learn — long after
Neal, & hopeless — a
strange estudiante
writer-brakeman
Only when that work
which oertops my
hopeless men-among
bones will save me
up & back to enthusiastic
inside
me personal need
breast —
The Pomo word for person is animal —
So they spoke to
spiders & hawks,
& thanked the
ground they slept on —
SK People in L I R R Station
Gray skies, man glances
at wrist watch, —
not people — big
bleak blackwater windows
of an upstairs Jamaica
loft with French blinds
rolled up matted at top
& bank building marble
or smooth concrete blocks
— does God care?
do I care?
Say What you Want or
Drop Dead
You’re the boss . . .
Move silently, serpent
Thru the crisscrossing swords
of afternoon
The shining grass
Move broadly, servant
0................................................0
Sign in Sunnybrae, Calif. : -
BAY PEST CONTROL
Our Business is Simply Killing
Man is to be a
Young animal not
an Old carbon copy
NEW!
Brand New!
Daydream Sketch
Neal & I are in Mex City —
buying tea off queers — we’re
in a hotel room — they
are very weird, young
dirty — The hotel is like
the Hunter, with 2 rooms,
2 bathrooms, $10 peso
a day & we’re in MC
only a week just for
weed & a few Organo
girls — Neal’s blasting
& rolling & bringing my
attention to the weirdness
of the boys “ Dig them —
dig their lives, man — The
way they live — how they
hustle on that crazy Organo
street — look at their
clothes, their eyes — hee
hee, now dig him, see
they’re talking now, wondering
how much they oughta charge
us & the little one with
the curly hair & the
airforce wings on his
T shirt who’s just like
a little kid — he’s
hot for you, Jack — he
doesnt talk business, lets
old Mozano handle
that — ” & the
mothlike dense eternal
moment of a thousand
things — caught — I get
so hi I see the history
of nation, Indians, America —
“But Mo zano’ s not
interested in the money
either, he’s just anxious
for La Negra to enjoy
himself — he watches”
Add Achievements: -
Met Glenway Wescott
in the Kitchen
DEATH OF GERARD
Oil cups flaring in
the misty night, the sand,
the ditch in the street
with jagged concretes
of old making little dusty
ledges for little living
strange dusts that are now
blowing in the night —
the flicker of the
flares, the saw horses,
the sand piled —
somewhere on the mysterious
horizon of the suburban
nite like scenes in Mexico
City or Montreal &
equally Strange — equally
weird — equally & O
most hauntingly like
the little man with the
mustache, a strawhat,
a salesman saying he
is dying, the golden davenport
of his house at the
top of the street —
the wind from the river
cold & inhospitable,
dim lights in houses, creak
of pines, lost Lowell
in a winter night in
1922 & I am not
yet born but the oil cups
flare & smoke in the
night — little rocks on
the pile have eyes —
everything is alive, the
earth breathes, the
stars quiver & hugen
& drool & recede & dry
up & spark — no moon.
Black. Shuffling figure
of a man in a derby
hat handsapockets
going to the latticed
house, the kellostone
pine, the great soul
of my brother in
sadness hums over the
scene — Hear the
river hushing under a
load of ice — Smell
the Smoke of the dump
— the little man in
the strawhat is going home,
newspaper underarm, he’s
left the trolley at
Aiken & Lakeview, bot
a new Rudy Valentino
box of chocolates for his
wife for tomorrow night
Friday, I am
dying he said to
me in Eternity in
Montreal years later
& that afternoon Frank
Jeff & I took the 2
girls, sisters, to the
bleak roadhouse outside
Mex City & danced
to sad lassitudinal
Latin mambos & slow
tempos & tangos —
the rain came, outside
it was a pine, a gray
window behind brown
pink Mexican drapes
of decoration — The
hand drummers dreaming —
I saw the oil cup
flares of the construction
job at the middle of
Gregoire St. in Lowell
in a night before I was
born,
Neal, & hopeless — a
strange estudiante
writer-brakeman
Only when that work
which oertops my
hopeless men-among
bones will save me
up & back to enthusiastic
inside
me personal need
breast —
The Pomo word for person is animal —
So they spoke to
spiders & hawks,
& thanked the
ground they slept on —
SK People in L I R R Station
Gray skies, man glances
at wrist watch, —
not people — big
bleak blackwater windows
of an upstairs Jamaica
loft with French blinds
rolled up matted at top
& bank building marble
or smooth concrete blocks
— does God care?
do I care?
