by Jack Kerouac
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
&
nbsp; 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
