Book of Sketches

  topcoat came in —

  “Boys be around a

  little later” — old

  Bull Durham pouches —

  planks — trains go

  by outside — plaster —

  Boys who were coming were

  2 Indians — one roundfaced,

  dungarees — one thin, tragic,

  seamed, Colorado Wild,

  with workpants, jacket,

  red bandana & strange

  rust red suede cowboy

  slope hat of the Wides

  — coming across UP

  tracks with big bags

  (of sandwiches probably)

  — tied up with old white

  bum who had strange high

  voice, was Irish, old but

  only 45, rednose, tremendously

  hopeless, didnt talk to me,

  went next room, read

  or scanned thru floor

  reading — what a movie

  of the Gray West I there

  missed! — never felt the

  thrill of the West

  more since childhood days

  of gray tumblewagon serials

  in the Merrimac Theater

  — cold, cold wind —

  Wazee, Wynkoop, Blake,

  Market — dismallest of

  streets with RR track each

  side, parked boxcars,

  coldwinds blowing down

  from all the gray Wyomings,

  sheds with stairs, redbrick

  bldgs., shacks, deserted —

  poor little Neal in this

  night! — and the alleys!

  oertopped thickly with

  telephone double pole

  lines, barrels, concrete

  paving, dismal, long, cold,

  leading to gray Raw

  each way — Then

  Larimer, corner 19th,

  Japs, — cluttered dark

  pawnshops with tools,

  guitars, lanterns, (some

  unusable), rifles, knives,

  stoves, bolts, anything

  — & a poor Negro

  couple quietly talking &

  speculating as they walk in

  to sell something, their

  children will hear of it

  one day the down & out past

  — beat Negros pile in

  car, “see ya later,” garage

  Negro walks on, “Cool”

  — but says Cool emphatically

  & like a revolution —

  Two itinerants standing

  outside Pool Parlor still

  closed 9 30 AM, everybody

  cold — Coffee

  shop — cafe — next to

  Windsor — old bum in

  faded Mackinaw eating

  big breakfast gravely

  with grizzled sorrow —

  younger men — coffee 5¢

  — sugar & cream put in

  for you etc. — Windsor

  lobby cold, gloomy —

  painting of constellation

  of faces around Windsor,

  Cody, Edwin Booth,

  Lily Langtry, Baby Doe,

  Oscar Wilde — Ah

  this is all the Jack

  London gray — Deep

  dark stairways blood

  mahogany — bums sit

  around — one man at

  bar — talk across 50

  foot lobby — once a

  great splendour is now

  mutter hall of hoboes

  — clerk at sumptuous

  desk paces & whistles —

  bums huddle in gray entrance

  to smoke & see

  out, hands a pockets

  — rattle rasp of

  a truck out there, I

  sense the gray cold

  tragedy of N’s boyhood

  — & its joy, too,

  as he showeth —

  Bums sit forever, with

  that hurt look, angry —

  smoking — waiting — immovable

  from their position —

  different type looks

  out door humbly, waiting

  for he knows not what,

  — old tottering tall bum

  in plaid shirt with

  squinty look of bewilderment

  — old painter

  bum in white coveralls

  struggles thru door —

  men with hats, coats, hands

  a pockets, sauntering — some

  of em weatherbeaten, hard,

  rough looking, Canyon City

  was their most recent

  home —

  Glenarm poolhall —

  rubber floor full of

  holes, boards show — ancient

  lost linoleum under —

  tables have hanging baskets

  like balls — Pederson’s —

  old tin panel ceiling,

  tan color — cue racks —

  pissery in corner hid by

  partition — greentop card

  tables where Holmes

  in bleak poolhall time

  sat dealing blearfaced

  & grim — “Onlooker’s

  bench” pale green, high,

  sand jars — Candy

  counter, open phone

  booth panels, juke —

  parkinglot across street —

  Denver Bears on

  summernight radio —

  click, bounce balls on

  hard, laughs, “God-damn!”