Say What you Want or
Drop Dead
You’re the boss . . .
Move silently, serpent
Thru the crisscrossing swords
of afternoon
The shining grass
Move broadly, servant
0................................................0
Sign in Sunnybrae, Calif. : -
BAY PEST CONTROL
Our Business is Simply Killing
Man is to be a
Young animal not
an Old carbon copy
NEW!
Brand New!
Daydream Sketch
Neal & I are in Mex City —
buying tea off queers — we’re
in a hotel room — they
are very weird, young
dirty — The hotel is like
the Hunter, with 2 rooms,
2 bathrooms, $10 peso
a day & we’re in MC
only a week just for
weed & a few Organo
girls — Neal’s blasting
& rolling & bringing my
attention to the weirdness
of the boys “ Dig them —
dig their lives, man — The
way they live — how they
hustle on that crazy Organo
street — look at their
clothes, their eyes — hee
hee, now dig him, see
they’re talking now, wondering
how much they oughta charge
us & the little one with
the curly hair & the
airforce wings on his
T shirt who’s just like
a little kid — he’s
hot for you, Jack — he
doesnt talk business, lets
old Mozano handle
that — ” & the
mothlike dense eternal
moment of a thousand
things — caught — I get
so hi I see the history
of nation, Indians, America —
“But Mo zano’ s not
interested in the money
either, he’s just anxious
for La Negra to enjoy
himself — he watches”
Add Achievements: -
Met Glenway Wescott
in the Kitchen
DEATH OF GERARD
Oil cups flaring in
the misty night, the sand,
the ditch in the street
with jagged concretes
of old making little dusty
ledges for little living
strange dusts that are now
blowing in the night —
the flicker of the
flares, the saw horses,
the sand piled —
somewhere on the mysterious
horizon of the suburban
nite like scenes in Mexico
City or Montreal &
equally Strange — equally
weird — equally & O
most hauntingly like
the little man with the
mustache, a strawhat,
a salesman saying he
is dying, the golden davenport
of his house at the
top of the street —
the wind from the river
cold & inhospitable,
dim lights in houses, creak
of pines, lost Lowell
in a winter night in
1922 & I am not
yet born but the oil cups
flare & smoke in the
night — little rocks on
the pile have eyes —
everything is alive, the
earth breathes, the
stars quiver & hugen
& drool & recede & dry
up & spark — no moon.
Black. Shuffling figure
of a man in a derby
hat handsapockets
going to the latticed
house, the kellostone
pine, the great soul
of my brother in
sadness hums over the
scene — Hear the
river hushing under a
load of ice — Smell
the Smoke of the dump
— the little man in
the strawhat is going home,
newspaper underarm, he’s
left the trolley at
Aiken & Lakeview, bot
a new Rudy Valentino
box of chocolates for his
wife for tomorrow night
Friday, I am
dying he said to
me in Eternity in
Montreal years later
& that afternoon Frank
Jeff & I took the 2
girls, sisters, to the
bleak roadhouse outside
Mex City & danced
to sad lassitudinal
Latin mambos & slow
tempos & tangos —
the rain came, outside
it was a pine, a gray
window behind brown
pink Mexican drapes
of decoration — The
hand drummers dreaming —
I saw the oil cup
flares of the construction
job at the middle of
Gregoire St. in Lowell
in a night before I was
born,
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