Book of Sketches Page 10

  The types come & go &

  never change, but history

  changes; it is history

  laid the pallor over the

  face of same-built

  Radio City executive — the

  history of his Race. But

  he who surmounts his race,

  & sits beneath history, is

  Fellaheen. Funny ideas.

  The realization of the

  death of a comrade is

  Jesus; the Millenium

  of Christ; the surprised

  news of the death

  of a comrade is Hip . . .

  Hip is Half.

  Meek is Full — or Whole

  The Millenium of the Meek (Fellaheen)

  Hip, & Culture, is Arrogance

  Hip is the final Dionysian culture

  or cult-form in the decaying

  West Arm of Europe —

  it wears a subtle mask, it

  covers nothing.

  Fellaheen is Meek & Rages

  like a Beast — the faces

  of matricides in Athens

  or Cairo afternoon editions;

  over the hot rooftops a

  woman wails.

  The (Purely) Meek Shall

  Inherit the Earth — the

  Children of God

  Children of Jesus

  of the Son of Man

  A mankind of saints shall

  occupy the final Earth,

  in endless contemplation of

  Heaven —

  Hip Fellaheen will lead

  to Meek Fellaheen, souls

  sitting round a fire in

  the open night

  All this (My Kingdom

  is Not of This World) is

  why 1947 was the

  “happiest” year of

  my life.

  Now no more tea,

  but contemplation of

  Good & Evil —

  Lust & Sorrow

  Burroughs the Boss of

  the Jungle —

  Carr the Boss of World

  News —

  Ginsberg the trembling

  Saint of the City —

  Cassady the worker

  of the wheel on the

  land & cunt-man

  Kerouac the Pilgrim

  of the Meek Fellaheen

  Huncke: - criminal hipster

  Joan Adams: - the Heroine

  of the Hip Generation

  John Holmes: - the

  Western “writer” &

  “critic” — late Civilization

  anxieties & word-torrents —

  Solomon: - Megalopolitan

  High Jew Enigma

  The Gospel of the Meek

  Fellaheen, Bringing History

  Round to Jesus, Begins in

  Sweet Actopan — &

  ends there

  I love the railroad

  because it is laid out on the

  land, & requires the

  eyes of Indians — but

  the Rail is Evil

  “Brother have you seen

  starlight on the rails?”

  “Yes” — but,

  the greatness of Wolfe

  must have been in his

  realization of the land —

  Come face to face with

  the lonely grave now,

  beyond it is Heaven

  — the lonely hole you’ll

  lie in is the only hole

  you’ll have — round it

  God has woven golden

  rewards the Fabric

  of His Glory —

  My father only now

  is blinking his eyes on

  the other side of Light —

  Jesus loved the

  Individual —

  America is Decoration

  now — planted palms in

  San Jose —

  The City fattens on

  the blood of Towns,

  then bursts. The

  Atom Bomb, or its

  satellite Power, will

  destroy New York City

  & all of Western Civilization

  from Marxist-

  Faustian Vladivostok

  westward round the

  globe to San Francisco.

  Then the Millenium

  of the Hip Fellaheen

  begins, in all lands.

  But Eden Heaven

  awaits the Milleniums

  of the Meek Fellaheen

  for all time

  The Mankind of Saints,

  that shall come after

  & finally.

  The Men from Mars

  are really the baldheaded

  bespectacled

  lobsters of American

  business. — really &

  seriously — their

  beady eyes, in fat,

  glint on the grave —

  Rocky C.

  A boxer with the

  sadness of a saint

  Faustian society had

  good intentions

  The latest sounds in

  hip bop are exactly

  like the latest developments

  in N.Y. Advertising

  — the latest ad shows

  an empty Coca Cola

  bottle, a model with

  a black patch over his

  eye; these trivial things

  are really milestones in

  the History of Advertising

  in Western Civilization, &

  are momentous in the

  concerned (Balzacian) circles;

  in Eternity of the Meek

  Fellaheen they have no

  more meaning than that

  a walnut fell on the

  head of the Patriarch this

  morning — or the

  Messiah’s pants fell off

  the chair —

  SKETCH

  Crazy California of my

  Selma days — tracks

  of old SP shining in hot

  birdy-tweeting breezy afternoon,

  De Jesus & Rodriguez

  market of white stucco

  with cars parked (2) in

  driveway & sign (same

  as above, over PAR-T-PAK

  board) — I see a

  whole bookshelf of wine

  bottles, GALLO too — &

  here in field, in matted

  brown grass under an

  avocado tree, I see

  an empty Gallo Tokay

  fifth & fillet of herring

  can & beer cans showing

  a royal feast of hoboes

  in their California, &

  bed-down grass of their

  reclinations — In De

  Jesus (Vegetable, Meats)

