I see the rigid

woodpole sticks out of

haystack, conical Stack,

with a cross stick, surrounded

by hedge of weeds, of

brown & gray gold hairy

texture in clear French

Impressionistic Sun —

After farm solid

wall of forest broken

sharply at road, where

wall resumes on other side

— There is the gray

vision of the old tenant

shack with pale brick

chimbley silhouetted

against a hill-height of

September corn turned

frowsy & hay color —

with mysterious Carolina

continuing distant trees

beyond — & the faintest

wedge of littlecloud right

on horizon above — Across

road forestwall is darker,

deeper, pine trunks stand

luminous in the dark shade

bespotted & specked with

background browngreen

masses — horizontal puff-

green pinebranches, all

over the frizzly corn

top sea — Then Rod’s

logcabin, with pig pen

(old gray clapboards) &

whitewashed barrel & Raleigh

News & Observer mailbox

& telephone pole connecting

up house with 3 strands —

his withered corn in yard,

chimney, logs mixed with

white plaster, rococo

log cabin, horizontal

wood & plaster striped

chimney — Fruit tree in

back waving in faintbrown

of its California — Similar

house of neighbor where stiff

gentleman sits in Panama

hat in Carolina rockchair

surveying rusticities —

Then, in deepening shadows:

- (with him some

women with lap chillun,

Sun-afternoon, breeze, beez

of bugs, hum of cars on

hiway) — Far off in

pure blue an airliner

lines for Richmond —

— then the yellow diamond

Stop sign, back of it,

with brown wood pole

shadowing across it — A

stand of sweetly stirring

trees & then Buddy Tom’s

corn, tall, rippling, talkative,

haunted, gesturing, dogs run

thru it, weeds run riot,

trees protrude beyond —

Then his whitewashed

poles, chickencoop, doors,

hinges, rickety wire —

weeds — wild redflowers —

a tall stately pine

with black balls of

cone silhouetted against

keen blue — under

it an excited weeping

willow waving like

a Zephyr song — 2 cars

parked beneath it, blue

fishtail Cad — Tom’s —

stiff big red flower —

folks visitin, talking —

children — Lillian in

shorts (big, fat) dumps

a carton in the rusty

barrel — The base of

pine whitewashed — Buddy

Tom’s shed, just & peek

at interior shelf &

paint can — leaning

rake — Forest wall beyond.

They sit with the gold

on their hair —

SECOND BOOK

AUG. 5, ’52

The diningroom of

Carolyn Blake has

a beautiful hardwood

floor, varnished shiny,

with occasional dark

knots; the rag rug

in the middle is woven

by her mother of the

historic socks, dresses

& trousers of the

Kerouac family in 2

decades, a weft of

poor humanity in its

pain & bitterness — The

walls are pale pink

plaster, not even pink,

a pink-tinged pastel,

the No Carolina afternoon

aureates through the

white Venetian blinds

& through the red-pink

plastic curtains & falls

upon the plaster, with

soft delicate shades — here,

by the commode in

the corner, profound

underwater pink; then,

in the corner where

the light falls flush,

bright creampink

that shows a tiny

waving thread of

spiderweb overlooked

by the greedy housekeeper

— So the white

paint shining on the

doorframes blends with

the pink & pastel &

makes a restful room.

The table is of simple

plytex red surface,

with matching little

chairs covered in

red plastic — But Oh

the humanity in the

souls of these chairs,

this room — no words!

no plastics to name

it!

Carolyn has set out

a little metal napkin

holder, with green

paper napkins, in

the middle of her

table. Nothing is

provincial — there is

nothing provincial in

America — unless

it is the radio, staticing

from late afternoon

Carolina August

disturbances — the

vast cloud-glorious

Coastal Plain in its

green peace —

The voices of rustic-

affectated announcers

advertising feeds

& seeds — & dull

organ solos in the

radio void — Maybe

the rusticity of the

province of NC is

in the pictures on C’s

livingroom wall: 2

framed pictures of

bird dogs, to please

her husband Paul,

who hunts. A noble

black dog stepping

with the power of a

great horse from a

pond, quail-in-mouth,

with sere Autumns

in the brown swales

& pale green forests

beyond; & 2 noble

nervous white & brown

dogs in a corn-gold

field, under pale

clouds, legs taut, tails

stiff like pickets,

with a frondy sad

glade beyond where

an old Watteau would

have placed his

misty courtiers book

in hand at Milady’s

fat thigh — These

pictures are above the

little dining table —

Meaningless picturelets

over the bureau in

the other corner (put

there temporarily

by finicky Carolyn)

a dull picture of

red flowers & fruit

rioting in the gloom —

One chair: - a

black high-back

wood rocker, with

low seat, styled

in the oldfashioned

country way, hint

of old New England

& Colonial Carolina —

a hint lost to the

static of the radio

& the hum & swish

of the summer fan

set on the floor to

circulate air in a

wide arc from one

extreme twist of

its face to the

other — a fan

brought home by her

husband from his

office at the Telephone

Company.

CB herself, cig in

mouth, is opening the

windows behind the

blinds — she’d closed

them at 9 o’clock

AM to keep the

morning freshness in

— & now, near 4,

the air cooling,

she opens them again

— a fan can

only stir dusts of

the floor — Instantly

scents of fields

& trees comes into the

pink room with the

hardwood floor — A

gay wicker basket

is on the floor beneath

the windows,

full of newspapers

& magazines & a

Sears Roebuck catalogue

— CB is

wearing shorts, sandals

& a nondescript vestshirt

— just did her

housework — washed

the lunch dinners

& is about to take a

bath — The breeze

of afternoon pillows

in the redpink plastic

curtains. Carolyn

Blake stands, cig in

mouth, glancing briefly

at the yard outside

— beyond it stretches

a meadow, a corn

field, a tobacco

field, & faintly

beyond the wreckage

of a gray flucuring

barn the

wall of the forest

of the South.

CB is a thin, trim

little woman of 33 —

looking younger, with

cut bangs, short hair,

bemused, modern —

On her commode, two

shelves above a drawer

& opening hinged door,

pale wood, is a

wooden salad bowl,

upright; two China

plates, upright; an

earthen jug of

Vin Rosé, empty,

brought from NY

by her mother;

a green glass dish —

for candy — a glass

ashtray — & two

brass candle holders

— these things luminescent

in the glow

from the windows,

in still, fan-buzzing,

lazy Carolina afternoon

time. On the

radio a loud prolonged

static from

nearby disturbances

rasps a half

minute —

On the wall

above the husband’s

diningtable chair

hangs a knickknack

shelf, with 3 levels,

tiny Chinese vase

bowl with cover —

copper horse equestrian

& still in its

petite mysterious

shelf — & Chinese

porcelain rice-girl

with hugehat &

double baskets.

These are some of

the incidental

appurtenances in

the life of a little

Carolina housewife

in 1952.

She turns & goes into

the parlor — a

more elegant room,

with green leather

chairs, gray rug, book

shelves, — goes to the

screen door — lets

in Little Paul &

Little Jackie Lee —

Her son Little Paul comes

yells “Mommy I

wants some ice water!

Me & Jackie Lee wants

some ice water!

Mommy!” She shoos

them in with an absentminded

air —

Little Paul, blond, thin,

is her son; Jackie Lee,

dark, plumper, belongs

to a neighbor — They

rush in, barefooted,

each 4, in little

shorts, screaming,

wiggling —

In the kitchen, at

her refrigerator she

pours out ice

cube trays — Little

Paul holds the green

plastic waterbottle —

“That water’s warm,”

says Carolyn Blake,

“let me make you

some ice — ”

“I wants some

cracked ice Mommy!

Is that what you

wants Jackie Lee?”

“Ah-huh,” — assent,

“Ah-huh Pah-owl.”

The little mother

gravely works on the

ice; above the sink,

with a crank, is an

ice cracker; she

jams in the ice cubes,

standing tip toe

reaches up & cranks

it down into a red

plastic container;

wiggling the little boys

wait & watch — The

kitchen is modern &

clean — She slowly

goes about taking down

small glasses from

a cupbord, jams the

crushed ice in them.

They clasp the

glasses & rush off —

to Little Paul’s

bedroom.

“This is our home, that

trailer’s our home,”

says Little Paul as

they wrangle over

a toy trailer-truck

on the white chenille

bedspread.

They have toy horses,

“Now you kill yrs.”

“Kill yours” — Jackie

“He’s killed.”

“Arent you glad?”

“They aint nothing

but big bad wolves . . .

Hey — mine’s got a

broken leg.”

“Give it to me.”

“They’re not your

horses!”

An incredible

city of toys in the

corner, on a card

table, a big doll

house, garages, cranes,

clutters of card,

accordions, silos,

dogs, tables, cash

registers, merry

go rounds with

insignia goldhorses,

marbles, airplanes,

an airport —

Little Paul —

“Here — here’s $12

for those horses,”

striking cashregister,

Jackie: “12 dollars?”

The bedroom has

pastel green walls;

the crib in the corner’s

now only for toys —

Polo Pony for water,

a balloon; rubber

naked doll; black

lamb — At foot

of bed a hamper

full of further toys —

On a little table

with flowery tablecloth

a small standing

library of Childrens

books — A huge

double bed, four posts,

the little Prince

gets up on it &

walks around —

He opens the

hamper, “Jackie!

know what? I

found a rake!”

Holding toy rake.

“You can work on

the track.”

On the open hamper

cover they hammer

their horses. “This

is gonna be a

horse race.” Paul

finds a track from

his Lionel Train box.

“Are they glad?”

“Yes.”

“Here comes another

straight track!”

— to distinguish from

curve tracks —

“Dont let em go

Jackie!” he calls

from the track

box.

“I wont.”

“Ding ding ding!”

shouts Paul pounding

with a railroad stop

sign on the hamper.

“Ding ding racehorse!

Ding ding track!”

Jackie: “One of em’s our

main horse!”

“Huh?”

“This one’s our

main horse.”

“Pah-owl the

horses are goin out

in the tunnel! — ”

“The train’s not

comin down that

way. I better

make a turn race.

No — ” adjusting

curvetrack to straight

track — “no, gotta

git anodder race

track — You

better help me

Jackie.”

“Why?”

“Cause — Cause

this is a hard track.

Sure. Sure is.

Now let me put a

track right here.

Hard. This hard.”

“Now it’s goin

right around that

tunnel. Paul we’re

gonna have a whole

lot. We have

crow-co-dals — ”

“If you mess up

that train track

one more — I’ll

shoot ya!”

Jackie: “Talkin to me?”

Paul: “Shoo — flooshy you.”

Outside, in gold

day, the weeping

willows of Buddy Tom

Harris hang heavy

& languid & beauteous

in the hour of life;

the little boys are

not aware of

God, of Universal

Love, & the vast

earth bulging in

the sun — they

are a part of

the swarming mystery

and of the salvation

— their eyes reflect

humanity & intelligence

—

In the kitchen the

little mother, letting

them play, bustles

& bangs around for

supper. Something

in the air presages

the arrival of the

father old man —

Soft breeze puffs

the drapes in Paul’s

room as he & Jackie

wriggle on the floor

“Hey Jackie — you

got it on the wrong way

aint ya? Now

put this in the back

— now fix it.

(Singing) I think

I’ll get on this train,

I think I’ll get

on that train,

I think I’ll get

on the ca-buss.

Broom! briam!”

lofting his wood

plane — screaming —

“Eee- yall —

gweyr! ” On

his belly, smiling, —

suddenly thinking

silently . . .

In the kitchen

changed to yellow

tailored shorts,

tailored gray vest

shirt, & white sandals

the little housewife

prepares supper. She

stands at the white

tile sink washing the

small squash under

the faucet — preliminary

maneuvers for

a steak supper she

decided upon at the

last minute —

“Hello Geneva —

he went to Henderson this

noon — I think he’ll

be back — bye — ”

— She slices them into

a glass bowl, standing

idly on one foot

with the other out-

thrust at rest —

the little boys now

playing outside —

The screendoor

slams out front —

“Hey!” cries

CaB not moving from

her work

“Hey Moe” greets

her husband —

He comes into the

kitchen, Panama

hat, white shirt, tie

— casual — tall,

husky, blond, hand-

some — smooth moving,

slow moving, relaxed

Southerner — He

has mail & that afternoon

at his mother’s

house in Henderson

50 miles away, while

on a business trip for the

tel. co., he went

thru his grandmother’s

trunk & found old

letters & a pair of

old diamond studded

cuff links, he stands

in the middle of the

kitchen reading the

old letter — written

by a lost girl to

his uncle Ed also

now lost — the sadness

of long lost enthusiasms

on ruled paper, in

pencil —

But now a storm

is coming — “It’s

gonna storm,” says

Jack — From the

west the ranked

forward-leaning

clouds come parading

— stationary puff

clouds of the calm

are snuffed &

taken up — From

the East big black

thunderhead with

his misty gloom

forms hugeing —

Directly above

the embattled roof

of the Blake’s the

sea of dark has

formed — the first

light snaps — the

first thunder crackles,

rolls, & suddenly

drops to the bottom

with a shake-earth

boom — More &

more the rushing

clouds are gray, a

forlorn airplane in

the southeast hurries

home — Far in

the northeast

the remnant afternoon’s

still soft

& fleecy gold, still

rich, calm, clouds

still make noses &

have huge maws

of incomprehensible

comedy in their

sides — Thunder

travels in the West

heavens — “parent

power dark’ning in

the West” — A

straycloud hangs

upsidedown & helpless

in the thunderhead

glooms, still retaining

white —

Mrs. Langley nextdoor

swiftly removes her

sheets & wash from

the wire line — looks

around timidly —

absent in her work,

frowning in the glare,

peaceful in the

stillness before storm

(as one birdy tweets

in the forest across

to the North) — Grass,

flowers, weeds wave

with dull expectancy

— The first spray

drops wetten the

little Langley girl

in her garden

play — “Hey” she

says — Children

call from all sides

as the rain begins

to patter — Still

a bird sings.

Still in the NE

the clouds are

creampuff soft &

afternoon dreamy.

Some blues show

in the horizon grays

— Now the rain

pelts & hums —

gathers to a wind —

a hush — a mighty

wash — the

trees are showing

signs of activity — ,

the corn rattles,

the wall of the

forest is dimmed

by smokeshroud

rains — a solitary

bee rises, the

road glistens. It

is hot & muggy. Cars

that come from

up the road roll on

their own sad images

gray & dumb —

The cooling thirsting

earth sighs up a

cucumber freshness

mixed with steams

of tar & warp danks

of wood — Toads

scream in the meadow

ditch, the Harris rooster

crows. A new

atmosphere like the

atmosphere of screened

porches in Maine in

March, on cold

gray days; &

not like sunny Carolina

in July, is seen

thru the windows

above the kitchen

sink: dark wet

leaves are shaking

like iron. A tiny

ant pauses to rub

its threads on a

spine of leaf —

the fly solemnly

jumps from the

bedspread to the

screen hook — as

breezes rush into

the house from that

perturbed West.

“Close that door!”

cries the mother —

doors slam —

“Paul I said you

stay here!”

Rain nails kiss

the dance of the shiny

road.

The parched tobacco is

dark as grass.

Behind the storm the

blue reappears — it was

just a passing shower —

CB doesnt even bother

to close her windows.

Inside an hour the

grass is almost dry

again, vast areas of

open blue firmament

show the cottonball

horizons low & bright

over the darknesses

of the pine wall woods,

up the road in clean

white shirt & pale overalls

that looked

almost washed by the

rain, comes the pure

farmer, a Negro,

limping, as orgones dance

in the electric washed

new air.

All is well in

Rocky Mount, North

Carolina, as 5 o’clock

in the afternoon shudders

on a raindrop leaf,

& the men’ll be coming

home.

AVILA BEACH, CALIF. (WRITTEN YEAR LATER)

Seethe rush

longroar of sea

seething in floor

of sand — distant

boom of world

shaking breakers

— sigh & intake

of sea — income,

outgo — rumors

of sea —

hushing in air —

hot rocks

in the sand —

the earth shakes

& dances to the

boom — I think

I hear propellers

of the big union

oil Tanker

warping in at

pier — A great

lost rock sits

upended on

the skeely sand

— — Who the

fuck cares

1954 RICHMOND HILL SKETCH ON VAN WYCK BOULEVARD

Before my eyes I see

“Faultless Fuel Oil” written

in white letters on a green

board, with “11-30” in

small numbers on each

side to indicate the street

address of the company.

The building is small,

modern, redbrick, square,

with curious outjutting

new type triangular

screens that I cant really

examine from this side

of the boulevard but look

like protection from

oldfashioned robbers &

stones — The garage door

entrance for the oil

trucks: green. The

building sits upon the

earth under a gray

radiant sky — I see

vague boxes in the right

front window — Cars

are going by with a

sound like the sea in

the superhiway below it

— It is very bleak

& I only give you the

picture of this bleakness.

By bleakness I mean:

unnatural, stiff, lost

in a void it cant

understand, — in a

void to which it has no

relation because of the

transiency of its function,

to earn money by delivering

oil. But it has

a neat Tao of its

own. In any case this

scene is of no interest

to me. & is only an

example. A scene

should be selected by

the writer, for haunted-

ness-of-mind interest.

If you’re not haunted

by something, as by a

dream, a vision, or

a memory, which are

involuntary, you’re not

interested 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 découragez

j brauilla avec — ”

“Un ti peu d gravy*

d tu?” — “Staussi bien . . . Mourire

chez nous que mourire

la” — “L’matin

yava les yieux griautteux”

— “J fa jama deux

journée d’suite” —

“J mallez prende

une marche — ” “Comme

qui fa beau apramidi ha?”

“A tu lavez les vites?”

— “J ai lavez toute les

vites du passage” —

“Qui mange dla

marde”

“A lava les yeux

pochées — tsé quand

qu’on s leuve des foit?”

CAT SKETCH ON THE CONCORD RIVER (1954)

The Perfect Blue Sky

is the Reality, all 6

Essential Senses abide

there in perfect

indivisible Unity

Forever — but

here down on the

stain of earth the

ethereal flower in

our minds, dead

cats in the Concord,

it’s a temporary

middle state between

Perfection of

the Unborn & Perfection

of the

Dead — the Restored

to Enlightened

Emptiness — Compromise

me no more, “Life”

— the cat had no

self, was but the

victim of accumulated

Karma, made

by Karma, removed

by Karma (death)

— What we

call life is just

this lugubrious

false stain in the

crystal emptiness

— The cat in waters

“hears” Diamond

Samadhi, “sees”

Transcendental Sight —

“smells” Trans. odor,

“tastes” Trans. taste,

“feels” Trans. feeling,

“thinks” Trans. thot

the one Thot

— So I am not

sad for him —

Concord River RR

Bridge

Sunday Oct 24 ’54

Lowell

5 PM

A ridiculous N E

tumbleweed danced

across the RR Bridge

Thoreau’s Concord

is blue aquamarine

in October red

sereness — little

Indian hill towards

Walden, is orange

brown with Autumn —

The faultless sky

attests to T’s solemn

wisdom being correct

— but perfect Wisdom

is Buddha’s

Today I start teaching

by setting the example

not words only

ROCKY MOUNT 1952 (again) WHILE HITCH HIKING BACK FROM NORFOLK VA.

“You done lost the

man’s hole . . . Smart

Alex.”

N.C. — Near Woodland N.C.

Hams hanging by wild

bulb-bugs in hot

N.C. nite — sad dust

of driveway, scattered

softdrink hot-day

bottles, old crates

sunk in earth for

steps, pumps (Premium

& Pure Pep) —

hillbilly music in car

— trucks growling

thru — old tire,

rake — old concrete

block — old bench —

& tufts of green

grass seen au bord du

chemin quand les

machines passes —

L —

ROCKY MOUNT CAR SHOP (RAILROAD)

Yard in afternoon of

August — bright red

drum shining in bright green

& yellow grass-weeds, buds, —

old used rusty brakeshoes

& parts piled —

Sooty old woodwarp

ramp — in weeds —

fat RR clerk with

baseball hat walking

across, cigar, scratching

head, removing hat —

will go home to dogs,

radio, wife, blond boy

on a tricycle in white

bungalow — Old A.C.L.

Railway Exp Ag. 441

weather-brown

Cracked cars — 2, 3

of them — nameless

parts arranged in

weeds by tired Negro

workers — Puff sweet

Carolina clouds in sultry

blue over head — my

eyes smarting from fresh

paint in office, from

no sleep — drowsy

office like school days,

with sleepy rustles of

desk papers & lunch-in-

the-belly — hate it —

SP is in cool, dry

Western, romantic Frisco

of bays — with —

hills of purple eve &

mystery — & Neal

— — here is fuzzy,

unclear, hot, South,

hot turpentined poles

at tracks that lead

to Morehead City, Sea &

Africa — & impossible

lead tho — just dull

fat cops & people in

heat — Easonburg is

better.

DIDNT HAVE PENCIL with

me to sketch the

bluebells that climb

up from beautiful

fields of weeds to

curl around the old

dead cornstalk that

is rattly crackly

deadbone & wreaths

it purple, softens it,

gives it a juicier

(THE WOODS ARE SHINING)

sound in the wind,

droops it, embraces

it, gives it the

Autumn kiss for

harvest stack farewell

— old Melancholy Frowse

is wound round in

Carolina in the

Morning —

The piercing blue of

the first Autumn

day, the woods

are shining, the

Nor’east wind making

ripples in the

flooded tarns — all

is lovely this Sunday morn.

The Weeping Willow

no longer hangs but

waves ten thousand

goodbyes in the

direction of the wind

— The clean

little tele. pole without

crossbars stands lost

in Carolina vegetations,

some of the corn half

its height, & that

lush forest of

Carolina backs it

solemnly & with

a promise — that

was here for boys killed

in Palau in 1944, boys —

that had sisters who

yet mourn this Sun.

morning — hope

that was there for

the strange Cherokee

— & now for me

that wanders round

my earth — amen.

Sitting in the middle

of the woods with

Little Paul, Princey

& Bob — Little foxy

Prince sits panting

— big mosquitos —

Big Bob panting

hard, tongue out,

licks his mouth,

blinks eye, big

tongue flapping over

sharp teeth —

drooling — Pine

needle floor is

brown, dry cracky

odorless —

blue sky

is sieve above

tangled dry

vining green heart

leafing trunking

cobwebbing —

now & then sway

massedly in upper

winds — Sun

makes joy gold

spots all over

The sand road

is blinding old —

many gnats —

cars raise storms

of dust — wind

sways grass

in ditch ridges —

straight thinpines

stand in vaulty

raw blue, clean —

Negroboys bike

by smiling —

Princey’s little

wet nose —

no more — no more —

Oh Princey, Bob,

Little Paul, woods

of Easonburg, no more

— (freedom of

the blue cities calls

me.)

SHORT TIC SKETCHES (TICS ARE FLASHES OF MEMORY OR DAYDREAM)

(1) Hartford — when I was

a boy poet & wrote

for myself — no

frantic fear of “not

being published,” but

the joy, the shining

morning, “This love

of mine” — leaves,

houses, Autumn — and

Immortality

(2) Hospital, 1951, letting

the images overwhelm

me, not rushing out

to lasso them &

getting all pooped

out — NOW Coach

(3) Oh when I was young &

had a pretty little Edie

in bright lavender

sweater to hug to

me — big breasts, thighs

warm, bending-to-me waist,

— now I’m cold as

the moon . . . no more women

for puffy-eyed Jack —

who once posed in a

button-down boy sweater

for a picture — When —

O when, reading the N.Y.

Times, he thought he

was learning everything —

& has learned but decay

only — & sadness of partings —

(4) Mr Whatsisname

in beat ragged coat

in r.r. office, has same

haggard anxious soulneglected

sorrow as

he searches among

ledgers, mouth open,

as my father in his

shop of old yore —

with glasses on

nose, blue eyes, —

O doom, death,

come get me! I cannot

live but to remember

— old puff lined

Jack, go put a

poor blanket of

dirt over your

noble nose.

Last night, under the

stars, I saw I belonged

among the big poets

(did I read that somewhere?)

(5) Raw, almost childlike

slowmotion dinosaur

ideas of 1947

bop on So. Main

L.A. — “You Came

To Me From out of

Nowhere” — The

ideas of serious basic

thinkers, young, energetic,

powerful — joy comes

from the really new —

Bird was like that, but

more & most complex

Be like Bird, find y.self

little story tunes to

string yr. complexities

along a wellknown line

or you will sound like

a crazy Tristano of

the Seymour-record

(Bartok — Bar Talk)

( Bela BarTalk)

— Bird has visions between

bridges — So do you

in visions between chapter

lines — — !!!

Shakespeare, Giroux’s

Shakespeare Opera

Books — simple — not

that simple but use

story-forms — or phooey,

do what you please —

Never will be bored in the

bottom — at the hut, the

secret room, the weed,

the mind — the daVinci

series —

I was in my mother’s

house, in winter — I was

writing “The Sea is My

Brother” — what have

I learned since then?

I have written Doctor

Sax since last prattling

like this —

NEAR SANDY CROSS N.C.

Quiet shady

sand road at

late afternoon, a

crick pool-like

& ripple reflecting

& brown with

froth spit motionless,

& exotic

underwater leaves,

& tangled jungly

banks under dry

old board bridge

— vined sides of it

— a wild claw

tree protruding from

silent greeneries —

with 12 agonies

of fingers, & one

twisted guilty body,

the weatherbeaten bark

as clean as a

woman’s good thigh,

with a climb of

vines on it — The

brown & tragic

cornfield shining in

the late sun up the

road — The clearing,

the negros, the

flu barn, the white

horse nibbling —

Coca Cola sign at

the lonely golden

little 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 bed

at night? Will

it call yr name

when winter blows?

