JACK KEROUAC

POETRY FOR THE

BEAT GENERATION

(1959)

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OCTOBER IN THE RAILROAD EARTH

Th ere was a little alley in San Francisco back of the Southern Pacifi c station at Th ird and Townsend in redbrick of drowsy lazy afternoons with everybody at work in offi ces in the air you feel the impending rush of their commuter frenzy as soon they’ll be charging en masse from Market and Sansome buildings on foot and in buses and all well-dresses thru workingman Frisco of Walkup truck drives and even the poor grime-bemarked Th ird Street of lost bums even Negroes so hopeless and long left East and meanings of responsibility and try that now all they do is stand there spitting in the broken glass sometimes fi fty in one afternoon against one wall at Th ird and Howard and here’s all these Millbrae and San Carlos neat-necktied producers and commuters of America and Steel Civilization rushing by with San Francisco Chronicles and green Call-Bulletins not even enough time to be disdainful, they’ve got to catch 130, 1321, 134, 136 all the way up to 146 till the time of evening supper in ross-alley-chinatown-san-

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francisco-474084027homes of the railroad earth when high in the sky the magic stars ride above the following hotshot freight trains. It’s all in California, it’s all a sea, I swim out of it in afternoons of sum hot meditation in my jeans with head on handkerchief or brakeman’s lantern or (if not working) on book, I look up at blue sky of perfect lostpurity and feel the warp of wood of old America beneath me and have insane conversations with Negroes in second-story windows above and everything is pouring in, the switching moves of boxcars in that little alley which is so much like the alleys of Lowell and I hear far off in the sense of coming night that engine calling our mountains.

But it was that beautiful cut of clouds I could always see above the little S.P. alley, puff s fl oating by from Oakland or the Gate of Marin to the north or San Jose south, the clarity of Cal to break your heart. It was the fantastic drowse and drum of hum of lum mum afternoon nathin’ to do, old Frisco with end of land sadness — the people — the alley full of trucks and cars of business nearabouts and nobody knew or far from cared who I was all my like three thousand fi ve hundred miles

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from birth-O opened up and at last belonged to me in Great America.

Now it’s night in Th ird Street the keen little neons and also yellow bulblights of impossible-to-believe fl ops with dark ruined shadows moving back of torn yellow shades like a degenerate China with no money — the cats in Annie’s Alley, the fl op comes on, moans, rolls, the street is loaded with darkness. Blue sky above with stars hanging high over old hotel roofs and blowers of hotels moaning out dusts of interior, the grime inside the word in mouths falling out tooth by tooth, the reading rooms tick tock bigclock with creak chair and slantboards and old faces looking up over rimless spectacles bought in some West Virginia or Florida or Liverpool England pawnshop long before I was born and across rains they’ve come to the end of the land sadness end of the world gladness all your San Franciscos will have to fall eventually and burn again. But I’m walking and one night a bum fell into the hole of construction job where theyre tearing a sewer by day the husky Pacifi c & Electric youths in torn jeans who work there

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often I think of going up to some of em like say blond ones with wild hair and torn shits and say “You oughta apply for the railroad its much easier work you dont stand around the street all day and you get much more pay” but this bum fell in the hole you saw his foot stick out, a British MG also driven by some eccentric once bucked into the hole and as I came home from a long Saturday afternoon local to Hollister out of San Jose miles away across verdurous fi elds of prune and juice joy here’s this British MG backed and legs up wheels up into a pit and bums and cops standing around right outside the coff ee shop —- it was the way they fenced it but he never had the nerve to do it due to the Fac. that he had no Money and nowhere to go and O his father was dead and O his mother was dead and O his sister was dead and O his whereabouts was dead was dead. —- But and then at that time also I lay in my room on long Saturday afternoons listening to Jumpin’ George with my fi fth of tokay no tea and just under the sheets laughed to hear the 115584210_ecc2779e861crazy music “Mama, he treats you daughter mean,” Mama, Papa, and dont you come in

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here I’ll kill you etc. getting high by myself in room glooms and all wondrous knowing about the Negro the essential America out there always fi nding his solace his meaning in the fellaheen street and not in abstract morality and even when he has a church you see the pastor out front to the ladies on the make you hear his great vibrant voice on the sunny Sunday afternoon sidewalk full of sexual vibratos saying “Why yes Mam but de gospel do say that man was born of woman’s womb—-“ and so and so by that time I come crawling out of my warmsack and hit the street when I see the railroad ain’t gonna call me Hill 5 am Sunday morn probable for a local out of Bayshore in fact always for a local out of Bayshore and I go to the wailbur of all the wildbars in the world the one and only Th ird-and-Howard and there I go in and drink with the madmen and if I get drunk I git.

