Free Book of Sketches by Jack Kerouac

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
following far above — Lights
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