Page 19 of Book of Sketches


  wainscot, the washed

  strokes of red Spush

  — then the little

  alarm clock on the back

  shelf — bundles of

  finished shirts in shelves —

  I’m bored

  — the gray brown

  lace in the windows of TV

  parlors & he sees the shadows

  therein of a race of

  nabors he does not speak

  with — at night you

  sense his presence anyway

  in the brown backroom,

  a solitary white China

  teapot on a shelf —

  The sadness & brown

  loss of his sonless

  daughterless &

  exile from Fellaheen

  days indicated by the

  little narrow mirror to

  the right which has a

  Joshua Reynolds Blue Boy

  in its upper half panel,

  now faded into a greener

  blue of mouldy time,

  & the mirror surface

  itself impossibly smokied

  by ghosts of time — the

  poor sad calendar

  finally, with month

  flap under a great

  golden breasted woman

  with gold velvet

  low cut gown — I

  see the piles of white

  laundry bags on floor,

  the sad slant boards,

  the counter — & the

  huge guillotine like shadow

  thrown by the parcel wrapper

  & string-feeder gadget

  5 feet (much higher than

  Won Ming) high, casting

  on the wall from the

  Frisco forlorn bulb a

  monstrous China shadow

  & prophecy of more

  patience, more fires —

  somewhere brown opium

  lurks — & nightcapped

  death

  But he goes on year after

  year, alone, never nods

  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

&
nbsp; 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 literature.

  SELF

  by

  FOOL

  be the name of yr

  lifework

  And forget thyself

  to tell the word of

  the world

  “Watch yr. thoughts!”

  False humbleness, false

  self-depreciation, leads

  to useless explanation.

  At the end of a

  meaning is a tangent

  of brain noises,

  avoid them &

  finish where you

  finish

  The brain noises belong

  only in the paragraph

  of brain noises

  Canuck, dont pile

  up reasons for yr

  activities

  IN VAIN

  The stars in the sky

  In vain

  The tragedy of Hamlet

  In vain

  The key in the lock

  In vain

  The sleeping mother

  In vain

  The lamp in the corner

  In vain

  The lamp in the corner unlit

  In vain

  Abraham Lincoln

  In vain

  The Aztec empire

  In vain

  The writing hand: in vain

  (The shoetrees in the shoes

  In vain

  The windowshade string upon

  the hand bible

  In vain —

  The glitter of the greenglass

  ashtray

  In vain

  The bear in the woods

  In vain

  The Life of Buddha

  In vain)

  FIRST OF THE NEW SKETCHES

  2 ineffectual old men

  standing in the wilderness

  they created but not by

  their own hand, their innocence

  & stupidity rather, &

  all the Devil had to do

  was the rest — Both in

  hats, topcoats, infinitesimal

  differences of brown hat

  vs. gray hat (felt, the

  mold of custom), pale

  blue vs. dark blue coat,

  both hands apockets in

  the same lost way — pants

  of 2 shades shading same

  size & color shanks

  (white stick variety,

  as befits old men sedentary

  & corrupt with

  property, fear of death

  & arrogant sons) — The

  wilderness of their making

  is the children’s park

  with gigantic knee-abrasing

  concrete, concrete benches,

  brick double shithouse

  for boys’ & girls’ different

  shameful peepees, &

  over the sooty brown football

  field Atlantic Ave

  with its blank vehicular

  passers & the huge LIRR

  carshop yards with

  a dozen Diesels

  throbbing & exhaling bad

  gas in the gray chill

  December afternoon,

  all around the bleak

  deserted rooftops of suburban

  homes, bare trees with

  boles & half dead because

  hemmed at base by

  concrete groundworks —

  the old men earnestly

  discuss some ineffectual

  absurdity, pointing, taking

  turns, both have glasses

  because they were taught

  to be myopic — good

  old fellows nevertheless

  as harmless as children

  (children throw rocks at

  beggars)

  only more culpable & a

  shade less intelligent — discussing

  eagerfaced in their

  concrete horror & scraggle

  of iron machines & air-

  stinks some unimportant

  sub problem among

  the problems of the

  Problem of the West

  — neckties, collars,

  stamping their bloodless

  feet now & ready to

  go back in the hot

  parlor to paper &

  TV

  — glancing at wrist

  watches, waiting for

  gut fattening shame-

  obesity-making supper

  — slaves of the bleak

  without hope

  without actual earnestness

  but momentary profitable

  appearance of so —

  contemptuous of the

  older fool is the old

  fool — Their double

  chinned cigaret smoking

  women call the children

  to home thru the

  prison of iron fences

  — The older man holds

  to his point, he’ll soon

  be mush to a new

  monument in Long Island

  City Cemetery — his

  hat is battereder than

  the younger oldster’s,

  his mouth more twisted

  pathetically — too late

  now he knows he’s

  got his last body —

  “Paragon” is written

  on the oil truck delivering

  fuel to useless

  furnaces — Clouds of

  soot rise from an

  old locomotive

  in the yard, harking

  to memories of old

  America as the Diesel

  gives 4 blasts — The

  2 old men part, one

  homeward, the other

  toiletward, hobbling,

  lost, tired, hopeless,

  looking linefaced &

  worried around the gray

  park for nothing or

  for a temporary unimportant

  direction —

  the sight of them reminds

  me of the white light in

  the shiny wax of the

  corridor of the hosp. morgue

  To drive out Angry Thoughts

  Whatever anyone does,

  anyone says, in the

  past, now, everything, let

  it bounce off the rock

  of yr gladness (yr mirror)

  Guys talking you down

  about girls

  Novelists publishing big

  Towns & Cities

  Writers saying nothing

  about your new writings

  Really let it bounce off

  the rock of yr gladness,

  because you are

  innocent

  (Free)

  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