segunda-feira, 14 de maio de 2012

SKETCH . . . .

Watsonville, valley — the
sun is setting in a mysterious
orange flameball over the
flat green lettuce fields
interlined with brown dirt
rows & roads & rails — beyond
the milky haze of this
dusk is the sea, unseen, the
Pacific to the Land of the
Rising Sun — the grass is
like hay, full of ants
that go to sleep at sundown,
dry shrubs, dry cottonwoods,
weeds, tart spice ferns of
Spring are now fuel for
Autumn Seres, — little
weedflowers close their
blossoms as the dusk birdsongs
titter — a farm in the
dreaming vale below, white-
washed barn, flat reposant
chickencoops & toolsheds —
I hear the distant hiway
trucks — sitting on the
mat of earth on the westernmost
American hill facing
the unknown east all
pink now — Sweet dewy
breeze hints of sea —
The railroad cries the
roundroll — I sleep on
the ground under the
stars like an Indian,
baseball hat, brakeman’s
lantern & tucked in
Levis & workshoes &
jacket, arms folded to
the moon —

a cow mourns below —
adios — now the sun
is bloodred, sinks behind
the mighty mountain trees
— the distant sad hiway
of little soundless cars —
the Salad Bowl of the
World sinks to dark, all
you need is a plane to
spray mayonnaise & chopped
scallions — eat a whole
valley raw — the figs
trees are shitting on the
ground, Mexican Motorists
pick walnuts from the
ground, the bums have
left a Tokay empty
under the avocado tree —
ripe California


Jack Kerouac, Book of Sketches, 1952-57