Book of Sketches - Jack Kerouac [10]
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