Page 18 of Book of Sketches


  little falling white

  puffs from giant

  weedfields —

  Jerseyward the

  gloomy men in rubbage,

  the smoke of

  old switch pots,

  industrial & sometree

  horizons in the

  October Gold —

  I’ll live on the

  West Waterfront,

  — be Wolfe

  — on a day like

  this exactly 12 years

  ago I grabbed

  her golden cunt the

  moment she jumpt

  into the car in

  Manchester Conn. —

  I was 19, horny,

  October Gold was

  on the hill then

  too — Oil

  in a map trance

  slowly passes,

  pockmarkt shit

  with it — a

  ruined submerged

  bedspring like the

  dump in Lowell

  a giant 20 foot

  plank moves over

  like a long dead

  snake waiting

  for the sea —

  — warm sun,

  peaceful distant

  smokes maybe of

  hospital boiler rooms

  — nameless faroff

  yowls of trains —

  Swaying newbarge

  orangepainted

  — the great ships

  fatbottomed crooked

  stern strange at

  the foot of Manhattan

  bulk

  walls — the mystery

  of their world going

  hulls slightly slanted

  & tied up at the

  doorsteps of Time

  & the World City

  — Good God

  the great ocean

  one way sparkling

  wine white to dry

  red Spain sunrise

  to come —

  & all the green

  harvestland t’other

  way, to other San

  Joses — other yards —

  blam! be-krplam!

