Book of Sketches - Jack Kerouac [25]
— but a record of the
angels personalizing all the
haunted places I have
seen, written for the angels
not the publishers & readers
— a complete history of
my complete inner life,
also — Wail of the
train, chipachup of the
locomotive steams when
they open a vestibule door
— brakes haul up train,
old ornate browngreen coach
sways — Brown seats
of sticky stuff —
California Spanish neat
cut houses & Launderettes
& modernistic groceries
in the leafy black —
nameless newbrick mortuaries
or grass conservatories
or waterworks with
Shrouds — Oh old train,
Wail my Lowell back,
wail for my Lowell, make
my Lowell my only come-
back — Palo Alto, taxis
at bushéd sidewalk, lights
evenly pinpointing in a
main drag, — Dodge Plymouth
paleblue sign exactly the
one at Letran corner
in Mexcity — but with
beautiful bloodclot glow
Don Hampton beneath —
Strings of yellow bulbs
in car lot — A sudden
view of muddy wood
supports litup in the
construction night —
Spectral palegreen greenhouse
of a factory — Her
I dont like & dont have
to like & wont — Fuckups
have a choice they make,
in naked silence — I
have never been a romantic
lover like him because
I do not like to moo &
screw — I like straight
relations no show all
balls come & comfort —
the slightest sadism makes
me sicken — I am a
hero — Distant bloodred
antennas of Calif. —
Murder will out among
these beasts — that
puffed feather She —
I like my women tragic,
silent, & ravenous souled
— Angel of Mercy,
come to swirl my brain
& teach me the truth &
what to do now, I pray
thee from dark & ignorance
— In darkness reeling I
see bare naked ledge of
oldbrown wood lit by
streetlamp, brown, dim —
Distant geometric modern
bluebright factory of
aircraft windows — The
star of my fame & pity
following far above — Lights
of spread parks illuminating
lonely bits of walks
— Green lights too — the
whistle calls on ahead —
Why did Sebastian live so
intensely & romantically
just to die blear-eyed —
he was saved from middleaged
baggy eyed ends — The
Old SP’s all I got now,
Sam — I had loved you &
you me — Edie, I loved
you too, deeply — The
old stained glass of the
coach, the smoky tan
round ceiling, the barbershop
chairs, the engine calling
for our mountains & all
that’s lost & was supposed
to happen & didnt — Ah
James Joyce, Proust,
Wolfe, Balzac — I’ll
combine you in my forge —
Lovers like X. & Y. — simper
like snakes
WAITING FOR 146 AT
CALIF. AVE.
Backsteps Caboose (crummy)
bloodred — hills seaward
smoke shroud — sun orange
on its flare — Palo
Alto bank bldg. — steam
hiss, silence — the long
track Southeast — the
quiet Calif. cottages —
old paintchip trailer
in backyard, overturned
car junk, abandoned
cab (black, white), clothes-
lines with pins on —
Drive-In — Restaurant —
Green with modern ranch
style redwood sections,
Swift’s Ice Cream neon
in window, big bamboo
blinds in window, cars
parked around — Sunday
afternoon in San Jose,
late sun, the haunted
mountains from the East
rim of Santa Clara
Valley appear only after
a second take look,
dim, yellowish, faintly
rilled, round, bare as
flesh, humping softly
far over the flat of
fruit trees — Beyond
Drive In the night
lights of a ballpark —
traffic on road — Shadows
of pretty girls passing
inside Drive In — new
cars everywhere, & lots
— lost spiritualities
of America dulled &
buried in this last
barbaric land — empty
of meaning but rich,
fruitful, golden, — (the
land is) —
Original home of the
Tender Indian — the Pomo —
O Dostoevsky of
Indian Milleniums! —
Christian Fellaheen
Peotl Saint!
NOTES ON THE MILLENIUM OF THE HIP FELLAHEEN Oct. 1952, Calif.
With historical basis in this: -
(1)America is a pseudomorphological wave laid over the land of the culture-less Fellaheen New World Indian
(2)The American Race is West European, Faustian, Late Civilized, Decadent
(3)Faustian West will destroy itself; the New World Earth will return to its original Indian & Fellaheen
(4)The