comin down that
way. I better
make a turn race.
No — ” adjusting
curvetrack to straight
track — “no, gotta
git anodder race
track — You
better help me
Jackie.”
“Why?”
“Cause — Cause
this is a hard track.
Sure. Sure is.
Now let me put a
track right here.
Hard. This hard.”
“Now it’s goin
right around that
tunnel. Paul we’re
gonna have a whole
lot. We have
crow-co-dals — ”
“If you mess up
that train track
one more — I’ll
shoot ya!”
Jackie: “Talkin to me?”
Paul: “Shoo — flooshy you.”
Outside, in gold
day, the weeping
willows of Buddy Tom
Harris hang heavy
& languid & beauteous
in the hour of life;
the little boys are
not aware of
God, of Universal
Love, & the vast
earth bulging in
the sun — they
are a part of
the swarming mystery
and of the salvation
— their eyes reflect
humanity & intelligence
—
In the kitchen the
little mother, letting
them play, bustles
& bangs around for
supper. Something
in the air presages
the arrival of the
father old man —
Soft breeze puffs
the drapes in Paul’s
room as he & Jackie
wriggle on the floor
“Hey Jackie — you
got it on the wrong way
aint ya? Now
put this in the back
— now fix it.
(Singing) I think
I’ll get on this train,
I think I’ll get
on that train,
I think I’ll get
on the ca-buss.
Broom! briam!”
lofting his wood
plane — screaming —
“Eee- yall —
gweyr! ” On
his belly, smiling, —
suddenly thinking
silently . . .
In the kitchen
changed to yellow
tailored shorts,
tailored gray vest
shirt, & white sandals
the little housewife
prepares supper. She
stands at the white
tile sink washing the
small squash under
the faucet — preliminary
maneuvers for
a steak supper she
decided upon at the
last minute —
“Hello Geneva —
he went to Henderson this
noon — I think he’ll
be back — bye — ”
— She slices them into
a glass bowl, standing
idly on one foot
with the other out-
thrust at rest —
the little boys now
playing outside —
The screendoor
slams out front —
“Hey!” cries
CaB not moving from
her work
“Hey Moe” greets
her husband —
He comes into the
kitchen, Panama
hat, white shirt, tie
— casual — tall,
husky, blond, hand-
some — smooth moving,
slow moving, relaxed
Southerner — He
has mail & that afternoon
at his mother’s
house in Henderson
50 miles away, while
on a business trip for the
tel. co., he went
thru his grandmother’s
trunk & found old
letters & a pair of
old diamond studded
cuff links, he stands
in the middle of the
kitchen reading the
old letter — written
by a lost girl to
his uncle Ed also
now lost — the sadness
of long lost enthusiasms
on ruled paper, in
pencil —
But now a storm
is coming — “It’s
gonna storm,” says
Jack — From the
west the ranked
forward-leaning
clouds come parading
— stationary puff
clouds of the calm
are snuffed &
taken up — From
the East big black
thunderhead with
his misty gloom
forms hugeing —
Directly above
the embattled roof
of the Blake’s the
sea of dark has
formed — the first
light snaps — the
first thunder crackles,
rolls, & suddenly
drops to the bottom
with a shake-earth
boom — More &
more the rushing
clouds are gray, a
forlorn airplane in
the southeast hurries
home — Far in
the northeast
the remnant afternoon’s
still soft
& fleecy gold, still
rich, calm, clouds
still make noses &
have huge maws
of incomprehensible
comedy in their
sides — Thunder
travels in the West
heavens — “parent
power dark’ning in
the West” — A
straycloud hangs
upsidedown & helpless
in the thunderhead
glooms, still retaining
white —
Mrs. Langley nextdoor
swiftly removes her
sheets & wash from
the wire line — looks
around timidly —
absent in her work,
frowning in the glare,
peaceful in the
stillness before storm
(as one birdy tweets
in the forest across
to the North) — Grass,
flowers, weeds wave
with dull expectancy
— The first spray
drops wetten the
little Langley girl
in her garden
play — “Hey” she
says — Children
call from all sides
as the rain begins
to patter — Still
a bird sings.
