Book of Sketches Read online

  beds, dreams,

  sleeps, larks,

  starlights, mists,

  moons, knowns —

  SKETCHES WRITTEN IN ST. LOU IS-TO-NEW YORK AIRPLANE

  Winter in No. America,

  the sun is falling

  feebly from the

  South.

  Getting rooked of all

  my money trying to

  get home for Xmas

  in time — for a

  childhood chimera

  blowing all my pay —

  flying TWA — Lemme

  see, can I find

  Jay Landesman’s

  saloon?

  it’s going to be

  a Merry Xmas

  one way or the

  other

  Winter in No. America,

  the passengers on the

  right in the TWA plane

  have a sea of incandescent

  milk blinding

  in their eyes, from

  where the feeble

  South American sun

  comes raying, plus

  the dazzling sun

  ball herself, but

  on the left, on eastbound

  58 out of St. Louis,

  on the fireman’s

  side, they see the pale

  blue North out the

  window, also blinding,

  but more seeable —

  It’s like facing the

  snow on the North side

  of the train eastbound

  in the morning, in a

  strange New England

  of snow created by the

  ice-cap of overcast

  covering the Eastern

  lake & seaboard —

  like Greenland, from

  the top of one of

  its highest coastal

  mountains seeing

  below the enormity

  of the continental

  inland polar snow

  field a thousand,

  two thousand miles long —

  a field of clouds,

  no buttercups there;

  a glacier of

  fiery mad vapor

  extending in the

  air sea. Down

  on the world Premier

  Mossadegh cried.

  Notre Dame, Terre

  Haute, Africas

  below. Unbelievable

  endless solid floor

  of clouds.

  SOUNDS IN THE WOODS

  Karagoo Karagin

  criastoshe, gobu,

  bois-cracke, trou-or,

  boisvert, greenwoods

  beezy skilliagoo

  arrange-câssez,

  cracké-vieu,

  green-in buzz

  bee grash —

  Feenyonie

  feenyom —

  Demashtado

  — — Greeazzh —

  Grayrj —

  Or — where a festive

  fly makes a blade

  of grass snap —

  Or — Hurried ant

  flies over a leaf —

  Or — Deserted village

  clearing of my sit

  Or — I am dead

  Or — I am dead

  because everything

  has already happened

  I must go ahead

  beyond this dead

  to —

  the ground

  to —

  the vast

  to —

  the moss of the

  Babylon woodstump

  to —

  mysterious destruction

  from —

  blisters

  bellies

  stockings

  fingers with hair

  tans

  sores

  muddy shoes

  Seulement pas, S.P. —

  Aoo reu-reu-reu-

  a bee —

  The Woods Are Ave of Me

  Ant town antics

  Joan is dead

  The flup fell down

  I have an ant

  criolling thru

  the rot

  stump

  “Yey” voice

  of human child

  “oh! — ” Zzzz

  Finally: -

  Degradled fling lump

  stick stump motion

  bump in the brother

  mump of —

  skreeee — lump —

  Terre vert —

  sflux — seeee —

  Spuliookatuk —

  Speetee-vizit,

  vizit (bird) —

  Vush! the whole

  forust! Zhaam

  Sabaam Vom —

  V-a-a-m —

  R-a-o-o-l —

  m-n-o-o-l-

  z-oo — ZZAY —

  Tickaluck — (Funny)

  fiddledegree — R-R-

  R-R-Rising vrez

  Zung blump

  dee-dooo-domm —

  Deelia-hum —

  Baralidoo —

  Spitipit — spitipit —

  Ahdeeriabum, ah

  grey —

  Vee!

  Eee-lee-lee-

  mosquilee —

  Rong big bong

  bee bong —

  Atchap-pee

  Atchap-pee

  Skior! Viz!

  Sit!

  Deria-po-pa!

  Hit-ta-

  tzi-po-teel,

  Te de li a bo —

  Vit! chickalup!

  Oooeeeuoom

  Vazzh —

  V-a-z-z

  Flip flip flip flup

  Bung ground terre

  Doo-ri-oo-ri-oo-ra

  Zee —

  Krrrrrr — r-o-t

  Crick

  Fueet!?

  Fueet!? _ _ _ _

  Written in Easonburg

  woods, at one point naked,

  Sunday, Aug 10 1952

  — The Sounds of the Woods

  PARANOIA AND OIL

  When Buz Sawyer

  goes to South America

  representing Americans

  who only think in

  terms of paranoia & oil.

