Book of Sketches - Jack Kerouac [52]
when you nod, looking out
on the street, interior
with his own Asia of
thots — His little
eyes in the wrinkled worry
of his pone Yonkers
Mongoil bone, broz
— his thots in the back
secret does-he-live-
there room & how he
whops his lil brown
pecker, all for
future spec —
ALLEY GASTANK JAMAICA
There’s a place in
Jamaica where I walked
for several months while
I was there in my last
months, north to the gas
tank, — a side alley there
ran between brokendown
fences, puddingsoft &
dark with mud holes, pits,
wrecks along the way,
the dank ramp under the
LIRR track up, parked
trucks with wood rails,
darkness of hidden thieves
like the backalleys of
Thieves Market Mexico
but no lettuce &
jungle rainslime on the ground,
just dry American Long Island
& the threat of
150th St Negroes maybe
hiding gone mad with the
tiger bottle or Italian
junk stealers hiding with
stolen cases of grapes —
The giant tank to the
wow bloody upnight black
left with as you pass the
cemetery on the other side of
it lights down a shroud
of spotlights so you see
sad hair grass, shroud of
light, hunk bulk hugetank,
gravestones of Hallowed Ghosts
— you see the little
row Colonial houses redone
& with new quarantine
signs in the street & the
shadows in a golden
windowshade of inkblack
shack across the smooth
newblock garage & dark
soft nights a tappin
along to my borey
death
dear
God
please make
me a
writer
again
DECEMBER 1953
The dead man’s lips are
pressed tasting death
as bitter as dry musk
- - -
Soft yards of old houses
are not for travellers
of the late afternoon sun
& long shadow on the ground,
and women of 35
with soft used thighs
& dust motes in the
old bed room
Time & Sea
Philosophy
This quality of late afternoon
in the blonde hair of mothers
in sad new parks is as
the taste of Springtime
in the violently parturiating
Mind —
so make no more leaky
vows
The poisonous mushroom
is malignant because
it is inside itself, the
sac, & does not derive
from the earth, but
fungitates in itself,
like a corrupt &
unhappy man; the
edible mushroom stems
directly from the earth,
is in contact with it,
like a happy open
man free of cupped-in
malignancies.
In all writing, creative
or reflective, there’s got
to be only one way
— that is, the immediate,
the free flowing, unplanned
way. For all is pure;
the word is pure; the mind
is pure; the world is pure.
In the beginning & amen.
Because the word is
sacred it cannot be
changed.
The same as in
Doctor Sax as in the
reflection on the water.
The water does not
hesitate; the mind can
know no mud, but
what is clear in
heretofore unknown words
& word sounds ored up
from the Conscious of
the Race. But when
the words are clear, &
everything is clear, then
the other minds see
clear to think it
clear; but when the
clear words are un
clear to the other
minds, they are clear
in themselves, as is
the reflection on the
water.
Amen.
The words are clear as
in the reflection of
the world on the water.
Therefore write the
Word at once, everywhere,
from now till your
hand is paralyzed,
for there will be your
work for God, since
you can not work
for God in other ways,
and would not, & dont
know how, or bend that
way, from habit, & from
talent in the use &
signification & arrangement
of the Word.
The elephant receives
the arrows of illnatured
war; you
receive the arrows of
your genius, & work
your hand in the
land beneath the
skies till it cramps
& pains thee, for
that is yr dutiful
destiny.
The last love allowed
you & the least forgivable
of yr final
passions, Vain.
Cast out the
devils, & be pure,
— add no lines to the
finished line. Draw
no horizons beyond &
underneath the real
horizon. Blat in yr
brain the bleet sheep
bone — falsify not
the cluckings, the
cluck-tures, in yr.
drooly brain, brain
child & Babe of
Sweat & Folly. This
your final body, final
shame, last vanity,
greatest indulgence,
greatest farmiture,
& boon to Man,
kind