topcoat came in —
“Boys be around a
little later” — old
Bull Durham pouches —
planks — trains go
by outside — plaster —
Boys who were coming were
2 Indians — one roundfaced,
dungarees — one thin, tragic,
seamed, Colorado Wild,
with workpants, jacket,
red bandana & strange
rust red suede cowboy
slope hat of the Wides
— coming across UP
tracks with big bags
(of sandwiches probably)
— tied up with old white
bum who had strange high
voice, was Irish, old but
only 45, rednose, tremendously
hopeless, didnt talk to me,
went next room, read
or scanned thru floor
reading — what a movie
of the Gray West I there
missed! — never felt the
thrill of the West
more since childhood days
of gray tumblewagon serials
in the Merrimac Theater
— cold, cold wind —
Wazee, Wynkoop, Blake,
Market — dismallest of
streets with RR track each
side, parked boxcars,
coldwinds blowing down
from all the gray Wyomings,
sheds with stairs, redbrick
bldgs., shacks, deserted —
poor little Neal in this
night! — and the alleys!
oertopped thickly with
telephone double pole
lines, barrels, concrete
paving, dismal, long, cold,
leading to gray Raw
each way — Then
Larimer, corner 19th,
Japs, — cluttered dark
pawnshops with tools,
guitars, lanterns, (some
unusable), rifles, knives,
stoves, bolts, anything
— & a poor Negro
couple quietly talking &
speculating as they walk in
to sell something, their
children will hear of it
one day the down & out past
— beat Negros pile in
car, “see ya later,” garage
Negro walks on, “Cool”
— but says Cool emphatically
& like a revolution —
Two itinerants standing
outside Pool Parlor still
closed 9 30 AM, everybody
cold — Coffee
shop — cafe — next to
Windsor — old bum in
faded Mackinaw eating
big breakfast gravely
with grizzled sorrow —
younger men — coffee 5¢
— sugar & cream put in
for you etc. — Windsor
lobby cold, gloomy —
painting of constellation
of faces around Windsor,
Cody, Edwin Booth,
Lily Langtry, Baby Doe,
Oscar Wilde — Ah
this is all the Jack
London gray — Deep
dark stairways blood
mahogany — bums sit
around — one man at
bar — talk across 50
foot lobby — once a
great splendour is now
mutter hall of hoboes
— clerk at sumptuous
desk paces & whistles —
bums huddle in gray entrance
to smoke & see
out, hands a pockets
— rattle rasp of
a truck out there, I
sense the gray cold
tragedy of N’s boyhood
— & its joy, too,
as he showeth —
Bums sit forever, with
that hurt look, angry —
smoking — waiting — immovable
from their position —
different type looks
out door humbly, waiting
for he knows not what,
— old tottering tall bum
in plaid shirt with
squinty look of bewilderment
— old painter
bum in white coveralls
struggles thru door —
men with hats, coats, hands
a pockets, sauntering — some
of em weatherbeaten, hard,
rough looking, Canyon City
was their most recent
home —
Glenarm poolhall —
rubber floor full of
holes, boards show — ancient
lost linoleum under —
tables have hanging baskets
like balls — Pederson’s —
old tin panel ceiling,
tan color — cue racks —
pissery in corner hid by
partition — greentop card
tables where Holmes
in bleak poolhall time
sat dealing blearfaced
& grim — “Onlooker’s
bench” pale green, high,
sand jars — Candy
counter, open phone
booth panels, juke —
parkinglot across street —
Denver Bears on
summernight radio —
click, bounce balls on
hard, laughs, “God-damn!”
