Book of Sketches - Jack Kerouac [27]
globe to San Francisco.
Then the Millenium
of the Hip Fellaheen
begins, in all lands.
But Eden Heaven
awaits the Milleniums
of the Meek Fellaheen
for all time
The Mankind of Saints,
that shall come after
& finally.
The Men from Mars
are really the baldheaded
bespectacled
lobsters of American
business. — really &
seriously — their
beady eyes, in fat,
glint on the grave —
Rocky C.
A boxer with the
sadness of a saint
Faustian society had
good intentions
The latest sounds in
hip bop are exactly
like the latest developments
in N.Y. Advertising
— the latest ad shows
an empty Coca Cola
bottle, a model with
a black patch over his
eye; these trivial things
are really milestones in
the History of Advertising
in Western Civilization, &
are momentous in the
concerned (Balzacian) circles;
in Eternity of the Meek
Fellaheen they have no
more meaning than that
a walnut fell on the
head of the Patriarch this
morning — or the
Messiah’s pants fell off
the chair —
SKETCH
Crazy California of my
Selma days — tracks
of old SP shining in hot
birdy-tweeting breezy afternoon,
De Jesus & Rodriguez
market of white stucco
with cars parked (2) in
driveway & sign (same
as above, over PAR-T-PAK
board) — I see a
whole bookshelf of wine
bottles, GALLO too — &
here in field, in matted
brown grass under an
avocado tree, I see
an empty Gallo Tokay
fifth & fillet of herring
can & beer cans showing
a royal feast of hoboes
in their California, &
bed-down grass of their
reclinations — In De
Jesus (Vegetable, Meats)
I see a woman selecting
a brace of Cokes — a
car parks — across road
is Ferry Morse Seed Co.,
all spectral iron hell
red last night with
browndeep clouds of
locomotive steam in
Faustian sky —
A little strange SP
handtruck (handcar)
(in Kansas Rock Island
boys say “Nothin to
worry about but a nigger
on a handcar” — pricks)
goes by, with 5 Mex
Indians, one Negro —
they point to rails for
foreman Mex who has
sledgehammer — a Jet
screams above, from
Moffett Field — upper,
paler B-29 groans —
— Seed
Co. is modern flat
plant, nobody in
sight, the machine
silent in the red sun, —
At night not a
human in sight,
just cars smooth in the
hiway, the rails gleaming,
cruel & cold to the touch,
slightly sticky with
steel death, — lights of
airport pokers, distant
roar of Jets in wind
tunnels, far off joints
slamming, planes carrying
Edison’s light across the
stars & freights of
Machine Humanbeings —
& the block lights in
the night that give
panic or peace
according to the
switch points as
manipulated — too
much iron, too much
for me — but in
afternoon, De Jesus &
the Tokay wine, the
roadbed rocks have little
silver gleams & waving
dry tendrils of interspersed
grass & crazy shuddering
little flowers & crackly
wind-weeds & pieces
of wood, hand towel
paper, cellophane
chip bags, gum wrapper,
little ants that bite —
the juice of the grape
stored darkly in the
cool interior store, I’m
wantin a poorboy —
Beyond pink brick Seed
Co. with its streamline
built in windows that
hide controlled vibrating
horror (Rocky Mt. Mills)
is a field of fruit trees,
iron & barbwire fenced
from precious Company —
little white cottages of
the railroad earth, with
end of day papa car
parked, little fruit
trees — haze of
sun — I’m sitting
by silver painted SP
Telephone box & eq’pt —
wearing workshoes, asbestos
gloves now black,
soiled timetable, thick
socks, ankle strap from
swollen ankle missing
bottom climb bar &
falling on rocks in
grim railroad dark —
blue work pants, too
tight, — gray workshirt,
— baseball hat for sun
— dreaming of my
$500 stake & Mexico
& the Millenium of the
Hip Fellaheen this winter
bla bla —
The Millenium of
the Meek Fellaheen
The intensity of D. H.
Lawrence was not carnal
A woman’s cunt is
the soft avenue to her
womanhood, the godhead
of human generations,
the yearning point
of man — I believe
the celibacy in the
teachings of Christ were
Paulist & Jewish-Castration