Or will it just

mock the bones

of yr. skeleton,

when August

browning breaks

its Silence camp,

& blows —

Immortality just

passed over me

— in these woods

— as it cooled —

& darked — at

6 PM —

The Angel visited me &

told me to go on

THESE Mornings in A.C.L.

office will be remembered

as happy — the visionary

tics, the dreams, the delicate

sensations — must be

that way on the road

of rock & rail.

Repeat — let it come

to you, dont run after it

— It would be and is like

running after sea waves —

to embrace them up where

you stand when you catch

them — aïe —

TICS

The long dismal winter

street where I’d go to see

Grace Buchanan — & Mary —

(The prophet is without

honor in his own family.)

A “tic” is a sudden thought

that inflames & immediately

disappears —

The Indians see a Little

Cloud a Shining Traveller

in the Blue Sky

TIC

The yard with the

brothers & dogs in the

rickety back of Ozone

Park back of Aqueduct track

— Why’ is it have to be Kentucky?

The Time-type executive

— “Ahuh, — yeah —

That would be about

500 kegs a month —

Well alright if

that takes care of

yr situation thats

what they want I

expect — Yeah —

hm — We’ll try to do

that this afternoon

— anything you want

just holler — ah huh —

— bye — same to

you” — click —

TICS

O fogs of South City,

the rumble of the drag,

outside, chicory coffee,

the doom-wind-sheds

of Armour & Swift —

waybills in the Night —

the clean mystery

of California — these

sensations — Why makes

it 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 requisition

shelf where fresh paint

& cool breeze blow — usually

rouses Frisco RR work —

Why? — if not hanted,

charged materially with

substances that are

locked in (and as

Proust says waiting to be

unlocked.) Ah I’m

happy — Yet it’s only

11:30 & Time Crawls —

& I’m so sick of the

burden time, everything’s

already happened, why

not happen all at

once, the charge in

one shot —

Old clerk to other old

clerk — 25 yrs. same

place — “What are you

today, Columbus?” —

as he searches lost ledger

— Sad? It’s abominable

— The names of old

lost Bigleaguers Cudworth

used to paste in his books —

1934, 1933 — Dusty Cooke,

lost names — lost suns —

as more sad than rain —

— those 2 men drinking

at the old bar on Third

& alley — old Meeks

Bar 1882 — why do I think

of them? — Pa & Charley

Morrissette spectralizing

Frisco-Lowell —

ROCKY MOUNT oldstreet

with 90 year old Buffalo

Bill housepainter spitting

brown ’bacca juice on

roof, — & younger painter

who heartbreakingly white-

washes that part near the

porch reminds me of poor

lost Lowell — And old

lady sewing little boy

bluepants on historic

porch breaks my heart —

& old black bucket &

fire in negroyard & little

gal in scrabble reminds

me Mexico & the Fella-

heen peoples I love —

for old retired couple on

that porch aint just

sittin in the sun, sit

in judgment & Western

hatred — not all

of em —

I am alone

in Eternity with my Work

For

as I sat on the

burnt out stump on

the Concord River bank

staring into the flawless

blue & thinking of

earth as a stain,

suddenly I realized

the utter absurdity of

my squatting assy

humanity too, the

infinitely empty

crock of form, like

suddenly hearing myself

sneeze in the quiet

Street night & it

sounds like somebody

else — Therefore, is

my pelvic ambition

for girl’s bone-cover

the True Me? — or

is it not, like the

sneeze & the ass,

absurd, like the

smell of the shit

of a saint

THE GREAT FALL is

rumbling in America —

in back of the Telephone

office in R.M. you

can see it in the profounder

blue of the late aft sky

as seen from among

the downtown Southern

redbricks — in the

brown tips of leaves

on trees over the garage

wall — The wholesale

hardware wall — in the

particular cold deep red

that has suddenly

come into the tobacco

warehouse roof with

its spotted loft-

windows — inside,

faintly in the

brown like Autumn tobacco

brown, the piles

of bacco baskets —

Here watching Paul’s car I

sit — poised for the

continent again, Aug. 27 ’52

And in San Jose the

Great Fall is tangled

brown among the

greens of sun valley

trees, deep shadows

of morning make the

woodfence black

against the golden

flares of sere grass —

California is always

morning, sun, & shade

— & clean —

lovely motionless green

leaves — vague

plaster rocks lost in

fields — the dazzling

white sides of houses

seen thru the tangly

glade branches —

the dry solemn ground

of California fit for

Indians to sleep on

— the cardboard

beds of hoboes along

the S.P. track up at

Milpitas — & the

clean blue deep

night at Permanente,

the dogs barking under

clear stars, the

locomotive flares

his big hot orange

fire on sleeping

houses in the glade

— sweet California —

memories of Marin

& the California night

are true & real —

& were right

And then I went

South 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 big

night of drinking on

Organo St. with

La Negra & the

courtdancer queer

children after whore

sluffed me & I lost

brakeman’s lantern,

French dictionary,

earmuff hat, money,

pages of writing,

left piss in my

new pots & walked

off — long rides

in perfect Mexico

on bus, sad — but

at Tamazunchale

begin to feel good &

see Kingdoms & homes

& heavy syrup air

of jungle —

& at Brownsville

Missouri Pacific bus — &

then VICTORIA

“SIRONIA” —

my walk — miss’t

bus — saw Xmas

in rose brown

r.r. track

windows —

Sweet stars —

presaging months

in Winter 1953

Richmond Hill at

Ma’s house writing

gemlike

LOVE

IS

SIXTEEN

After which flew

back to Coast to

work mountains

at San Luis Obispo

puttin up & down

pops — ending I

sail out the Golden

Gate on a Japan

bound freighter that

first goes to New

Orleans where I

drink & take off

(“Worlds Champion

shipjumper,” says

Burroughs) & return

NY in summer, to

heat & Subterraneans

& Alene Love

& eventual

RAILROAD EARTH

book of Fall

Come - Christmas

O rushing

life,

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 falling

feebly from the

South.

Getting rooked of all

my money trying to

get home for Xmas

in time — for a

childhood chimera

blowing all my pay —

flying TWA — Lemme

see, can I find

Jay Landesman’s

saloon?

it’s going to be

a Merry Xmas

one way or the

other

Winter in No. America,

the passengers on the

right in the TWA plane

have a sea of incandescent

milk blinding

in their eyes, from

where the feeble

South American sun

comes raying, plus

the dazzling sun

ball herself, but

on the left, on eastbound

58 out of St. Louis,

on the fireman’s

side, they see the pale

blue North out the

window, also blinding,

but more seeable —

It’s like facing the

snow on the North side

of the train eastbound

in the morning, in a

strange New England

of snow created by the

ice-cap of overcast

covering the Eastern

lake & seaboard —

like Greenland, from

the top of one of

its highest coastal

mountains seeing

below the enormity

of the continental

inland polar snow

field a thousand,

two thousand miles long —

a field of clouds,

no buttercups there;

a glacier of

fiery mad vapor

extending in the

air sea. Down

on the world Premier

Mossadegh cried.

Notre Dame, Terre

Haute, Africas

below. Unbelievable

endless solid floor

of clouds.

SOUNDS IN THE WOODS

Karagoo Karagin

criastoshe, gobu,

bois-cracke, trou-or,

boisvert, greenwoods

beezy skilliagoo

arrange-câssez,

cracké-vieu,

green-in buzz

bee grash —

Feenyonie

feenyom —

Demashtado

— — Greeazzh —

Grayrj —

Or — where a festive

fly makes a blade

of grass snap —

Or — Hurried ant

flies over a leaf —

Or — Deserted village

clearing of my sit

Or — I am dead

Or — I am dead

because everything

has already happened

I must go ahead

beyond this dead

to —

the ground

to —

the vast

to —

the moss of the

Babylon woodstump

to —

mysterious destruction

from —

blisters

bellies

stockings

fingers with hair

tans

sores

muddy shoes

Seulement pas, S.P. —

Aoo reu-reu-reu-

a bee —

The Woods Are Ave of Me

Ant town antics

Joan is dead

The flup fell down

I have an ant

criolling thru

the rot

stump

“Yey” voice

of human child

“oh! — ” Zzzz

Finally: -

Degradled fling lump

stick stump motion

bump in the brother

mump of —

skreeee — lump —

Terre vert —

sflux — seeee —

Spuliookatuk —

Speetee-vizit,

vizit (bird) —

Vush! the whole

forust! Zhaam

Sabaam 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 vrez

Zung blump

dee-dooo-domm —

Deelia-hum —

Baralidoo —

Spitipit — spitipit —

Ahdeeriabum, ah

grey —

Vee!

Eee-lee-lee-

mosquilee —

Rong big bong

bee bong —

Atchap-pee

Atchap-pee

Skior! Viz!

Sit!

Deria-po-pa!

Hit-ta-

tzi-po-teel,

Te de li a bo —

Vit! chickalup!

Oooeeeuoom

Vazzh —

V-a-z-z

Flip flip flip flup

Bung ground terre

Doo-ri-oo-ri-oo-ra

Zee —

Krrrrrr — r-o-t

Crick

Fueet!?

Fueet!? _ _ _ _

Written in Easonburg

woods, at one point naked,

Sunday, Aug 10 1952

— The Sounds of the Woods

PARANOIA AND OIL

When Buz Sawyer

goes to South America

representing Americans

who only think in

terms of paranoia & oil.

— bkfast. in the

best hotel is only a

time to read the paper,

across the park it’s

empty & just a

paranoiac Indian

photographer — he

talks over the

phone with Mr Boss,

avoids women —

Woogh!

WATSONVILLE, CALIF.

Mechanized Saturday

night — the foggy

Watsonville Main Drag on

the Mexican side has

people on the sidewalks

milling but Mexican field

& section hands dismally

knowing they cant find

love till they return to

Mexico, just wander, &

mostly look into workclothes

stores (!) like I do and

a group of anxious Indians

finished with the beet

& lettuce season have

bought an enormous suitcase

at the Army Navy

store & are going home

to stern fathers

& good mothers who

have taught them

gentleness & the Virgin

Mother so they dont

clack around wise guys

like the Mexican American

Pachucos — but only

have great sad eyes

searching into the lost

blue eyes of America,

& in the “American”

part of the Main Drag

there are no people,

empty sidewalks, empty

pink neons for bars

(like Sunnyvale) just

cars in the street — a

mechanized Saturday,

with occupants who

look anxiously out for

companionship of Sat

nite mill crowds but

the steel of the

machines is walling them

off — argh!

Meanwhile I dig

the woman in her

sad furnished room above

Mex Mainstreet, her

little boy in window

looking out on the whiteness

& mystery of

Nov. 8, 1952 — & the

old wood building’s been

covered at front with

plaster — She’s in the

window in her pink

dress, radiant, transparent,

lost — I would be

great if I could just

sit in a panel truck

sketching Main Streets

of world — will do.

God will save me

for what I do now,

help my Mom —

he will —

In his idealistic youth on

railroad in Maine Old Bull

says “Why should I have a

radio when I can hear

the music of a crackling fire

& the steam engines in

the yard?” — railroad Thoreau

— he sits alone in his

caboose, in the dark, with

the fire, drinking — Old

Bull Baloon the Man

of America — Guillaume

Bernier of Gaspé —

& says “All that

matters is the healthy

color of that fire” —

but too much bottle,

not enough sottle, brings

him to his last late

years —

TITLE: - THE MORTAL UGLINESS

The Mortal Story

(Haunted Ugly Angles of Mortality)

Did I ever get my

kicks as a kid with

date pie & whipt cream

combining with “Shrine

North South All star

football game Christmas

night in the Orange Bowl”

— dug sports then

as something rich

& at its peak on

holidays when

it went with turkey

dinners & peach shortcake

— Also, remember

the joyous snowy mornings

when you played

Football Game Board

with Pop & Bobby

Rondeau? — the oranges

& walnuts in a bowl,

the heat of the house,

the Xmas tinsel on

the tree, the boys

of the Club throwing

snowballs below

corner Gershom —

Moody? —

On the Road that

if you will, Sex

Generation that

if you will —

Made Sick by The Night

My Father Was a Printer

The trouble with

fashions is you want

to fuck the women

in their fashions

but when the time

comes they always

take them off so

they wont get

wrinkled.

Face it, the really

great fucks in a

young man’s life was

when there was no

time to take yr.

clothes off, you

were too hot & she

was too hot — none

of yr. Bohemian leisure,

this was middleclass

explosions against

snowbanks, against

walls of shithouses

in attics, on sudden

couches in the lobby —

Talk about yr. hot peace

The Sea is My Brother —

a figment of the gray

sea & the gray America,

of my childhood dreams —

Walked from Easonburg

on old walking-road but

3 miles — in gray thrilling —

with bag — saw Negro

pulled by a mule on a

bike! — to junction 64,

immediate ride young hot-

rod speedsters to Spring

Hope, pickt up Wake

Forest boy too — he

got off, went downroad

— Hotrod told, as he

went 90, of man

tried pass truck hit

school child & turned

over — Old thin bum

at S Hope, hitching east,

from Atlanta, “Almost

got stuck in old car 10

miles out” — A blond

husky Hal Chase-truck-

ride to Raleigh, arr. 4:30

P.M. — hates South —

nothin to do, bars close

— New Caledonia, Louis

Transon, Noumea —

he said is Paradise —

— A bleakness I dont

like in air — dull

trees of Raleigh —

I feel forsaken —

Old goodhearted taxi-

driver to corner — Curious

Raleigh Judge-type

to corner —

Girls crossing — man

stops — Relief mgr

of restaurants —

Corn likker test, up

in Old Port — Mickey

Spillane, Faulkner —

Is going to rest finally at a

steady Maryland restaurant

— Then young kid in

old truck, married, who in

1946 hitched to Wash. State

with $500 & came back

with 21¢ — Then

incredible beat old car

with old fat bum, one

mile, incredible heat

from motor, incredibly

dirty shirt — Then

2 bleak eternal bakery

workers driving home dogtired

from work thru red clay

cuts of Time, with wine

faintly in gray western

horizon, beefing about work

— I thought “Why do

you want men to be

better or different than

this” — One talked, other

didnt; one urged, other

brooded; left me off

at truckstop road to

Greensboro N.C. — broke

$5 on coffee — “Dinning Room”

Tics of Eternity

called me buddy — good

hearted Charley Morrisettes

of Time — I must find

langue for them — frazzly

eager one & Charley Mew-

Leo Gorcey used-out legended

ripened-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 who

said country was worse off

than in 1906 (truckdriver

from Liberty Tex. to

Baton Rouge worried Mex,

called it “tarpolian”)

— GJ burper in new

huge Chrysler, was Chief

in Navy gun crews on Liberties,

also bought requisition

food (for Bainbridge Officers),

at North River wholesale

houses — ate 5 pound steak

— ate 2 lobsters

at Old Union Oyster House,

Boston — used to

screw redhead at 7 PM

on her beauty parlor couch —

used to beat up queers in

Washington — Drove me

into bloody Western horizon

beyond rain (!) into the

glittering Lowell town of

Greensboro, gave me card

Robt J Simmons Lily

Cup Corp. — to Salvation

Army — was only gym,

old Negro born in Hollywood

(“used to have a show

on the corner with my

sister & etc.”) directed

me accurately “That

Esso Sign, this side,

them real bright lights,

707 Billbro St. —

bed & breakfast” —

Sho enuf — a little

ramshackle house —

dorm bedroom — man

was 50, thin, gray; Red

got up in undershirt —

to talk about routes

(“No sir, Winston Salem

to Charleston waste your

time, you in Charleston

& Bluefield & you in the

mountains” — hanging

bulb, table, pictures of

wanted criminals on

flowery wallpaper —

bathroom — “take

70 right on down the

river — ”) Tennessee

River, from Knoxville to

Nashville — rain

starts — go to bed

at 9 — no eat — talk

with Red an hour about

rolling, wandering, sleep

police stations, quit jobs,

drink whiskey, itch —

etc. — Dream all

night wild dreams of

big Chicago Salvation

Army with wild young

gang with me, & girl

horrors of my

wallet, Salvation Army

underwear — incredulously

all over me I see six

inch long & thick sponges

of fungus growing off

me — so awful I dont

believe it even in

dream — spectral happenings,

cellar, stairs,

rooms, bathroom, girl, boys,

wallet, (had it in my

pillow case so Red mightnt

steal it) — Up at 6:30

“Gotta go” says boss

— breakfast: 2 coffees,

weak, cornflakes &

evap. milk — & my banana

— & blowing drizzle out

but I go — & get spot

ride to junction — & get

slow ride to High Point,

dampwet, dry in car

man was at New

Zealand & Melbourne,

— dry further in

High Point Greek

lunchcart with mottled

marble greasy counter

& aged grill & fry

smells & comfort, with

steamy windows redglow

redbrick Hi Point but

gotta roll —

(I got in that truck,

driver said “I’m quittin

my job so the hell

with the insurance spotters,

less roll” —

bums in SA) — always

say, for truck driver,

less roll —

I got $4.85

Blank Universe stared

me on Main Hiway out of

Greensboro — storm rose —

driving wet drizzly winds —

I was positive I was lost —

faces of passing cars — Staring

porch people — bakery trucks —

but I got a spot ride

to junction — & there in

storm, got ride to High Point

— but woops, already wrote

this — Walked clear to

Furniture factories at junction,

& stood an hour 45 minutes, near

bleak aluminum warehouse

with tin chimnies with

Chinese hats, & smoke, &

Southern RR yards —

& funny Kellostone apt.

house with Italian in-porches

with potted palms, silent

& dismal & unfriendly

in the blank gray day —

Certain again I was

lost — But — ride to

junction from a guy (I

forget now!) — &

there, on open hiway, I

get ride from new car

to Hickory N.C. 90

miles — with furniture

veneer wood agent who

knows Yokleys of Mt. Airy

& talked & was intelligent

(Sheepshead Bay, book review

for High Point etc.) —

at Hickory I was at

foot of my worse trip

— mountains — but had

no time to despair, a

blond hero boy in a

red rocket 88 (’52)

with frizzly dog (half

terryland Terrier & Sheep

dog) — zoomed off to

100 mile straightaway —

was only going to Kansas City

— 1000 miles! — I

helped him drive — we

rolled thru Mountains fast,

thru Asheville (Tom Wolfe

sign on road) — (right

across Woodpen St.) —

to Knoxville, to Louisville

at midnight (pickt up

lost hitch hiker in rain

outside Mt Vernon, Ky.)

— but Oh those Cumberland

Mtns. from Lake City

& LaFollette Tenn. thru

Jellico to almost Corbin

Ky. — dismal, bleak,

I dreamed em, hillbilly

shacks, hairy buttes, smoke,

raw, fog — wow — at

Louisville the great Ohio,

the redbrick wholesale

bldgs., soft night, — cross

to New Albany, Ind.,

where I drove straight

across the Vincennes etc.

to St Louis in the morning —

he drove to Columbia

Mo. — I drove another 60 mi.

to Boonville — outside

Warrenton he wanted to

show — attendant —

ranout gas — on road —

went 117 M.P.H.!!!

Kansas City Kansas at

noon — I lost dark

glasses in his car — wild

kid — KC washed in

station, spent money

on cokes & crackers

& ice cream — ride

to junction — Two Texas

boys work in car shops

for Santa Fe RR in El

Paso drove me Topeka

— got there just as boys

were coming out of

work in Rocky Mt N C

car shops! — moving —

Then Beryl Schweitzer,

Negro All American back

from Kansas State, drove

me to Manhattan Kans.

— we talked — Then

two cowboys, the driver

14, drove to Riley

on Route 24 — talked

about horses, calves, roping,

drinking, girls, cross country

riding on “Satan” their

unshod bronc — etc. — with

red hankies of cowboys

hanging on dashboard in

old rattly car — cowboy

Sam called my seabag

war bag — ! — at

Riley I despaired, got

truck to junction — sun

going down — 2 boys

who come home from work

drove me to Clay Center,

where I ate tuna in

backyard — & it got

dark, I was souldead,

I wanted to die —

so got poorboy port

wine, then $1.75 hotel

room with fan, sink —

right on tracks of R I R R

or C B Q — slept 12

hour log — washed, shaved,

wrote, ate sardines —

500 miles to Denver, I

have $1.46 — but

feel alive again & even

that I will be saved, i.e.,

I am not a dead duck,

not a criminal, a

bum, an idiot, a fool

— but a great poet

& a good man — &

now that’s settled I

will stop worrying about

my position — & — concentrate

on working for stakes

on Sp. RR so I can go

write in peace, get

my innerworld lifework

underway, Part II,

for Doctor Sax was

certainly part one!

Clay Center Window —

creamy snowy silo rising

Farmers Union CO-OP —

green roof & old gables

(once English style) of

Clay Center RR depot —

redbrick 1-story Plumbing &

Electrical Co. — cars

& small trucks parked

on angle — rickety

brokendown shacks on tracks

— rickety graywood oldhouse

under noble trees, signs

on small barn, weeds, piles

of barrels or bldg. material

in back — someone is hammering

on a plank — W P Stark

Lumber Co. hugetruck backin

in a truckstop across the

tracks — fellow in blue

baseball hat in P&E doorway

is jacking up a car — man

in RR hat & man in Panama

talk & watch — sun’s

coming out — US Royal

Farm Tires sign waves

in breeze — small Farmers

Co Op gas truck went

by — Tourists — Small

liquor store, was once gas

station, where I got wine,

white plaster, white fence,

green lawn, looks like

LA realty office —

music from a restaurant

juke — junkyard in distance

— nobody on street

— everywhere the green

balls of trees over roofs

— last night a thousand

birds from the Plains were

yakking in this town — from

the Plains Clay Center is

a cozy nestled settlement

in the Huge —

It’s the thought of Nin

that makes this trip so

sad — my sister didnt

love me, I didnt know

it —

The drink that’s bitter

going down, & sweet in

memory — Life.

I am now stuck

outside Norton Kan.

with no prospect of

any ride, nightfall,

hunger, thirst, death.

Brierly saved my damned

useless life — I went

to Prairie View Kans. in a

truck, in a vale from behind

where I was, phoned

him collect, he’s sending

— but why make a record,

he’s saving me — he expects

to see me & be all excited

in talk & joy — like I

was — but am I dead?

— I want to say to him

“I dont understand what’s

happening — any more —

I dont understand the

dew — I know there is

no Why but I cant help

it — ” But he saved me

— I went from Clay

Center in a car driven by

blond handsome young

reclamation worker — we

drove 60 miles west to

Beloit — I felt very

happy, the land of Kansas

smiled —

days that start good end

up bad — at Beloit I

got a ride from father &

son (father road

worker, apparently drove

to Missouri to fetch him for

holidays, is married to

‘new wife’) — to a

lone-ass junction at

281 — hot killing sun

— no cars — I thought

I was done for (was,

too) — I prayed to be

saved — a man carrying

a carseat load of dead

side beef (smell of

death) saved me —

my meaty dumb bones

— & carried me zipping

to Smith Center —

wrecked his car Feb. 29!

nice old fella — (on 28!)

I know the joy those

little girls’ll remember,

in Prairie View with their

mother — yes I do —

And that cunt’s tall

grandfather — does

my mother think I

dont know those

things? —

Nobody cares —

How can they care

when they dont know?!

— At Smith Center a

ride to a country junction

from a farmer hero

straight profile with

little blond son —

at ice cream stand, the

mother said to her son

“Dont hang around with

him” & I recognized her

face & she mine — mad —

but I got a ride to

(this was off Agra) —

to doomed Phillipsburg

from carload of kids driv

by Marine ex & wife —

Okie — on I go with

dignified father & son

to that lonely hole

on a hill where I

think I die — 2 hours,

no rides, zoom, sun

going down, despair,

— Prairie View in

truck — but later —

I walked in with seabag —

Old falsefront western

wood stores, dirt, or tarred

gravel sandy road Main

Street, cars crunch over

majestically, on review on

Sat. nites — but not a

soul in sight, I’m going

down over prairie hollow

of trees bloodred, birds

thrashing in trees, —

I go to Public Telephone

little old white house,

woman long calls Neal

for me (San Jose), he’s

not home — her husband

in long overalls was

once farmer, gives me

hamburg sandwich huge,

says (& also huge

glass water) — “A man

dont know what to do

anyway.” — Sun goes

down, I wait, — dark,

Prairie Viewers come round

for Satnite, men sit in

front gen’l hardware, some

on ground, talk soft —

little kids hurry to

church suppers or whatever,

mothers — sodafountain

opens, I sit, watch happy

mother & little Gaby Nashua

joy girls — ate my heart —

& crazy castrated lunatic

Wellington chain smoking

stuttering smelling somehow

sweet & open air talks

to me — Ah — “Born

same date & year as

A 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 like

him, he’s intelligent —

“Kansas City was in

street 2 nights — went

to hotel — need 55¢cut

says man — next night,

need 75¢ says man —

okay, — not got it —

pushes me on left shoulder —

out” — “Dont work

any more since my

headaches started” — “Old

Mr Jones lived to be

98 — died a

mile north of that

water tower — couldnt climb

it tho, guess he was too

old — he was a Hollander

too” — Farmers: “Otto

is it? Hello Otto!” yells

Wellington — He’s sensitive

— listens when you talk,

jerks to hear & reply —

We cross street, longpants

niceman driving to six

miles east Norton — Meanwhile

Old Justin’s sending

me $12 Norton — goodbye

— they (longpants &

thin heroboy of Kansas

but sad & attentive) drive

me to hill of Western Nite

— hail down stationwagon

bein whaled at 85 by

wild cunt — fixed me

a ride as only farmer

could — man in car

says “Working late aint

ya?” — (harvest he

thinks) I get out

car — “Thank you sir —

and madame.” Forced

on them — Go to

depot, agent off duty,

raging mad I tear up

handful of folders &

hurl them screaming

across Rock Island tracks

to where sad cows being

waybilled to Santa Fe

moo — I go to Hotel

Kent, get a room, promise

pay morning (first I

rush for wine, Gallo port)

— back — waterf ountain,

grocery store, man

wallet — hotel room hot

— windows — shower

no handles — curse —

dancing below — 5 shots

wine — sleep — cold

in Fall morn — up —

wipe wine from things —

depot — joy of

dark shadow morn on

RR tracks etc. — rush

to WU — back (water

fountain) — cash hotel —

Melroy Cafe huge

bkfast. — go — waitress —

read paper hurricane,

Faulkner crash airshow

“Please keep away —

for Gods sake keep

away” — bus at 5:30!

