Book of Sketches Page 4

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