Book of Sketches (4 page)

 

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.

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

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.

“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?”

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

“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 —

Yard in afternoon of
August — bright red
drum shining in bright green
& yellow grass-weeds, buds, —
old used rusty brakeshoes
& parts piled —