Th e whore who come up to me in there the night I was there with Al Buckle and said to me “You wanta play with me tonight Jim, and?” and I didnt think I had enough Money and later told this to Charley Low and he laughed and said “How

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do you know she wanted Money always take the chance that she might be out just for love or just out for love you know what I mean man dont be a sucker.” She was a goodlooking doll and said “How would you like to oolyakoo with me mon?” and I stood there like a jerk and in fact bought drink got drink drunk that night and in the 299 Club I was hit by the proprietor the band breaking up the fi ght before I had a chance to decide to hit him back which I didnt do and out on the street I tried to rush back in but they had locked the door and were looking at me thru the forbidden glass in the door with faces like underseas —- I should have played with her shurrouruuruuruuruuruuruurkdiei.

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DEADBELLY

Old Man MoseEarly American Jazz pianistHad a grandsonCalled Deadbelly.Old Man Mose walloped the rollickin keyport Wahoo wildhouse Piany with monkies in his hair drooling spaghetti, beer and beans, with a cigar mashed in his countenance of gleaming happiness the furtive madman of old sane times.

Deadbelly dont hide it — Lead killed Leadbelly —

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Deadbelly admit Deadbelly modern catCool — Deadbelly, Man,Craziest. Old Man Mose is Dead But Deadbelly get Ahead Ha ha ha

(From “Mexico city blues”, 1959)

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CHARLIE PARKER

Charlie Parker looked like Buddha.Charlie Parker, who recently diedLaughing at a juggler on the TVAfter weeks of strain and sickness,Was called the Perfect Musician.And his expression on his faceWas as calm, beautiful, and profoundAs the image of the BuddhaRepresented in the East, the lidded eyesTh e expression that says “All is Well”Th is was what Charlie ParkerSaid when he played, All is Well.You had the feeling of early-in-the-morningLike a hermit’s joy, orLike the perfect cry of some wild gangAt a jam session,“Wail, Wop”

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Charlie burst his lungs to reach the speedOf what the speedsters wantedAnd what they wantedWas his eternal Slowdown.A great musicianAnd great creator of formsTh at ultimately fi nd expressionIn mores and what have you

Musically as important as Beethoven,But not regarded as such at all.A genteel conductor of string orchestras,In front of which he stoodProud and calm.Like a leader of music in the great historic world nightAnd wailed his little saxophone, the altoWith piercing clear lamentIn perfect tune and shining harmony“Toot!”

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As listeners reacted without showing itAnd began talkingAnd soon the whole joint was rocking and talkingAnd everybody talking, and Charlie ParkerWhistling them on to the brink of eternityWith his irish saint Patrick batootle stickAnd like the holy mistWe blop and we plop in the waters of slaughter,And white meatAnd die one after one,In time.

And how sweet a story it isWhen you here Charlie parker tell itEither on records or at sessionsOr at offi cial bits at clubs.Shots in the arm for the wallet.Gleefully he whistled the perfect horn

Anyhow it made no diff erence

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Charlie parker forgive me.Forgive me for not answering your eyes,For not having made an indicationOf that which you can deviseCharlie parker pray for me,Pray for me and everybodyIn the nirvanas of your brain where you hideIndulgent and huge.No longer Charlie Parker,But the secret unsayable name that carries with it meritNot to be measuredFrom here to up, down, east or west.Charlie parker lay the bane off me and everybody.