  — bkfast. in the

  best hotel is only a

  time to read the paper,

  across the park it’s

  empty & just a

  paranoiac Indian

  photographer — he

  talks over the

  phone with Mr Boss,

  avoids women —

  Woogh!

  WATSONVILLE, CALIF.

  Mechanized Saturday

  night — the foggy

  Watsonville Main Drag on

  the Mexican side has

  people on the sidewalks

  milling but Mexican field

  & section hands dismally

  knowing they cant find

  love till they return to

  Mexico, just wander, &

  mostly look into workclothes

  stores (!) like I do and

  a group of anxious Indians

  finished with the beet

  & lettuce season have

  bought an enormous suitcase

  at the Army Navy

  store & are going home

  to stern fathers

  & good mothers who

  have taught them

  gentleness & the Virgin

  Mother so they dont

  clack around wise guys

  like the Mexican American

  Pachucos — but only

  have great sad eyes

  searching into the lost

  blue eyes of America,

  & in the “American”

  part of the Main Drag

  there are no people,

  empty sidewalks, empty

  pink neons for bars

  (like Sunnyvale) just

  cars in the street — a

  mechanized Saturday,

  with occupants who

  look anxiously ou
t for

  companionship of Sat

  nite mill crowds but

  the steel of the

  machines is walling them

  off — argh!

  Meanwhile I dig

  the woman in her

  sad furnished room above

  Mex Mainstreet, her

  little boy in window

  looking out on the whiteness

  & mystery of

  Nov. 8, 1952 — & the

  old wood building’s been

  covered at front with

  plaster — She’s in the

  window in her pink

  dress, radiant, transparent,

  lost — I would be

  great if I could just

  sit in a panel truck

  sketching Main Streets

  of world — will do.

  God will save me

  for what I do now,

  help my Mom —

  he will —

  In his idealistic youth on

  railroad in Maine Old Bull

  says “Why should I have a

  radio when I can hear

  the music of a crackling fire

  & the steam engines in

  the yard?” — railroad Thoreau

  — he sits alone in his

  caboose, in the dark, with

  the fire, drinking — Old

  Bull Baloon the Man

  of America — Guillaume

  Bernier of Gaspé —

  & says “All that

  matters is the healthy

  color of that fire” —

  but too much bottle,

  not enough sottle, brings

  him to his last late

  years —

  TITLE: - THE MORTAL UGLINESS

  The Mortal Story

  (Haunted Ugly Angles of Mortality)

  Did I ever get my

  kicks as a kid with

  date pie & whipt cream

  combining with “Shrine

  North South All star

  football game Christmas

  night in the Orange Bowl”

  — dug sports then

  as something rich

  & at its peak on

  holidays when

  it went with turkey

  dinners & peach shortcake

  — Also, remember

  the joyous snowy mornings

  when you played

  Football Game Board

  with Pop & Bobby

  Rondeau? — the oranges

  & walnuts in a bowl,

  the heat of the house,

  the Xmas tinsel on

  the tree, the boys

  of the Club throwing

  snowballs below

  corner Gershom —

  Moody? —

  On the Road that

  if you will, Sex

  Generation that

  if you will —

  Made Sick by The Night

  My Father Was a Printer

  The trouble with

  fashions is you want

  to fuck the women

  in their fashions

  but when the time

  comes they always

  take them off so

  they wont get

  wrinkled.

  Face it, the really

  great fucks in a

  young man’s life was

  when there was no

  time to take yr.

