ground —
The heavy-headed
wheat —
ACROSS KANSAS
Golden fields flaming
with the sunflower —
Thirst-provoking-while-
chewing-gum mirages across
the dry plowed fields —
but a dust-raising tractor
in the middle of a cool
sweet lake is a blatant
lie — “Many poor devils
died trying to reach one of
them” — (driver from Hope)
The immense dry farming
spaces — Maj estical
white silo at Bird City
Kans. — Distant
drunk phone poles —
A thirsty man looks
for mirages!
Colorado — old barn,
red — pile of dry boards,
barrels, tires, cartons —
dry wind, dry locust in
brown grass — old Model
T wreck truck — Wind
sings sadly in its dash-
board — & thru wood
boards of floor — just wood
slats for roof — incredible
erect, skeletal — what
deader than old car?
— haunted by old
dead-now usages —
rusty skinny clutch handle —
no cap — drywood spokes —
old ferruginous mudguards
I write on have tinny
sad ring & sing while
I write — pile of tarred
poles — Cows grazing
in the Plains haze —
sweet long breeze —
horse in the flat —
prairie crickets tipping
— hay mtn. with
old dead wagon 2
wheel — old dead
skeleton plows — wreckages
of old covered wagons are
hinted at in the scattered
junk of backfield — a
backyard to a barn
& station that faces
infinity — tremendous
open dry white sand
square to city, town —
west of Idalia —
The Colorado Plains
horse neighing in immensity —
Ah Neal — the shaggy
whiteface cows are
arranged in stooped
dejected feed, necks
bent, upon the earth
that has a several
mood under several
skies & openings — Ah
the sad dry Land ground
that’s open between
grasses, whip’t bald
by the endless Winds —
the clouds are bunched
up on the Divide of
the horizon, are shining
upon thy city — the
little fences are lonely —
The grassy soft face
of earth has pocks
of canyons, arroyos,
has moles of sage,
has decoration of
aluminum wheat barns,
the one skinny
revolving windmill in
the Vast, — lavender
bodies of the distance
where earth sighs to
round — the clouds
of Colorado hang blank
& beautiful upon the
land divide —
the line of man’s
land is the bleak
line of his Mortality —
soft crunches the cow’s
munch in all eternity
— shining cloud
worlds frowsily survey
the little farm in
rolls immense of
dun scarred breakless
grass — Sadly the
Continental Divide appears,
dark, gray, humped,
on the level horizon —
The first crosser of these
E Colo. wilds first thot of
clouds mountainshaped —
then — “Hey Paw I
been lookin at them
mountains for a hour” —
“I have too, son — unmistakably
mtns. — not
a cloud — ” then the
party went into a long
hollow — came up
again on a rise —
(shaggy gray sensual
cow lazing along) —
but the rise not high
enough — for 5 hours —
: — “guess it was a mirage”
— Next day —
“Yes, a mirage” —
Vast earth flat with
the blushes of the
sun — of God —
the land — throwing his
tints with a slant
& sweep — & soft —
“Yes, yes, yes, mtns!”
“Unbroken miles of em!”
Over the lavender
land, snake humps —
rock humps — squat
eternal seat forever —
promise of raw fogs —
(the beautiful hump
necked pony, white &
black, with Indian
black strands personalizing
his sweet neck & dark
thoughtful eyes ) —
Vast eternal peak points
there, shy to show their
might till you come up
close — Have deserts
damned up behind em —
— — — clouds vie above
for mountainism —
they go darkening to
Wyoming territory North —
to Nebrasked dark gray
wall sky — cyclones
have formed there —
The sad mountains wait
forever — (heavy-bellied
pendant ringlet cow) —
(Madame Cow) — — —
The land of the Comanche!
I already smell that
Western Sea! — The
mountains (closer) are
misty, bright with
hazel, silver, gold,
territories of aerial
bright hover & bathe
them — Sad dry
river here, helping
out the So Platte —
thru the cities of
railroad & telephone poles
the mountains do cloud
darkly — Now I
see levels of them one
humping upon the other —
Smell the ozone & orgone
of the Plains where
the Mountains appear!