Still in the NE
the clouds are
creampuff soft &
afternoon dreamy.
Some blues show
in the horizon grays
— Now the rain
pelts & hums —
gathers to a wind —
a hush — a mighty
wash — the
trees are showing
signs of activity — ,
the corn rattles,
the wall of the
forest is dimmed
by smokeshroud
rains — a solitary
bee rises, the
road glistens. It
is hot & muggy. Cars
that come from
up the road roll on
their own sad images
/>
gray & dumb —
The cooling thirsting
earth sighs up a
cucumber freshness
mixed with steams
of tar & warp danks
of wood — Toads
scream in the meadow
ditch, the Harris rooster
crows. A new
atmosphere like the
atmosphere of screened
porches in Maine in
March, on cold
gray days; &
not like sunny Carolina
in July, is seen
thru the windows
above the kitchen
sink: dark wet
leaves are shaking
like iron. A tiny
ant pauses to rub
its threads on a
spine of leaf —
the fly solemnly
jumps from the
bedspread to the
screen hook — as
breezes rush into
the house from that
perturbed West.
“Close that door!”
cries the mother —
doors slam —
“Paul I said you
stay here!”
Rain nails kiss
the dance of the shiny
road.
The parched tobacco is
dark as grass.
Behind the storm the
blue reappears — it was
just a passing shower —
CB doesnt even bother
to close her windows.
Inside an hour the
grass is almost dry
again, vast areas of
open blue firmament
show the cottonball
horizons low & bright
over the darknesses
of the pine wall woods,
up the road in clean
white shirt & pale overalls
that looked
almost washed by the
rain, comes the pure
farmer, a Negro,
limping, as orgones dance
in the electric washed
new air.
All is well in
Rocky Mount, North
Carolina, as 5 o’clock
in the afternoon shudders
on a raindrop leaf,
& the men’ll be coming
home.
AVILA BEACH, CALIF. (WRITTEN YEAR LATER)
Seethe rush
longroar of sea
seething in floor
of sand — distant
boom of world
shaking breakers
— sigh & intake
of sea — income,
outgo — rumors
of sea —
hushing in air —
hot rocks
in the sand —
the earth shakes
& dances to the
boom — I think
I hear propellers
of the big union
oil Tanker
warping in at
pier — A great
lost rock sits
upended on
the skeely sand
— — Who the
fuck cares
1954 RICHMOND HILL SKETCH ON VAN WYCK BOULEVARD
Before my eyes I see
“Faultless Fuel Oil” written
in white letters on a green
board, with “11-30” in
small numbers on each
side to indicate the street
address of the company.
The building is small,
modern, redbrick, square,
with curious outjutting
new type triangular
screens that I cant really
examine from this side
of the boulevard but look
like protection from
oldfashioned robbers &
stones — The garage door
entrance for the oil
trucks: green. The
building sits upon the
earth under a gray
radiant sky — I see
vague boxes in the right
front window — Cars
are going by with a
sound like the sea in
the superhiway below it
— It is very bleak
& I only give you the
picture of this bleakness.
By bleakness I mean:
unnatural, stiff, lost
in a void it cant
understand, — in a
void to which it has no
relation because of the
transiency of its function,
to earn money by delivering
oil. But it has
a neat Tao of its
own. In any case this
scene is of no interest
to me. & is only an
example. A scene
should be selected by
the writer, for haunted-
ness-of-mind interest.
If you’re not haunted
by something, as by a
dream, a vision, or
a memory, which are
involuntary, you’re not
interested or even involved.
