Book of Sketches - Jack Kerouac [21]
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