— husky voices — Stomp of
feet angling around tables
— shuffle of shoes —
“Let’s go, let’s go!” —
voices of adolescents —
crash of break — “Shhhhhit”
— impatient knock of
cuestick on floor —
bop — click of ball
in basket — pocket —
Blackboard near counter
— groups of voices,
Street — Hotel DeWitt
— flash of liquor store
neons — Drake (blue)
hotel (red) down right,
cold — Bright orange
Chinese neons up left of
city center — Denver
Auto Park, lot, old redbrick
Hotel Southard one wall,
DeWitt (brownbrick white
bordered) other — over
head wire bulbs in lot —
Above poolhall Acme Hearing
Aid Co. whitewashed brick
— barber pole — (left)
Hotel Glenarm pink neon
on redbrick (right) —
Mirobar corner — (flashing) —
Counter — old bronze gilded
cash register — framed
licenses near coathanger
hooks — dark brown cabinet
— cigar counter with Tops,
White Owls, Red Dot — El
Producto — King Edward —
signs in entrance glass sides
low Coca Cola, Whistle
Oh Lord in heaven above
what a holy moment, coming
to Neal & Carolyn’s house in
the gray fog day of San
Jose, nobody in, the 9
room sadhouse, the old
Green Clunker filled with
California Autumnal leaves
like the prophetic old
birdhouse wreck of old
travels & sorrows — & finding
all alone in the house
Eternal house little John
blond & beautiful as an
Angel, taking him up,
a spot of Tokay, sit
by the radio with him
& have there on my
lap all that’s left
of my life, as if he
were my blood son.
And he looks just like
Carolyn — how sad
the ten-balled years,
how toppled the pin
of myself — what
Gray Sorrows of Autumn
for this sailing soul
— and for Cassadys,
nothing but love &
attention — bearded
doom boy Jack in Old
Jose, walked from
Easonburg Carolina —
with $5 — & came
to the Angel child that
was not afraid of the
Shroudy Stranger.
FRISCO Embarcadero Sept 8
Cold fog winds blowing
from the wreathed hills
of houses, I can see
the blazing fog shagging
over from old Potato Patch
in a cold whipped blue
— bay waters clear to
Oakland are ripple & keen
blue & cold looking — the
wind even whistles — The
majestic Mormacgulf with
her creamy white masts
& rigging in the pure blue
sits before me, a rusty
redpaint waterline on
the green Jack London
swell of old piers —
Cold wind brings hints of
all the good food in Frisco
(& maybe all the love,
& surely all the hate) —
Mormacgulf is tied
with great cables, a
ratguard broke loose near
the bowsprit canvas and
bangs like a tin pan
in the wind — Water
rushes gushing from a low
scupper — In the water
is bread, a leaf of cabbage,
a butt —
SP train at night
The local — sweetsmelling
night soots — crashby
dingdang of opposite
train — the pink neons
of Calif., the cocktail-
glass-&-mixer neon of
the ginmills — The hills
of supper lights — the
blear of fogs in from the
brown gaps — blear of
lights — Redwood City to
Atherton, clear, clean
night, with magic stars
riding the dark over the
homes of the railroad
earth — plenty time —
I must believe in the lives
of people & the history of
their reality — I must become
a historian —
observe the history of society
& write histories of the world
in wild hallucinated prose
— but a record of the
angels personalizing all the
haunted places I have
seen, written for the angels
not the publishers & readers
— a complete history of
my complete inner life,
also — Wail of the
train, chipachup of the
locomotive steams when
they open a vestibule door
— brakes haul up train,
old ornate browngreen coach
sways — Brown seats
of sticky stuff —
California Spanish neat
cut houses & Launderettes
& modernistic groceries
in the leafy black —
nameless newbrick mortuaries
or grass conservatories
or waterworks with
Shrouds — Oh old train,
Wail my Lowell back,
wail for my Lowell, make
my Lowell my only come-
back — Palo Alto, taxis
at bushéd sidewalk, lights
evenly pinpointing in a
main drag, — Dodge Plymouth
paleblue sign exactly the
one at Letran corner
in Mexcity — but with
beautiful bloodclot glow
Don Hampton beneath —
Strings of yellow bulbs
in car lot — A sudden
view of muddy wood
supports litup in the
construction night —
Spectral palegreen greenhouse
of a factory — Her
I dont like & dont have
to like & wont — Fuckups
have a choice they make,
in naked silence — I
have never been a romantic
lover like him because
I do not like to moo &
screw — I like straight
relations no show all
balls come & comfort —
the slightest sadism makes
me sicken — I am a
hero — Distant bloodred
antennas of Calif. —
Murder will out among
these beasts — that
puffed feather She —
I like my women tragic,
silent, & ravenous souled
— Angel of Mercy,
come to swirl my brain
& teach me the truth &
what to do now, I pray
thee from dark & ignorance
— In darkness reeling I
see bare naked ledge of
oldbrown wood lit by
streetlamp, brown, dim —
Distant geometric modern
bluebright factory of
aircraft windows — The
star of my fame & pity
of spread parks illuminating
lonely bits of walks
— Green lights too — the
whistle calls on ahead —
Why did Sebastian live so
intensely & romantically
just to die blear-eyed —
he was saved from middleaged
baggy eyed ends — The
Old SP’s all I got now,
Sam — I had loved you &
you me — Edie, I loved
you too, deeply — The
old stained glass of the
coach, the smoky tan
round ceiling, the barbershop
chairs, the engine calling
for our mountains & all
that’s lost & was supposed
to happen & didnt — Ah
James Joyce, Proust,
Wolfe, Balzac — I’ll
combine you in my forge —
Lovers like X. & Y. — simper
like snakes
WAITING FOR 146 AT
CALIF. AVE.
