Free Book of Sketches by Jack Kerouac Page B

(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