— I hitch! —

Cursing half hour, deciding

never to hitch

again, to end On The

Road (pure hitching)

with malediction gainst

America — a sunny

funeral director

from Hope Indiana with

particularly irrelevant

old bum carry me

80 mph. to Denver!

— “Believe in helping

out a feller — try to

do God’s will as best

I can — ” Never seen

a rattlesnake or

a mirage till this

ride! — Zoom —

Arrive Denever

ZAZA (Barbershop in Denver)

Zaza’s — blue squares

painted above long

vertical panes, on

glass — says “Baths”

& “1821” — Barber

Shop — little tiny

bulb light over door

on protruding bar, bent —

beat up doorway, gray

paint below the mad

cerulean wash blue

— in window burlesk

ad, whitewashed flowerpot

of tub with soil & crazy

redblossomed weeds —

smaller pots, weeds —

no decoration, just bare

chip-painted weathered

old planks in window-

case, a can with soil

& greentip, — a milk

bottle, empty — a Wildroot

smileteeth ad card, a

sad tablecloth over a

rail — an upsidedown

ancient piece of an ad

card — “Barber Shop”

is flaked half off —

Gaga’s — other

window has ad cards,

same — Inside is wooden

drawers, white — chairs

white & black, old —

cash register — barber

coat over chair — (closed)

— sink, bench — wood

slat wall — calendar

— next to beat

Windsor shoe shop, used

shoes ranged in window

Late afternoon at the New

England Sunday lakes of

my infancy —

The Joe Martin truckdrivers

of the crosscountry Denver

night — old lunchcarts —

Early Autumn in Kansas —

I ate a big breakfast of

sausages, eggs, pancakes,

toast & 2 cups coffee —

hungry on the road — farmers

in the Sunday morning

cafe, the bright sun, the

clarity of a rickety

Kansas town alley outside

— heartbreaking

reminders of Neal Cassady

— “The Energies of

Cody Pomeray”!

Alley: telephone poles,

wires, Firestone tire sign

(flamepink & blue), old

graywood garage door,

redbrick chimney lashed

to a house with bar,

aluminum warehouse, old

streetlamp overhanging —

Norton, Kans. —

Old shacks! — O

America! — What was

it like in Lincoln’s time!

— Where are all the

railroad men of the

19th Century! They’ve

all slanted into the

ground —

The heavy-headed

wheat —

ACROSS KANSAS

Golden fields flaming

with the sunflower —

Thirst-provoking-while-

chewing-gum mirages across

the dry plowed fields —

but a dust-raising tractor

in the middle of a cool

sweet lake is a blatant

lie — “Many poor devils

died trying to reach one of

them” — (driver from Hope)

The immense dry farming

spaces — Maj estical

white silo at Bird City

Kans. — Distant

drunk phone poles —

A thirsty man looks

for mirages!

Colorado — old barn,

red — pile of dry boards,

barrels, tires, cartons —

dry wind, dry locust in

brown grass — old Model

T wreck truck — Wind

sings sadly in its dash-

board — & thru wood

boards of floor — just wood

slats for roof — incredible

erect, skeletal — what

deader than old car?

— haunted by old

dead-now usages —

rusty skinny clutch handle —

no cap — drywood spokes —

old ferruginous mudguards

I write on have tinny

sad ring & sing while

I write — pile of tarred

poles — Cows grazing

in the Plains haze —

sweet long breeze —

horse in the flat —

prairie crickets tipping

— hay mtn. with

old dead wagon 2

wheel — old dead

skeleton plows — wreckages

of old covered wagons are

hinted at in the scattered

junk of backfield — a

backyard to a barn

& station that faces

infinity — tremendous

open dry white sand

square to city, town —

west of Idalia —

The Colorado Plains

horse neighing in immensity —

Ah Neal — the shaggy

whiteface cows are

arranged in stooped

dejected feed, necks

bent, upon the earth

that has a several

mood under several

skies & openings — Ah

the sad dry Land ground

that’s open between

grasses, whip’t bald

by the endless Winds —

the clouds are bunched

up on the Divide of

the horizon, are shining

upon thy city — the

little fences are lonely —

The grassy soft face

of earth has pocks

of canyons, arroyos,

has moles of sage,

has decoration of

aluminum wheat barns,

the one skinny

revolving windmill in

the Vast, — lavender

bodies of the distance

where earth sighs to

round — the clouds

of Colorado hang blank

& beautiful upon the

land divide —

the line of man’s

land is the bleak

line of his Mortality —

soft crunches the cow’s

munch in all eternity

— shining cloud

worlds frowsily survey

the little farm in

rolls immense of

dun scarred breakless

grass — Sadly the

Continental Divide appears,

dark, gray, humped,

on the level horizon —

The first crosser of these

E Colo. wilds first thot of

clouds mountainshaped —

then — “Hey Paw I

been lookin at them

mountains for a hour” —

“I have too, son — unmistakably

mtns. — not

a cloud — ” then the

party went into a long

hollow — came up

again on a rise —

(shaggy gray sensual

cow lazing along) —

but the rise not high

enough — for 5 hours —

: — “guess it was a mirage”

— Next day —

“Yes, a mirage” —

Vast earth flat with

the blushes of the

sun — of God —

God is blushing on

the land — throwing his

tints with a slant

& sweep — & soft —

“Yes, yes, yes, mtns!”

“Unbroken miles of em!”

Over the lavender

land, snake humps —

rock humps — squat

eternal seat forever —

promise of raw fogs —

(the beautiful hump

necked pony, white &

black, with Indian

black strands personalizing

his sweet neck & dark

thoughtful eyes ) —

Vast eternal peak points

there, shy to show their

might till you come up

close — Have deserts

damned up behind em —

— — — clouds vie above

for mountainism —

they go darkening to

Wyoming territory North —

to Nebrasked dark gray

wall sky — cyclones

have formed there —

The sad mountains wait

forever — (heavy-bellied

pendant ringlet cow) —

(Madame Cow) — — —

The land of the Comanche!

I already smell that

Western Sea! — The

mountains (closer) are

misty, bright with

hazel, silver, gold,

territories of aerial

bright hover & bathe

them — Sad dry

river here, helping

out the So Platte —

thru the cities of

railroad & telephone poles

the mountains do cloud

darkly — Now I

see levels of them one

humping upon the other —

Smell the ozone & orgone

of the Plains where

the Mountains appear!

— the mystery of them

is like the gray sea —

because the flats rush

to meet them — &

traffics hasten seaward —

The pale gold grass of

afternoon, the cakes of

alfalfa, the hairheads

of green sage in the

brown plowed field, the

poles on the rim —

Snow on the mtns! —

Pure snow & tragedy of

Great Neal’s home

town — Wild sweet

Mannerly of the Night

here rages rushing —

Tiers of mountains supramassing

now — the Event!

Enormous golden rose

clouds far towards

Bailey, Sedalia, &

Fairplay — The

mountains loom higher

— Father, Father! ! —

— Yes son, Yes son —

Lonely lost paths

lead to them over

rollhills of dark &

pale land, Father —

Ah Son the silver

clouds above their

Loom & Huge, the

rains of them, the

sad heaps of them, —

The monstrous block

they’ve made to our

westward grand march

— the flatland is

here upchucked &

rockened to hard —

they swoop & slant,

have sides — The clouds

put on a splendorous

air to oertop these

Kings of Earth — the

wind blows free on

them from this

lone prairie —

Estes has Showers of

light-mist — the

blue cracks to show

open heaven — the

Whole Plain descends

to be foothilled up —

yellow patches show

on those early sides —

beyond is black, &

wall drear, & Berthoud —

distant Pike the Giant

sleeps, black — his

shining snows now shrouded

in gales — Colo Spgs

rooftops are gray &

windswept now — but

Denver is snow, gold,

sun, be-mountained,

won. —

Over the gold wheatflats

they rise blue as mysteries,

sweet, dangerous —

Oh Father the road is

a thread to their knees!

Their mottled hills are

Indian Ponies! The

cornflower prairie is

their carpet of welcome

— Welcome to Bleak —

They are blank &

muscular rock upon

this naked earth —

this earth naked to the

blank sky, flat, opposite

— They oertop

our wagon tops & rooftops

now, & our trees —

their smoky blue make

trees a proper green —

Stay so, tree — Ah

the sad ass of my

Palomino buttocking to

the Great Divide —

In green clover hollows

they fill the opening

with their Merlin lump —

Wild trailer cities

on D’s skirts!

Old 1952! hallo!

— Rockies? the

jigsaw fanciful cliffs

of infant scrawls

are no steeper!

they have sides that

sink like despair & rise

like hope —

with a still point

peak — Motels, Autels,

Trailerlands! — they

huddle on the Plain —

The buildings & motels

far out E Colfax are

so new you couldnt

smear shit on em,

it would fall off!

THE THING I LIKE ABOUT

Chinatowns, you look around,

you see that everybody has

a vice, beautiful vice —

whether it’s O, or wine,

or Cunt, or whiskey —

you don’t feel so isolated

from man as you do

in AngloSaxon Broadways

of Glare & Traffic where

people might be hung up

on shouting preachers, or

lynching, or baseball,

or cars — Gad I hate

America with a passionate

intensity —

I’m going to excoriate

the cocksucker & save

my heroes from its doom.

It aint no atom

bomb will blow up

America, America

itself is a bomb

bound to go off

from within — What

monster lurks there, bald

head, fat, 55, young wife,

millions, Henry J Shmeiser,

out of his pissing cancerous

life will flow (from the

belly) a juice of explosions

— dowagers

& young juicy cunts with

high mannered ways on

buses will gasp — I

stick my finger in the cunt.

America goes ‘Blast’ —

Fine people like Hinkle

will be buried under the

stucco autel ruins — ah —

Lucien will rave —

(Written when I was a railroad brakeman

covered with soot mad as hell in 1952:

I apologize now, America, in 1959, for

such filthy bitterness but that’s what

I said then, and meant it.)

DENVER

The So. Platte at the

CBQ railyards — in

Sept. flows briskly from

the hump mountains

— sand island, — one sad

sunflower — weeds —

mudsides plopping off in

tide — water ripples

fast — banks steep,

dumpy, reinforced with

rocks — pieces of tin

strip, sticks, pipe —

sewage pipes come out —

oil rainbowing the water

— many small beat

bridges — under the

RR bridge an old

concrete foundation, — oily

rocks — driftwood piled,

a-ripple — cans — dirty

pigeons — rock villages —

— on bank old dining

car, red soot, for switchmen

— little trees growing

on the reinforced bank —

but many tree stumps

where trees cut — long

islands of rocks —

fast flows at sides —

above this sad stream

flowing thru iron tragedies

are the brass clouds

of solid Autumn —

Junk: - pile of tires, a child’s

crayon book, broken glass,

coldwind, black burntout

near sewage steam pipe —

bolts, bird feathers, an

old frying pan sitting in the

crook of a bridge girder,

old wire, flat rusty cans

no longer nameable, —

is written on viaduct concrete

wall: “If anybody were

in the Army in August

1942 when I shot

gent Slensa come

ant tell the Sgt.”

(incoherent) — & drawing

in chalk of profile

with cloth cap, plaid,

top bop button, a

strange Skippy —

“All Judge

Suck Pussy”

Field of weeds, a plain

facing “The Centennial

School Supply Co.” — “The

Mine & Smelter Supply

Co.” — aluminum sooted

tanks — red tin sooted

sheds — boxcars —

concrete silos — redbrick

warehouses — chimneys —

& Denver skyline behind

not seen — in weeds is

piece of rope, piece

of car window stripping,

nameless rusty perforated

tinhunks, newspaper, old

fold of handtowel

paper, old Jewel

Salad Oil carton,

a pile of junk, — & the

girders of the viaduct have

great black bolt heads

like knobs of a

sweating steel black

city, — gray overcast

clouds, cold — pipe

of engine, steam hisses,

cars skippitybumping

overhead, clang bells,

iron wheel squeals,

rumbles, — over the

silent mtns. a bird —

Near the Lee Soap

Co. is a collection of

ruined shacks — slivered

burntout by time boards

skewered, under the

viaduct, cartons &

newspapers inside where

old boys slept — old

bottle Roma wine —

Old Purefoy Cassady

slept here — many

cans of many a

pork n beans supper —

strange festive weeds

with big cabbage

leaves & bunchy green

substance you could

roll into seeds between

palms — slivers of

wood cover ground —

old rusty nails long ago

hammered now lie

uppointed to heaven &

forgot —

A bum fire, sweet smoke

scent — Inside shack:

abandoned child toilet

seat! — Royal Riviera

Pears box — flashlite

battery — hole plugged

with cardboard but

boards spaced an inch —

The thrill of old magazines

time soaked — a

haunted village — wood

of crossbeam this door

is decayed where nails

went in, mould of dusts,

tiny webby darkgray

Colorado shack color,

a big old Rocky Mtn.

tree overhangs — this

was once a thriving

Mexican or cowhand

camp settlement — mebbe

a big Mex family now

gone — Beautiful

lavender flowers 5 foot

hi in rich erotic weeds

— A redbrick shack

with torn “Notice” —

hints of onetime smiling

people now the shithole

beneath the

viaduct of Iron America

in which at last I

am free to roam —

Come on, boys!

(Old Black Flag insect

Spray! — for particular

hobos! — but thrown

from viaduct — )

Deserted House — on

tar road, many of

em — around back —

great weeds — incredible

cellar stairs leading to

black unspeakable hole

not for hobos but escaped

murderers! — Shit on

floors — papers, magazines

— Ah the poor sad

shoes of some thin

foot bum — weary

with time — scuffed,

browned, cracked, but

good soles & heels only

a little edgeworn —

wine bottles — a

pocketbook “Trouble

at Red Moon” —

Old newspaper with

faces of tragic Mexicans

in hospital beds of

the moment — now upstare

this bleak roof

torn — old bum in

topcoat came in —

“Boys be around a

little later” — old

Bull Durham pouches —

planks — trains go

by outside — plaster —

Boys who were coming were

2 Indians — one roundfaced,

dungarees — one thin, tragic,

seamed, Colorado Wild,

with workpants, jacket,

red bandana & strange

rust red suede cowboy

slope hat of the Wides

— coming across UP

tracks with big bags

(of sandwiches probably)

— tied up with old white

bum who had strange high

voice, was Irish, old but

only 45, rednose, tremendously

hopeless, didnt talk to me,

went next room, read

or scanned thru floor

reading — what a movie

of the Gray West I there

missed! — never felt the

thrill of the West

more since childhood days

of gray tumblewagon serials

in the Merrimac Theater

— cold, cold wind —

Wazee, Wynkoop, Blake,

Market — dismallest of

streets with RR track each

side, parked boxcars,

coldwinds blowing down

from all the gray Wyomings,

sheds with stairs, redbrick

bldgs., shacks, deserted —

poor little Neal in this

night! — and the alleys!

oertopped thickly with

telephone double pole

lines, barrels, concrete

paving, dismal, long, cold,

leading to gray Raw

each way — Then

Larimer, corner 19th,

Japs, — cluttered dark

pawnshops with tools,

guitars, lanterns, (some

unusable), rifles, knives,

stoves, bolts, anything

— & a poor Negro

couple quietly talking &

speculating as they walk in

to sell something, their

children will hear of it

one day the down & out past

— beat Negros pile in

car, “see ya later,” garage

Negro walks on, “Cool”

— but says Cool emphatically

& like a revolution —

Two itinerants standing

outside Pool Parlor still

closed 9 30 AM, everybody

cold — Coffee

shop — cafe — next to

Windsor — old bum in

faded Mackinaw eating

big breakfast gravely

with grizzled sorrow —

younger men — coffee 5¢

— sugar & cream put in

for you etc. — Windsor

lobby cold, gloomy —

painting of constellation

of faces around Windsor,

Cody, Edwin Booth,

Lily Langtry, Baby Doe,

Oscar Wilde — Ah

this is all the Jack

London gray — Deep

dark stairways blood

mahogany — bums sit

around — one man at

bar — talk across 50

foot lobby — once a

great splendour is now

mutter hall of hoboes

— clerk at sumptuous

desk paces & whistles —

bums huddle in gray entrance

to smoke & see

out, hands a pockets

— rattle rasp of

a truck out there, I

sense the gray cold

tragedy of N’s boyhood

— & its joy, too,

as he showeth —

Bums sit forever, with

that hurt look, angry —

smoking — waiting — immovable

from their position —

different type looks

out door humbly, waiting

for he knows not what,

— old tottering tall bum

in plaid shirt with

squinty look of bewilderment

— old painter

bum in white coveralls

struggles thru door —

men with hats, coats, hands

a pockets, sauntering — some

of em weatherbeaten, hard,

rough looking, Canyon City

was their most recent

home —

Glenarm poolhall —

rubber floor full of

holes, boards show — ancient

lost linoleum under —

tables have hanging baskets

like balls — Pederson’s —

old tin panel ceiling,

tan color — cue racks —

pissery in corner hid by

partition — greentop card

tables where Holmes

in bleak poolhall time

sat dealing blearfaced

& grim — “Onlooker’s

bench” pale green, high,

sand jars — Candy

counter, open phone

booth panels, juke —

parkinglot across street —

Denver Bears on

summernight radio —

click, bounce balls on

hard, laughs, “God-damn!”

— husky voices — Stomp of

feet angling around tables

— shuffle of shoes —

“Let’s go, let’s go!” —

voices of adolescents —

crash of break — “Shhhhhit”

— impatient knock of

cuestick on floor —

bop — click of ball

in basket — pocket —

Blackboard near counter

— groups of voices,

Street — Hotel DeWitt

— flash of liquor store

neons — Drake (blue)

hotel (red) down right,

cold — Bright orange

Chinese neons up left of

city center — Denver

Auto Park, lot, old redbrick

Hotel Southard one wall,

DeWitt (brownbrick white

bordered) other — over

head wire bulbs in lot —

Above poolhall Acme Hearing

Aid Co. whitewashed brick

— barber pole — (left)

Hotel Glenarm pink neon

on redbrick (right) —

Mirobar corner — (flashing) —

Counter — old bronze gilded

cash register — framed

licenses near coathanger

hooks — dark brown cabinet

— cigar counter with Tops,

White Owls, Red Dot — El

Producto — King Edward —

signs in entrance glass sides

low Coca Cola, Whistle

Oh Lord in heaven above

what a holy moment, coming

to Neal & Carolyn’s house in

the gray fog day of San

Jose, nobody in, the 9

room sadhouse, the old

Green Clunker filled with

California Autumnal leaves

like the prophetic old

birdhouse wreck of old

travels & sorrows — & finding

all alone in the house

Eternal house little John

blond & beautiful as an

Angel, taking him up,

a spot of Tokay, sit

by the radio with him

& have there on my

lap all that’s left

of my life, as if he

were my blood son.

And he looks just like

Carolyn — how sad

the ten-balled years,

how toppled the pin

of myself — what

Gray Sorrows of Autumn

for this sailing soul

— and for Cassadys,

nothing but love &

attention — bearded

doom boy Jack in Old

Jose, walked from

Easonburg Carolina —

with $5 — & came

to the Angel child that

was not afraid of the

Shroudy Stranger.

FRISCO Embarcadero Sept 8

Cold fog winds blowing

from the wreathed hills

of houses, I can see

the blazing fog shagging

over from old Potato Patch

in a cold whipped blue

— bay waters clear to

Oakland are ripple & keen

blue & cold looking — the

wind even whistles — The

majestic Mormacgulf with

her creamy white masts

& rigging in the pure blue

sits before me, a rusty

redpaint waterline on

the green Jack London

swell of old piers —

Cold wind brings hints of

all the good food in Frisco

(& maybe all the love,

& surely all the hate) —

Mormacgulf is tied

with great cables, a

ratguard broke loose near

the bowsprit canvas and

bangs like a tin pan

in the wind — Water

rushes gushing from a low

scupper — In the water

is bread, a leaf of cabbage,

a butt —

SP train at night

The local — sweetsmelling

night soots — crashby

dingdang of opposite

train — the pink neons

of Calif., the cocktail-

glass-&-mixer neon of

the ginmills — The hills

of supper lights — the

blear of fogs in from the

brown gaps — blear of

lights — Redwood City to

Atherton, clear, clean

night, with magic stars

riding the dark over the

homes of the railroad

earth — plenty time —

I must believe in the lives

of people & the history of

their reality — I must become

a historian —

observe the history of society

& write histories of the world

in wild hallucinated prose

— but a record of the

angels personalizing all the

haunted places I have

seen, written for the angels

not the publishers & readers

— a complete history of

my complete inner life,

also — Wail of the

train, chipachup of the

locomotive steams when

they open a vestibule door

— brakes haul up train,

old ornate browngreen coach

sways — Brown seats

of sticky stuff —

California Spanish neat

cut houses & Launderettes

& modernistic groceries

in the leafy black —

nameless newbrick mortuaries

or grass conservatories

or waterworks with

Shrouds — Oh old train,

Wail my Lowell back,

wail for my Lowell, make

my Lowell my only come-

back — Palo Alto, taxis

at bushéd sidewalk, lights

evenly pinpointing in a

main drag, — Dodge Plymouth

paleblue sign exactly the

one at Letran corner

in Mexcity — but with

beautiful bloodclot glow

Don Hampton beneath —

Strings of yellow bulbs

in car lot — A sudden

view of muddy wood

supports litup in the

construction night —

Spectral palegreen greenhouse

of a factory — Her

I dont like & dont have

to like & wont — Fuckups

have a choice they make,

in naked silence — I

have never been a romantic

lover like him because

I do not like to moo &

screw — I like straight

relations no show all

balls come & comfort —

the slightest sadism makes

me sicken — I am a

hero — Distant bloodred

antennas of Calif. —

Murder will out among

these beasts — that

puffed 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 pray

thee from dark & ignorance

— In darkness reeling I

see bare naked ledge of

oldbrown wood lit by

streetlamp, brown, dim —

Distant geometric modern

bluebright factory of

aircraft windows — The

star of my fame & pity

following far above — Lights

of spread parks illuminating

lonely bits of walks

— Green lights too — the

whistle calls on ahead —

Why did Sebastian live so

intensely & romantically

just to die blear-eyed —

he was saved from middleaged

baggy eyed ends — The

Old SP’s all I got now,

Sam — I had loved you &

you me — Edie, I loved

you too, deeply — The

old stained glass of the

coach, the smoky tan

round ceiling, the barbershop

chairs, the engine calling

for our mountains & all

that’s lost & was supposed

to happen & didnt — Ah

James Joyce, Proust,

Wolfe, Balzac — I’ll

combine you in my forge —

Lovers like X. & Y. — simper

like snakes

WAITING FOR 146 AT

CALIF. AVE.

Backsteps Caboose (crummy)

bloodred — hills seaward

smoke shroud — sun orange

on its flare — Palo

Alto bank bldg. — steam

hiss, silence — the long

track Southeast — the

quiet Calif. cottages —

old paintchip trailer

in backyard, overturned

car junk, abandoned

cab (black, white), clothes-

lines with pins on —

Drive-In — Restaurant —

Green with modern ranch

style redwood sections,

Swift’s Ice Cream neon

in window, big bamboo

blinds in window, cars

parked around — Sunday

afternoon in San Jose,

late sun, the haunted

mountains from the East

rim of Santa Clara

Valley appear only after

a second take look,

dim, yellowish, faintly

rilled, round, bare as

flesh, humping softly

far over the flat of

fruit trees — Beyond

Drive In the night

lights of a ballpark —

traffic on road — Shadows

of pretty girls passing

inside Drive In — new

cars everywhere, & lots

— lost spiritualities

of America dulled &

buried in this last

barbaric land — empty

of meaning but rich,

fruitful, golden, — (the

land is) —

Original home of the

Tender Indian — the Pomo —

O Dostoevsky of

Indian Milleniums! —

Christian Fellaheen

Peotl 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 culture-less 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 & blind

Eternity with everybody

waiting. Wm. Blake, &

Dostoevsky are of the same

Church! Jesus Christ & the

black Cunt are reconciled,

the Virgin Mary is painted

on the back of an immense

hardon of gesso plaster

in the hut home of my

Culiacan 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 subtle

AntiChrist in it — it

is not serious Finally —

Not Race, but the Types,

in Fellaheen Form, is

Discernible; the slope

shouldered cowboy switch

man in dungarees, low

rolled sleeves & brim

hat is the same

type as the samebuilt

Indian driving a Mexico

City bus or lost in endless

meditation on the desert.

The types come & go &

never change, but history

changes; it is history

laid the pallor over the

face of same-built

Radio City executive — the

history of his Race. But

he who surmounts his race,

& sits beneath history, is

Fellaheen. Funny ideas.