(From “Mexico city blues”, 1959)

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THE SOUND OF THE UNIVERSE COMING IN MY WINDOWS

Th e Mill Valley trees, the pines with green mint look and there’s a tangled eucalyptus hulk stick fallen thru the late sunlight tangle of those needles, hanging from it like a live wire connecting it to the ground — just below, the notches where little Fred sought to fell sad pine — not bleeding much — just a lot of crystal sap the ants are mining in, motionless like cows on the grass & so they must be aphyds percolatin up a steam to store provender in their bottomless bellies that for all I know are bigger than bellies of the Universe beyond — Th e little tragic windy cottages on the high last cityward hill and today roosting in sun hot dream above the tree head of seas and meadowpatch whilst tee-kee-kee-pearl the birdies & mommans mark & ululate moodily in this valley of peaceful fi rewood in stacks that make you think of Oregon in the morning in 1928 when Back was home on the range lake and his hunting knife threw away and went to sit among the Ponderosa Pines to think about love his girl’s bare bodice like a fennel seed the navel in her milk bun — Shorty McGonigle and Roger Nulty held up the Boston Bank and murdered a girl in these old woods and next you saw the steely green

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iron photograph in True Detective showing black blotches in the black blotch running culvert by the dirty roadside not Oregon at all, or Jim Back so happy with his mouth a blade of grass depending —

Hummingbird hums hello — bugs Race and swoop

Two ants hurry to catch up With lonely Joe

Th e tree above me is like A woman’s thigh Smooth Eucalyptus bumps and muscle swells

I would I were a weed a week, would leave.Why was the rat mixed up in the sun?

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Because Buddhidharma came from the West with dark eyebrows, and China had a mountain wall, and mists get lost above the Yangtze Gorge and this is a mysterious yak the bird makes, yick, — wowf wow wot sings the dog blud blut blup below the Homestead Deer — red robins with saff ron scarlet or orange rud breasts make a racket in the dry dead car crash tree Neal mentioned “He went off the road into a eucalyptus” and “it’s all busting out,” indicating the prune blossoms and Bodhidharma came from the India West to seek converts to his wall-gazing and ended up with Zen magic monks mopping each and one and all and other in mud koan puddles to prove the crystal void.

Wow

(From “Old Angel Midnight”, 1959)

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ONE MOTHER

I keep falling in lovewith my mother,I don’t want to hurt her-Of all people to hurt.

Every time I see hershe’s grown olderBut her uniform alwaysamazes meFor its Dutch simplicityAnd the Doll she is,Th e doll-like wayshe standsBowlegged in my dreams,Waiting to serve me.

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And I am only an ApacheSmoking HashiIn old CabashyBy the Lamp.

(From “Mexico city blues”, 1959)

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GOOFING AT THE TABLE

“You just dont know.”“What dont I know?”“How good this ham n eggs is“If you had any idea whatsoever How good this is Th en you would stop writing poetry And dig in.”

“It’s been so long since I been hungry it’s like a miracle.”

Ah boy but them bacon And them egg —

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Where the hell is the scissor?SINGING:— “You’ll never know just how much I love you.”

Mr Beggar & Mrs Davy — Looney and CRUNEY,I made a pome out of it, Havent smoked Luney & Cruney In a Long Time.

Dem eggs & dem dem Dere bacons, baby, If you only lay that down on a trumpet, ‘Lay that down solid brother ’Bout all dem bacon & eggs

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Ya gotta be able to lay it down solid — All that luney & fruney

Fracons, aeons, & beggs, Lay, it, all that be bobby be buddy I didnt took I could think So bepo beboppy

Luney & Juney -if- that’s the way they get kinda hysterical

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Looney & Boony Juner and Mooner Moon, Spoon, and June

Dont they call them

cat men

Th at lay it down with the trumpet

Th e orgasm Of the moon And the June

I call em

them cat things

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“Th at’s really cute, that un”

William Carlos Williams

(From “Mexico city blues”, 1959)

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THE BOWERY BLUES

For IProphesyTh at the nightWill be brightWith the goldOf oldIn the innWithin.

