Book of Sketches - Jack Kerouac [4]
to Paul: “You were
born in the woods — your
father was a farmer —
son of these rains — this
wilderness — wretched
victim of usurers &
bitter pain — yr. wife
has had yr. heir — you
sit alone in night —
dont let yr face hang,
dont let yr arms fall —
Doom is yr name —
Paul Death is yr name —
Paul Nothingness in the
big wild, wide & empty
world that hates you
is your name — Sit
here glooming all you
want — in debt, dark,
sad — Alone — You’ll
lose this house, you’ll lose
the 5, 6 dollars in yr
pocket — you’ll lose the
car in the yard — you’ll
lose the yard — you’ve
gained a wife & child —
almost lost them? They’ll
be lost eventually — a
grave that sinks from
the foot, that telegraphs
in dirt the sinking of a
manly chest — awaits
thee — and they — &
thou art an animal
dying in the wilderness —
Groo, groo, poor man
— groo — only the
heavens & the arcs
will ac-cept thee —
& Knowledge of heaven
& the arcs is not for
thee — so die, die,
die — & be silent —
Paul Blake in the
night, Paul Blake
in the No Carolina
rainy night . . .”
It took years to make
up the death; C. came
back feeble, pale, nervous;
took nervous pains with
the frail & tiny child;
the months rolled — one
of the bird dogs died of
the St Vitus dance —
in the mud — Only
old Bob survived, sitting
in wait for his master
at gray dusks — The
Autumn came, the winter
laid a carpet of one
inch snow, the Spring
made pines smell sweet
& powerful, the summer
sent his big haze-heat
to burn a hole thru
clouds & swill
up steams from fecund
earth — lost earth —
The Co. transferred
Paul from town to
town — Kinston — Tar
boro — Henderson
— (home of his folks) —
back to Kinston —
Rocky Mt. — Little
Paul grew — & cried
— & learned to suffer —
& cried — & learned
to laugh — & cried —
& learned to be still —
& suffered — Groo, groo,
the heavens dont care —
It had not always
been so easy & calm
as now at suppertime,
in BE, 1952 —
Hateful bitch of a
world, it wouldnt
ever last.
Yes, Yes, there they are
the poor sad people
of the South on Saturday
afternoon at
the Crossroads store —
Not so sad as heaven
watching but all the
more lost — all the
more lost — That
poor fat Negro woman
with her festive straw
hat for a joke but has
to be assisted from the
store where she supervised
the week’s grocery
purchases — on her
crutches; and old
Albino Freckles her
gaunt ghostly farmer
husband, comes tottering
after on his cane
— & they are deposited
in the car, nephew Jim
slowly wheels the old
family Buick (1937)
from the store — groceries
safe in the old boot trunk,
another week’s food
sustenance for the clan
in its solitudes of
corn —
Sat Afternoon in
the South — the
Jesus singers are already
hot for come-
Sunday tomorrow on
that radio — “Jee-
zas — ” 4, Five cars
are parked on one
side alone of that
store — & a truck —
and a bicyle — The
purchases are going
strong — inside rumbling
business, George cigar-in-
mouth is storing up his
Midas profits — only
the other day he fired
Clarence for being
late after seeing his
father at the hospital,
after five times driving
his useless bucktooth
wife to & fro the hospital
— out there’s sadness
enough without having
to run into that —
Here comes a flat
wagon, mule drawn,
with fat Pop, son &
granddotter, black,
all sitting legs adangle,
they didnt want to
shop his prices at George,
coming from another
down-the-road store —
eating the bought tidbits
of Saturday, — poverty,
sadness, name yr beef but
Pop is eating & is big &
fat — sits, maybe, on
the warpy porch in the
woods, lets son do
all the work — muching
— The little girl black &
ugly like Africa eats
her cone — Old Mule
clops on — Son-Bo
has eye on crossroads
for traffic — , holds reins
loose, they turn, talking,
into Rt 64 — now son
doesnt even look ahead —
quiet road — Old Mule
is alive just as they, suffers
under same skies, Saturday,
Weekday, Sunday shopping
day, Weekday fieldpull
day, Sunday churchgoing
day — sharing life