The realization of the

death of a comrade is

Jesus; the Millenium

of Christ; the surprised

news of the death

of 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 decaying

West Arm of Europe —

it wears a subtle mask, it

covers nothing.

Fellaheen is Meek & Rages

like a Beast — the faces

of matricides in Athens

or Cairo afternoon editions;

over the hot rooftops a

woman wails.

The (Purely) Meek Shall

Inherit the Earth — the

Children of God

Children of Jesus

of the Son of Man

A mankind of saints shall

occupy the final Earth,

in endless contemplation of

Heaven —

Hip Fellaheen will lead

to Meek Fellaheen, souls

sitting round a fire in

the open night

All this (My Kingdom

is Not of This World) is

why 1947 was the

“happiest” year of

my life.

Now no more tea,

but contemplation of

Good & Evil —

Lust & Sorrow

Burroughs the Boss of

the Jungle —

Carr the Boss of World

News —

Ginsberg the trembling

Saint of the City —

Cassady the worker

of the wheel on the

land & cunt-man

Kerouac the Pilgrim

of the Meek Fellaheen

Huncke: - criminal hipster

Joan Adams: - the Heroine

of the Hip Generation

John Holmes: - the

Western “writer” &

“critic” — late Civilization

anxieties & word-torrents —

Solomon: - Megalopolitan

High Jew Enigma

The Gospel of the Meek

Fellaheen, Bringing History

Round to Jesus, Begins in

Sweet Actopan — &

ends there

I love the railroad

because it is laid out on the

land, & requires the

eyes of Indians — but

the Rail is Evil

“Brother have you seen

starlight on the rails?”

“Yes” — but,

the greatness of Wolfe

must have been in his

realization of the land —

Come face to face with

the lonely grave now,

beyond it is Heaven

— the lonely hole you’ll

lie in is the only hole

you’ll have — round it

God has woven golden

rewards the Fabric

of His Glory —

My father only now

is blinking his eyes on

the other side of Light —

Jesus loved the

Individual —

America is Decoration

now — planted palms in

San Jose —

The City fattens on

the blood of Towns,

then bursts. The

Atom Bomb, or its

satellite Power, will

destroy New York City

& all of Western Civilization

from Marxist-

Faustian Vladivostok

westward round the

globe to San Francisco.

Then the Millenium

of the Hip Fellaheen

begins, in all lands.

But Eden Heaven

awaits the Milleniums

of the Meek Fellaheen

for all time

The Mankind of Saints,

that shall come after

& finally.

The Men from Mars

are really the baldheaded

bespectacled

lobsters of American

business. — really &

seriously — their

beady eyes, in fat,

glint on the grave —

Rocky C.

A boxer with the

sadness of a saint

Faustian society had

good intentions

The latest sounds in

hip bop are exactly

like the latest developments

in N.Y. Advertising

— the latest ad shows

an empty Coca Cola

bottle, a model with

a black patch over his

eye; these trivial things

are really milestones in

the History of Advertising

in Western Civilization, &

are momentous in the

concerned (Balzacian) circles;

in Eternity of the Meek

Fellaheen they have no

more meaning than that

a walnut fell on the

head of the Patriarch this

morning — or the

Messiah’s pants fell off

the chair —

SKETCH

Crazy California of my

Selma days — tracks

of old SP shining in hot

birdy-tweeting breezy afternoon,

De Jesus & Rodriguez

market of white stucco

with cars parked (2) in

driveway & sign (same

as above, over PAR-T-PAK

board) — I see a

whole bookshelf of wine

bottles, GALLO too — &

here in field, in matted

brown grass under an

avocado tree, I see

an empty Gallo Tokay

fifth & fillet of herring

can & beer cans showing

a royal feast of hoboes

in their California, &

bed-down grass of their

reclinations — In De

Jesus (Vegetable, Meats)

I see a woman selecting

a brace of Cokes — a

car parks — across road

is Ferry Morse Seed Co.,

all spectral iron hell

red last night with

browndeep clouds of

locomotive steam in

Faustian sky —

A little strange SP

handtruck (handcar)

(in Kansas Rock Island

boys say “Nothin to

worry about but a nigger

on a handcar” — pricks)

goes by, with 5 Mex

Indians, one Negro —

they point to rails for

foreman Mex who has

sledgehammer — a Jet

screams above, from

Moffett Field — upper,

paler B-29 groans —

— Seed

Co. is modern flat

plant, nobody in

sight, the machine

silent in the red sun, —

At night not a

human in sight,

just cars smooth in the

hiway, the rails gleaming,

cruel & cold to the touch,

slightly sticky with

steel death, — lights of

airport pokers, distant

roar of Jets in wind

tunnels, far off joints

slamming, planes carrying

Edison’s light across the

stars & freights of

Machine Humanbeings —

& the block lights in

the night that give

panic or peace

according to the

switch points as

manipulated — too

much iron, too much

for me — but in

afternoon, De Jesus &

the Tokay wine, the

roadbed rocks have little

silver gleams & waving

dry tendrils of interspersed

grass & crazy shuddering

little flowers & crackly

wind-weeds & pieces

of wood, hand towel

paper, cellophane

chip bags, gum wrapper,

little ants that bite —

the juice of the grape

stored darkly in the

cool interior store, I’m

wantin a poorboy —

Beyond pink brick Seed

Co. with its streamline

built in windows that

hide controlled vibrating

horror (Rocky Mt. Mills)

is a field of fruit trees,

iron & barbwire fenced

from precious Company —

little white cottages of

the railroad earth, with

end of day papa car

parked, little fruit

trees — haze of

sun — I’m sitting

by silver painted SP

Telephone box & eq’pt —

wearing workshoes, asbestos

gloves now black,

soiled timetable, thick

socks, ankle strap from

swollen ankle missing

bottom climb bar &

falling on rocks in

grim railroad dark —

blue work pants, too

tight, — gray workshirt,

— baseball hat for sun

— dreaming of my

$500 stake & Mexico

& the Millenium of the

Hip Fellaheen this winter

bla bla —

The Millenium of

the Meek Fellaheen

The intensity of D. H.

Lawrence was not carnal

A woman’s cunt is

the soft avenue to her

womanhood, the godhead

of human generations,

the yearning point

of man — I believe

the celibacy in the

teachings of Christ were

Paulist & Jewish-Castration

-Circumcision cult

in origin — for if His

Kingdom is not of this

World, & the Soul is to

be Saved, it makes that

difference inside a

woman’s legs when her

permission is given —

Neal’s Pornographilia

is religiously intense —

The Phallic Cults

worship generation of

the species; the Aramaean

worships its Salvation

Jesus did not say,

but I believe in a

woman’s permission

Retirement annuities

that grow out of group

life insurance & hospital

plans & sick benefits, sponsored

by the modern big

company, are only an

attempt to cut out turn-

over of employees —

imagine devoting yr. entire

life, its soul & meaning

to a pineapple company

& accepting its retirement

annuities for reward —

“Stay with the Machine,

boys, dont need to run

away or shift to other

cogs, you’re just as well

off in this one — we offer

YOU SECURITY TILL THE

GRAVE.” — never mind

the Saviour, he never took

a shower. This company-

sponsored insurance, that

takes bites out of the

victims’ pay all their

lives to support itself (the

money clangs hollowly

from the Machine’s

twidget to the Machine’s

twadget) is called

protection — protection

against their being left

to drift free outside the M.

(M. for machine).

Big Business in Late

America prides itself on

growing figures, just as

a spokesman for the

Golden Age, “the American

Explosion,” points with

pride at the 3 inches

added height average of

American kids.

If not the highest,

then it’s the “fourth

highest” etc.

The faces & demeanors of

successful young American

businessmen: - a guarded

sense of one’s own

gentlemanness — the

face taut & ready to

smile the hand-shake

smile — a terrible

concern in the expression

that the subject wont

reciprocate the same

escalator tension from

empty gesture to empty

gesture — these gestures

are the ritual of Late

High Civilization — the

American workingmen

have adopted a surl

in superficial opposition —

but the Executive

secretly & queerly desires

the Worker’s “tough look”

& the Worker (excuse me,

the Man of Production

in New Overalls) secretly

practises Executive Smoothness

before his mirror.

Ad infinitum —

First signs of the

Machine really destroying

itself & People is the

guided drone plane with

Atom Bomb warhead

— “DRONE” is the

horror name, deeply

named by mysterious

High Priests in the Forums

of the Pentagon Glare.

. . (I worked on the Pentagon)

The gray drab Indian

village near Actopan, no

Coca Cola, no Orange Crush,

just dysentery-ridden

water, & lizards on the

old walls — Jesus has

made it hard on us.

But a maiden wears

a smile, & a little

hidden ribbon of meaning,

& at the brook the

waters ripple in the

shade of shepherd

trees — the flies are

insistent, but so is the

soul in its thoughts &

loves, O Man, Poor Man

— Thirsts developed in us by

the Machine are insatiable

As for “freedom” —

there’s no doubt of

freedom in Fellaheen

Cathy says: “Write it

right here now.”

“Look at her legs

move” (the bug) “she

wants to eat.”

J: Nobody eat the

bug.

C.: The bug eats the

shades 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 American

is the strongest American

because 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 of

the country store on

Sunday afternoon, they

wait in the car & smile

while the men goof with

beer cans — These are

Mexicans, Indians, of the

California countryside —

Western Civilization women

would say “Are you

coming John?”

American woman run

things, even kicks, —

have made life a drab &

sorrowful for their

Milquetoast Machine

husbands, the dumb fucks —

also the American women

have subordinated everything

to “my child” — my

so-called child — (the child

of God, lady) — & so

make the husbands attend

to the children only —

Fellaheen children are in

the background silent,

watchful, & awed —

American kids are loud,

nasty, forward, disagreeable

at 4, & bored at 16

The horrible bitches have

no regard for man

anyway, just their

itchy old twats & what’s

come out of it — It

would never occur to

American women &

American Old Woman

Society that a 80

year old man’s life

is more valuable than

an infant’s life because

it has acquired its

value — They think

in terms of “My Child”

with an almost-mystical

sense of the Future

as abstract as everything

else Faustian —

A jet plane is an

abstraction because it

serves absolutely no

purpose to body or

soul — just flies —

All their other abstractions

— Communism,

Freedom, etc. — are

abstractions within the

Abstract Structure of the Machine —

Machines can’t

run without a theoretical

basis.

The theoretical of

Nature is still & will

always be “unknown”

because it is not

theoretical, it is —

Ah now the croaking

birds of California Afternoon,

the tweeties too,

the neigh of a horse,

the breeze, the rustle

of a paper bag stuck

against a bush — God

will come again in all

his radiance & illuminate

our souls with understanding

& pity, & Jesus will

descend into our minds

with his Meek & Sorrowful

Look & pierce us with

the pang & arrow of

our condition on the

plain of life — & bless

us with a soft

shroud — I want

to sit in the

desert contemplating the

earth & the clouds &

the insects & suddenly

the poor Fellaheen

simplicity-souls there

with me — I want to

be among them in the

night, soft lights across

the sand road, distant

dogs of the Fellaheen Moon

— the maguey rows —

the holy marijuana to

enliven my Vision when

needed — the sweet

wine — to soften my

cark & belly when needed

— the tender cunt of

my Indian Love — my

Fellaheen Wife — &

holy sleep among the Patriarchs

All I want to do is

love —

God will come into

me like a golden

light & make areas

of washing gold above

my eyes, & penetrate

my sleep with His Balm

— Jesus, his Son, is in

my Heart constantly.

My brother Gerard

was like Jesus. My

father I loved like

God. My mother

is sweet & golden-

hearted & never meant

harm to bird, insect

or person in the depths

of her simple heart, —

My sister is dead to God

now, because she puts

marriage to a tyrannical

but simple-hearted

man before her knowledges

of God & the soul that

she learned once from

her father, brother (&

mother perhaps) & Church —

She & I knelt in

damp pews of poor Good

Friday —

I am working for the

railroad to keep my

stomach in food &

drink but I want to

throw myself on the

ground & die for God

if it wasnt so awful

TO DIE & leave the joys

of food & drink & cunt,

& grieving relatives.

To learn the life

of sainthood is harder

than 8 years of

Medical or Law School

— I will come to it

gradually, to celibacy

& some fasting (by celibacy

I mean of course simplicity

of living, for instance no

gum chewing & such

trivial habits that attach

to me still from the

Machine of Anti Christ)

— come gradually to growing

my own food, to Patriarchy

& Silence in the Earth

& Ecstasy of Alyosha

SKETCHES NO. 3

Cowboys of the Wild

American romantic West

& the Horsey Set are

hungup on horses’ asses —

Cows around an oil well pump

say — “Leave the oil in

our earth.” — Later ages

will wonder why Faustian

man extracted all kinds

of stuff from the earth,

dirt, mud, oil — Silly

pumps ass balling up &

down the ground for

nothing — oil for horror —

( — Dostoevsky’s moon — )

Aping nature is not art,

only a gospel will do —

Tea — backtracking thru

the universe —

Not only a derangement

of the senses but of

personal evaluations, moral

evaluations of yourself

— tea is suicidal —

I vant to be alone —

since that repudiation of

a human wish Americans

have become adjusted to

their machines —

Baby crying in gray morning

— moments meshing with

every note —

Pray to God for the

great reality (on

yr. knees in Italian

railyards near spectral

tenements)

The first thing that strikes

me about Dostoevsky in beginning

any of his books is

the nervous anguish that

seems to have preceded the

first page — the hero is

always the same, comes

to the first page out of

eternities of introspection,

anguish, gloom — just

as I do every day.

Hmm.

The morning of me

liberation — Oct. 4, 1952

— I go live alone in

a 3rd St. room, leaving

Neal’s — for the 1st

time since 1942 —

(in Hartford) — All

set to write On the

Road, the big one

with Michael Levesque

— the only one —

have renounced everyone,

& myself dedicate to

sorrow, work, silence,

solitude, deep joys of

the early mist —

Train 3-419 is waiting

outside Oakland yards

— it’s 7 30 AM —

fog — great clutter of

bedsprings & screens &

rusty fenders for walls

make a house of

ferruginous barrels loaded

with iron mucks — I

see whole interiors of

hotplates, grates of

old stoves, the arms

of antique washing machines,

tubes, buckets,

— two bos just

passed it, found an

interest in a piece on the

ground — Strange

bird flies overhead —

Saw 1000 ducks Milpitas —

Next to junk crib

is concrete blockhouse hut

with protruderant pole

with climbing ladder &

iron pipe — a smaller,

sloperoofed concrete house

with no meaning (hides

a dynamo?) — little

window — in chalk

“Nixon is broke” —

Armour & Co. loading

platform has yesterday’s

debris — a Filipino

fishes in blue barrel —

October & the railyards

again, & the great novel

in America —

The Cook is Grooking —

Jacky Robinson’s at

bat again —

OCT 4

Saturday morning in a Frisco

bar, October, it’s the

World Series as in 1947

when Michael LeVesque

was in Selma Calif.

& the old railroad clerk

spoke to him in the

long dust of an

afternoon of sorrowful

farewell, when Mike’d

turned for one last goodbye

at Teresa in the

long grape row —

I’m getting my kicks in

typical Jack Kerouac

way, refilling a tokay

25¢ shotglass from

my poorboy pocket bottle

in railroad-grime jacket

& writing & watching

W. S. while Negro &

Filipino cats sit in

bar watching game

without buying or

drinking anything at

all — Mike Levesque

is like that, the

Pilgrim of the Fellaheen

is a simple & joyful

fellow & no “innocent

boy” camper like Peter

Martin — but no

more words, now for

the scenes —

(She was born in Montreal

a simple-intentioned pure

heart, & remained so for

a lifetime thru histories, paranoias

& grief)

You’ve got to put a

superstructure of love

on yr. life or you’ll

just be a skeleton in

the grave of yr.

mortal days, shuddering

naked against the main

nerve of yr. being,

unclothed for the

Raiment Halls of

Will, Severity of Purpose,

— God is a superaddition

to the frame of Man,

like the flesh & eyes —

Therefore unravel the

drama of yr. soul before

yr. eyes, be strong &

thoughtful, be not naked scared

The personal legend of

Duluoz is for communication

on a later level —

When I walked in 20th Century Fox

office in 1949 I knew the

corruption of certain types &

the City; but now I see the

corruption of all America

& its broken head on an iron wheel

Ah what’s happening in

the world! —

I woke up — 2 flies

were fucking on my forehead

It’s hypocrisy makes

these 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 inordinary

nack to inult me

every nime

This is the end of

the handball game

TO CARL SOLOBONE

SKETCH . . . .

Watsonville, valley — the

sun is setting in a mysterious

orange flameball over the

flat green lettuce fields

interlined with brown dirt

rows & roads & rails — beyond

the milky haze of this

dusk is the sea, unseen, the

Pacific to the Land of the

Rising Sun — the grass is

like hay, full of ants

that go to sleep at sundown,

dry shrubs, dry cottonwoods,

weeds, tart spice ferns of

Spring are now fuel for

Autumn Seres, — little

weedflowers close their

blossoms as the dusk birdsongs

titter — a farm in the

dreaming vale below, white-

washed barn, flat reposant

chickencoops & toolsheds —

I hear the distant hiway

trucks — sitting on the

mat of earth on the westernmost

American hill facing

the unknown east all

pink now — Sweet dewy

breeze hints of sea —

The railroad cries the

roundroll — I sleep on

the ground under the

stars like an Indian,

baseball hat, brakeman’s

lantern & tucked in

Levis & workshoes &

jacket, arms folded to

the moon —

a cow mourns below —

adios — now the sun

is bloodred, sinks behind

the mighty mountain trees

— the distant sad hiway

of little soundless cars —

the Salad Bowl of the

World sinks to dark, all

you need is a plane to

spray mayonnaise & chopped

scallions — eat a whole

valley raw — the figs

trees are shitting on the

ground, Mexican Motorists

pick walnuts from the

ground, the bums have

left a Tokay empty

under the avocado tree —

ripe California

THE CRUMMY

Where once I’d quake

at the thought of a

jawbreaking caboose hitting

in the slack, Wham! —

now, this morning, in

my bemused equicenter

I look up & see the

caboose crazy disheveled

blurred, as if I was seeing

it momentarily photographed

thru a trick mirror, &

feel no shock or wonder

nor hear a sound nor

move from my seat —

just see it as it

rocks to the bang

Now that I understand

the railroad with my own

senses I see that Neal

was only jabbering about

the obvious again, & in his

unnecessarily involved &

confusing way — which has

to 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 perfumed

aunts visiting & the

promise of quarters &

ice cream & lipstick

kisses & long afternoons

of gossip in the kitchen

as the sun gets red —

The Immortality &

Eternalness of all

that & everything that

ever happened to you

still waits for

that Obra Privata

pen, sorrow & faith —

(some of it in French!)

MORE SKETCHES CALIFORNIA

Sexy young Wop mother

waiting train at Burlingame

in Gray West Void with

blond son, campy meets

her brunette sister in a

suit — a semi wino in

brown & white saddles &

beat pants passes them

smoking with that “Hey

Jack, I’m tired & shore

weary” expression — Big

sad baggage boy pushes

trunks on orange truck,

crepesoles, buttondown sweater,

short hair, his mother’s

making chocolate pudding

for him right now, his Pa’s

puttering in the garage —

Hundreds of cars parked

in concrete back of

Bridge & Dugan Carpet

Specialists — A big

yellow squash in the

weeds near the railroad

fence of a California

bungalow settlement

with same backs —

Pale green dobe oil

company buildings —

(ranch style) —

Bay Meadows, the

starting gate high

on the far turn above

the immense Bay

flats & wreckage

of cranes & poles —

blah — The Machine Plain —

The California Okie

businessman with bushy

eyebrows & red face

clumpin along adjusting

his belt butt in mouth

newspapers sticking out

of shroud coat, in

first rain of year —

in Hillsdale — thousands

of cars everywhere half

of them new (now’s

time to buy jalopy)

Brown-grass hills, green

redwoods, alpine lodge

houses of 30’s Calif. —

Gray murk on palms —

Western Awning Co.

palegreen stucco —

& Dentist in Spanish

style — Dullness of

Texaco station, “Marfak

Lubrication” “Motor Tune

Up” — attendant pissing

water on windshield —

— Rain on the

parched Calif. brown

grass hills — the sea

beyond — Ha! —

What will be debris

by Europe track? —

here is oil cans, beer

cans, 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. Mattison

Budget Finance Plan

Inc. is just a loan

to someone to finance,

manufacture, distribute &

sell a product, such as

home freezers — But this is

going in debt in order

to pay it off with

savings. You borrow

money, buy or invest, &

then save to pay off your

debt: leaves U.S. with

record savings & record

debts at same time.

Consumer credit is one

arm of machine reaching

out to help other, but

under conditions of debt.

In other words, Debt

(Neal’s big hassle) is the

form, financially, the Machine

creates to enslave the

individual to It — for

instance, Sinatra owes taxes,

back taxes, & is “forbidden”

to go to Europe, also

Dick Haymes — The

collusion 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 mistrust

offers of loan for no

idle reason —

The traffic problem is

merely that cars by the

millions enslave us to

new city systems requiring

hours of driving to & from

needs, on “congested” arteries,

naturally — where once

you’d-a walked — These

are all conditions pointing

to the imminent cancerous

death of America, the

Final Cog in the Western

Civ. Machine — the

supreme end-result of

early Gothic Phallic forms

is the skyscraper & the

oil drill & powered

compressor & pistons of

great engines — the Machine

copulates, men aren’t

allowed to any more —

The flesh gets numb,

but the soul doesn’t.

N’s feeling for “Marylou” in

that pix — her sexual

pinched pretty face — he

doesnt realize about flesh

is numb — till she’d die,

I say — Candlelight in

a beat room

The rat of hunger

eats at your belly,

then dies &’s left

to bloat there —

WATSONVILLE GRAYMORN,

a barbershop near park

is doing big business at 9:45

AM — gray overcast, raw,

cool — The park grass

clip’t to the sward — a

thin grayhaired fastwalking

lady in low heels hustling

towards Main St. of 5&10’s

(Woolworths), “City Drug

Store,” Ladies Shoes,

Stoesser 335 Building,

with Physician X Ray

Doctor windows above, &

“Roberts” Just Nice Things

(Store) — In the barber

shop a Brierly-like barber

in neat glasses & white frock

lowers little boy from

littleboy chair — Name

of shop is “Virg’s” —

with an Anson Weeks

band ad in glittering window

& a few bottles of

hair lotion — Little boy

was with mother who

trots him pushing him

along across park in her

big ass gray slacks, bandana

& crepesoles —

little boy has wool cap

over new hair cut —

Trucks of supermarkets

& Oakland Towel Co.

& just pickups without

lettering grumble around

park — The palms

hang dull in bleak

green bug-specked Void

— California on a

gray day is like being

in a disagreeable room —

Here is lineup around

barbershop: “Sodas

Shakes Sundaes” in old

fashioned Watsonville

sidewalk roof corner but

not Western; solid &

Victorian, once respectably

whitewashed, with bas

relief drape regalcords

& a “Surgeon” goldpaint

flecking off a round

baywindow — “Athletic

Supplies” — Sharp’s Sporting

Goods next in same bldg.

— fancy fishingpoles

in rich interior basketball

gloom — then “Ben’s

Shoe Service” not cluttered

but prosperous & shiny like

he sold shoes — then

the old arched wood

doorway of old bldg. with

bas relief sprigs — & a

doctor plate — Then

Steve’s Cocktail Bar,

shuttered with French

blinds, black tile base

of wall, cocktail glass

drawn under “Steve’s”

— Then City Club

restaurant, same shuttered,

but open door, red “Beer”

neon — (bells ring now)

— (for Ten) —

Then barbershop; then

“Smoke House,” an

ordinary cigar newspaper

store — “Pajaro Valley

Hardware” sandwiches

in old Colonial Hotel

bottom of 2 story of

which is Sporting Goods

— Then rich creamy

concrete streamlined

bank on corner, with

official Main St. globetype

(5 globes) streetlamp

announcing bleak official

clock district officer

corner of bus stops

traffic & stainglass

doors

In Pavia, 18 miles south

of Milan, the ashes of

St. Augustine, the great

monastery Certosa di

Pavia, junction of the

Ticino & the Po, fortifications

of Old Ticinum,

thousand yr. old university,

manufacture of pipe

organs, 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

BY

Jack Iroquois

Billy Caughnawaga

The “angelic” light

behind Joan in that

“radiant angel Mary”

dream — if so, Edison

is God because it’s the

electric light gives her

her glow — Only in America

a woman is condoned for

putting the man out of the house

Half of mankind is

Snakelike

Ah Duluoz, — when you

left home to go to

sea in 1942 — that

was the beginning — then

you’d sing Old Black Magic

in the night, & love

yr. thoughts, & Margaret,

& yr. good little friends of

Lowell — Sammy GJ

Salvey Scotty Daston

— what have you

gotten since? Edie in

the Fall led to Joan

Adams Summer 43,

which led to Carr,

Burroughs, Ginsberg, Chase,

which led to Neal —

& Tea — What would

you have if you hadnt

written Town & City? —

NOTHING — At least you

met Holmes, especially

Ed, & Tommy (they’ll always

be yr. friends) —

& now you know that you

must depend on yr. self,

& love the few who love

you, & try a disinterested

love of even yr. enemies,

but must work like

Joyce now, “silence,

exile, & cunning” —

All on your own

terms, in yr own intelligence

— Never mind what

Burroughs, or Ginsberg, have

to say about anything

— start by exposing them

all in your parable about

America: -

THE MILLENIUM

OF THE MEEK FELLAHEEN

Then work on “Vanity

of Duluoz” with

original ms. & all

new 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 FrenchCanadian

soul) — Compren tu?

