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!
THE THING I LIKE ABOUT
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 —
I’m going to excoriate
the cocksucker & save
my heroes from its doom.
It aint no atom
bomb will blow up
America, America
itself is a bomb
bound to go off
from within — What
monster lurks there, bald
head, fat, 55, young wife,
millions, Henry J Shmeiser,
out of his pissing cancerous
life will flow (from the
belly) a juice of explosions
— dowagers
& young juicy cunts with
high mannered ways on
buses will gasp — I
stick my finger in the cunt.
America goes ‘Blast’ —
Fine people like Hinkle
will be buried under the
stucco autel ruins — ah —
Lucien will rave —
(Written when I was a railroad brakeman
covered with soot mad as hell in 1952:
I apologize now, America, in 1959, for
such filthy bitterness but that’s what
I said then, and meant it.)
DENVER
The So. Platte at the
CBQ railyards — in
Sept. flows briskly from
the hump mountains
— sand island, — one
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!
THE THING I LIKE ABOUT
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 —
I’m going to excoriate
the cocksucker & save
my heroes from its doom.
It aint no atom
bomb will blow up
America, America
itself is a bomb
bound to go off
from within — What
monster lurks there, bald
head, fat, 55, young wife,
millions, Henry J Shmeiser,
out of his pissing cancerous
life will flow (from the
belly) a juice of explosions
— dowagers
& young juicy cunts with
high mannered ways on
buses will gasp — I
stick my finger in the cunt.
America goes ‘Blast’ —
Fine people like Hinkle
will be buried under the
stucco autel ruins — ah —
Lucien will rave —
(Written when I was a railroad brakeman
covered with soot mad as hell in 1952:
I apologize now, America, in 1959, for
such filthy bitterness but that’s what
I said then, and meant it.)
DENVER
The So. Platte at the
CBQ railyards — in
Sept. flows briskly from
the hump mountains
— sand island, — one
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