Book of Sketches - Jack Kerouac [54]
Let it bounce off the
rock of your gladness the
cold, rub your hands,
drink hot brews of coffee
tea or herb, rush to yr
notebook of MEMORY BABE
with every Memory Tic
CHURCH MUSIC —
Organ clamoring
with the rising chorus,
the holy voices of
oo-lips of littleboys
in white lace collars,
the overvault gloom
OO huge
SATURDAY dec. 12
ETERNITY BOYS
The tall sexual Negro
boy on the junkyard
street near the Gas
Tank Jamaica, about 7
or 8 yrs old, he was
running his palm along
his fly in some Sexual
story to the other little
boy Negro who had his
arm around him as they
came up the street in
the gray rain of Saturday
afternoon — smoke
emanating from junk fires,
smell of burnt rubber, piles
of tires, junk shops
with old white stoves
on the blackmud sidewalk,
rusty clinkered grates,
black mudholes, the pudding
soft rained-on tar. the
boards with rot in em &
old nails, piles of plaster
& lath, dirty neons of
late afternoon bars beyond
the wet sag of the
woodfence — the thrill
& mist & hugeness of
it & all on Saturday,
the 2 boys have been
arm in arm buddying
all day in this wilderness
of their souls & now
the tall one to the
littler kid his personality
so huge, hobloo-gooboo
African, vast, is demonstrating
that boy-sex &
they are grave discussing it
— as I come along I
see but pretend not to
& they peek to see if
old Walt Whitman see
but old Walt Whitman’s
in a ragged secret coat,
holding down all his lids
& not Whitmaned —
inconspicuous — I thought
“How infinitely Huge
is the tall one’s personality
& the Epic of their
Graymist Saturday today
as Jamaica Ave. swarms
with Xmas shoppers, the
sad Americans with childrens
& families spending all their
money, the phoney Xmas
Santas & cups & tinsel
storewindows — These 2
black angels of Raggedy
Saturday Real demonstrating
in their freedom
boyhood how great arts
like bop are born,
arm-in-arm & interested
in nothing but themselves,
lovers and pure as they’ll
never be again —
in the backlot too
they play with their
cocks & show the shiver
& itchpain to the rain
& rub the rotwood &
try to come, the shuddering
out-to-the-world push of
loins, & wonder — but
in the face the inescapable
& eternal Personality
(the tall one a cloth
cap, the littler a
wooldown) vastness
of nose, cheek, informative
push tout be
dra man talisman
eyes of the
King of all the gangs
& possible Prophets of
the world, Littler is so
amazed & what he could
tell you this minute about
Tall would fill 17 Visions
of Codys 8500000
pages of tight prose
if he could only talk
& tell it, in the shack
what he done yesterday,
the madness of his
secret humor, fact,
let Littler talk”: -
“Why he in the
bed mattress is the
long black funny boy
Sam I seen him
tho a rock clear
thu the smoke &
had sixteen harmonicas
in his eyes & in his
eyes I seen Sixteen
signs & he says ‘Boy,
dear Lord, I’m seen
the ghost agin last
night & Paw come
home & Howdie Doodie
Television Show &
Silvercup Bread & My
Sister bought it &
smile” — however
one can do it, it is
the Enormousness of
the Universe that makes
the Microcosm its tiniest
unit even Enormous-er,
— so 2 little Negro
boys arm in arm on
Saturday rainy afternoon
contain in themselves
the history of
mankind if they could
but talk & tell it
all about themselves
& what they done &
if an observer could
follow them around
& see & judge the
vastness of every tiny
unit — Who knows
the vast religiousness
of that cloth cap
when it shines radiant
in the mind of the
littler boy, or when
grown up & ’s forgot
Sam & gone 3,000
miles to nothing the sudden
memory of Great Sam
(MY BOYHOOD PAL)
will be as remembering
the Angel of Heaven &
All Hope,
since dying
GIRL IN LUNCHCART
Girl in front of me
with green sweater red
lips gentle thin cold
fingers at her hair &
she’s explaining (at her
high stiff hair like hairdos
of Africa) explaining to
girlfriend whose smile I
see reflected in shiny
mirror back of Jamaica
Ave. Lunchcart Cash
Register