Bon — commence —

Oct 28 ’52

The old cowboys of

1930’s pulp westerns were

always in river bottoms

eavesdropping on the rustlers

at late afternoon — the

Pajaro River in dry

California, brush, sand,

cow turds, trees —

ashes of old campfires —

Nowadays the wino

there realizes the old cowboy

must have had that

canteen of tequila forever

upended, the way things

are — Peeking thru

the brush at the doings

of other wino-rustlers

jacking off or cooking

pork & beans makes you

realize once & for all

the world is real &

pulp & pocketbook B

Movie magazines are

unreal — the late sun

on the cattle tracks, the

flies, the sad western

blue —

The flame of the

woodfire grows more profound

& mellow on the first

November nights, in

the caboose —

Remember that picture of

Edw. G. Robinson, a Bowery

bum drunk, visiting a

Class Reunion — saw it

with Pa — it’s as though

I, of the Pajaro Riverbottoms,

should attend the Columbia

Lou Little Reunion of

$6 a head & $4 for

game tickets — in

poor Halloween! —

Oh Soul —

“The trouble with me is that

outside my mind it seems

the world hasn’t got no

ass,” speech to Alumni,

Dostoeyevskyan, embarrassing,

significant

MANTELES PARA LA MESA

The poor little Mexican

gal in Calexico, writing

on Oct 1 1952 to Manuel

Perez in Watsonville whose

clothes & belongings I found

intact on the Pajaro levee

dump, wants money to

buy a tablecloth — can

you picture an American

woman asking money for

such a humble, useful

purpose — “unos manteles

para la mesa.” “Honey,”

she says, “dime porque no

me has escrito” — “tiene

tan . . . pensamientos para ti.”

She loves him — I am

wearing all his clothes not

knowing whether he’s alive or

dead - or in the Army?

I found several of her

sad letters on that dump,

in October, — in the dry

dust, just before the rainy

Season, —

Me: a man made to

stand before God —

Who is the Montgomery

Clift Stanford kid

reading Shakespeare in

the 12:30 local on

Oct 31 AM 1952

— what ignu? what

sonnets of his own?

does he realize Kerouac

is writing the Millenium

next to him, in workclothes?

OCT 31 1952

Evil dies, but good

lives forever —

The evil in you will die,

& your flesh with it, but

the good in yr heart &

soul will live forever —

Evil can’t live, good

can’t die —

Your angrinesses, impatience,

hassels, even that & your

shit, all — will die, cannot,

wills not to live; but the

flashes of sweet light will

never die, the love, the

kindness of hope, the

true work, joy of belief —

As for reforming others,

let them reform themselves,

if they can’t they were

meant to die; they

are barely alive now if they

can’t reform themselves tomorrow;

better a cleaner

of cesspools than a reformer.

Let every man

make himself pure as

I have done — that’s

the “reform” —

Work on your own soul —

experiment to see if one

man can be saved, as

the whole lot en masse

can apparently not —

on yr own soul first,

then the angels of

your soul, yr mother, your

wife (a new, good wife),

your children. If a son

or a daughter is bad,

throw it in the sea —

Your few good friends.

Cultivate yourself like a

flower; pull out weeds

like Cassady, Ginsberg,

Burroughs; accept the

nourishment of White,

Holmes: — water yrself

carefully — & keep your

flesh fit so as not to

burden the soul with

temporal strains & remove

that 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 in

relationships — but

kindness of hope inherent

in that what is good,

shall live, & what is

bad, dies — Your

flesh will be a husk,

but yr. soul a star —

The greatest & only

final form of “good”

is human —

Because intellectual

& intellectually willed

good & so conceptual

good is only a word —

“Almost” no hope in

relationships, means,

no foolish hope, but

true hope —

Everyone to his own

true work — There

is no good in work

which does no good.

Railroads, factories,

solve & give nobody

nothing, serve the

flesh only, at great

time & sacrifice, are

evil —

The true work is on

belief; true belief

in immortal good;

the continual human

struggle against

linguistic religious

abstraction; recognition

of the soul beneath

everything, & humor, —

Lights in the foggy

night are not necessarily

bleak & friendless, but

just lights (in fact to

light yr. way), & fog

from the necessary sea —

Stupid, fatuous men

are not necessarily

all stupid & fatuous,

nor all on the horizon,

nor completely devoid of

good, or hope — The evil

in them will die, the

good will live — Bleak

& friendless universe is

only one of several

illusions, the greatest &

only immortal one of

which is good —

Enough, the words to

this “idea,” or belief,

are limited, the combinations

to describe it

almost exhausted already

— Manifestations

of this in humanity, therefore

in your writing work,

are endless however —

This is the return of

the Will

Just the sight of the “snow”

under the locomotive, brings back

sweet light of the boy soul in

Lowell, the human earnest desire

to revisit Lowell this New Year’s

& soak up the sad hints of

the past in a grateful soul,

from just . . . “snow” — So

immortal love also hides

in things — talisman details

for the temple soul —

but soul, soul, soul, the

“details” is the life of

this 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 Lowell

on that gray day Mike

& I hiked to the quarry —

Kirouac will be like

that, gray, fated —

MONTREAL (in “taverne”)

Montreal is my

Paradise — &

they almost didnt

let me in —

Railroad restaurant Frisco

combined with Mexico

Fellaheen girls taverns

& Lowell — O

thanks Lord

N.Y.State

Crows are insane in

the mist — America

is thrilling on a gray

day, Quebec non —

America has histories

of wood & Robert

Frost fences —

McGillicuddy’ll

make his comeback —

The Canucks are

ignorant, vulgar,

cold hearted — I

dont like them —

No one else does —

Moreover Kirouac

has always been an

unpopular name

among Canucks, for

Breton reasons I

guess — something

hotheaded independent

& brilliant makes

yr paisan bristle

with suspicion —

Noel was a whole

chunk of suspicion

— I shoulda

spattered him in

the street

And that would

tear my clothes

break my watch no

thanks —

In America the

birch is grievous,

lost, rich, poetic

— the woods are

haunted — a meaning

was united in this

bleak — I know

the dead Dutchman

of Saybrook never

cared for the

name Kirouac —

but I have cared

for ye dutchmen —

It is my prerogative

to believe, in my

own way, in what

haunts my conscience

& fulfills my hope —

I know there’s nothing

down the line but

gray indifference, the

earth-covering excrescence

of mean men —

That I was born into

a beastly world with

all the traits in

myself — & God

will crown my head

with grave dung —

but I have sung

the pale rainy lakes

in this chokéd craw

of mine & will

sing again — &

mine enemies look

me in the eye

if they will, or

be still

The moon’s

dropping a

tired pious

drape

A Whitman song

of New England in

Winter! — the

coasts, the white

sprays of shipping off

N.B., the r.r. brakeman’s

eyes slitting in the

long New London dawn

— the covered bridges

of Vermont, tunnels

of love of old hay

rides in other harvest

moons — The shiney

snake in the bog,

the mad bongoeer

in the dark shore

of Nancy Point —

the blue windows of

mills, of Boston ware-

houses — Wink of Chinee

neon 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, but

return — Return, Holy Ghost

March 30 1953

PLANS FOR NEW WRITING

“Newspaper accounts”

of what happened, short

ones or long “novel” ones,

with moral theme . . . since

that is the final question,

do we live or die bleak.

— Fullscale explanations

in unpausing sometimes

hallucinated prose, of

these things, —

(No — continue with

Duluoz Legend)

Spring in Long Island

Not a blue sky clean

Spring but a mixed

new-haze day smelling

of faint Spring smokes

— a chill wind

makes washlines sway

— a gray horizon, a

radiant sun behind

clouds — in little

snake mottled trees

balls of Spring bole

hang like decorations,

wave —

Six million diesels

churring & vibrating

in the yards, waiting

for fueling — The

tenderness pale clouds

that in the exact

zenith mix with

the pale pure

blue — Among the

bushes the carpet of

caterpillar hair —

The basketball

players of the

open cement court

are wheeling &

whistling — a ball’s

suspended in air, a

Scandinavian sweatered

youth is stiffnecked

watching it, others

in attitudes of

twistback & turn,

“Ya-y-y-y” —

— gesturing, talking —

watchers have arms

on knees — a ball

is bounced —

A mother works

eagerly in this

orgone ozone

day pushing a

teeny child in the

park swing — She

wont throw him

down the airshaft

— she says “It’s

chilly here” —

Figures on the

plain of the park

in various throwings,

strollings, pushings

of carriages,

scufflings, the

graceful walk of

a beautiful young girl

who doesnt care —

How can an old

man like me

devour what she has,

it is a nameless

newness insouciance

& style as ephemeral

as gain, as heartbreaking

to see as loss

— as lost to

me as smoke

or the smell of

this day —

nothing there is

left for me, for us,

but loss — yet we

choke & gain after

races & rush &

nothing’s to come

of it but tick

tack time —

A little paper on

the cement is

just as glad

as I am, just

as won —

Young girls in Levis

with little asses,

little pliant waists

& ribs wrapt in

gray jacket coats, —

green skirts —

I see them walking

off with the huge

LIR R coal bunker

as their backdrop

— But yet I

aim to write books

believing in life How?

In the heat of my

blood it all comes

out & good enough

& like birth —

It still isnt

Spring, the wind

in my neck’s

not April’s,

March’s —

insistent, beastly,

knifing — Ah

cars! Ah airplane!

SKETCH

Behind big engine 3669

in the bright day of

San Luis Obispo the

mtns. of hope rise

up, treed, green, sweet

— a rippling palm

behind the pot steams —

the young fireman of

Calif. waiting to

make the hill up to

the bleakmouth panorama

plateau of

Margarita where

stars of night are holy —

I love Calif. more &

more — if everyone loved

it as I do, dear

abandoned Jack, they’d

all be here — This

rippling land was the

Pomo’s — There’s

a cool sea wind

this noon — With

F M Hill I’m going

now to swing the hill —

to learn — long after

Neal, & hopeless — a

strange estudiante

writer-brakeman

Only when that work

which oertops my

hopeless men-among

bones will save me

up & back to enthusiastic

inside

me personal need

breast —

The Pomo word for person is animal —

So they spoke to

spiders & hawks,

& thanked the

ground they slept on —

SK People in L I R R Station

Gray skies, man glances

at wrist watch, —

not people — big

bleak blackwater windows

of an upstairs Jamaica

loft with French blinds

rolled up matted at top

& bank building marble

or smooth concrete blocks

— does God care?

do I care?

Say What you Want or

Drop Dead

You’re the boss . . .

Move silently, serpent

Thru the crisscrossing swords

of afternoon

The shining grass

Move broadly, servant

0................................................0

Sign in Sunnybrae, Calif. : -

BAY PEST CONTROL

Our Business is Simply Killing

Man is to be a

Young animal not

an Old carbon copy

NEW!

Brand New!

Daydream Sketch

Neal & I are in Mex City —

buying tea off queers — we’re

in a hotel room — they

are very weird, young

dirty — The hotel is like

the Hunter, with 2 rooms,

2 bathrooms, $10 peso

a day & we’re in MC

only a week just for

weed & a few Organo

girls — Neal’s blasting

& rolling & bringing my

attention to the weirdness

of the boys “Dig them —

dig their lives, man — The

way they live — how they

hustle on that crazy Organo

street — look at their

clothes, their eyes — hee

hee, now dig him, see

they’re talking now, wondering

how much they oughta charge

us & the little one with

the curly hair & the

airforce wings on his

T shirt who’s just like

a little kid — he’s

hot for you, Jack — he

doesnt talk business, lets

old Mozano handle

that — ” & the

mothlike dense eternal

moment of a thousand

things — caught — I get

so hi I see the history

of nation, Indians, America —

“But Mozano’s not

interested in the money

either, he’s just anxious

for La Negra to enjoy

himself — he watches”

Add Achievements: -

Met Glenway Wescott

in the Kitchen

DEATH OF GERARD

Oil cups flaring in

the misty night, the sand,

the ditch in the street

with jagged concretes

of old making little dusty

ledges for little living

strange dusts that are now

blowing in the night —

the flicker of the

flares, the saw horses,

the sand piled —

somewhere on the mysterious

horizon of the suburban

nite like scenes in Mexico

City or Montreal &

equally Strange — equally

weird — equally & O

most hauntingly like

the little man with the

mustache, a strawhat,

a salesman saying he

is dying, the golden davenport

of his house at the

top of the street —

the wind from the river

cold & inhospitable,

dim lights in houses, creak

of pines, lost Lowell

in a winter night in

1922 & I am not

yet born but the oil cups

flare & smoke in the

night — little rocks on

the pile have eyes —

everything is alive, the

earth breathes, the

stars quiver & hugen

& drool & recede & dry

up & spark — no moon.

Black. Shuffling figure

of a man in a derby

hat handsapockets

going to the latticed

house, the kellostone

pine, the great soul

of my brother in

sadness hums over the

scene — Hear the

river hushing under a

load of ice — Smell

the Smoke of the dump

— the little man in

the strawhat is going home,

newspaper underarm, he’s

left the trolley at

Aiken & Lakeview, bot

a new Rudy Valentino

box of chocolates for his

wife for tomorrow night

Friday, I am

dying he said to

me in Eternity in

Montreal years later

& that afternoon Frank

Jeff & I took the 2

girls, sisters, to the

bleak roadhouse outside

Mex City & danced

to sad lassitudinal

Latin mambos & slow

tempos & tangos —

the rain came, outside

it was a pine, a gray

window behind brown

pink Mexican drapes

of decoration — The

hand drummers dreaming —

I saw the oil cup

flares of the construction

job at the middle of

Gregoire St. in Lowell

in a night before I was

born, the moths flying

millionfold around, the

dense happiness of

timeless reality and

angels — the incoming

soaring whirlwind

cloud of thoughts, eyes,

the whole shroud, the

Blakean wind &

the voice in the wind

saying “Ti Jean va

venir au monde, Il

va savoir le mystère,

il va savoir le mystère — ”

& at the foot of the

street the house where

the woman had an

altar in a room, whole

statue, candles, flowers,

this dame instead of

a TV had in & for her

sittingroom of settees

& kewpie cushions a

bloody sadness in

plaster, loss & vim

of kicking candle flames

hundreds darting to

the rescue in air

screaming pursuit of

lost atoms —

The mist of the night,

the river beyond, the dull

street lamps, the pit of

the universe not only like

the Mass. St of Mary

Carney in another room

of the Level Time but

(as dark, as fragrant)

like the night of

the dream of the crowd

playing leapfrog around

the racetrack with dice,

knives & interests

— in Denver, in

Shmenver, when silently

I a goof following

a cop who later turned

into a woman came

padding in my dusty

shoe of dreams, amazed

— the last gloom, the

last barn — horses? —

& in the rickety sad

immortal Now-house

the swarming vision parting

over the heads of

little children on the

bed & I’m singing

a saying — “Where’s

Neal?” — & that

little salesman sipped

his beer in Montreal,

put it down, adjusted

packages, said “Ben

j m en va chez nous”

“T’est t un vra

soulon — ”

“Ben weyon, parl

pas comme ca — On

dit pas ca — ”

“Aw — ” I was

sorry — “En anglais

en amerique — c’est

une joke — on dit — ”

And he said: “I’m

half dead anyway — I’m

goin to die soon” &

off he goes, 98 lbs.,

dark, blessed, off

into the spectral

Montreal night of

suburban streetdiggings

with oil cups, flares

illuminating sandpiles,

as the Angel bends

over, Gerard bends over,

leering sadly

in this night —

A great

unequivocal dog

Is all a wolf is

I am Mallarmé’s

grandchild

The locomotive comes swimming

thru the newsy city. In

a deep cut, houses on both

banks, full of living lights,

talk of families in eventful

kitchens. This is where I come

riding my Maine white horse.

A woman in a

Clipper berth foam-

rubber mattress being

served bkfast. in

bed over the jungles of

Ecuador —

she’s going down to Guayaquil

as an administrative

assistant to

some Aid deal — “to

help develop the economic

‘security’ etc. of

Indians — etc.” — plane

falls — her thots,

running, her whole life —

crash — she ends up

being treated kindly

in a dirty village by

sweet meek Indians

whom she fears — she

gets hysterical — her

husband comes to get

her & takes her back

to her bedroom in some

exclusive section outside

Chicago — she’s had

her taste of “Global

Democracy” “Anti-

Communism” & all that

highblown Time shit —

A movie idea —

She appears on TV

& you see her lie about

her “experience” —

Add to Sam Horn

the idea of modern

cowboys with Ford

Mercuries

Man, the terrible laugh

of those who think

themselves special

— élite — it

has a gory

hungry sound

lonely

dirty

Apr 28 ’53

San Luis Obispo

Blue 2 PM Sky

Mtns smoky

Growl of motor of

bigtruck on 101

Who cares

Everything is alive

the blue glass domes

on tphone pole

The skittering birds

Rippling palm leaves

Waving pine branches

Valley of hope pale

green with dark bushes

A completely pastless

man smoking a

cig in a dark

bedroom — fuck

literature! —

write like at 18! —

cracked insanity of

T & C years

esply 1948 —

enjoy — daydreams

Unbroken word sketches

of the subconscious pictures

of sections of the

memory life of an

imbecile genius resting

in the madhouse of his

mind — The word

flow must not be disturbed,

or picture forgotten for

words’ sakes, nor the

pictures stretched beyond

their bookmovie strength

except parenthetically.

Work from your own side of literature

& room fetish, not “publishing’s” —

It’s the Holy Memory

It’s the dinihowi of

Memory

It’s fit for dunes &

desert huts & railroad

hotels

Let them pick the story

out of the house of your

words, floor by floor, room

by 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 in

that you write what &

how you like, on spot

Present tense —

LIKE

The following Sketch

Late afternoon in San

Luis, the Juillard Cockroft

redbrick courthouse warehouse

building stands in the

profound 6 PM clarity

to the stwigger of all

the birdies — some of

the birds trill, some sing

like humans — a faroff

racing motor — the still

“suburban” trees — always

the rippling pine fronds,

the breeze — The green

pale grass mtn. with its

raw earth cut telephone

pole & scattered cows —

the green dazzle of

grayfence bushes — shadow

of a porch across the

leaves & whitened buds —

Moving shadows of bush

on white house — The

old Indian’s been

rubbing his antique

truck all day to get

the rust rid — now’s

inside working on

dashboard — That

sweet little cottage shack,

Southern style groundlevel porch,

purple flowers in a rock

front, little slopey roof,

broom, doormat, with a

TV in SJ fine —

PEOPLE

“What do you mean,

There are no people?

Isnt Hawk people?

Isnt Dove people?

And Rat

And Flint

And all the rest?”

— Jaime d Angulo

COYOTE VIEJO

My father in his dying

1945 year thought Danny

Kaye was funny — we’d

listen to the radio, go to

shows — how humble in

eternity can you get?

— We’d sit in the Ozone Pk

parlor on Fri nites listening

to the Pabst Blue Ribbon

Ads between Danny’s

jokes like O Really?

No O Reilly! —

& Hal Chase thot

Danny was funny too

& that too is a strange

humility in eternity

— that these gigantic

hearts shd. have latched

onto such a stale &

narrow clown —

& all for what?

— for waste of time —

I even used to

listen to Jas Melton,

dreaming of SERENADE

by James M Cain,

just as today I waste

time on boxscores, on

Philley’s last hit

or Greengrass’s

homer — or on

TV stupidities —

how mediocre everything’s

got since 10 years!

INTENSITY

Intensity must be all

Ripeness

Intensity is all

All night eager pale

face Chinatown talk

in eternity weary

mystery

Health is for clams

snails & shells

Intensity & sorrow

is for Geo Martins

of Time

For Zagg Big O’Zaggus

ALLEN G.

O Allen Dear Allen

Ah Allen Poor Me

Walked the streets of

Ee ter ni Tee

With me —

O Allen Sad Allen Ah

Mystery — Ah Me

Ghettos

East Sides

Denver Pigeons

Doldrums of Coasts

Suicides of Seas

& Hart Crane Sub

Sea Deities

And Corals & Shelves

Immemorial

Hallos

I have nothing to

say to ye

Except

Dont trod the wrong

tightrope

Weird Mind will wrassle

Thee

To a meet in the

Hole of Destiny

With an Angel White

as Heaven

Gold

Snow

Cobalt Pearl

And Fires of Rose

Then remember me

long dead.

WM BUTLER YEATS

Stormy mad

Irish Sea

Sex and bone

Cane pipe peat

Death stone

Constantinople

Dostoevsky of Machree

Patriarch of Mayo

Pard of Innisfree

Isle of Imagery

A.E.

James J.

Leopold Bloom

Curmudgeon Connaught

Patrick O Gogarty Bemulligan

Silt throat

LONG DEAD’S LONGEVITY

Long dead’s longevity

Coyote Viejo

Ugly un handsome old

puff chin eye crack

Bone fat face McGee

In older rains sat by

new fires

Plotting unwanted pre

doomed presupposing

Odes — long dead

Riverbottom bum

Raunchy

Scrounge

Brakeman bum

Wine cans sand sexless

Silence die tomb

Pyramid cave snake Satan

TOMBSTONE

I was a naive

overbelieving type

AMERICAN CIVILIZATION

Half wanting to live

Full having to work

Sketching is successful

but not fun — not

artistically absorbing,

like making jerky

or building a fire

or writing a

Cody Pomeray in

The Poolhalls

or sketching from the mad mind itself

The metaphysical mayor

broke down

That which has not

long to live, frets —

That which lives

forever

Is full of peace

And there is no man who’ll live forever

Here it is California,

little young girls going to

school in the fresh &

dewy sidewalks of sleepy

San Luis — birds are

noising up & down —

a mist sweetens the

mountains — the cool

sea beyond the hills

has been all night

& will be all day —

ever eating sand, creaming

rocks, washing worlds —

The rail is sticky, wet,

dewy — clean architectural

trains & perfect red &

black signals —

my life so lonely &

empty without someone

to love & lay, & without

a work to surpass

myself with, that I

have nothing nothing

to write about even

in the first clear joy

of morning — Today

May 5 1953 I’m

going to decide on my

next book — the

idleness is killing —

WILL to decide —

The pristine leader who

made & lost this house

has none of my sympathy.

In the desert there was

a sign that said

“SNAKE CHEF’S

DAUGHTER DOVE

XND

JOSEPH CHARLES BRETON

HERE RECOMMENCED

THE WORLD

FROM THE GREAT FIRE OF

JULY 1845

URP RAIN AGAIN”

though no one had seen

it except the father

of the later generation

Bretons, John.

“Urp what again?”

“Rain”

“What’s that mean.”

“Nobody knows Looks

like urp. It might

be something else.

It looks like Snake

Chef’s Daughter Dove.

It might be something

else.”

“When did you see

this sign? Why didnt

you bring it with you?”

“I saw it in 1895

with Uncle Bull Balloon

I didnt bring it I didnt

even touch it. That was

my father’s sign your

grandfather He was

given the name Silver

Fox by the Indians His

son his eldest son his

first was called Coyote

& is now somewhere in

the Mexican desert or

walking along a railroad

track in California

& known as Whitey to

the bums & Coyote

Viejo to the Mexicans

& has a flowing white

beard. That is your

uncle Samuel He is

I believe in the

Zacatecan Desert &

like a ghost.”

“How old were you in

1895?”

“How should I know?”

“How old are you now?”

“I ceased I dont

count any more I

ceased & deceased . . .

And that little hotbox

in yr car wasnt

even formed in yr

unborn brain cells

when I made my first

payment on this

farce — & you, but

just an idea buried in

dirt at the back of

my brain.”

“I remember Old

Jim when his eyes

were moist — ”

Sun Apr 26 SWING THE HILL

(The railroad is a steely

proposition)

Animals dont have pride

Men shouldnt — healthy

men have no peacock

pride

I’ve been imitating Gerard

in reverence since he

died — his death was

my one real tragedy

more than Pa — his

death my death — But

imitating & adoring him

I grew exclusive, special,

prideful, found Turf, later

“literature” to do in my room

— in fact life insulting me

because it no longer

included Gerard —

Get rid of pride

Get rid of sorrow

Mix with the People

Go among the People,

the Fellaheen not the

American Bourgeois Middle-

class World of neurosis

nor the Catholic French

Canadian European World

— the People —

Indians, Arabs, the

Fellaheen in country, village,

of City slums — an

essential World Dostoevsky

if you want to Gauguin on —

but mainly, fulfill yr.

needs, live, — sit staring

in the yard all day, if

the other men laugh at

you challenge them

& ask them if “you would

like it if I laugh at

you” — Screw, drink,

be lazy, roam, do

nothing . . . gather yr.

food — Get out of

America for good, it’s

a Culture holding you,

no Life — The People

of No Good & Evil —

of No Culture, no

Prophets — nothing but

essential politics & literature

as Tales of the People —

Gauguin practised a

neurotic civilization

impressionism among

primitive fellaheen

people — is his

art so good as they

say? — is it better

really than all-out

culture bourgeois dutch

come-&-honey Rembrandt?

