Book of Sketches - Jack Kerouac [50]
the pines scenting toward
winter where black
sledders will swirl
the dizzy sticks
in traceried Netherlander
fields & I shall see
Gerard float down
pinkhappy to yipe in
the few-year’d
mystery of his days,
Nin behind him — the
heat of the faint red
sun on the garage wall,
on my basket, & I
lay in T like awe
eyes fixed on the incredible
immortality
of fadebrown almost
pink clouds salmoning
motionless in their
singed Nov. blue —
simultaneous with voices
from a passing car &
the croo croo ack sudden
yark yipe bark of
a big pup attendant
on some turmoil in his
sight & part of plain,
so I lie there (& far
off now, antique fire
crackers of last July
of back fart of pipes
of trucks or torpedoes
on rr track, echoing
far, like skaters near
Lakeview Ave. ) —
all Lowell waits,
the Kingdom, all
earth, for the babe’s
comprehension — for
someday I shall be
king, & lord over the
hollows & corridors
of my mind in
divine memory’s
sincere recall
Prince of my own Peace
& Darkness — cultivator
of old soils for
new reasons — here
comes my mother, the
basket quivers to
roll — the wheels do
sweetly crunch
familiar Autumnal
dry ground of little
leaves & dry sticks
of grass & flattened
containers & cellophane
crumples & coal pebbles
& shinyrocks & dusty
old graydirt scraggles
pebbly gritty like
the living ground I
would get to see 3000
miles & 30 years later
in the railroad earth
of California — home
we roll to supper —
I see a redbrick wall
before returning little
face to final pillows
so by the time I’m
undone out of the basket
& put to bed in the
house I’m asleep &
dont know & the
world goes on without
me, as it will
forever soon —
My sweet Father
with sincere eyes &
out stuck ears is
in a tight dark
suit hurrying beneath
the filament tracery
blacktrees in
pale blue time
to get to the last
client & hurry on
home — Nin’s on
the porch, red cheeked,
playing with splinters —
Gerard broods in the
dank parlor in brown
swarm holy late
day dimness, thinking,
“Gerard whom
the angels of paradise
shall save from the
iron cross & make
friends with God, on
his side, hero, saved,
despite all sins of
dizzy now” —
“Gerard qu on va
amenez aux anges
avec des lapins,
des moutons, des loups,
de tite filles, des
tite souris, des
morceau d’terre,
Ti Jean, Ti Nin,
Papa, Mama, les
anges de la souterre,
les anges cachez dans
cave, les giboux dans
l’cemetierre entour
du sidewalk, les
giboux dans la
lune Indian, toute
ensemble avec
les crapauds au
ciel et on
va toute chantez —
je sera mou pour
prier dans la
creme au pied
dun throne de Dieu,
ma tete pendu sur
un aile chaude
toujours pi apres
Mama viendra me
cherchez joindre
tous — ”
TRANSLATION NEXT PAGE
“Gerard whom we shall
bring to the angels
with rabbits,
lambs, wolves,
little girls,
little mice,
pieces of earth,
Ti Jean, Ti Nin,
Papa, Mama, the
subterranean angels,
the angels hidden in
the cellar, the gibberers in
the cemetery beneath
the sidewalk, the
gibberers in the
moon, all
together with
the frogs to
heaven and we
shall all sing —
I’ll be soft for
praying in the
cream at the foot
of the throne of God,
my head leaning on
a warm wing
forever and then
Mama’ll come
find me joining
all — ”
SUNDAY IN THE YARDS
Along the rusty track in
throbbing pink twilight that
casts a faint veil glow on
the iron blackbound soot &
coal, 2 tank cars & 4 coal
hoppers tied in one unmoving
drag, waiting mute under
the soft November moon of
New York for voyages that will
take them to nostalgic plains
of snow in the great land
west — those same rust
bottomed wheels will roll
& clack over switchpoint
ticks of other rails, drive
hard rust mass to new
Idalias somewhere &
where you’ll see the rose
jawed freezing brakeman
standing by a North Dakota
spur in a blizzard with
his gloved hand momentarily
at rest on the old hopper
handrail, spitting, cursing
“When the hell they coming
back anyways! I got
to put a meal of pork
chops inside