Book of Sketches (8 page)

 

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 —
God is blushing on
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!

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 —

 

America goes ‘Blast’ —
Fine people like Hinkle
will be buried under the
stucco autel ruins — ah —
Lucien will rave —

 

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 —

 

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,

 

Near the Lee Soap
Co. is a collection of
ruined shacks — slivered
burntout by time boards
skewered, under the
viaduct, cartons &

 

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

— 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
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