— of course not — Impressionism

is & has always been

a breakup & compromise

in the art of picturing

nature & is now a

wild scatalogical paint

blur call’d Surrealism etc

Primitive art nevertheless

is closer to Surrealism

than “Naturalism”

(which is unnaturally technical)

— but primitive

art does not consider

Subconsciousness or

Primitivism — & is in

any case Decoration

for Utilitarian Purposes,

not so called “expression

for expression’s sake”

& the difference is

millionfold down deep —

Gauguin would have done

better decorating their pots

& boats — This humility

is the true artist’s —

& explains the vast

greatness of Bach writing

for the Sunday Service,

Raphael painting for

the church wall, —

the essential uselessness

of Goethe — Shakespeare

writing to fill the

theater seats — (a

shoddy purpose) —

Homer singing to his

listeners is the essential

fellaheen poet —

There are 3 basic

possibilities in fellaheen

Hunter, Priest, Warrior

The hunter has to be experienced,

the priest political, the warrior

mindless — I’ll have to

learn to be a hunter

The railroad is the hunt

in America, for me (&

Neal & Hinkle) — hunt

down the rail for bread —

I gotta learn many

essential things now

Hit my natural male

level after awhile —

It aint easy to get

away from the inworked

influence of Civilization

— which is an avoidance

of reality finding its

greatest symbol in

embalming fluid —

Sad that even the fella-

heen are stupid — want

radios & soap operas —

Thoreau made the 19th

century intellectual mistake

of reading the

Koran & the Bible instead

of following his

soul to ultimate . . . the

tales of creation among

the Indians & even

further the methods

of hunting & nomadry

— instead he pored over

the stale Goy Hatreds

of the Old Testament,

the aristocratic “middle-

class” Arabic cultisms

of Mohammed —

The People Need no

Religion, no Art, no War

A healthy man imitating

an invalid —

me imitating Gerard —

men imitating Christ

Cockless Christ —

Culture, & Civilization

its later millionfold

subdivision into

technicalities red tape

& by laws, is an

incredibly useless clutter

of substitutes for

sex & real life —

Anyone interested in

the million details &

sensations of a Culture

is interested in clutter &

is now (sic) longer in contact

with the Life Flow underneath

this junk & therefore

Neurotic &

Dead in Life —

Reich’s Orgone Box

doesnt compare to a screw

in the noonday sun — nor

Bogomolets’ serum

to sexual & therefore

spiritual (joie de vivre)

longevity —

Needs from the

earth bleeding — pulque,

cocaine, marijuana,

peotl, gangee, herbs,

woods, vegetables, acorns,

greens, & the rabbit

Remember that everything

is alive — the Spider,

the Rattlesnake, the Tree

Wish no harm &

none will come yr way

& tell it to the

world alive,

the Animal, the People

I shall become a

goatherd — goat

milk, goat butter, &

tortillas & beans

with goat cheese

And yet most of these observations

arise from the fact I

cant get a woman anyhow —

too “bashful,” too “scowling” —

Tho it would be hard

to surpass the profound

nostalgia of the smoke

of an American cigar,

you would have to surpass

it. — To find the

Fellaheen Reality

means to find a

primitive country life

with no morals —

Country life with

morals, as in North

Carolina, is the most

destructive life on

earth — City life with

morals offers a few

diversions more, nothing more.

Yet whenever I get the

most rigid & philosophising

& dualizing as now,

is when I most weakly

feel like reacting to

the allurements of

what I seek to cast

out —

I dont know when

this eternal dual

circle will end —

In 1949 it was

Homestead vs. Decadence

1951

Mexico City vs. Work in U.S.

1953

Fellaheen vs. America

Be decadent, work in U S &

Have a Fellaheen Homestead too

All is I want

Love when I want it

Rest when I want it

Food when I want it

Drink when I want it

Drugs when I want it

The rest is bullshit

I am now going out

to meditate in the

grass of San Luis Creek

& talk to hoboes &

get some sun & worry

where my soul is going

& what to do & why

as ever

& ever

shit

So that writing will finally

in me end up to be the

working out of the burden

of my education

for personal Surrealistic

self-therapeutic education-

burden time-fillers in

Agrarian & Fellaheen Peace

No radio TV education or

papers — a sombrero, a

mujer, goats, weed & guitars

I blame God for

making life so

boring —

Drink is good for

love — good for

music — let it

be good for

writing —

This drinking is my

alternative to suicide,

& all that’s left

And marijuana

the holy weed

It isnt anybody’s fault

that I am bored —

it’s the condition of

time — the burden

of putting up & filling

in with tick tack

time in dull dull day

— How humorous it

is that I am bored,

that it’s no one’s

fault, that time

is a drag — that I

would rather commit

suicide than go on

being bored —

Men are new creatures

not built for this old

earth — the lizard yes

The lizard lost all

his children long before

men began being bored

in this Eden of Harshness

Alcohol, weed, peotl —

bring em on — &

bring on bodies —

Why does the Indian

drink?

Because he never knew

how to make himself

drunk with weeds &

brews — only stoned

The carefully exposed

sipper’s bottle is

suddenly 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 tippling

forgiveness

WRITE IN SMALL PRINT WHEN YR. DRUNK

The charm of the original drunk —

Vermont — the mtns. of Manchester

& we all got drunk — Kids — tore

up trees — the earth got drunk with

us as I remember — weaving, swaying —

THERE WERE OUTCRIES***NASCENCES

OF LOVE***I FELL HEADFIRST

out of the car to greet the

ladies — GJ protected me

& goofed with me in the romantic

American starlit nite of

youth — G.J. — still great

is G.J. — huge-in-eternity GJ —

Goodbye, San Luis Obispo

July 1953

One of those downtown

Manhattan cobble corners

on a gray afternoon

given so much more gloom

to its already gloomy

dimness — the big

busy trucks of commerce

& even occasional horse

teams clattering & booming

by — The corner where

the old 1860 redbrick

now weatherbrick bldg

sags, with Mexican like

sagging black sad broken

sidewalk roof suspended

by bars attached to the

wallfront — it’s like

a vision of the old Buenos

Aires waterfront & beater

still & like the bleak

merceds of So America

but the heart of modern

sophisticated Rome-New

York — A rain of

plips & day-mosquitos

falls across the black

dank gloom of the

corner — profoundly hidden

within is an almost

unnamable man on

a crate bent & thought-

ful in the day dark

over his order book &

by mountains of

cabbage crates — The

gray sky above has a

hurting luminosity to the

eye & also rains with

tiny nameless annoying

flips & orgones —

life dusts of Time —

beyond is the vast

arcadium green Erie

pier, a piece of it,

with you sense the

scummy river beyond —

The West Side hiway,

gray, riveted, steel,

with automobiles crisscrossing

in the narrow scene

to destinations like

bright silver ribbons

North & South in the

city & no regard, no

time for the dark sad

little corner with its white

oneway arrow, blue St.

Sign (Washington & Murray)

leany lamppost, litter

of gutter, curb as if

pressed down by years

of trucks backing up —

The lone blue pigeon

trucking along, the

squad copcar stopping

momentarily to think —

a scene wherein in

some darkfog midnight

2 seamen stagger, or

an anonymous clerk

in rumpled July summer-

shirt hurries meek

with Daily News —

or by gray hot noon

of dogday August some

small merchant in

brown coat, whitehaired,

clutching a box underarm

slowly walks — on

late October afternoon

a rusted & forgotten spot

in the great joysplash

of Manhattan with

its glittering band

of rivers, ships exuding

booms, shrouds —

smoke, of railroads,

trucks, boom of time

Closer up you see the

actual pockmarked grime

of this sad Manhattan

scene, an old hydrant

with 2 black iron stanchions

beside it as if

obsolete ruins of old

water or horsetrough

equipments of 1870

when where you now see

Erie Pier’s green parthenonish

front was the jibbooms

of great sailing vessels,

the boom of wagon wheels

& barrels — Overwritten

doublepainted all-lost

writing friezing around

the crumbling warehouse

says BABE HYMAN & SONS

& also DAVE KLYDAN SPE

interwritten

On the 4th floor, corner

window, a black hall

where a pane of less

blackdusty glass is missing —

the 5th floor itself is

home of a savage

poet who lies on his

back all day staring

at cobwebs above,

fingering his beard only

to — poems on the

floor covered with dust,

black dust — his shoes

a half inch deep in

dust — not dead —

yes dead — a Bartleby

so beat that it

is inconceivable to see

how he can live much

more than 5 minutes —

The bldg. is for rent —

The sun comes out,

illuminating the cobbles

but the grim edifice stays

gray & wears the

aspect of the city’s

grave — There

is no poet up there, just

rats

& a few sacks

of nibbled-into onion

urg

LONG ISLAND WAREHOUSE

In the night it’s the

great sad orangeness

of lights shining on

orange backgrounds for

red letters, like a

sideshow poster

the colors but nothing

so flimsy or entertaining —

White creamy huge stucco

warehouse of Kew Gardens

movers, the back of the

bldg. has silent stairs

with no one on them

never at night if ever

at all, iron stairs that

lead to a green door

in the whiteness of the

stucco wall just by the

orange & red writing, huge

half seen half lit

picture of a truck,

Chelsea, moving

phone numbers —

territorial towers of

a inexistent Kingdom

that once lived but

had to be embalmed

to survive the ages

& but now in our

age finds itself

misplaced as a

moving company &

no one notices

the Algerian splendor

of those walls

ramparts creamyness

& disk Mayan

designs scrollpainted

by union brush saw

hacks on board

platforms hung up

& rolled by ropes

2.15 an hour but

not knowing the

Egyptian Kingdom

splendor of their

work now in the

misty Rich Hill

night, the

Proustian Goof of

that thing

Evening, aftersupper

evening in Richmond Hill —

the cool sweet sky is full

of fine little white puffs

separated angelically

in regular

— over the tree the

pink hint sensation white

is calm, the tree quivers

at the leaf — sweet

is the coolness, even the

filmy wire on my TV antenna,

the new transparent aerial

curve is cool, white, blue —

but in the sound & the

sensation the crickets

muscle whistle, others

repeat the idiot creek

creek from denser yards,

cats lap & lick,

bugs hover, night breathes

sweet soft vastness

into heaven —

the motionless green

grass is like iron, chlorophyll,

Chinese, densely

personalized, rugged, almost

pockmarked, rich, as

if chewed — hanging

pajamas & rugs on

lines move majestic

& slow in a cross

movement, now they

hustle a little up —

flowers blaze in their

own radium world —

in night they aureate

to no human eyes

unseen magical darts

of prismatic Violet

light, for mosquitos

to whir in front of —

Huge purple transparent

phosphorescent night

fall now pinks the

white page of life,

faces lost in hate

& personal pitbottom

dislikes, hasseled heavy

footed too-much-with

himself man fawdling

in yards of pride,

whining at the dogs

of time, overhead

groans the airplane

of his far reached

folly —

and so the crickets

creek, cree, cree —

eaves darken & get

inky gainst whitened

dusk — the pale

dawn dusk clouds

move not but silent

in a mass advance

somewhere slowly —

it was in evenings like

this I’d lie in my skin

& jeans in California

waiting for the Apocalypse

& for Armageddon,

ready, head on lamp,

feet in big shoes,

pants tight, wallet

hanky knife tight,

no money no home

no need but a can

of beans & the

responsibility of engines

on the sticky steel

rail — As now the

grape of that

California Wine spread

in the West, shooting

phosphor glory over

the Come of the

World — The

green weeds like

with glaze on them

tough skin as now did

communicate with

me a vegetative

friendliness

Mardou’s — the gray light

of Paradise Alley falls

down the draining gray stained

wall with old gray paint

churred windows, outside’s

the scream of a little

girl — The hum big buzz

city flowing in by thousandmoth

waves — The

silence of Mardou’s

clothes, the water bottle,

rumpled bed — face

American goofing in

sheets — little sweet

sad radio — Love

shoulders of Mardou

Little tree & bush buds on

the screen outside — some

are dead little dry ravelled

quiverers in a dry void —

some almost that way

but still organically

vine likely tangled by strings

of green life to the twig

bough of the bush & will

receive their comedownance

come October soon —

some still green & juicy

lifed, twirled lifelikely

around on a yellow

Lonestem to droop in

the August sorrow of

peace & gas fumes from

hiway — some twig

ends are so small almost

unseeable & bear nothing

but dead leaves who not

only sucked it dry but

had taken a chance &

pitched a mansion of

life there but father-

twig missed, castrated,

cancered out & done

did die so now it’s a

pale Indian sticklet

with rorfled dood

leaves bup to dooded

no-life & shake to

quiver of earth on a

general bush bearing

no relation to world

— insignificant, skinny

as sticks in graves —

the big healthy deep

green leaves have et

up all the juice of the

bush, they spring from

elastic stems straight

from the gnarly roothowa’d

bough bone of

the bush-proper &

shake to the wind with

heavy weight & thru

then see the pale

day light in veins

absorbed to suck

blushing phosphor greens

like chlorophyll

— the one recently

stillgreen deadleave

dangling on a broken stem —

East River

The old blackgarbed

watcher of cities sitting

on the Live Oak Jim

NewYork barge in the

dry cool afternoon —

watching tugs warp in

finished excursion boats, river

tankers, barges pass —

his interest in the river,

the names of Tug Captains

& Excursion Steamer deck-

hands, the arrival &

departure of great

ocean going orange masted

like the Waterman

Liberty today docked

at Jack Frost Sugars

across the river in L I City

— This old guy, with

whitefringe hair around

baldspot but wearing his

black soothat, sits on

the bit on the swaying barge,

smoking, — to him the

city & the world is such

a different thing as it is

just across the Drive in

Bellevue Hospital where

in density of world interest

now gloomy psychiatrists

consult with patients &

aint interested in the sun

on the river, the free

gulls floating in the

sleepy tide, the

gay littleboats,

but in problems of

marriage & emotional adjustment

& all such dark,

gloomy, indoor preoccupations

& with such contempt for

those like those on the

river who dont interiorate

with them in this Byzantine

Vault of Mind Horror —

the walls of Bellevue,

dirty rosebrick grim beneath

shining purities of clearday

heaven, the ink of

the windows, the soot

darkness of the bars in

the windows, the formidable

mass & camp

& hangup of the

great structure — & only

beyond, above the white

clean modernisms of a

new bldg. N.Y.U. Medical

Science bldg. there rises

the screwpoint phallus

Empire State Building with

his new TV French

tickler on the end,

clouds of lost hope,

sweet, impossible, pass

behind it high, there

the interests of millionaire

corporations high above

the tangled human streets

— old Live Oak Jim

aint interested in but just

the river & that

Lehigh Valley barge

with the 2 cuts of cars

being loaded, meeting of

railroad & seawater rail

to railpoint in the

actual workingman

afternoon of the real

world — And yet

above all, the mystery,

Live Oak Jim really is

an old ex Bellevue

mental patient, flipped

in ’33, knows it well,

has his back to it now

in studies of his river,

— now’s inside napping,

his brother is a lawyer

in the Empire State Bldg.

Black Tanker

Gloomy black tanker

being tugged in, the gray

superstructure as tho they

hadnt in 10 years yet

scraped the war paint

camouflage off, the

blue stack with white

“T” — the black

sinister hull, — “Michael

Tracy” — deck gang

chipping hatch covers

upstood — stewards

huddled at stern in

idiot white, watching

waters — “I’m

gonna git drunk

tonight!” In from

Persian Gulf

New York Panorama

The UN Building with

white marble side, little

laddrs of workers strung

up the side — Queensboro

Bridge with archaic

pinpoint boings & big

superstructure with

minute traffic & looking

Chinese in the

sod besoiled soot

stained cleanpale

lateafternoon sky —

the river tide swells

& is somber below

the sad slow parade

of truckforms & car

insects inching to the

Eternity — In Long

Island City antique brewery

red oldbuildings like

Jamestown in 1752,

steeples, wine red ware-

house pier, orange clean

stacks of ships —

1837 written on a huge

grim dirtybrick gallow-

house nameless iron

rack cluttered warehouse

— lost unknown blood

brick factories spewing

smoke — behind them

other smokes of further

dim cement rack

factories pale & vague

as dawn in the pale

worm of the sky —

rosy clouds above — like

off the coast of Manzanillo —

Subway Sensations

Smell of burnt nuts

in the power of the

car & the aromatic

almond dusts of the

tunnel — Growling

whine of the shurry

moveahead car as

it balls from one

station faster light-

flashing to another

till wasting the

brakes crash to

stop & the whine

amid knocks &

wheel bumps lowers, till

the stop, the doors,

the bump, the

restless churry churry

wurd wurd wurd of

the power as it waits

to resume — cars

swaying, vestibule swaying

— The switch

point ta tap too boom

like a song crossing

another track on

bumpy parts of

track — The Mexico

cafeteria tile of

station walls — the

start-up again, the

growing whur of the

power to fly another

black halfmile with

smashing crossings of

posts & dark reelby

of pipes, lights,

concrete curbs, darkness,

Egyptian mummy niches,

— till the station

again,

the “Quick

Relief Tums And

Indigestion” sign

MY MOTHER’S FRENCH CANADIAN SONGS

TI SAUVAGE NOIR

C’est un ti savage noir-e

Noir tous barbouillez wish-té

S’en vas’ t’ a la rivière

C’éta pour se baigner wish-té

Tou-ma-né-got-a-wilta

wilta

Tou-ma-né-gét-a-wilté

wilté

Manégé — wish-té

De la premiere-e plonge

Le savage a chanter wish-té

De la second-eplonge

Le savage c’ai baigner wish-té

Tou-ma-né-got-a-wilta

wilta

Tou-ma-né-gét-a-wilté

wilté

De la second-e plonge —

Le savage s’ai baigner wish-té

De la troixieme plonge

Le savage c’est noyer wish-té

Tou-ma-né-got-a-wilta

wilta

Tou-ma-né-gét-a-wilté

wilté

ÉLANCETTE (sung fast) (Caughnawaga Indian)

Élancette me tonté (Song)

Ma ka hi

Ma ka haw

Baisser

Ma ka hi cawsette

O bé go zo

Ma gou sette-a

BUTTER SONG

Encore un ti coup

Ça raidit toujours

Vire la manivelle

Mamoiselle

Mam-selle-a

Encore un ti coup

Ça raidit toujours

Vire la manivelle

Mamoiselle

Ç’est tous

New York tenement

window sill, they want to

hold nature close to their

lives, they have pathetic

little pots with dead

roots & stems — One

tiny earthen pot sits

in an asparagus can,

its produce is 2 stems

with dry dead leaves

fawdling houseward &

as tho falling in —

Another clay pot

has a completely just

died green that has

shot up & then

down to die on the outside

at the base of the pot

the stem completely bent

& despairing — Two nameless

blackpainted tin cans,

small ones, former frozen

orange juice cans, with

just dry white earth in

em — A larger black

can with nothing in it —

A tiny new-shining clay

pot with a little

fwit hollow stalk

like dead cornstalk

sticking out — Another

clay pot with a

sprig of last Autumn’s

dead leaves torn with

a stem from some

tree it would seem —

One final jar with a

kind of scallion looking

green growth the only

live thing in the sad

window the sill of

which is incredibly

chipped dry slivery

wood painted onetime

sick blue — the

window frame sick

green — The inside

wall bilious yellowish

with stains — the

outside wall of the

building at that point

out in the back alley

a kind of stucco cement

with gaps showing

underneath concretes

— the sill’s outer

extremity is a slab of

rock — Here in the

hot dogday last days

of August the windowsill

hangs in bleary reality

meaningless with cans

& dry roots beneath

an open unwashed windowpane,

clutters of

wrinkled huskleaf that

suddenly jiggle in a

breeze —

The person who has it

is off to work, his

handiwork window in

the great symphony of

NY throws one mite

little note into the

general disharmonious

irrationality of the

world & its world city,

as pathetic as a

job, useless as tightlipped

mute unhappiness

of people rising on rainy

Sunday afternoons to

their further tasks of

carrying the burden of

time to a conclusion they

cannot know & would

not want to know

if they knew — the

junk in the window

is like a young woman’s

disappointed eyes on

a rainy Sunday, in the

draining dank gray room

of tenement life, her

sad feet shiftless, the

hang of her thoughts,

the angel of gray

brooding reality, the

Guardian Angel over

her sorrow, over

her little humilities

as humble as clay pots,

modest as dead

stalks & fallen vines,

— as strange & somehow

pathetically sweet as

those little frozen O J

cans painted black

by concerned hands

in a moment of

serious press-lip’d goof

in this Open Void

World forever so

nostalgic with the voices

of men

singing

for nothing & all lies —

idealistic lies of love —

“Men are tricky-tricksy”

— D. H. Lawrence, a

facetious Englishman who

stumbled on a serious truth

about love.

“Yr. mainspring is broken,

Walt Whitman.” —

Whitman should have lived

so long to hear an

irrelevant English tubercular

snarl thus at him as at

a cocktail party in

Manchester

“The Mystery of the Open Road”

or

“The Road Opens”

Great quote from D H

Lawrence whom I just

castigated & 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 you

belong — ” D. H. Lawrence

in “Studies in Classic

American Literature”

... on Whitman ...

The thing that eludes —

the working walls of

America, the dry yards,

the nameless meeoos

and micks you hear in

the night as if cats

were being bitten —

The endless decision of

streets.

like when he waded thru

that New Mexico flood &

lay down soaking in a

raw old gondola, trying

to light fires, & the

water all around the

boxcars of the

drag

Bring Visions of Cody

to Cowley

Sunday Night TV

Ed Sullivan looking at

audience with big dumb

nod as they applause

young girl singer with

sexy female laff —

audience applauds as

Ed inveigles them

further, says “Tremendous

job” — long-

faced serious facing

Sunday night millions

as my mother in

kitchen bends tongue on

lips tying her garbage

bags carefully from

roll of strong brown

twine, she pauses momentarily

to see TV

set from the side with

an expression of

skeptical peering curiosity

— “T’s a

Nigger?” when a

baritone comes on, with

huge voice, she

comes up winding string,

says, “S got a

good voice huh?”

as outside in America

cars gleam dully in

the August heatwave

Sunday night of

humidity no breeze,

the trees hanging leaves

still as stone, airplanes

passing in the overhead

Long Island softness &

the Negro is singing

“Because,” little mustache

touching almost his nose

as he says — “to

me” — clasping hands

to finish, little hanky

in suitcoat —

MY CAT

Kittigindoo sits

on his haunches on the

cement drive in the

shade turned half

around listening — he

now with pricking

ears is looking up at

house windows, eyes

green & dissatisfied

— when I call him

he is in a

trance looking strait

ahead & his ears

prick & he moves

his little mouth —

Sometimes he hangs

his head & sulks with

muscle neck, then

yawns, then moves

slowly tail a-

poppin — He loves

to eat & lick his

chops & paws — He

moves with the majesty

of a gigantic tiger

only to sit again,

lick at his paw &

look up — I wonder

how he makes the

afternoon, the day,

the time of life

& its whole long

burden there with his

tail & paw lickings

& chest nibblings &

cheek-diggings-with-

foot & neck-workings

with lowered tense

body right paw

supporting him — how

he overcomes boredom

& the burden of time

even in his 8 year

lifespan (which is

so long).

His isolateness in

the world, the

ripple afternoons —

little shadows of

windows at his

soft white feet,

the dumb pricking

rueful realizations

he has crossing the

green span of his

eyes & the lowered

pause & male wonder

of the Fall, the

consternation of

lookup, the chew

on claws with gritting

greek teeth, the

long contemplative

lick on long upheld

back leg —

The green eyed

slit & stretch of

forepaws & back

up, y-a-w-w —

Mangy, he keeps workin

on that ear of death

— I noticed in

him seeds of mange

last winter on my

poetry desk (MAGGIE

CASSIDY) — Now he

regardant reclines

to continue the day

in the breeze &

sweetness, clear

time opes around

him, unperturbed he

flicks his sore ear &

mulls, rumes, moons,

mokes, mulges with

himself the long

dread afternoon that

old humans kill with

beer or cubab —

the honest innocent

clean all suffering

cat, no kicks or

drugs available his

supple sad body,

just lies there

waiting for the

end of his 9 years

or 5 years — waiting

without comment,

complaint or companion

— licking

his fur in the bleak,

with no expression —

listening, pricking,

watching, waiting,

cleaning himself for

the Day of the Lord

O Smart Not

Crazy!

Saturday Afternoon Window

Bugle bubble blower —

freckled kid bubbling —

Sad lill blue yellow

rubber wallet —

Bldg. blocks half inch

thick — “Junior Architects”

bldgs blocks —

Star Stamper,

lill girl stamping *’s

Lil pickaninny penny

dolls with safety pin,

cloth, lil red cherry lips

in black face — Lil

plastic bulldozers —

Tiny Tim bicycles —

Nickles Dimes Quarters

Amt. Dep. cash register

plastic black —

Nameless old halloween

fluff papers — baby

carriages big as yr thumb —

Lil boy in jeans &

stripe jersey whistles

Pop Goes Weasel

at this window — Plastic

tiny oldtime locomotive, —

— Bronx prrt’ers

saying Japan —

Plastic bags of

dull samesize marbles —

Sad goggles with garter

holders & canvas —

Play money $25,000 bills

— ray guns — rubber

guns — big

pearl handle champ

guns — rubber cigars —

rings with monkey

on face — Italian

tenor singin somewhere —

Rubber Knives — (black

handle silver blade)

Solar Commando Gun

with Darts —

Handcuffs of little

tin & boy

policemen with

captain badge &

whistle — Sad

plastic flesh pale

lil doll falling back

naked in a brown

paper box with

a tiny mouth

harmonica “Robin”

— Fishing hooks,

“You land the big

ones every time with

Ole’s Genuine

Fishing hooks fashioned

by experts of

Finest tempered

steel, specially imported”

— Plastic

lil Space Ship, &

imitation lead Space

men — Jump ropes

with red wood

grips —

Expensive Nin toy

dish set — cups

& saucers, spoons,

with sad lil yellow

designs braided on —

Tiny pushdown

tops priced in

black 19¢

& shows lil boy

kneeling in toy

colors in lost

void —

Volga Inn Music

Ez tu p a va

tez - tomata

- tomata —

Ami topy oll

mayay —

Ena oo ee

Peñooti ma

ya govin

Oora pey

(Meanwhile night in

its October form soft

as Indian silk

slink in the door

dark, glitters of

New York night be

saddening & showing

where leaves do

jiggle & bloss bluff

on boughs’ come Autumn

“dominant” doom

— King Size

first in Sales!