Cooper Union Cafeteria—late cold March afternoon, the street (Th ird Avenue) is cobbled, cold, desolate with trolley tracks— Some man on the corner is waving his hand down No-ing some¬body emphatically and out of sight behind a black and white pillar, cold clowns in the moment horror of the world—A Porto Rican kid with a green stick, stooping to bat the sidewalk but changing his mind and halting on—Two new small trucks parked—Th e withery gray rose stone building

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across the street with its rime heights in the quiet winter sky, inside are quiet workers by neon entablatures practicing fanning lessons with the murderous Marbo—A yakking blonde with awful wide smile is making her mouth lip talk to an old Bodhisattva papa on the sidewalk, the tense quickness of her hard working words—Meanwhile a funny bum with no sense tries to panhandle them and is waved away stumbling, he doesntcare about society women embarrassed with paper bags on sidewalks—Unutterably sad the broken winter shattered face of a man passing in the bleak ripple—Followed by a Russian boxer with an expression of Baluc lostness, something grim and Slavic and so helplessly beyond my conditional ken or ability to evaluate and believe that I shudder as at the touch of cold stone to think of him, the sickened old awfulness of it like slats of wood wall in an old brewery truck

Shin McOntario withno money, no bets, nohealth, palls on by

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pawing his inside coatno hope of everseeing Miama againsince he lost his pickleson Orchard Streetand his fatherStuhtelfedehredhim to hospitalsOf graybleakbonedryingin the moonthat mortifi es his coatand words singwhat mindbringsBleeding bloody seamenOf lndian England

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Battering in coatsOf Th ird Ave nooWith no sense and their browsStreaked with wine sopBlood of ogligitSad adventurersFar from the pipeOf LiverpoolTh e bean of boneBotde Liff ey brownFar hung unseenTop tippersOf ocean wave.God bless & sing for themAs I can not

Cooper Union Blues,Th e Musak is too Sod.Th e gayety of grave

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Candidates makesMy gut weepAnd my brainsAre awashDown the side of theblue orange tableAs little sneery snirfl ingPorto Rican heroBats by boomingHis coat pocketFisting to the VicinityWhere MortuaryWaits for bait.(What kind of serviceDo broken barrels give?)O have pityBodhisattvaOf IntellectualRadiance!

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Save the world from her eyebrowsOf beautiful illusionHope, O hope,O Nope, O pope

(From “Pomes all Sizes”, 1960)

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ABRAHAM

Abraham, drinking water by the tents

Pacing up & down the soft sand under the stars

Worrying about Villages

Wondering if your vision was real or just a foolish importunity in your mind.

Yet moving on in the morning anyway with the rattle of pack asses.

Abraham, the dew is in your beard Abraham my eyes are open You are weird

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Abraham they’ve brought you Your rooftops are mended

Your women bend no more their heads under the sleepy tentfl ap, & goats dont yew & cry nomo in the singsong tentvillage night

Abraham I didnt write this right

(From “Book of Blues”, 1961)

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DAVE BRUBECK

Th e New Orleans New York Clubwishes to announce the opening of new sessions, & new fi elds, Daddio,

Dave Brubeck’s the swingingest

And I wish to say Farewell to AL SmithHello Dave

(From “Mexico city blues”, 1959)

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I HAD A SLOUCH HAT

I

I had a slouch hat too one time Th e old slouch hat I just keep walkin around And he keeps walkin around with me Around and round that necktie counter we went When it rained I wore my old slouch hat

If was a good felt that I had to carry through many rainy day, late fall and the early spring

Perhaps it was a rainy day And the house dick mighta saw

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My hat Each tie on that ring Worth six bucks, Brooks Brothers, Sixty bucks wortha ties Slacks with peculiarities I couldnt even fi nd a pair of slacks I thought it was suitable to wear

II

Wrapped one pair around meAnd pinned it with a safety pinAnd pulled up my trousers and Went out looked at myself in the mirror ‘O no, those wont do’ And I walked out

Wrap the slacks around my waistTook two other pair

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went to the mirror threw them at the salesman‘No those wont do—good afternoon’ and walked out

Th e slouch hat I got at Harvard Club, Yale Club, Princeton Club one or the other Dartmouth Club University Club

Always barred the Yatch Club because it was a little over my kin

Ill

Th e doorman knew that only Mr Astor Mr Vanderbilt Mr Whitney belonged

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He couldnt say ‘Good morning Mister Astorf because he knew I wasnt Mister Astor

I always fi gured a way to heel into those other clubs

Not only a member of Who’s Who but a Who’s Who also have to be a member of Who’s Who in New York in the special clique of Who’s

Hoo—slouch hat!