  — husky voices — Stomp of

  feet angling around tables

  — shuffle of shoes —

  “Let’s go, let’s go!” —

  voices of adolescents —

  crash of break — “Shhhhhit”

  — impatient knock of

  cuestick on floor —

  bop — click of ball

  in basket — pocket —

  Blackboard near counter

  — groups of voices,

  Street — Hotel DeWitt

  — flash of liquor store

  neons — Drake (blue)

  hotel (red) down right,

  cold — Bright orange

  Chinese neons up left of

  city center — Denver

  Auto Park, lot, old redbrick

  Hotel Southard one wall,

  DeWitt (brownbrick white

  bordered) other — over

  head wire bulbs in lot —

  Above poolhall Acme Hearing

  Aid Co. whitewashed brick

  — barber pole — (left)

  Hotel Glenarm pink neon

  on redbrick (right) —

  Mirobar corner — (flashing) —

  Counter — old bronze gilded

  cash register — framed

  licenses near coathanger

  hooks — dark brown cabinet

  — cigar counter with Tops,

  White Owls, Red Dot — El

  Producto — King Edward —

  signs in entrance glass sides

  low Coca Cola, Whistle

  Oh Lord in heaven above

  what a holy moment, coming

  to Neal & Carolyn’s house in

  the gray fog day of San

  Jose, nobody in, the 9

  room sadhouse, the old

  Green Clunker filled with

  California Autumnal leaves

  like the prophetic old

  birdhouse wreck of old

  travels & sorrows — & finding

  all alone in the house

  Eternal house little John

  blond & beautiful as an

  Angel, taking him up,

  a spot of Tokay, sit

  by the radio with him

  & have there on my

  lap all that’s left

  of my life, as if he

  were my blood son.

  And he looks just like

  Carolyn — how sad

/>   the ten-balled years,

  how toppled the pin

  of myself — what

  Gray Sorrows of Autumn

  for this sailing soul

  — and for Cassadys,

  nothing but love &

  attention — bearded

  doom boy Jack in Old

  Jose, walked from

  Easonburg Carolina —

  with $5 — & came

  to the Angel child that

  was not afraid of the

  Shroudy Stranger.