First in Quality!

First in Good Taste,

— there’s yr iron

bars of the park

shine shadowing on

the cobbles of

the oldworld tired

street — There’s

the halo lamp

making seen the

goldhair backnapes

of Jacky O Hara’s

bestlastfirst

doll — Minnie

Gallagher —

& that sensation

in the pricking gut,

of winter, rivers,

ships, aye ye

green city &

grand land onrolling

it —

Hail Hail the

Gang’s all Here,

in Polka, bruits

in the juke —

oonyateez tey

ayetez with

muddy boots’ been

done

3rd Ave Bar

4 PM the men

are all roaring like

the EL in clink

bonk glass brassfoot

barrail ’where ya

goin’ excitement —

October’s in the

air, is the Indian

Summer sun of door

— 2 executive

salesmen who been

workin all day

long come in

young, welldressed,

justsuits, puffing

cigars, glad to

have the day done

& the drink comin

in, side by side

march in smiling

but there’s no

room at the roaring

(Shit!) crowded

bar so they stand

2 deep from it

waiting & smiling

& talking —

Men do love bars &

good bars shd. be

loved — It’s full

of businessmen,

workmen, Finn

MacCools of Time

— beoveralled

oldgray topers dirty

& beerswiggin glad

— nameless truck

busdrivers with

flashlites slung

from hips — old

beatfaced beerswallowers

sadly upraising

purple lips to happy

drinking ceilings —

Bartenders are fast,

courteous, interested in

their work as well

as clientele — Dublin

at 4 30 PM when

the work is done,

but this is great

NY, great 3rd

Avenue, free lunch,

smells of Moody

St exhaust river

lunch in road

of frime by-

smashing

the door, guitarplaying

long sideburned heroes

smell out there

on wood doorsteps

of afternoon drowse

— but it’s N.Y.,

towers rise beyond,

voices crash

mangle to talk

& chew the

gossip till Earwicker

drops his load —

Ah Jack Fitzgerald

Mighty

Murphy where are

you? — semi bald

blue shirt tattered

shovellers in broken

end dungarees

fisting glasses of

glisterglass foam

top brownafternoon

beer — The El

smashes by as

man in homburg

in vest but coatless

executive changes

from right to

left foot on ye

brass rail —

Colored man in

hat, dignified, young,

paper underarm,

says goodbye leaning

over men at bar

warm & paternal

— elevator operator

around the corner —

& wasnt this

where they say

Novak the real

estater who used

to stay up late

a-nights linefaced

to become right

& rich

in his little white

worm cellule of

the night typing

up reports & letting

wife & kids go mad

at home at ll

PM — ambitious,

worried, in a little

office of the Island

right on the street

undignified but open

to all business &

in infancy any

business can be

small as

ambition’s big —

pushing how many

daisies now? &

never made his million,

never had a drink

with So Long GeeGee

& I Love You Too

in this Late afternoon

beer room of

men excited

shifting stools &

footbottom rail

scuffle heel

soles —

Never called Old

Glasses over & offered

his rim red nose

a drink — never

laught & let the

fly his nose use

as a landing mark

— but ulcerated

in the middle of

the night to be

rich & get his

family the best

— so the best

American sod’s

his blanket now,

made in upper

mills of Hudson

Bay Moonface

Sassenach &

carted down by

housepainters in

white coveralls

(silent) to rim

the roam of his

once formed

flesh, & let

worms ram —

Rim!

So have another

beer, topers —

Bloody mugglers! Lovers!

Crazy Old

Homehouse of

the Sea

& Drowse Afternoon

At 28th St

& East River

— the great

seagoable hull

of iron is mossed,

in green at the forever

water line — The anchor’s

unrusted, gray, white

bars, balls — unused

— Ah the

wood sides & hall

windows & Navy

contests inside —

the dormitory row

of it! — the

madhouse barnacled

paint fleckchip’t

gull shadowed

bulk huge of it!

the pissing shovel

scupper — voices

in the helm, ghosts

of Billy Budd, old

EastSide dreams,

the blue Navy

flag — the

side doors & open

Dawiovts

Handel French

joywindows of

winter it!

— preliminary

worrying draft &

study of it!

Something sad, Whitmanian

& Navy-like —

gulls — that same

afternoon hotdrowse

of gulls & slapwater

dream I noticed

in 1951 getting sea

papers & 1942

too — the Melvillean

youth dreaming in

sea pants, at

his clerical dockside

work — with night

to come — the

Turkish bath madnight

& cunts

in parks — The

house where all

the sad eyed

Okie sailorboys

in T Shirts

madly sleep

— The long

dream eternity and

afternoon madhouse

solemnity of it!

— the long planks

& Colonial windows

on the actual water

of the living

(When the H bomb

finally hit NY

one afternoon the

first living act I

saw was a man

surreptitiously pissing

while lying on his

side)

Dream Sketch

Some doctor is talking

to us about the guy

who broke his leg

clean in half —

we’ve just seen

him hobbling around

with a curious limp,

some old guy not

Neal — “He’ll

walk alright in a

few months but

come 55 & 60 &

it’ll reappear &

be pronounced —

the nerve is

affected when you

snap yr leg clean

in half like that!”

— I think of

Neal & the hobble

he’ll have at 55

Paradise Alley

October in the

wash hung court —

wash pieces flip & kick

in the cool breeze,

on the radio’s the

excited World Series

voice & the name

Ally Reynolds

(secretly smiling Indian

padding back to

dugout) —

airplane drone above

in the buzzing world

afternoon of Lower

East Side — someone

whistling — hone buzz

hum of Vibratos Manhattoes

in Million

blowers humming in

the Void Wait Time

— kids battering, yelling

— a little red wagon

hung from a hook —

a moan, nameless

speetz, the rack of

French blinds being

pulled — October in the

Poolhall, the clack of

a sodapop box no

balls click till big

dense swarmnight —

all this so well &

good — Somewhere a

motor straining —

nylons waving — a

crazy inside-deep

high thin Porto Rican

monkey rapid

woman chat blattering

“Yera mera quien

te tse que seta . . .”

Too independent to go

be begging at

anybody’s ports

for more than a

month

Plucking at

Her ha! — harpstring

To whom rapture

means

rupture

Oct 13 1953

Applied for job at

Jersey Central — offered

ground switchman

job, stand in cold

winter lining

switches & sending

kicked or humped

cars rolling down

various tracks — bleak

— healthy —

$100 every half —

4, 5 days a

week — Plenty kicks

with Mardou, plenty

jazz, wood for

fireplace & dig the

big NY this winter —

Spectral Ole

Jersey Central is

like the SP

at 3rd & Townsend,

right on water where

rail meets river —

sea actually —

now I have coffee

in JCRR lunchroom

& remember 1951

Xmas the Harding

at Am Pres Lines

Pier — etc. —

A barge graveyard

outside J Central

yards — NY Skyline

of Wall St high &

serene in pristine

October afternoon —

October sits

golden on the

iron old wood &

white gulled

rivers — The

Statue of Liberty her

weatherbeaten green

beak close looming

over sunk barges,

pier, masts, in

spokeless blue —

ferns ghost swiftly

in the channel —

excursion lowboats —

This old barge teeters

at angle, abandoned

coverless stove, stovepipe

still in, still a lot

of dry dust coal,

table, colorlost

chair — the barge’s

bottom is sunken

mosquito hive &

tenement of beams

bird limed &

boards flowing in

tarn, the tenement

of gulls!

unspeakable hidden

home, they all

flap flocked when

they heard me

crank up the board

plank — Big

iron black bits

still solid in barge

deck — The broken

barge deckhouse is

like shacks under

Denver viaduct last

summer — instead of

weeds, tarns of

green bilge slime

& one old soaked

mattress of gray

— chick gug gug

Keree Keree of

some crane motor

nearby, insistent calls

of tugs — I saw

shrouds freighters

standing in the Bay

— harbor — The

S of L, her back,

her torch upheld

to a smoky uncaring

strife torn waterfront

striking Brooklyn —

Barnacled gulled

piers standing in

low water as the

old piles of

ancient Princeton

Blvd Lost Generation

roadhouses with river

porch dancefloors &

oldtime lamps with

tassels & beer of

yore — October’s

little falling white

puffs from giant

weedfields —

Jerseyward the

gloomy men in rubbage,

the smoke of

old switch pots,

industrial & sometree

horizons in the

October Gold —

I’ll live on the

West Waterfront,

— be Wolfe

— on a day like

this exactly 12 years

ago I grabbed

her golden cunt the

moment she jumpt

into the car in

Manchester Conn. —

I was 19, horny,

October Gold was

on the hill then

too — Oil

in a map trance

slowly passes,

pockmarkt shit

with it — a

ruined submerged

bedspring like the

dump in Lowell

a giant 20 foot

plank moves over

like a long dead

snake waiting

for the sea —

— warm sun,

peaceful distant

smokes maybe of

hospital boiler rooms

— nameless faroff

yowls of trains —

Swaying newbarge

orangepainted

— the great ships

fatbottomed crooked

stern strange at

the foot of Manhattan

bulk

walls — the mystery

of their world going

hulls slightly slanted

& tied up at the

doorsteps of Time

& the World City

— Good God

the great ocean

one way sparkling

wine white to dry

red Spain sunrise

to come —

& all the green

harvestland t’other

way, to other San

Joses — other yards —

blam! be-krplam!

the running slack

sk-c-l-to-clank

of a cut being

rammed or braked

& I saw the yard

brakeman riding head

high in mid air

over emptyreefer

lines — The

rusty playwheels

of the railroad all

waiting for me Ah

The long blood dozes

3 POEMS OCEANS KISS

Oceans Kiss in

Land that lips

Encompass with suck

Of love Immortal

Under the moon

Of America sick

And pale blond

Ashen tuberculosis

In Sanatoriums of

Colorado

Far in the Wild

Essential Indian

DAWN

Dawn’s gray birds

Herald hoppéd Angels

Broken-backed

From fucking all night

With San Remo

Queers Intense

And Eager to learn

The latest Literary

Avidity — Came

Chirping to Envision

Horror, Teach it to

The Millionaire in

The Rail road Hair

OOPS

Poets were Glad

When Success a Smile

Sent Wine-like

Smile Warming

Their way but when

Dross Failure Rain

& Doom of Exciting

Gray Day Coal Chutes

Enveloped Again

They thought they

Had to Go to Work

Instead — a

Successful American

Let us see which of

these leads writes best

in the softly applied lap

touch originated in 1912

by Swim Ward B. Thabo —

President of the Acme

Industrial Foundation

makers of Corsets for

Model T Fords in the

Nebraska Primavery —

For by applying the light

touch in the manner which

you see here prescribed

something of the Primavery

is retained & pre

served like Pen

shades

“Sketch” Sunday Afternoon NY

The great bulk of Wall

St you’d think’d make

the lower tip of Manhattantoes

sink is rising pink as

salmon on the edge of the

blue mouth harbor waters

as you see it from the sad

Jersey Central Ferry — about

4:30 PM, long sorrow rays

hide between the cold

uncaring-of-human walls

of Wall St but there’s a

heart beating in the rock

somewhere — in the

breasts of little girls coming

on the ferry in little

ribboned hats & lacy

drawers & Go to Communion

shoes their eyes avid wild

to see the big world & learn

& to understand how their

happiness is to be secured

from the Macrocosmic Stone

of Awful Real, how at

least they can adjust to

it just as the dying fish adjusts

itself to the swerve

& swerveback of the waves

— awright so we’re all

gonna die but now is the

time to sing & see, to be

humble, sacrificed, late,

crazy, talkative, foolish,

mailteinnottond,

crawdedommeeng,

all the cross megoney’s

& followsuits to be

mardabonelated or Bug,

— they’ll be saying you

lost yr touch & you’re only

a one day old Balzac

on Sun Oct 18 1953

balls

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 in

a wicker basket crib

& parked on dusty skinny

wheels at that long gray

concrete garage with edible

looking blockstones creme

puffed & as if puddinged

to cook & eat & unforgettable

in the One Reality,

the sun has warmth in

it (& the single twick

of a little November

bird hid in the twiggish

branch on the other

side of the cool

redpink lateday

air) — & I’m swaddled

to the eartips in pink

Fellaheen swaddling clothes

with rose cheeks & poor

morf mouth muxed to

see the day — a drone

of 1922 Fall airplanes

in that unrecoverable bleak

& the river’s old man

in the valley bed wailing

arms out elbowed to

swell the muff of

shore aside & on, carrying

junk fenders to

the cundrom’s drowned

immaculate cove

of oil sticks under

the Boott mill door

walls where eyes of

drowned boys mix with

ink rags & sweat of

dye vat devils with aged

mothers at home dependent

& enduring like yon

sadchild in basket the

wait of the late red

afternoon to see what

Paradise will bring — the

sun fairly warm, the

air cooling to supper —

the pines scenting toward

winter where black

sledders will swirl

the dizzy sticks

in traceried Netherlander

fields & I shall see

Gerard float down

pinkhappy to yipe in

the few-year’d

mystery of his days,

Nin behind him — the

heat of the faint red

sun on the garage wall,

on my basket, & I

lay in T like awe

eyes fixed on the incredible

immortality

of fadebrown almost

pink clouds salmoning

motionless in their

singed Nov. blue —

simultaneous with voices

from a passing car &

the croo croo ack sudden

yark yipe bark of

a big pup attendant

on some turmoil in his

sight & part of plain,

so I lie there (& far

off now, antique fire

crackers of last July

of back fart of pipes

of trucks or torpedoes

on rr track, echoing

far, like skaters near

Lakeview Ave. ) —

all Lowell waits,

the Kingdom, all

earth, for the babe’s

comprehension — for

someday I shall be

king, & lord over the

hollows & corridors

of my mind in

divine memory’s

sincere recall

Prince of my own Peace

& Darkness — cultivator

of old soils for

new reasons — here

comes my mother, the

basket quivers to

roll — the wheels do

sweetly crunch

familiar Autumnal

dry ground of little

leaves & dry sticks

of grass & flattened

containers & cellophane

crumples & coal pebbles

& shinyrocks & dusty

old graydirt scraggles

pebbly gritty like

the living ground I

would get to see 3000

miles & 30 years later

in the railroad earth

of California — home

we roll to supper —

I see a redbrick wall

before returning little

face to final pillows

so by the time I’m

undone out of the basket

& put to bed in the

house I’m asleep &

dont know & the

world goes on without

me, as it will

forever soon —

My sweet Father

with sincere eyes &

out stuck ears is

in a tight dark

suit hurrying beneath

the filament tracery

blacktrees in

pale blue time

to get to the last

client & hurry on

home — Nin’s on

the porch, red cheeked,

playing with splinters —

Gerard broods in the

dank parlor in brown

swarm holy late

day dimness, thinking,

“Gerard whom

the angels of paradise

shall save from the

iron cross & make

friends with God, on

his side, hero, saved,

despite all sins of

dizzy now” —

“Gerard qu on va

amenez aux anges

avec des lapins,

des moutons, des loups,

de tite filles, des

tite souris, des

morceau d’terre,

Ti Jean, Ti Nin,

Papa, Mama, les

anges de la souterre,

les anges cachez dans

cave, les giboux dans

l’cemetierre entour

du sidewalk, les

giboux dans la

lune Indian, toute

ensemble avec

les crapauds au

ciel et on

va toute chantez —

je sera mou pour

prier dans la

creme au pied

dun throne de Dieu,

ma tete pendu sur

un aile chaude

toujours pi apres

Mama viendra me

cherchez joindre

tous — ”

TRANSLATION NEXT PAGE

“Gerard whom we shall

bring to the angels

with rabbits,

lambs, wolves,

little girls,

little mice,

pieces of earth,

Ti Jean, Ti Nin,

Papa, Mama, the

subterranean angels,

the angels hidden in

the cellar, the gibberers in

the cemetery beneath

the sidewalk, the

gibberers in the

moon, all

together with

the frogs to

heaven and we

shall all sing —

I’ll be soft for

praying in the

cream at the foot

of the throne of God,

my head leaning on

a warm wing

forever and then

Mama’ll come

find me joining

all — ”

SUNDAY IN THE YARDS

Along the rusty track in

throbbing pink twilight that

casts a faint veil glow on

the iron blackbound soot &

coal, 2 tank cars & 4 coal

hoppers tied in one unmoving

drag, waiting mute under

the soft November moon of

New York for voyages that will

take them to nostalgic plains

of snow in the great land

west — those same rust

bottomed wheels will roll

& clack over switchpoint

ticks of other rails, drive

hard rust mass to new

Idalias somewhere &

where you’ll see the rose

jawed freezing brakeman

standing by a North Dakota

spur in a blizzard with

his gloved hand momentarily

at rest on the old hopper

handrail, spitting, cursing

“When the hell they coming

back anyways! I got

to put a meal of pork

chops inside my belly before

this local Godforsaken takes

us further away from the

last restaurant — ” — he

wants to eat, be warm,

drink coffee — but

stands in great weary

America which I see now

haunted redpink in the

west & a parade of shadowy

boys handsapockets walking

along the boxcar tops

in the vast delicate dusk

traceried by trees of the

living looking like little

jigglets & little Coolie

Chinamen howling for

the Formosa, their feet

topping down the singsong

walkways along which I

used to run puttin pops

up & down — As

if this was what a

man would want to write

who has nothing left to do

in his life but keep his

joy in secret scribbled note-

books — no, I’ll have

to try again, start all over,

again — Enthusiasm

is a design that has to

be re-woven in this

bare barking heart, I

hate my life now not

love it, damn

Leaves dont respond,

sticks lie broken,

dead leaves gather dust,

the West reddens

& narrows cold

the moon mawks to

purse her still lips —

lavender over the lights

of supper home, — wind

sweet memoried of

California, I die, I die

when I am not enthused

& full of meek ragged

joy, please dear God again!

The prayer of my

mother that I need

a father, answered!

“Enthusiasm is a design

that has to be re-woven

in this bare branch heart”

says the Goddam

motherforsaken fop

who calls himself Kerouac

& cant even slurk up & slack

slop out them old jaw crack

& spit, flurp, I’m gonna be a

writer if I have to be a

goadamn bom bum mopping

up the shithouses — of —

Ah — go on with it, Jean,

Jack Kerouac, & no more

foppery, jess plain western

talk is what I say &

let me see them boxcars

in the moon of real N

Mexico — fags hanking

back their asses in Sunday

afternoon ballets, to

show they aint just

cocksuckers but know all

about art & studied —

(advertise themselves as

coming from Europe, to

impress old Queens of Ozone

Park Ladies, & have Bach

& Shakespeare to Back

their shaky spears up)

The old Chinaman of Richmond

Hill who’s been in his

little brown store for God

knows how long before we

got here & for 4 years since

& never have I seen him

unalone, with a friend,

looking sometimes out the

window with those crazy

red sploshes of paint

making a rail-off-effect

3 feet from bottom, he

has his face over there

& is contentedly puffing his

pipe not with opium somnolence

but like an

ordinary Bourgeois

tradesman at the end of day

& he’s digging that dismal

little 95th St with its

fewtrees & the redbrick

side of the bar & the few

dull lamp homes where in

the evening old walkers of

dogs mop up the last TV

news bdcast with a cup

of tea — The bare bulb

that hangs from his ceiling

is so bright it lights

to the other side of 55th

St on a dark night —

you see the red paneglass

wainscot, the washed

strokes of red Spush

— then the little

alarm clock on the back

shelf — bundles of

finished shirts in shelves —

I’m bored

— the gray brown

lace in the windows of TV

parlors & he sees the shadows

therein of a race of

nabors he does not speak

with — at night you

sense his presence anyway

in the brown backroom,

a solitary white China

teapot on a shelf —

The sadness & brown

loss of his sonless

daughterless &

exile from Fellaheen

days indicated by the

little narrow mirror to

the right which has a

Joshua Reynolds Blue Boy

in its upper half panel,

now faded into a greener

blue of mouldy time,

& the mirror surface

itself impossibly smokied

by ghosts of time — the

poor sad calendar

finally, with month

flap under a great

golden breasted woman

with gold velvet

low cut gown — I

see the piles of white

laundry bags on floor,

the sad slant boards,

the counter — & the

huge guillotine like shadow

thrown by the parcel wrapper

& string-feeder gadget

5 feet (much higher than

Won Ming) high, casting

on the wall from the

Frisco forlorn bulb a

monstrous China shadow

& prophecy of more

patience, more fires —

somewhere brown opium

lurks — & nightcapped

death

But he goes on year after

year, alone, never nods

when you nod, looking out

on the street, interior

with his own Asia of

thots — His little

eyes in the wrinkled worry

of his pone Yonkers

Mongoil bone, broz

— his thots in the back

secret does-he-live-

there room & how he

whops his lil brown

pecker, all for

future spec —

ALLEY GASTANK JAMAICA

There’s a place in

Jamaica where I walked

for several months while

I was there in my last

months, north to the gas

tank, — a side alley there

ran between brokendown

fences, puddingsoft &

dark with mud holes, pits,

wrecks along the way,

the dank ramp under the

LIRR track up, parked

trucks with wood rails,

darkness of hidden thieves

like the backalleys of

Thieves Market Mexico

but no lettuce &

jungle rainslime on the ground,

just dry American Long Island

& the threat of

150th St Negroes maybe

hiding gone mad with the

tiger bottle or Italian

junk stealers hiding with

stolen cases of grapes —

The giant tank to the

wow bloody upnight black

left with as you pass the

cemetery on the other side of

it lights down a shroud

of spotlights so you see

sad hair grass, shroud of

light, hunk bulk hugetank,

gravestones of Hallowed Ghosts

— you see the little

row Colonial houses redone

& with new quarantine

signs in the street & the

shadows in a golden

windowshade of inkblack

shack across the smooth

newblock garage & dark

soft nights a tappin

along to my borey

death

dear

God

please make

me a

writer

again

DECEMBER 1953

The dead man’s lips are

pressed tasting death

as bitter as dry musk

- - -

Soft yards of old houses

are not for travellers

of the late afternoon sun

& long shadow on the ground,

and women of 35

with soft used thighs

& dust motes in the

old bed room

Time & Sea

Philosophy

This quality of late afternoon

in the blonde hair of mothers

in sad new parks is as

the taste of Springtime

in the violently parturiating

Mind —

so make no more leaky

vows

The poisonous mushroom

is malignant because

it is inside itself, the

sac, & does not derive

from the earth, but

fungitates in itself,

like a corrupt &

unhappy man; the

edible mushroom stems

directly from the earth,

is in contact with it,

like a happy open

man free of cupped-in

malignancies.

In all writing, creative

or reflective, there’s got

to be only one way

— that is, the immediate,

the free flowing, unplanned

way. For all is pure;

the word is pure; the mind

is pure; the world is pure.

In the beginning & amen.

Because the word is

sacred it cannot be

changed.

The same as in

Doctor Sax as in the

reflection on the water.

The water does not

hesitate; the mind can

know no mud, but

what is clear in

heretofore unknown words

& word sounds ored up

from the Conscious of

the Race. But when

the words are clear, &

everything is clear, then

the other minds see

clear to think it

clear; but when the

clear words are un

clear to the other

minds, they are clear

in themselves, as is

the reflection on the

water.

Amen.

The words are clear as

in the reflection of

the world on the water.

Therefore write the

Word at once, everywhere,

from now till your

hand is paralyzed,

for there will be your

work for God, since

you can not work

for God in other ways,

and would not, & dont

know how, or bend that

way, from habit, & from

talent in the use &

signification & arrangement

of the Word.

The elephant receives

the arrows of illnatured

war; you

receive the arrows of

your genius, & work

your hand in the

land beneath the

skies till it cramps

& pains thee, for

that is yr dutiful

destiny.

The last love allowed

you & the least forgivable

of yr final

passions, Vain.

Cast out the

devils, & be pure,

— add no lines to the

finished line. Draw

no horizons beyond &

underneath the real

horizon. Blat in yr

brain the bleet sheep

bone — falsify not

the cluckings, the

cluck-tures, in yr.

drooly brain, brain

child & Babe of

Sweat & Folly. This

your final body, final

shame, last vanity,

greatest indulgence,

greatest farmiture,

& boon to Man,

kind literature.

SELF

by

FOOL

be the name of yr

lifework

And forget thyself

to tell the word of

the world

“Watch yr. thoughts!”

False humbleness, false

self-depreciation, leads

to useless explanation.