  clothes off, you

  were too hot & she

  was too hot — none

  of yr. Bohemian leisure,

  this was middleclass

  explosions against

  snowbanks, against

  walls of shithouses

  in attics, on sudden

  couches in the lobby —

  Talk about yr. hot peace

  The Sea is My Brother —

  a figment of the gray

  sea & the gray America,

  of my childhood dreams —

  Walked from Easonburg

  on old walking-road but

  3 miles — in gray thrilling —

  with bag — saw Negro

  pulled by a mule on a

  bike! — to junction 64,

  immediate ride young hot-

  rod speedsters to Spring

  Hope, pickt up Wake

  Forest boy too — he

  got off, went downroad

  — Hotrod told, as he

  went 90, of man

  tried pass truck hit

  school child & turned

  over — Old thin bum

  at S Hope, hitching east,

  from Atlanta, “Almost

  got stuck in old car 10

  miles out” — A blond

  husky Hal Chase-truck-

  ride to Raleigh, arr. 4:30

  P.M. — hates South —

  nothin to do, bars close

  — New Caledonia, Louis

  Transon, Noumea —

  he said is Paradise —

  — A bleakness I dont

  like in air — dull

  trees of Raleigh —

  I feel forsaken —

  Old goodhearted taxi-

  driver to corner — Curious

  Raleigh Judge-type

  to corner —

  Girls crossing — man

  stops — Relief mgr

  of restaurants —

  Corn likker test, up

  in Old Port — Mickey

  Spillane, Faulkner —

  Is going to rest finally at a

  steady Maryland restaurant

  — Then young kid in

  old truck, married, who in

  1946 hitched to Wash. State

  with $500 & came back

  with 21¢ — Then

  incredible beat old car

  with old fat bum, one

  mile, incredible heat

  from motor, incredibly

  dirty shirt — Then

  2 bleak eternal bakery

  workers driving home dogtired

  from work thru red clay

  cuts of Time, with wine

  faintly in gray western

  horizon, beefing about work

  — I thought “Why do

  you want men to be

  better or different than

  this” — One talked, other

  didnt; one urged, other

  brooded; left me off

  at truckstop road to

  Greensboro N.C. — broke

  $5 on coffee — “Dinning Room”

  Tics of Eternity

  called me buddy — good

  hearted Charley Morrisettes

  of Time — I must find

  langue for them — frazzly

  eager one & Charley Mew-

  Leo Gorcey used-out legended

  ripened-beyond sad fat one

  — O Lord

  Great big G.J. burper picked

  me up in the rain, dark —

  after I talked to old bum

  (70) in railroad hat who

  said country was worse off

  than in 1906 (truckdriver

  from Liberty Tex. to

  Baton Rouge worried Mex,

  called it “tarpolian”)

  — GJ burper in new

  huge Chrysler, was Chief

  in Navy gun crews on Liberties,

  also bought requisition

  food (for Bainbridge Officers),

  at North River wholesale

  houses — ate 5 pound steak

  — ate 2 lobsters

  at Old Union Oyster House,

  Boston — used to

  screw redhead at 7 PM

  on her beauty parlor couch —

  used to beat up queers in

  Washington — Drove me

  into bloody Western horizon

  beyond rain (!) into the

  glittering Lowell town of

  Greensboro, gave me card

  R
obt J Simmons Lily

  Cup Corp. — to Salvation

  Army — was only gym,

  old Negro born in Hollywood

  (“used to have a show

  on the corner with my

  sister & etc.”) directed

  me accurately “That

  Esso Sign, this side,

  them real bright lights,

  707 Billbro St. —

  bed & breakfast” —

  Sho enuf — a little

  ramshackle house —

  dorm bedroom — man

  was 50, thin, gray; Red

  got up in undershirt —

  to talk about routes

  (“No sir, Winston Salem

  to Charleston waste your

  time, you in Charleston

  & Bluefield & you in the

  mountains” — hanging

  bulb, table, pictures of

  wanted criminals on

  flowery wallpaper —

  bathroom — “take

  70 right on down the

  river — ”) Tennessee

  River, from Knoxville to

  Nashville — rain

  starts — go to bed

  at 9 — no eat — talk

  with Red an hour about

  rolling, wandering, sleep

  police stations, quit jobs,

  drink whiskey, itch —

  etc. — Dream all

  night wild dreams of

  big Chicago Salvation

  Army with wild young

  gang with me, & girl

  horrors of my

  wallet, Salvation Army

  underwear — incredulously

  all over me I see six

  inch long & thick sponges

  of fungus growing off

  me — so awful I dont

  believe it even in

  dream — spectral happenings,

  cellar, stairs,

  rooms, bathroom, girl, boys,

  wallet, (had it in my

  pillow case so Red mightnt

  steal it) — Up at 6:30

  “Gotta go” says boss

  — breakfast: 2 coffees,

  weak, cornflakes &

  evap. milk — & my banana

  — & blowing drizzle out

  but I go — & get spot

  ride to junction — & get

  slow ride to High Point,

  dampwet, dry in car

  man was at New

  Zealand & Melbourne,

  — dry further in

  High Point Greek

  lunchcart with mottled

  marble greasy counter

  & aged grill & fry

  smells & comfort, with

  steamy windows redglow

  redbrick Hi Point but

  gotta roll —

  (I got in that truck,

  driver said “I’m quittin

  my job so the hell

  with the insurance spotters,

  less roll” —

  bums in SA) — always

  say, for truck driver,

  less roll —

  I got $4.85