  FRISCO Embarcadero Sept 8

  Cold fog winds blowing

  from the wreathed hills

  of houses, I can see

  the blazing fog shagging

  over from old Potato Patch

  in a cold whipped blue

  — bay waters clear to

  Oakland are ripple & keen

  blue & cold looking — the

  wind even whistles — The

  majestic Mormacgulf with

  her creamy white masts

  & rigging in the pure blue

  sits before me, a rusty

  redpaint waterline on

  the green Jack London

  swell of old piers —

  Cold wind brings hints of

  all the good food in Frisco

  (& maybe all the love,

  & surely all the hate) —

  Mormacgulf is tied

  with great cables, a

  ratguard broke loose near

  the bowsprit canvas and

  bangs like a tin pan

  in the wind — Water

  rushes gushing from a low

  scupper — In the water

  is bread, a leaf of cabbage,

  a butt —

  SP train at night

  The local — sweetsmelling

  night soots — crashby

  dingdang of opposite

  train — the pink neons

  of Calif., the cocktail-

  glass-&-mixer neon of

  the ginmills — The hills

  of supper lights — the

  blear of fogs in from the

  brown gaps — blear of

  lights — Redwood City to

  Atherton, clear, clean

  night, with magic stars

  riding the dark over the

  homes of the railroad

  earth — plenty time —

  I must believe in the lives

  of people & the history of

  their reality — I must become

  a historian —

  observe the history of society

  & write histories of the world

  in wild hallucinated prose

  — but a record of the

  angels personalizing all the

  haunted places I have

  seen, written for the angels

  not the publishers & readers

  — a complete history of

  my complete inner life,

  also — Wail of the

  train, chipachup of the

  locomotive steams when

  they open a vestibule door

  — brakes haul up train,

  old ornate browngreen coach

  sways — Brown seats

  of sticky stuff —

  California Spanish neat

  cut houses & Launderettes

  & modernistic groceries

  in the leafy black —

  nameless newbrick mortuaries

  or grass conservatories

  or waterworks with

  Shrouds — Oh old train,

  Wail my Lowell back,

  wail for my Lowell, make

  my Lowell my only come-

  back — Palo Alto, taxis

  at bushéd sidewalk, lights

  evenly pinpointing in a

  main drag, — Dodge Plymouth

  paleblue sign exactly the

  one at Letran corner

  in Mexcity — but with

  beautiful bloodclot glow

  Don Hampton beneath —

  Strings of yellow bulbs

  in car lot — A sudden

  view of muddy wood

  supports litup in the

  construction night —

  Spectral palegreen greenhouse

  of a factory — Her

  I dont like & dont have

  to like & wont — Fuckups

  have a choice they make,

  in naked silence — I

  have never been a romantic

  lover like him because

  I do not like to moo &

  screw — I like straight

  relations no show all

  balls come & comfort —

  the slightest sadism makes

  me sicken — I am a

  hero — Distant bloodred

  antennas of Calif. —

  Murder will out among

  these beasts — that

  puffed feather She —

  I like my women tragic,

  silent, & ravenous souled

  — Angel of Mercy,

  come to swirl my brain

  & teach me the truth &

  what to do now, I pray

  thee from dark & ignorance

  — In darkness reeling I

  see bare naked ledge of

  oldbrown wood lit by

  streetlamp, brown, dim —

  Distant geometric modern

  bluebright factory of

  aircraft windows — The

  star of my fame & pity

  following far above — Lights

  of spread parks illuminating

  lonely bits of walks

  — Green lights too — the

  whistle calls on ahead —

  Why did Sebastian live so

  intensely & romantically

  just to die blear-eyed —

  he was saved from middleaged

  baggy eyed ends — The

  Old SP’s all I got now,

  Sam — I had loved you &

  you me — Edie, I loved

  you too, deeply — The

  old stained glass of the

  coach, the smoky tan

  round ceiling, the barbershop

  chairs, the engine calling

  for our mountains & all

  that’s lost & was supposed

  to happen & didnt — Ah

  James Joyce, Proust,

  Wolfe, Balzac — I’ll

  combine you in my forge —

  Lovers like X. & Y. — simper

  like snakes

  WAITING FOR 146 AT

  CALIF. AVE.

  Backsteps Caboose (crummy)

  bloodred — hills seaward

  smoke shroud — sun orange

  on its flare — Palo

  Alto bank bldg. — steam

  hiss, silence — the long

  track Southeast — the

  quiet Calif. cottages —

  old paintchip trailer

  in backyard, overturned

  car junk, abandoned

  cab (black, white), clothes-

  lines with pins on —

  Drive-In — Restaurant —

  Green with modern ranch

  style redwood sections,

  Swift’s Ice Cream neon

  in window, big bamboo

  blinds in window, cars

  parked around — Sunday

  afternoon in San Jose,

  late sun, the haunted

  mountains from the East

  rim of Santa Clara

  Valley appear only after

  a second take look,

  dim, yellowish, faintly

  rilled, round, bare as

  flesh, humping softly

  far over the flat of

  fruit trees — Beyond

  Drive In the night

  lights of a ballpark —

  traffic on road — Shadows

  of pretty girls passing

  inside Drive In ??
? new

  cars everywhere, & lots

  — lost spiritualities

  of America dulled &

  buried in this last

  barbaric land — empty

  of meaning but rich,

  fruitful, golden, — (the

  land is) —

  Original home of the

  Tender Indian — the Pomo —

  O Dostoevsky of

  Indian Milleniums! —

  Christian Fellaheen

  Peotl Saint!

  NOTES ON THE MILLENIUM OF THE HIP FELLAHEEN Oct. 1952, Calif.

  With historical basis in this: -

  (1)America is a pseudomorphological wave laid over the land of the culture-less Fellaheen New World Indian

  (2)The American Race is West European, Faustian, Late Civilized, Decadent

  (3)Faustian West will destroy itself; the New World Earth will return to its original Indian & Fellaheen

  (4)The Indian is one with the Fellaheen World Belt thru Mexico, Africa, Aramea, the Near East, Mohammedan lands, India, China, Korea, the Primitive & the Fellah joined in one Underground Mankind beneath Western & Russian Marxist heels — cultureless, non-critical, simplicity Mankind

  (5)The prophet & saint of the World Fellaheen Future is a man of simplicity & kind heartedness & clarity; the various levels of the human godhead are defined in the separate religions which give decency

  & richness in blank & blind

  Eternity with everybody

  waiting. Wm. Blake, &

  Dostoevsky are of the same

  Church! Jesus Christ & the

  black Cunt are reconciled,

  the Virgin Mary is painted

  on the back of an immense

  hardon of gesso plaster

  in the hut home of my

  Culiacan host, Mexico.

  NOTE

  (1) The Russian Christian of the next 1000 years belongs to the Aramaean Springtime of the Soul

  (2)The Aramaean Springtime of the Soul coincides with the Millenium of the Hip Fellaheen which has in it the seeds of the Antichrist

  (3)The next great conflict will be between Hip & Christ, will be resolved in the dark

  The Millenium of the Hip

  Fellaheen has the subtle

  AntiChrist in it — it

  is not serious Finally —

  Not Race, but the Types,

  in Fellaheen Form, is

  Discernible; the slope

  shouldered cowboy switch

  man in dungarees, low

  rolled sleeves & brim

  hat is the same

  type as the samebuilt

  Indian driving a Mexico

  City bus or lost in endless

  meditation on the desert.