At the end of a

meaning is a tangent

of brain noises,

avoid them &

finish where you

finish

The brain noises belong

only in the paragraph

of brain noises

Canuck, dont pile

up reasons for yr

activities

IN VAIN

The stars in the sky

In vain

The tragedy of Hamlet

In vain

The key in the lock

In vain

The sleeping mother

In vain

The lamp in the corner

In vain

The lamp in the corner unlit

In vain

Abraham Lincoln

In vain

The Aztec empire

In vain

The writing hand: in vain

(The shoetrees in the shoes

In vain

The windowshade string upon

the hand bible

In vain —

The glitter of the greenglass

ashtray

In vain

The bear in the woods

In vain

The Life of Buddha

In vain)

FIRST OF THE NEW SKETCHES

2 ineffectual old men

standing in the wilderness

they created but not by

their own hand, their innocence

& stupidity rather, &

all the Devil had to do

was the rest — Both in

hats, topcoats, infinitesimal

differences of brown hat

vs. gray hat (felt, the

mold of custom), pale

blue vs. dark blue coat,

both hands apockets in

the same lost way — pants

of 2 shades shading same

size & color shanks

(white stick variety,

as befits old men sedentary

& corrupt with

property, fear of death

& arrogant sons) — The

wilderness of their making

is the children’s park

with gigantic knee-abrasing

concrete, concrete benches,

brick double shithouse

for boys’ & girls’ different

shameful peepees, &

over the sooty brown football

field Atlantic Ave

with its blank vehicular

passers & the huge LIRR

carshop yards with

a dozen Diesels

throbbing & exhaling bad

gas in the gray chill

December afternoon,

all around the bleak

deserted rooftops of suburban

homes, bare trees with

boles & half dead because

hemmed at base by

concrete groundworks —

the old men earnestly

discuss some ineffectual

absurdity, pointing, taking

turns, both have glasses

because they were taught

to be myopic — good

old fellows nevertheless

as harmless as children

(children throw rocks at

beggars)

only more culpable & a

shade less intelligent — discussing

eagerfaced in their

concrete horror & scraggle

of iron machines & air-

stinks some unimportant

sub problem among

the problems of the

Problem of the West

— neckties, collars,

stamping their bloodless

feet now & ready to

go back in the hot

parlor to paper &

TV

— glancing at wrist

watches, waiting for

gut fattening shame-

obesity-making supper

— slaves of the bleak

without hope

without actual earnestness

but momentary profitable

appearance of so —

contemptuous of the

older fool is the old

fool — Their double

chinned cigaret smoking

women call the children

to home thru the

prison of iron fences

— The older man holds

to his point, he’ll soon

be mush to a new

monument in Long Island

City Cemetery — his

hat is battereder than

the younger oldster’s,

his mouth more twisted

pathetically — too late

now he knows he’s

got his last body —

“Paragon” is written

on the oil truck delivering

fuel to useless

furnaces — Clouds of

soot rise from an

old locomotive

in the yard, harking

to memories of old

America as the Diesel

gives 4 blasts — The

2 old men part, one

homeward, the other

toiletward, hobbling,

lost, tired, hopeless,

looking linefaced &

worried around the gray

park for nothing or

for a temporary unimportant

direction —

the sight of them reminds

me of the white light in

the shiny wax of the

corridor of the hosp. morgue

To drive out Angry Thoughts

Whatever anyone does,

anyone says, in the

past, now, everything, let

it bounce off the rock

of yr gladness (yr mirror)

Guys talking you down

about girls

Novelists publishing big

Towns & Cities

Writers saying nothing

about your new writings

Really let it bounce off

the rock of yr gladness,

because you are

innocent

(Free)

Let it bounce off the

rock of your gladness the

cold, rub your hands,

drink hot brews of coffee

tea or herb, rush to yr

notebook of MEMORY BABE

with every Memory Tic

CHURCH MUSIC —

Organ clamoring

with the rising chorus,

the holy voices of

oo-lips of littleboys

in white lace collars,

the overvault gloom

OO huge

SATURDAY dec. 12

ETERNITY BOYS

The tall sexual Negro

boy on the junkyard

street near the Gas

Tank Jamaica, about 7

or 8 yrs old, he was

running his palm along

his fly in some Sexual

story to the other little

boy Negro who had his

arm around him as they

came up the street in

the gray rain of Saturday

afternoon — smoke

emanating from junk fires,

smell of burnt rubber, piles

of tires, junk shops

with old white stoves

on the blackmud sidewalk,

rusty clinkered grates,

black mudholes, the pudding

soft rained-on tar. the

boards with rot in em &

old nails, piles of plaster

& lath, dirty neons of

late afternoon bars beyond

the wet sag of the

woodfence — the thrill

& mist & hugeness of

it & all on Saturday,

the 2 boys have been

arm in arm buddying

all day in this wilderness

of their souls & now

the tall one to the

littler kid his personality

so huge, hobloo-gooboo

African, vast, is demonstrating

that boy-sex &

they are grave discussing it

— as I come along I

see but pretend not to

& they peek to see if

old Walt Whitman see

but old Walt Whitman’s

in a ragged secret coat,

holding down all his lids

& not Whitmaned —

inconspicuous — I thought

“How infinitely Huge

is the tall one’s personality

& the Epic of their

Graymist Saturday today

as Jamaica Ave. swarms

with Xmas shoppers, the

sad Americans with childrens

& families spending all their

money, the phoney Xmas

Santas & cups & tinsel

storewindows — These 2

black angels of Raggedy

Saturday Real demonstrating

in their freedom

boyhood how great arts

like bop are born,

arm-in-arm & interested

in nothing but themselves,

lovers and pure as they’ll

never be again —

in the backlot too

they play with their

cocks & show the shiver

& itchpain to the rain

& rub the rotwood &

try to come, the shuddering

out-to-the-world push of

loins, & wonder — but

in the face the inescapable

& eternal Personality

(the tall one a cloth

cap, the littler a

wooldown) vastness

of nose, cheek, informative

push tout be

dra man talisman

eyes of the

King of all the gangs

& possible Prophets of

the world, Littler is so

amazed & what he could

tell you this minute about

Tall would fill 17 Visions

of Codys 8500000

pages of tight prose

if he could only talk

& tell it, in the shack

what he done yesterday,

the madness of his

secret humor, fact,

let Littler talk”: -

“Why he in the

bed mattress is the

long black funny boy

Sam I seen him

tho a rock clear

thu the smoke &

had sixteen harmonicas

in his eyes & in his

eyes I seen Sixteen

signs & he says ‘Boy,

dear Lord, I’m seen

the ghost agin last

night & Paw come

home & Howdie Doodie

Television Show &

Silvercup Bread & My

Sister bought it &

smile” — however

one can do it, it is

the Enormousness of

the Universe that makes

the Microcosm its tiniest

unit even Enormous-er,

— so 2 little Negro

boys arm in arm on

Saturday rainy afternoon

contain in themselves

the history of

mankind if they could

but talk & tell it

all about themselves

& what they done &

if an observer could

follow them around

& see & judge the

vastness of every tiny

unit — Who knows

the vast religiousness

of that cloth cap

when it shines radiant

in the mind of the

littler boy, or when

grown up & ’s forgot

Sam & gone 3,000

miles to nothing the sudden

memory of Great Sam

(MY BOYHOOD PAL)

will be as remembering

the Angel of Heaven &

All Hope,

since dying

GIRL IN LUNCHCART

Girl in front of me

with green sweater red

lips gentle thin cold

fingers at her hair &

she’s explaining (at her

high stiff hair like hairdos

of Africa) explaining to

girlfriend whose smile I

see reflected in shiny

mirror back of Jamaica

Ave. Lunchcart Cash

Register — 5 P M of

an October afternoon, the

young counterman unshaved

goodlooking hangs around

swaying & half smiling

pretending to work with

checks at that booth —

Tired puff eyed Greek

oldworker who spends

Sat nites in Turkish

baths of NY

voyeuring Americans &

heroboy queers of

Lower 2nd Avenue comes in

for big exciting afterwork

meal of Chicken Croquettes

with Sauce & will be

here T’Giving day for big

Turkey with works —

sad to live, quick to

eat, early to work,

slow to sleep, long to

die — Now so the

girl uncaring of old men

& pain has her fore finger

against her temple

while listening to other girl

speak & therefore in

nodding seriousness has

ravelled all her eyebone

skin up in a mask

of ark ugly furrow

destiny having no relation

to the hazel glitter,

the nutty mystery of

her sweet eyes & suckkiss

lips & long drawndown

bosh flop face discontorted

by further arrangements

of leanface on palm —

in her delicate edible

ear a dull metal thing —

her lips fully lipsticked

& curved like Cupid &

stain the coffee cup —

her eye on her girlfriend

cold, watchful, secretive,

pretending to be curious,

like she’ll make the

parody-story of this

gossip tonight in

earwigging dreams in

her fragrant thigh

sheets! whee

LATE AUTUMN afternoon,

the birds are whistle-singing zeet

feor in the dry tinder twig trees,

they ‘fleet’ & in the general

traffic (“Spr-r-e e e t”)

rush on Atlantic Ave. & the double

go ahead Diesel BOT - BOT in

the LIRR yards they wait

between calls as if, in the

activity of their own afternoon,

they had intervals too, time too

& orders from the parchesi chess

board to air conditioner machines

of the Glum Window World

make their little fluttery wait

wake, leaves falling not even

with you could hear the tick

of their little fall on the concrete

ground beneath which Indians

lie ancestral bone by skull in

tomahawk New York —

the fishtail back end of

some new car parked beyond

the Eternity Porch (like the

one in San Jose where I was

so high at gray dawn I heard

between the vibrating yowls of

Neal’s baby the great rush

of wave sounds wave on wave

shuddering & Vibrating like one

vast electric or bio electric

or cosmic gravity “struay

ill” — — zoongg —

scared me & made me hear

the moment moth sound of

Time, good or bad old Time

I’m in, and’ll write

for — So now to

“INDIANS

IN THE

RAILROAD

EARTH”)

— late afternoon Autumn in

Long Island, the leaf slants

down in the wind & hits the

ground & bounces & goes ‘chuck’

— as dry as that — the others

already fallen lie heaped in

chlorophyll green grass between

driveway concretes — the

sky has a rose tint in its

gray demeanor — the leaves/rose brown yellow

transparent/& like drunken poets emptying/

uselessness in pages

Never did try to get

on a car via standing

on a journal box except

one time on a splintery

flatcar & even then

I was as helpless as

a baby, one slack

bang pop I’d have

been as helpless as

a bread bun rolling

off to get run over

& flattened in the

middle & be toast

by Fall — — —

SAN FRANCISCO SKETCH (1954 now)

America’s truck and car kick has

made it place twin radio antennas

on the last hill of hope overlooking

the Pacific to the Orient Sea.

Clouds of sorrow pass over and

into a nameless blue opening beyond

the storms of San Francisco. Lonely

men with open collars and gray

fedoras take long drear street

walks where oil trucks turn into

gray garage doorways at 2:30

Sunday afternoon. Wash hopelessly

flaps on the roofs of Skid Row

where the great Proletariat has

come to stake his claim, or

claim his stake, one.

Everything is taking place inside

dark windows that have the

quality of inky pools inside which

white fish are swimming motionlessly

across extended arm rests, now

and then peeking out to take a

quick look at the street, flapping

grayed muslin curtains back to

shield the furtive sorrow. Rain

spats across the scene in a sudden

shower from the tormented sky

all radiant with sun holes and

Frisco Gray and Black rain

clouds radiating from the sea

like a vast slow unfolding of

its rainy tragedy where driving

rains smash futilely on the

blank waving void.

Hopeless blue

boxes intended for plants or

for the outdoor coolness of

Spreckels’ Homo Milk and

8¢ cubes of Holiday Oleo-

margarine, stick out from

windowsills in and around what

the City Managers call the “blighted

area” that must be torn down

within 5, or even 3, years. Dispossession

and complete loneliness

haunt the empty sidewalks in

front of old stores for rent.

In a tenement a little Negro

girl in dumb thought at her

mother’s sofa alone in the

afternoon room reads “Hardened

vegetable oils (soybean & cottonseed),

skim milk, salt, monoglyceride,

lecithin; isopropyl citrate (0-01%)

to protect flavor, and vitamin

A and artificial color added.

2 oz. supplies 47% of adults

and 62% of child’s minimum

daily Vitamin A requirements,”

from the cube of oleo paper

and stares for 90 seconds in a

Buddhist-like trance at the

little ®(apparently meaning

‘registered’ trademark) at the

side of the brand name

Holiday, wondering if the

little ® is meant to be a

secret of the recipe not mentioned

in the long paragraph, or a

sign of some authority hidden

behind the butter in a suit and

briefcase withon it and

® on his Cadillac and he

drives around with bulging eyes

and a Texas Truman hat in

the streets of the City.

“I, poor French Canadian Ti Jean become

a big sophisticated hipster esthete in

the homosexual arts, I, mutterer to

myself in childhood French, I, Indian-

head, I, Mogloo, I the wild one,

the “wild boy,” I, Claudius Brutus

McGonigle Mckarroquack, hopper

of freights, Skid Row habituee,

railroad Buddhist, New England Modernist,

20th Century Storywriter, Crum, Krap,

dope, divorcee, hype, type; sitter in windows

of life; idiot far from home; no

wood in my stove, no potatoes in my

field, no field; hepcat, howler, wailer,

waiter in the line of time; lazy

washed-out, workless; yearner after

Europe, poet manquée; pas tough!

stool gatherer, food destroyer, war

evader, nightmare dreamer, angel

be-er, wisdom seer, fool, bird, cocacola

bottle — I, am in need of advice

from God and will not get it, not

likely, nor soon, nor ever — sad saha

world, we were born for nothing from

nothing — Respects to our sensitive

Keeners up & down the crime.”

O Melville! thy Soul

Sustains me

More than all the Buddhas

That have passed

With the water

Under the Brooklyn Bridge

NY

Dont let your New York be modified &

shrunken by local transitory dislikes (such

as Tony Bennett-Laurels-bleak N.Y.) (in

all this Applish Apple) — but the Liberté

steaming in in brightgold afternoon, of

the Daily News, 4 AM bars, Birdland,

Jackie Gleason, Italian restaurants,

5th Avenue, Lucien, Wolfe, Charley

Vackner 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 masochism

and even of homosexuality

in Christian Catholicism

— “He will give you a

taste of joys & delights that

transcend anything” — etc —

. . . That’s the homosexuality . . .

“praying to God to rid you of

your desires and abase you thus”

the masochism —

Why?

You cant beat the Tao —

the Buddha — the Guru of

the Far East — “and Jesus

will make it easy” — Really

my dear — Nothin’s easy.

The difference between Merton

and me, is, I didnt fall

for 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 buildings

in ruined field — everything in place in the inscrutable

sunny air, no meaning in the sky and

a girl running by coughing! It is very strange how

the green hills are full of trees and white houses

without comment. I think Tangiers is some kind

of city. Man and son cross road, wearing

green Sabbath fez caps, like papercup cakes

good nuf to eat — I think I’m sposed to be

alive — I dont see anything around — Drops

of whitewash on this red concrete plaza with

the whitewashed tower by the sea for

Muezzins of the Sherifian Star — The

other night, here, Arab bagpipes —

Spring is coming —

Yep, all that equipment

For sighs

ZOCO CHICO — TANGIERS —

a weird Sunday in Fellaheen

Arabland with you’d expect

mystery white windows &

do see but b God the broad

up there in whiten

my-veil is sitting & peering

by a Red Cross, above a lil

sign says PRACTICANTES

Servicio Permanente

TF NO.9766

the cross being red — this

is over a tobacco shop

with luggage & pictures,

a little barelegged boy

leaning on counter with a

family of wristwatched

Spaniards — Limey sailors

from the submarines pass

trying to get drunker & drunker

yet quiet & lost in home

regret & two little Arab

hepcats have a brief musical

confab (boys of 10) & they

part with a push of arms

& wheeling of arms, the cat

has a yellow skullcap &

a blue zoot suit

I am now hi on

MAHOUN

MAHOUN

Cakes of kief boiled with

spices & candies —

eaten with hot tea —

the black & white tiles

of the outdoor cafe

are soiled by lonely

Tangiers time — A

little bald cropped

boy walks by, goes

to men at table,

says “Yo!” then

the waiter throws

him out, “Yig” —

A brown ragged robe

priest sits with me at

table, but looks

off with hands

on lap at brilliant

red fez & red girl

sweater & red boy

shirt green scene

RAILROAD BUFFET IN AVIGNON

A priest who looks exactly

like Bing Crosby but with a long gray beard,

chewing bread, then rushes out, with beret and

briefcase. . . . .

PARIS SIDEWALK CAFE

Now, on sidewalk in

sun, the racket of going-to-work same as

in Houston or in Boston and no better —

But it is a vast promise I feel here, endless

streets, stores, girls, places, meanings, I can

see why Americans stay here — First

man in Paris I looked at was a dignified

Negro gentleman in a homburg — The human

types are endless, old French ladies, Malayan

girls, schoolboys, blond student boys, tall

young brunettes, hippy pimply secretaries,

beret’d goggled clerks, beret’d scarved

earners of milk bottles, dikes in long blue

laboratory coats, frowning older students striding

in trench coats like Boston, seedy little

rummy cops fishing thru their pockets (in

blue caps), cute pony tailed blondes in high

heels with zip notebooks, goggled bicyclists

with motors attached, bespectacled homburgs

walking reading Le Parisien, bushy headed

mulattos with long cigarettes in mouth,

old ladies carrying milkcans & shopping bags,

rummy WCFieldses spitting in the gutter hands

a pockets going to their printing shop for

another day, a young Chinese looking French

girl of 12 with separated teeth looking

Like she’s in tears (frowning, & with a bruise

on her shin, schoolbooks in hand, cute and

serious like Mardou), porkpie executive

running and catching bus sensationally

vanishing with it, mustached long haired

Italian youths, regular types coming in

the bar for their morning shot of wine,

huge bumbling bankers in expensive suits

fishing for newspaper pennies in their

palms (bumping into women at the bus

stop), piped jews with packages, a

lovely redhead with dark glasses pip pip

pip on her heels trots to work bus, a

waitress slopping mop water in the old old

gutter, ravishing brunettes with tightfitting

skirts succeeding in making you want to

grab their rounded ass (tho they dont deign

to look), goofely plup plup schoolgirlies

with long boyish bobs plirping lips over

books & memorizing lessons fidgetly, lovely

young girls of 17 on corners who walk

off with low-heeled sure-strides in long

red coats to downtown Paris smokepot

Old Napoleon wonders — leading a dog,

an apparent East Indian, whistling, with

books — bearded bus riders riding to

accounting school — dark similar-lipped

serious young lovers, boy arming girlshoulders

— statue of Danton pointing nowhere —

— Paris hepcat in dark glasses waiting there,

faintly mustached — little suited boy in

black beret, with well off father — English

Flag waving, red and white crisscrossing on

a blue field — (for Queen’s visit)

PARIS PARK

Sitting in a little park in Place Paul Painlevé

— a curving row of beautiful rosy tulips rigid

and swaying, fat shaggy sparrows, beautiful

shorthaired mademoiselles (one shd. never be

alone at night in Paris, boy or girl, but I’m

an evil old man & world hater who will

become the greatest writer who ever lived)

RESTING BY A WINDOW IN THE LOUVRES

— Seine outside, Carrousel Bridge, gray

rain clouds, pushing overhead, blue sky

holes, Seine ripple silver, old dark

stone & houses, distant domes, skeletal

Eiffel, people on sidewalks like Guardini’s

little brushstroke people — (with black

dot heads) — In this Vast hall where I

sit, more’n 600 feet long, with dream

giant canvases everywhere, the murmur

blur of hundreds of voices — Seine waters

restlessly greening near the bridge, trees

blooming, tomorrow London —

Downtown London Spring 1957 (sketch) —

hammering of iron, banging of planks, a

drill, rrrttt, humbuzz of traffic, morble

of voices, peet of bird, dling of wrench

falling on pavement (or of bolt screwer),

truck going brruawp, squeak of brakes,

the impersonal bangbang & beep beep

of London still building long after

Shakespeare & Blake lie bedded in

stone & sheep — April in London,

Where is Gray?

TRAIN TO SOUTHAMPTON

Brain trees growing out of Shakespeare’s fields

— dreaming meadows full of lamb-dots —

The dreary town of St. Denys, a church with a

pasted-on concrete arch on the roof, the

crowded row of redbrick houses, old man in

a garden blossoming a new English Spring

which 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 grass

six feet behind me, completely

licenseless, no collar, naked &

glad the true dog sleeps, when

I call him he pays no attention,

right in the middle of the city

park he stretches & enjoys —

Meanwhile 2 little girls play

with a ball (too small to throw

it) as the mother waits patiently

standing with shopping bag — 2

boys kick the soccer ball &

then quit, one falls flat on

his back in the grass arms outspread

to the sky while the other

dances little steps & sings —

An ordinary man carrying an

empty pail — Two guys pulling

a roll truck with one tire on

it, talking — A little boy

comes by playing with a

plastic bottle tied around

his neck with straps —

Gangs of little children

rush up to push the park-

worker’s lawnmower with

him, he grins — A dark

Mexican kid with handfulstring

of huge balloons blowing

his little air tweeter —

The dog is up, near the

ball boys, watching nobly —

he hops on 3 legs, his right

front foot is broken or hurt,

now he hops up to see a

ragged boy’s white dog on

rope leash & a short fight

breaks out — The little boy

brings his dog over to tell me

the whole story (in Spanish)

of his wounds & bravery —

The ordinary man returns with

full pail, hobbling — The mother

& little girls, sit now on the

old iron cannon, she reads

as they crawl gladly — (I’m not

interested much in sex anymore, but

in that mother smiling patiently while

the little girls play)

SKETCH OF BEGGAR

The strange Allen Ansen-looking

but fat chubby Mexican beggar standing

in front of Woolworth’s on Coahuila

behaving spastically, with short haircut

of bangs, brown suitcoat, white shirt,

big pot belly, rocking back & forth

jiggling his hand (left or right, as / according

to which other he rests in his pocket)

& he really makes it, / I just saw 3 people give him

money in one minute, as one

charitied him he turned away &

scratched his brow (murmured something?)

— He cant conceive that

someone (as I) can be watching from

across the street 2nd story window

& so I see all his in-between

actions & attitudes, a definite

(holy) phoney, (I mean his

life is harder than mine by far),

when it came time for him to

blow his nose after sneezing

he didnt shake spastically

but efficiently withdrew a

napkin from his coat & blew

his nose hard 3 times then

put it back in his pocket

— Even poor women give him

coins & he places all of them

in a funny space behind his back

belt — His feet are tired, he

whomps them up in a dance &

down —

When fat businessman glides

by blowing smoke contemptly

at him he hangs his head in

contemplative shame — He

looks up, scratches his neck,

feels his coat pocket, sways,

& waits beneath the light

(as I)

(Who’ve just finished a T-bone

steak

in Kuku’s)

Above him I see dim

figures in the Woolworth

storerooms as of dance-

class-ing & mamboing

Being as I am now off drugs,

after a fine meal I feel like

I did as a kid in Lowell, an

excited happy mind — It’s

Saturday in Mex City & the streets

lead to all kinds of fascinating

lighted vistas, movies, stores, pepsi

colas, whorehouses, nightclubs,

children playing in brownstreet

lamps & the sleep of the

Fellaheen dog in some old

grand doorway

YES, the end to a perfect meal

is always the grand cup of

black coffee, here or in

Sweets Seafood Restaurant, NY

or in Paree, anywhere, the

warm rich comforter (which

prepares the appetite for chocolates

on the homeward walk, preferably

milk chocolate & nuts) —

It’s the exciting hour in MCity

or anycity, 8 on Sat nite, when

the 5 & 10’s closing & the show

crowds rush & newsboys shout,

trolley bells clang, like soft

like Lowell long ago when

I had that swarming vision

PENGUIN POETS

JOHN ASHBERY

Selected Poems

Self-Portrait in a

Convex Mirror

TED BERRIGAN

The Sonnets

JIM CARROLL

Fear of Dreaming:

The Selected Poems

Living at the Movies

Void of Course

ALISON HAWTHORNE

DEMING

Genius Loci

CARL DENNIS

New and Selected

Poems 1974-2004

Practical Gods

Ranking the Wishes

DIANE DI PRIMA

Loba

STUART DISCHELL

Dig Safe

STEPHEN DOBYNS

Mystery, So Long

Velocities:

New and Selected

Poems: 1966-1992

AMY GERSTLER

Crown of Weeds

Ghost Girl

Nerve Storm

EUGENE GLORIA

Drivers at the Short-

Time Motel

Hoodlum Birds

DEBORA GREGER

Desert Fathers,

Uranium Daughters

God

Western Art

TERRANCE HAYES

Hip Logic

Wind in a Box

ROBERT HUNTER

Sentinel and Other

Poems

MARY KARR

Viper Rum

JACK KEROUAC

Book of Blues

Book of Haikus

Book of Sketches

ANN LAUTERBACH

Hum

If in Time:

Selected Poems,

1975-2000

On a Stair

CORINNE LEE

PYX

PHYLLIS LEVIN

Mercury

WILLIAM LOGAN

Macbeth in Venice

Night Battle

The Whispering

Gallery

MICHAEL MCCLURE

Huge Dreams:

San Francisco

and Beat Poems

DAVID MELTZER

David’s Copy:

The Selected Poems

of David Meltzer

CAROL MUSKE

An Octave Above

Thunder

Red Trousseau

ALICE NOTLEY

The Descent of Alette

Disobedience

Mysteries of Small

Houses

PATTIANN ROGERS

Generations

STEPHANIE

STRICKLAND

V: WaveSon.nets/

Losing L’una

ANNE WALDMAN

Kill or Cure

Marriage: A Sentence

Structure of the

World Compared

to a Bubble

JAMES WELCH

Riding the Earthboy

40

PHILIP WHALEN

Overtime: Selected

Poems

ROBERT WRIGLEY

Lives of the Animals

Reign of Snakes

MARK YAKICH

Unrelated Individuals

Forming a Group

Waiting to Cross

JOHN YAU

Borrowed Love Poems

Table of Contents

PENGUIN POETS

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Introduction

FIRST BOOK

PANORAMIC CATALOG SKETCH OF BIG EASONBURG

SECOND BOOK

PENGUIN POETS