Book of Sketches

by Jack Kerouac

  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