I get in the Athletic Club many time

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IV

And I’d go up in the Billiard Room And I would wander back around Th e room, hands in back,And every coat rack I backed Up against feel for the wallet One day 1 walked Outa there with ten wallets

Bellboy lookin me over Pretty soon a very dignifi ed looking gentleman came up and buzzed the bell boy

He says “Who?” and I says “Man told me his name, while We*re drinkin at the bar,And told me to meet him

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In the billiard-room of the Athletic Club I dont see him—so I best I better go”

V

“Tell me about the old slouch hat”

One of my numerous trips to one of the numerous clubs in New York City

Th e hat fi nally was left in the hotel which I had to leave rather hurriedly one night never to return

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so the hat was given to the castoff s of the hotel which they collect and rummage sells

May now be worn by one Of the members of Skid Row

New York City—the Bowery

“I seen that hat by moonlight”

VI

I had a pointed mustache and I mean pointed half inch from here

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Double breasted vest and a Derby hat and striped trousers English shoes, black, very pointed, they were Hannah Shoes

People on Broadway’d turn and look at me

Th e worst is yet to come I had a pince nez with a long black ribbon to my buttonhole

And I wore a carnation white or red

Boy did I look like somethin

VII

A year later I got caught I was dressed diff erently and everything But boy that mustache and that pince nez was really out of this world

I used that outfi t six months I fi nally had to pack it in because it was too well-worn

Pince nez was in a coat I stole Mustache I grew in the sanirarium While taking one of my numerous drug cures

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My mother’d come to see me She says “Oh No! Cut it off !”“I’m just havin a little fun, mother”

VIII

Took it on the lam And went to Canada

late at night I’m fulla morphine and I come down fulla goofballs too

Th is guy had ventriloquist doll And he gave out this Texas Guinan Routine “Hello Sucker, we like your money as well as anybody else’s—s matter

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of fact the bigger your rollthe more we take ya”

He used to get everybody interested with the doll and cutout silhouettes put stripes in your tie

Wound up in his room gave him a shot of morphine

IX

Out on the highway I thumbed a ride into Buff alo and I put the bum on the guy for something to eat —‘Eat in my drugstore’—So we went in the back And he had corn on the cob

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And boiled potatos, ‘Say fellow I always hear people talk about morphine, what’s it look like?’—he shows me—he had a key a cabinet and he had bottles of hundreds quartergrains halfgrains pantapon delauddit everything and soon as he tended the customers I emptied the bottles—got outa there pretty quick, bought a safety pin in Buff alo and took a shot in the toilet

X

Come out and saw a fellow shaving, his coat hanging there,

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hung my own coat and gave his coat a brush of my hand, felt his wallet, washed my hands,and went out and took off with the wallet

So I started out on a shoplifting campaign in Buff alo wasnt very experienced at it

Started out with a topcoat and I sold it in a taxicab stand

Next day I decided to get myself some suits and I went up I had a suitbox I walked about & put the suitbox in one of the dressingrooms

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Looked & fooled in the mirror Went out, I bocked those two

XI

Next day like a damn fool go out to the same store but I got a newspaper instead of a suitbox thought I’d try a new routine

Two guys kinda watchin meI went in wrapped myself up two suits went in the elevator bottom gentleman tapped me on the arm ‘Will you come with me please?’

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And the County Jail they ate breakfast and got oatmeal with one spoonful of molasses, for lunch stew, mostly bones, Graveyard Stew, and for supper dinner at night Beans—and you couldnt smoke

(From “Book of Blues”, 1961)

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THE WHEEL OF THE QUIVERING MEAT CONCEPTION

Th e wheel of the quivering meat conceptionTurns in the void expelling human beings,Pigs, turtles, frogs, insects, nits,Mice, lice, lizards, rats, roanRacinghorses, poxy bucolic pigtics,Horrible unnameable lice of vultures,Murderous attacking dog-armiesOf Africa, Rhinos roaming in the jungle,Vast boars and huge gigantic bullElephants, rams, eagles, condors,Pones and Porcupines and Pills-All the endless conception of living beingsGnashing everywhere in ConsciousnessTh roughout the ten directions of spaceOccupying all the quarters in and out,From supermicroscopic no-bug