— the mystery of them
is like the gray sea —
because the flats rush
to meet them — &
traffics hasten seaward —
The pale gold grass of
afternoon, the cakes of
alfalfa, the hairheads
of green sage in the
brown plowed field, the
poles on the rim —
Snow on the mtns! —
Pure snow & tragedy of
Great Neal’s home
town — Wild sweet
Mannerly of the Night
here rages rushing —
Tiers of mountains supramassing
now — the Event!
Enormous golden rose
clouds far towards
Bailey, Sedalia, &
Fairplay — The
mountains loom higher
— Father, Father! ! —
— Yes son, Yes son —
Lonely lost paths
lead to them over
rollhills of dark &
pale land, Father —
Ah Son the silver
clouds above their
Loom & Huge, the
rains of them,
the
sad heaps of them, —
The monstrous block
they’ve made to our
westward grand march
— the flatland is
here upchucked &
rockened to hard —
they swoop & slant,
have sides — The clouds
put on a splendorous
air to oertop these
Kings of Earth — the
wind blows free on
them from this
lone prairie —
Estes has Showers of
light-mist — the
blue cracks to show
open heaven — the
Whole Plain descends
to be foothilled up —
yellow patches show
on those early sides —
beyond is black, &
wall drear, & Berthoud —
distant Pike the Giant
sleeps, black — his
shining snows now shrouded
in gales — Colo Spgs
rooftops are gray &
windswept now — but
Denver is snow, gold,
sun, be-mountained,
won. —
Over the gold wheatflats
they rise blue as mysteries,
sweet, dangerous —
Oh Father the road is
a thread to their knees!
Their mottled hills are
Indian Ponies! The
cornflower prairie is
their carpet of welcome
— Welcome to Bleak —
They are blank &
muscular rock upon
this naked earth —
this earth naked to the
blank sky, flat, opposite
— They oertop
our wagon tops & rooftops
now, & our trees —
their smoky blue make
trees a proper green —
Stay so, tree — Ah
the sad ass of my
Palomino buttocking to
the Great Divide —
In green clover hollows
they fill the opening
with their Merlin lump —
Wild trailer cities
on D’s skirts!
Old 1952! hallo!
— Rockies? the
jigsaw fanciful cliffs
of infant scrawls
are no steeper!
they have sides that
sink like despair & rise
like hope —
with a still point
peak — Motels, Autels,
Trailerlands! — they
huddle on the Plain —
The buildings & motels
far out E Colfax are
so new you couldnt
smear shit on em,
it would fall off!
THE THING I LIKE ABOUT
Chinatowns, you look around,
you see that everybody has
a vice, beautiful vice —
whether it’s O, or wine,
or Cunt, or whiskey —
you don’t feel so isolated
from man as you do
in AngloSaxon Broadways
of Glare & Traffic where
people might be hung up
on shouting preachers, or
lynching, or baseball,
or cars — Gad I hate
America with a passionate
intensity —
I’m going to excoriate
the cocksucker & save
my heroes from its doom.
It aint no atom
bomb will blow up
America, America
itself is a bomb
bound to go off
from within — What
monster lurks there, bald
head, fat, 55, young wife,
millions, Henry J Shmeiser,
out of his pissing cancerous
life will flow (from the
belly) a juice of explosions
— dowagers
& young juicy cunts with
high mannered ways on
buses will gasp — I
stick my finger in the cunt.
America goes ‘Blast’ —
Fine people like Hinkle
will be buried under the
stucco autel ruins — ah —
Lucien will rave —
(Written when I was a railroad brakeman
covered with soot mad as hell in 1952:
I apologize now, America, in 1959, for
such filthy bitterness but that’s what
I said then, and meant it.)