Backsteps Caboose (crummy)
bloodred — hills seaward
smoke shroud — sun orange
on its flare — Palo
Alto bank bldg. — steam
hiss, silence — the long
track Southeast — the
quiet Calif. cottages —
old paintchip trailer
in backyard, overturned
car junk, abandoned
cab (black, white), clothes-
lines with pins on —
Drive-In — Restaurant —
Green with modern ranch
style redwood sections,
Swift’s Ice Cream neon
in window, big bamboo
blinds in window, cars
parked around — Sunday
afternoon in San Jose,
late sun, the haunted
mountains from the East
rim of Santa Clara
Valley appear only after
a second take look,
dim, yellowish, faintly
rilled, round, bare as
flesh, humping softly
far over the flat of
fruit trees — Beyond
Drive In the night
lights of a ballpark —
traffic on road — Shadows
of pretty girls passing
inside Drive In �
� new
cars everywhere, & lots
— lost spiritualities
of America dulled &
buried in this last
barbaric land — empty
of meaning but rich,
fruitful, golden, — (the
land is) —
Original home of the
Tender Indian — the Pomo —
O Dostoevsky of
Indian Milleniums! —
Christian Fellaheen
Peotl Saint!
NOTES ON THE MILLENIUM OF THE HIP FELLAHEEN Oct. 1952, Calif.
With historical basis in this: -
(1)America is a pseudomorphological wave laid over the land of the culture-less Fellaheen New World Indian
(2)The American Race is West European, Faustian, Late Civilized, Decadent
(3)Faustian West will destroy itself; the New World Earth will return to its original Indian & Fellaheen
(4)The Indian is one with the Fellaheen World Belt thru Mexico, Africa, Aramea, the Near East, Mohammedan lands, India, China, Korea, the Primitive & the Fellah joined in one Underground Mankind beneath Western & Russian Marxist heels — cultureless, non-critical, simplicity Mankind
(5)The prophet & saint of the World Fellaheen Future is a man of simplicity & kind heartedness & clarity; the various levels of the human godhead are defined in the separate religions which give decency
& richness in blank & blind
Eternity with everybody
waiting. Wm. Blake, &
Dostoevsky are of the same
Church! Jesus Christ & the
black Cunt are reconciled,
the Virgin Mary is painted
on the back of an immense
hardon of gesso plaster
in the hut home of my
Culiacan host, Mexico.
NOTE
(1) The Russian Christian of the next 1000 years belongs to the Aramaean Springtime of the Soul
(2)The Aramaean Springtime of the Soul coincides with the Millenium of the Hip Fellaheen which has in it the seeds of the Antichrist
(3)The next great conflict will be between Hip & Christ, will be resolved in the dark
The Millenium of the Hip
Fellaheen has the subtle
AntiChrist in it — it
is not serious Finally —
Not Race, but the Types,
in Fellaheen Form, is
Discernible; the slope
shouldered cowboy switch
man in dungarees, low
rolled sleeves & brim
hat is the same
type as the samebuilt
Indian driving a Mexico
City bus or lost in endless
meditation on the desert.