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To huge Galaxy Lightyear BowellI wish I was freeof that slaving meat wheeland safe in heaven dead

(From “Mexico City Blues”, 1959)

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MACDOUGAL STREET BLUES CANTO UNO

Th e goofy foolish human parade Passing on Sunday art streets Of Greenwich Village

Pitiful drawings of images on an iron fence ranged there by selfbelieving artists with no hair and black berets showing green seas eating at rock and Pleiades of Time

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Pestiferating at moon squid Salt fl at tip fl y toe tat sand traps With cigar smoking interesteds puffi ng at the stroll

I mean sincerely naive sailors buying prints Women with red banjos On their handbags And arts handicrafty Slow shuffl ing art-ers of Washington Sq Passing in what they think Is a happy June afternoon Good God the Sorrow Th ey dont even listen to me when I try to tell them they will die

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Th ey say “Of course I know I’ll die, why should you mention It now—Why should I worry About it—it’ll happen It’ll happen—Now I want a good time— Excuse me— It’s a beautiful happy June Afternoon I want to walk in—

Why are you so tragic & gloomy?’* And on the corner at the Pony Stables Of Sixth Ave & 4th Sits Bodhisartva Meditating In Hobo Rags Praying at Joe Gould’s chair For the Emancipation

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Of the shuffl ers passing by, Immovable in Meditation He off ers his hand & feet To the passers by And nobody believes

Th at there’s nothing to believe in. Listen to Me.Th ere is no sidewalk artshow No strollers are there

No poem here, no June afternoon of Oh But only Imagelessness Unrepresented on the iron fence Of bald artists With black berets Passing by One moment less than this Is future Nothingness Already

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Th e Chess men. are silent, assembling Ready for funny war—Voices of Washington Sq Blues Rise to my Bodhisattva Poem Window I will describe them: Eyt key ee S a la o s o Fr up t urr

Etc.No need, no words to describe Th e sound of Ignorance—Th ey are strolling to their death Watching the Pictures of Hell Eating Ice Cream of Ignorance

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On wood sticks

Th at were once sincere in trees— But I cant write, poetry, just prose

I mean Th is is prose Not poetry But I want To be sincere

(From “Book of Blues”, 1960)

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THE MOON HER MAJESTY

Th e moon her magic be, big sad faceOf infi nity. An illuminated clay ballManifesting many gentlemanly remarks

She kicks a star, clouds foregatherIn Scimitar shape, to round herCradle out, upsidedown and old time

You can also let the moon fool youWith imaginary orange-ballsOf blazing imaginary light in fright

As eyeballs, hurt & foregathered,Wink to the wince of the seeingOf a little sprightly otay

Which projects spikes of lightOut the round smooth blue balloonBut full of mountains and moons

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Deep as the ocean, high as the moon,Low as the lowest river lagoonFish in the Tar and pull in the Spar

Billy the Bud and Hanshan EmperorAnd all wall moongazers sinceDaniel Machree, Yeats see

Gaze at the moon ocean markingthe face -

In some casesTh e moon is you

In any caseTh e moon.

(From “Pomes all Sizes”, 1960)

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I’D RATHER BE THIN THAN FAMOUS

I’d rather be thin than famous i don’t wanna be fat an a woman throws me outta bed calling me Gordo and everytime i bend to pick up my suspenders from the Davenport fl oor i explode loud huge grunto and disgust everyone in the familio i’d rather be thin than famous but i’m fat paste that in your broadway show.

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INDICE

October in the railroad earth 5

Deadbelly 11

Charlie parker 13

Th e sound of the universe coming in my windows 17

One mother 20

Goofi ng at the table 22

Th e bowery blues 27

Abraham 33

Dave brubeck 35

I had a slouch hat 36

Th e wheel of the quivering meat conception 51

Macdougal street blues. Canto uno 53

Th e moon her majesty 59

I’d rather be thin than famous 61