Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Kerouacky sketches

by Roberto Lavidez

I must
become
a historian
observe the
history of
society
and write
histories
of the world
in wild
hallucinated
prose
the hero
is always
the same
comes to the
first page
out of eternities
of introspection
anguish
gloom
just as I do
every day
hmm
Dostoevskyan
the types
come and go
and never
change
but history
changes
never mind
what Burroughs
or Ginsberg
have to say
about anything
start by
exposing them
man
the terrible
laugh of
those who
think
themselves
special
elite
it has
a gory
hungry
sound
lonely
dirty
if you’re
not haunted
by something
as by 
a dream
a vision
or a memory
which are
involuntary
you’re not
interested
or even
involved
you’ve got
to put a
superstructure
of love
on yr. life
or you’ll just
be a
skeleton in 
the grave
of yr.
mortal days
shuddering
naked
against
the main
nerve of
yr. being
only when
that work
which oertops
my hopeless
men
among bones
will save me
up and back
to enthusiastic
inside me
personal need
-breast
the true work
is on belief
true belief
is immortal
good
I blame
god
for making
life
so boring
drink is good
for love
good for
music
let it be
good
for writing
the trouble
with me
is that
outside
my mind
it seems
the world
hasn’t got
no ass
suddenly
I realized
the utter
absurdity
of my
squatting
assy
humanity too
the infinitely
empty
crock of
form
a man
don’t know
what to do
anyway
sun goes down
I wait
dark
prairie
viewers 
come round 
for Satnite
workers
driving home
dogtired
from work
thru red clay
cuts of time
with wine
faintly in gray
western
horizon
beefing
about work
ah the sad
dry land
ground
that’s open
between
grasses
whip’t bald
by endless
winds
seethe rush
longroar of sea
seething in
floor of sand
distant boom
of world
shaking
breakers-
sigh and
intake of sea
income
outgo
rumors
of sea
Thoreau’s
Concord is
blue
aquamarine
in October red
sereneness
little Indian hill
towards
Walden
is orange
brown with
autumn
why should
I have
a radio when
I can hear
the music of
a crackling
fire
and the
steam engines
in the yard
repeat
let it come
to you
don’t run
after it
it would be
and is like
running after
sea waves
not so sad
as heaven
watching
but all
the more
lost
all the
more
lost
the gray
drab
Indian village
near Actopan
no coca cola
no orange crush
just dysentery-
ridden water
and lizards
on the
old walls
Jesus has
made it
hard on us
nothing
there is
left for me
for us
but loss
yet we choke
and gain after
races and
rush and
nothing’s
to come
of it
but tick
tack time
that which
has not long
to live
frets
that which
lives forever
is full of
peace and
there is
no man
who’ll live
forever
and so the
crickets creek
cree cree
eaves darken
and get
inky gainst
whitened dusk
the pale dawn
dusk clouds
move not
but silent
in a mass
advance
somewhere
slowly
lonely
motionless
green leaves
vague plaster
rocks
lost in fields
the dazzling
white
sides
of houses
seen thru the
tangly glade
branches
the dry
solemn
ground
of California
fit for Indians
to sleep on
-the cardboard

©robertolavidez2014
















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