  I see a woman selecting

  a brace of Cokes — a

  car parks — across road

  is Ferry Morse Seed Co.,

  all spectral iron hell

  red last night with

  browndeep clouds of

  locomotive steam in

  Faustian sky —

  A little strange SP

  handtruck (handcar)

  (in Kansas Rock Island

  boys say “Nothin to

  worry about but a nigger

  on a handcar” — pricks)

  goes by, with 5 Mex

  Indians, one Negro —

  they point to rails for

  foreman Mex who has

  sledgehammer — a Jet

  screams above, from

  Moffett Field — upper,

  paler B-29 groans —

  — Seed

  Co. is modern flat

  plant, nobody in

  sight, the machine

  silent in the red sun, —

  At night not a

  human in sight,

  just cars smooth in the

  hiway, the rails gleaming,

  cruel & cold to the touch,

  slightly sticky
with

  steel death, — lights of

  airport pokers, distant

  roar of Jets in wind

  tunnels, far off joints

  slamming, planes carrying

  Edison’s light across the

  stars & freights of

  Machine Humanbeings —

  & the block lights in

  the night that give

  panic or peace

  according to the

  switch points as

  manipulated — too

  much iron, too much

  for me — but in

  afternoon, De Jesus &

  the Tokay wine, the

  roadbed rocks have little

  silver gleams & waving

  dry tendrils of interspersed

  grass & crazy shuddering

  little flowers & crackly

  wind-weeds & pieces

  of wood, hand towel

  paper, cellophane

  chip bags, gum wrapper,

  little ants that bite —

  the juice of the grape

  stored darkly in the

  cool interior store, I’m

  wantin a poorboy —

  Beyond pink brick Seed

  Co. with its streamline

  built in windows that

  hide controlled vibrating

  horror (Rocky Mt. Mills)

  is a field of fruit trees,

  iron & barbwire fenced

  from precious Company —

  little white cottages of

  the railroad earth, with

  end of day papa car

  parked, little fruit

  trees — haze of

  sun — I’m sitting

  by silver painted SP

  Telephone box & eq’pt —

  wearing workshoes, asbestos

  gloves now black,

  soiled timetable, thick

  socks, ankle strap from

  swollen ankle missing

  bottom climb bar &

  falling on rocks in

  grim railroad dark —

  blue work pants, too

  tight, — gray workshirt,

  — baseball hat for sun

  — dreaming of my

  $500 stake & Mexico

  & the Millenium of the

  Hip Fellaheen this winter

  bla bla —

  The Millenium of

  the Meek Fellaheen

  The intensity of D. H.

  Lawrence was not carnal

  A woman’s cunt is

  the soft avenue to her

  womanhood, the godhead

  of human generations,

  the yearning point

  of man — I believe

  the celibacy in the

  teachings of Christ were

  Paulist & Jewish-Castration

  -Circumcision cult

  in origin — for if His

  Kingdom is not of this

  World, & the Soul is to

  be Saved, it makes that

  difference inside a

  woman’s legs when her

  permission is given —

  Neal’s Pornographilia

  is religiously intense —

  The Phallic Cults

  worship generation of

  the species; the Aramaean

  worships its Salvation

  Jesus did not say,

  but I believe in a

  woman’s permission

  Retirement annuities

  that grow out of group

  life insurance & hospital

  plans & sick benefits, sponsored

  by the modern big

  company, are only an

  attempt to cut out turn-

  over of employees —

  imagine devoting yr. entire

  life, its soul & meaning

  to a pineapple company

  & accepting its retirement

  annuities for reward —

  “Stay with the Machine,

  boys, dont need to run

  away or shift to other

  cogs, you’re just as well

  off in this one — we offer

  YOU SECURITY TILL THE

  GRAVE.” — never mind

  the Saviour, he never took

  a shower. This company-

  sponsored insurance, that

  takes bites out of the

  victims’ pay all their

  lives to support itself (the

  money clangs hollowly

  from the Machine’s

  twidget to the Machine’s

  twadget) is called

  protection — protection

  against their being left

  to drift free outside the M.

