Book of Sketches (13 page)

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

 

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 —

 

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!

 

Only when that work
which oertops my
hopeless men-among
bones will save me
up & back to enthusiastic
inside
me personal need
breast —

 

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 . . .

 

Sign in Sunnybrae, Calif. : -

 

BAY PEST CONTROL
Our Business is Simply Killing

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

 

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 Mo
zano’
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

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 —

 

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 —

 

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 —