SKETCH WRITTEN IN OUELLETTE’S LUNCH IN LOWELL MASS. 1954
“Ya rien plus pire qu’un
enfant malade —
a lava les runs — j’aita assez découragez
j brauilla avec — ”
“Un ti peu d gravy*
d tu?” — “Staussi bien . . . Mourire
chez nous que mourire
la” — “L’matin
yava les yieux griautteux”
— “J fa jama deux
journée d’suite” —
“J mallez prende
une marche — ” “Comme
qui fa beau apramidi ha?”
“A tu lavez les vites?”
— “J ai lavez toute les
vites du passage” —
“Qui mange dla
marde”
“A lava les yeux
pochées — tsé quand
qu’on s leuve des foit?”
CAT SKETCH ON THE CONCORD RIVER (1954)
The Perfect Blue Sky
is the Reality, all 6
Essential Senses abide
there in perfect
indivisible Unity
Forever — but
here down on the
stain of earth the
ethereal flower in
our minds, dead
cats in the Concord,
it’s a temporary
middle state between
Perfection of
the Unborn & Perfection
of the
Dead — the Restored
to Enlightened
Emptiness — Compromise
me no more, “Life”
— the cat had no
self, was but the
victim of accumulated
Karma, made
by Karma, removed
by Karma (death)
— What we
call life is just
this lugubrious
false stain in the
crystal emptiness
— The cat in waters
“hears” Diamond
Samadhi, “sees”
Transcendental Sight —
“smells” Trans. odor,
“tastes” Trans. taste,
“feels” Trans. feeling,
“thinks” Trans. thot
the one Thot
— So I am not
sad for him —
Concord River RR
Bridge
Sunday Oct 24 ’54
Lowell
5 PM
A ridiculous N E
tumbleweed danced
across the RR Bridge
Thoreau’s Concord
is b
lue aquamarine
in October red
sereness — little
Indian hill towards
Walden, is orange
brown with Autumn —
The faultless sky
attests to T’s solemn
wisdom being correct
— but perfect Wisdom
is Buddha’s
Today I start teaching
by setting the example
not words only
ROCKY MOUNT 1952 (again) WHILE HITCH HIKING BACK FROM NORFOLK VA.
“You done lost the
man’s hole . . . Smart
Alex.”
N.C. — Near Woodland N.C.
Hams hanging by wild
bulb-bugs in hot
N.C. nite — sad dust
of driveway, scattered
softdrink hot-day
bottles, old crates
sunk in earth for
steps, pumps (Premium
& Pure Pep) —
hillbilly music in car
— trucks growling
thru — old tire,
rake — old concrete
block — old bench —
& tufts of green
grass seen au bord du
chemin quand les
machines passes —
L —
ROCKY MOUNT CAR SHOP (RAILROAD)
Yard in afternoon of
August — bright red
drum shining in bright green
& yellow grass-weeds, buds, —
old used rusty brakeshoes
& parts piled —
Sooty old woodwarp
ramp — in weeds —
fat RR clerk with
baseball hat walking
across, cigar, scratching
head, removing hat —
will go home to dogs,
radio, wife, blond boy
on a tricycle in white
bungalow — Old A.C.L.
Railway Exp Ag. 441
weather-brown
Cracked cars — 2, 3
of them — nameless
parts arranged in
weeds by tired Negro
workers — Puff sweet
Carolina clouds in sultry
blue over head — my
eyes smarting from fresh
paint in office, from
no sleep — drowsy
office like school days,
with sleepy rustles of
desk papers & lunch-in-
the-belly — hate it —
SP is in cool, dry
Western, romantic Frisco
of bays — with —
hills of purple eve &
mystery — & Neal
— — here is fuzzy,
unclear, hot, South,
hot turpentined poles
at tracks that lead
to Morehead City, Sea &
Africa — & impossible
lead tho — just dull
fat cops & people in
heat — Easonburg is
better.
DIDNT HAVE PENCIL with
me to sketch the
bluebells that climb
up from beautiful
fields of weeds to
curl around the old
dead cornstalk that
is rattly crackly