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
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 —