  (M. for machine).

  Big Business in Late

  America prides itself on

  growing figures, just as

  a spokesman for the

  Golden Age, “the American

  Explosion,” points with

  pride at the 3 inches

  added height average of

  American kids.

  If not the highest,

  then it’s the “fourth

  highest” etc.

  The faces & demeanors of

  successful young American

  businessmen: - a guarded

  sense of one’s own

  gentlemanness — the

  face taut & ready to

  smile the hand-shake

  smile — a terrible

  concern in the expression

  that the subject wont

  reciprocate the same

  escalator tension from

  empty gesture to empty

  gesture — these gestures

  are the ritual of Late

  High Civilization — the

  American workingmen

  have adopted a surl

  in superficial opposition —

  but the Executive

  secretly & queerly desires

  the Worker’s “tough look”

  & the Worker (excuse me,

  the Man of Production

  in New Overalls) secretly

  practises Executive Smoothness

  before his mirror.

  Ad infinitum —

  First signs of the

  Machine really destroying

  itself & People is the

  guided drone plane with

  Atom Bomb warhead

  — “DRONE” is the

  horror name, deeply

  named by mysterious

  High Priests in the Forums

  of the Pentagon Glare.

  . . (I worked on the Pentagon)

  The gray drab Indian

  village near Actopan, no

  Coca Cola, no Orange Crush,

  just dysentery-ridden

  water, & lizards on the

  old walls — Jesus has

  made it hard on us.

  But a maiden wears

  a smile, & a little

  hidden ribbon of meaning,

  & at the brook the

  waters ripple in the

  shade of shepherd

  trees — the flies are

  insistent, but so is the

  soul in its thoughts &

  loves, O Man, Poor Man

  — Thirsts developed in us by

  the Machine are insatiable

  As for “freedom” —

  there’s no doubt of

  freedom in Fellaheen

  Cathy says: “Write it

  right here now.”

  “Look at her legs

  move” (the bug) “she

  wants to eat.”

  J: Nobody eat the

  bug.

  C.: The bug eats the

  shades up.

  J.: I bounce (bowtz)

  Pee-pit (paper)

  We baint (paint)

  That paused look of a

  man pissing —

  “Silly
Faust — & the

  mystery of history”

  J: Arent you dired?

  C: It’s a nightgown —

  The Agrarian American

  is the strongest American

  because nearest to Fella-

  heen condition

  Santa Barbara

  1. New notebook

  2. Spoon

  3. Toothbrush

  4. Lunch

  5. Dostoevsky

  6. Matches for lamps

  The Fellaheen women

  let the men run things

  — in the driveway of

  the country store on

  Sunday afternoon, they

  wait in the car & smile

  while the men goof with

  beer cans — These are

  Mexicans, Indians, of the

  California countryside —

  Western Civilization women

  would say “Are you

  coming John?”

  American woman run

  things, even kicks, —

  have made life a drab &

  sorrowful for their

  Milquetoast Machine

  husbands, the dumb fucks —

  also the American women

  have subordinated everything

  to “my child” — my

  so-called child — (the child

  of God, lady) — & so

  make the husbands attend

  to the children only —

  Fellaheen children are in

  the background silent,

  watchful, & awed —

  American kids are loud,

  nasty, forward, disagreeable

  at 4, & bored at 16

  The horrible bitches have

  no regard for man

  anyway, just their

  itchy old twats & what’s

  come out of it — It

  would never occur to

  American women &

  American Old Woman

  Society that a 80

  year old man’s life

  is more valuable than

  an infant’s life because

  it has acquired its

  value — They think

  in terms of “My Child”

  with an almost-mystical

  sense of the Future

  as abstract as everything

  else Faustian —

  A jet plane is an

  abstraction because it

  serves absolutely no

  purpose to body or

  soul — just flies —

  All their other abstractions

  — Communism,

  Freedom, etc. — are

  abstractions within the

  Abstract Structure of the Machine —