DENVER
The So. Platte at the
CBQ railyards — in
Sept. flows briskly from
the hump mountains
— sand island, — one sad
sunflower — weeds —
mudsides plopping off in
tide — water ripples
fast — banks steep,
dumpy, reinforced with
rocks — pieces of tin
strip, sticks, pipe —
sewage pipes come out —
oil rainbowing the water
— many small beat
bridges — under the
RR bridge an old
concrete foundation, — oily
rocks — driftwood piled,
a-ripple — cans — dirty
pigeons — rock villages —
— on bank old dining
car, red soot, for switchmen
— little trees growing
on the reinforced bank —
but many tree stumps
where trees cut — long
islands of rocks —
fast flows at sides —
above this sad stream
flowing thru iron tragedies
are the brass clouds
of solid Autumn —
Junk: - pile of tires, a child’s
crayon book, broken glass,
coldwind, black burntout
near sewage steam pipe —
bolts, bird feathers, an
old frying pan sitting in the
crook of a bridge girder,
old wire, flat rusty cans
no longer nameable, —
is written on viaduct concrete
wall: “If anybody were
in the Army in August
1942 when I shot
gent Slensa come
ant tell the Sgt.”
(incoherent) — & drawing
in chalk of profile
with cloth cap, plaid,
top bop button, a
strange Skippy —
“All Judge
Suck Pussy”
Field of weeds, a plain
facing “The Centennial
School Supply Co.” — “The
Mine & Smelter Supply
Co.” — aluminum sooted
tanks — red tin sooted
sheds — boxcars —
concrete silos — redbrick
warehouses — chimneys —
& Denver skyline behind
not seen — in weeds is
piece of rope, piece
of car window stripping,
nameless rusty perforated
tinhunks, newspaper, old
fold of handtowel
paper, old Jewel
Salad Oil carton,
a pile of junk, — & the
girders of the viaduct have
great black bolt heads
like knobs of a
sweating steel black
city, — gray overcast
clouds, cold — pipe
of engine, steam hisses,
cars skippitybumping
overhead, clang bells,
iron wheel squeals,
rumbles, — over the
silent mtns. a bird —
Near the Lee Soap
Co. is a collection of
ruined shacks — slivered
burntout by time boards
skewered, under the
viaduct, cartons &
newspapers inside where
old boys slept — old
bottle Roma wine —
Old Purefoy Cassady
slept here — many
cans of many a
pork n beans supper —
strange festive weeds
with big cabbage
leaves & bunchy green
substance you could
roll into seeds between
palms — slivers of
wood cover ground —
old rusty nails long ago
hammered now lie
uppointed to heaven &
forgot —
A bum fire, sweet smoke
scent — Inside shack:
abandoned child toilet
seat! — Royal Riviera
Pears box — flashlite
battery — hole plugged
with cardboard but
boards spaced an inch —
The thrill of old magazines
time soaked — a
haunted village — wood
of crossbeam this door
is decayed where nails
went in, mould of dusts,
tiny webby darkgray
Colorado shack color,
a big old Rocky Mtn.
tree overhangs — this
was once a thriving
Mexican or cowhand
camp settlement — mebbe
a big Mex family now
gone — Beautiful
lavender flowers 5 foot
hi in rich erotic weeds
— A redbrick shack
with torn “Notice” —
hints of onetime smiling
people now the shithole
beneath the
viaduct of Iron America
in which at last I
am free to roam —
Come on, boys!
(Old Black Flag insect
Spray! — for particular
hobos! — but thrown
from viaduct — )
Deserted House — on
tar road, many of
em — around back —
great weeds — incredible
cellar stairs leading to
black unspeakable hole
not for hobos but escaped
murderers! — Shit on
floors — papers, magazines
— Ah the poor sad
shoes of some thin
foot bum — weary
with time — scuffed,
browned, cracked, but
good soles & heels only
a little edgeworn —
wine bottles — a
pocketbook “Trouble
at Red Moon” —
Old newspaper with
faces of tragic Mexicans
in hospital beds of
the moment — now upstare
this bleak roof
torn — old bum in