  the running slack

  sk-c-l-to-clank

  of a cut being

  rammed or braked

  & I saw the yard

  brakeman riding head

  high in mid air

  over emptyreefer

  lines — The

  rusty playwheels

  of the railroad all

  waiting for me Ah

  The long blood dozes

  3 POEMS OCEANS KISS

  Oceans Kiss in

  Land that lips

  Encompass with suck

  Of love Immortal

  Under the moon

  Of America sick

  And pale blond

  Ashen tuberculosis

  In Sanatoriums of

  Colorado

  Far in the Wild

  Essential Indian

  DAWN

  Dawn’s gray birds

  Herald hoppéd Angels

  Broken-backed

  From fucking all night

  With San Remo

  Queers Intense

  And Eager to learn

  The latest Literary

  Avidity — Came

  Chirping to Envision

  Horror, Teach it to

  The Millionaire in

  The Rail road Hair

  OOPS

  Poets were Glad

  When Success a Smile

  Sent Wine-like

  Smile Warming

  Their way but when

  Dross Failure Rain

  & Doom of Exciting

  Gray Day Coal Chutes

  Enveloped Again

  They thought they

  Had to Go to Work

  Instead — a

  Successful American

  Let us see which of

  these leads writes best

  in the softly applied lap

  touch originated in 1912

  by Swim Ward B. Thabo —

  President of the Acme

  Industrial Foundation

  makers of Corsets for

  Model T Fords in the

  Nebraska Primavery —

  For by applying the light

  touch in the manner which

  you see here prescribed

  something of the Primavery

  is retained & pre

  served like Pen

  shades

  “Sketch” Sunday Afternoon NY

  The great bulk of Wall

  St you’d think’d make

  the lower tip of Manhattantoes

  sink is rising pink as

  salmon on the edge of the

  blue mouth harbor waters

  as you see it from the sad

  Jersey Central Ferry — about

  4:30 PM, long sorrow rays

  hide between the cold

  uncaring-of-human walls

  of Wall St but there’s a

  heart beating in the rock

  somewhere — in the

  breasts of little girls coming

  on the ferry in little

  ribboned hats & lacy

  drawers & Go to Communion

  shoes their eyes avid wild

  to see the big world & learn

  & to understand how their

  happiness is to be secured

  from the Macrocosmic Stone

  of Awful Real, how at

  least they can adjust to

  it just as the dying fish adjusts

  itself to the swerve

  & swerveback of the waves

  — awright so we’re all

  gonna die but now is the

  time to sing & see, to be

  humble, sacrificed, late,

  crazy, talkative, foolish,

  mailteinnottond,

  crawdedommeeng,

  all the cross megoney’s

  & followsuits to be

  mardabonelated or Bug,

  — they’ll be saying you

  lost yr touch & you’re only

  a one day old Balzac

  on Sun Oct 18 1953

  balls

  Time, rather, to be proud,

  indispensable, early,

  sane, silent, serious,

  not mailteinnottond at all

  Death of Gerard

  The original late afternoon

  of Fall when I was in

  a wicker basket crib

  & parked on dusty skinny

  wheels at that long gray

  concrete garage with edible

  looking blockstones creme

  puffed & as if puddinged

  to cook & eat & unforgettable

  in the One Reality,

  the sun has warmth in

  it (& the single twick

  of a little November

  bird hid in the twiggish

  branch on the other

  side of the cool

  redpink lateday

  air) — & I’m swaddled

  to the eartips in pink

  Fellaheen swaddling clothes

  with rose cheeks & poor

  morf mouth muxed to

  see the day — a drone

  of 1922 Fall airplanes

  in that unrecoverable bleak

  & the river’s old man

  in the valley bed wailing

  arms out elbowed to

  swell the muff of

  shore aside & on, carrying

  junk fenders to

  the cundrom’s drowned

  immaculate cove

  of oil sticks under

  the Boott mill door

  walls where eyes of

  drowned boys mix with

  ink rags & sweat of

  dye vat devils with aged

  mothers at home dependent

  & enduring like yon

  sadchild in basket the

  wait of the late red

  aft
ernoon to see what

  Paradise will bring — the

  sun fairly warm, the

  air cooling to supper —

  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 my belly before

  this local Godforsaken takes

  us further away from the

  last restaurant — ” — he

  wants to eat, be warm,

  drink coffee — but

  stands in great weary

  America which I see now

  haunted redpink in the

  west & a parade of shadowy

  boys handsapockets walking

  along the boxcar tops

  in the vast delicate dusk

  traceried by trees of the

  living looking like little

  jigglets & little Coolie

  Chinamen howling for

  the Formosa, their feet

  topping down the singsong

  walkways along which I

  used to run puttin pops

  up & down — As

  if this was what a

  man would want to write

  who has nothing left to do

  in his life but keep his

  joy in secret scribbled note-

  books — no, I’ll ha
ve

  to try again, start all over,

  again — Enthusiasm

  is a design that has to

  be re-woven in this

  bare barking heart, I

  hate my life now not

  love it, damn

  Leaves dont respond,

  sticks lie broken,

  dead leaves gather dust,

  the West reddens

  & narrows cold

  the moon mawks to

  purse her still lips —

  lavender over the lights

  of supper home, — wind

  sweet memoried of

  California, I die, I die

  when I am not enthused

  & full of meek ragged

  joy, please dear God again!

  The prayer of my

  mother that I need

  a father, answered!

  “Enthusiasm is a design

  that has to be re-woven

  in this bare branch heart”

  says the Goddam

  motherforsaken fop

  who calls himself Kerouac

  & cant even slurk up & slack

  slop out them old jaw crack

  & spit, flurp, I’m gonna be a

  writer if I have to be a

  goadamn bom bum mopping

  up the shithouses — of —

  Ah — go on with it, Jean,

  Jack Kerouac, & no more

  foppery, jess plain western

  talk is what I say &

  let me see them boxcars

  in the moon of real N

  Mexico — fags hanking

  back their asses in Sunday

  afternoon ballets, to

  show they aint just

  cocksuckers but know all

  about art & studied —

  (advertise themselves as

  coming from Europe, to

  impress old Queens of Ozone

  Park Ladies, & have Bach

  & Shakespeare to Back

  their shaky spears up)

  The old Chinaman of Richmond

  Hill who’s been in his

  little brown store for God

  knows how long before we

  got here & for 4 years since

  & never have I seen him

  unalone, with a friend,

  looking sometimes out the

  window with those crazy

  red sploshes of paint

  making a rail-off-effect

  3 feet from bottom, he

  has his face over there

  & is contentedly puffing his

  pipe not with opium somnolence

  but like an

  ordinary Bourgeois

  tradesman at the end of day

  & he’s digging that dismal

  little 95th St with its

  fewtrees & the redbrick

  side of the bar & the few

  dull lamp homes where in

  the evening old walkers of

  dogs mop up the last TV

  news bdcast with a cup

  of tea — The bare bulb

  that hangs from his ceiling

  is so bright it lights

  to the other side of 55th

  St on a dark night —

  you see the red paneglass