Upon The 50th Anniversary Of The Death Of "King OF The Beats" Jack Kerouac-On The 60th Anniversary Of Allan Ginsberg’s “Howl”Beat Poet’s Corner-Out In The American Wilderness-Allen Ginsberg’s “Paterson”

… on a cold clear winter night across the channel you could see the sparks from the welding torch flying earthbound as the mad monk welder (a modern day sorcerer in his own right) seven stories scaffolding up melded yet another bolt to join the emerging ship’s skin and elsewhere hear the thundering beat of immense hammerings as some deafened laborers laid foundation bones to her bottom (her, yes, her, ships always her against the manly King, or was it uncle, or brother, Neptune who jealously ruled the seas). That beehive of activity created World War II troops transports (one a day collectively to bring bad boy Hitler righteously to his knees and that bastard Tojo too) and later majestic (majestic on launching but barnacled, rusted, and needing paint after a few trans-oceanic voyages) and gigantic floating oil well tankers made old hometown Adamsville stir, made its denizens leap for joy as each new contract came in. Money to spent, money to burn after hard time 1930s depression days (not called great depression, not by the railroad siding, shanty town shack, park bench newspaper for a pillow living, but only anointed as such later by august historians and quirky plainsong singers). He noticed though that those welded sparks and headache hammerings were less frequent, less frequent at night, in childhood 1950s and while he could hear occasional muted hammerings and firefly sparks that gigantic superstructure lost his undivided attention.

His attention now drawn to sullen laborers, mostly kindred Irish, Irish moved south from the great Southie migration when Hitler’s moves demanded a troop transport a day (no I haven’t forgotten that bastard Tojo but Adamsville ships were meant for Atlantic waters) and sturdy hands and fellaheen forbear hearts gave it to him right in the kisser, unemployed now, sitting in Dublin Grille, Irish Pub, hell, Johnny Ricco’s Bar (where they could get credit, drink credit, okay), gnawing over wife- nagging troubles (she tiredly counting out the bill envelopes, food, gas, electric, oil, telephone, no skip that this week ,to cover the weekly graft, or a little bit to keep the wolves away from the door for another week), kids getting to be strangers troubles (not knowing of sullen dads, or penny-pinching moms, but only of Jones’ children with spiffy sporty clothes, not hand- me-downs, personal record players and money, cash money to buy be-bop Elvis records and rock the night away), and rent troubles (no more mortgage troubles, thank god, since the house went last year along with that six payments short of completion up-scale Buick that was a pride and joy).

He noticed too the town at daylight seemed kind of ashen grey, kind of preternaturally quiet against the steel-hammered plated world, trash strewn, uncollected, over ball fields, down Adamsville beaches, up the store front empty Square, average citizens with their heads bent down walking around just to walk around (just to get out of the house, and get, what did his grandfather call it, oh yah, to get the stink blowed off), and houses, too many houses, in need of lawn trimmings, in need of paint to color the world again, in need of, in need of, damn, life. He swore (an oath, not a Catholic brimstone and damnation no no word) on all that his twelve-year old dreams could dream on that he would get out, get out just as fast as he could.

Another sound, a bobbing machine sound, ten thousand bobbing machine sounds at once all day and all night along one blessed textiles to clothe a modern world mile (including modern armies to kick Hitler’s butt, and Tojo’s too), maybe more, all red brick and waspish-sounding owner names, peopled by Irish, Italians, Greeks, and French-Canadians down from Quebec farms and Gaspe ports of call, the ethnics, the usual suspects in mill- town America (who knows maybe the world) another smell, smoke, endless smoke from endless chimneys form long phallic lines (don’t let Allen know that) across the Lowell sky and add look, look at the rushing Merrimac torrent now colored blue ,or red, or yellow, depending on day’s fabric as those looks are carried to the Atlantic seas. Money to spend , money to burn, sounds familiar, after hard time 1930s depression days (not called great depression, not by the Boston and Maine railroad siding, riverside shanty town shack, Daly Square park bench newspaper for a pillow living, but only anointed as such later by august historians and quirky plainsong singers). He noticed, like his Adamsville cousin down the road with his blessed savior ships , that those bobbing sounds, grey smoke belching chimneys, and flash- colored river torrents were less frequent, less frequent at night, in childhood 1950s and while he could hear occasional muted bobbings and see fire- spark crackling smokes, that long red mile lost his undivided attention.

His attention now drawn to sullen laborers, mill hands mostly, mostly too kindred F-C, F-C moved south from the great Quebec migration when sturdy hands and fellaheen forbear hearts were needed to clothe a naked world, unemployed now, sitting in Jacques’ Grille, The French- American Club over in Pawtucketville, hell, even the Galway Pub (where they could get credit, drink credit, a universal need in doldrums days, okay), gnawing over wife- nagging troubles (she tiredly counting out the bill envelopes, food, gas, electric, oil, telephone, no skip that this week , to cover the weekly graft, or a little bit to keep the wolves away from the door for another week), kids getting to be strangers troubles (not knowing of sullen dads, or penny-pinching moms, but only of Jones’ children with sporty clothes, not hand- me- downs, personal record players and money, cash money to buy be-bop Elvis records and rock the night away), and rent troubles (no more mortgage troubles, thank god, since the house went last year along with that six payments short of completion up-scale Buick that was a pride and joy).

He noticed too the town at daylight seemed kind of ashen grey not real ash, like some erupted volcano, just metaphor ash, kind of preternaturally quiet against the bobbing-less world, trash strewn, uncollected, over ball fields, down riverside fronts, up in Daly Square, average citizens with their heads bent down walking around just to walk around (just to get out of the house, and get, what did his grandfather, universal grandfather, call it, oh yah, translated from F-C patois, get the stink blowed off), and houses, too many houses, in need of lawn trimmings, in need of paint to color the world again, in need of, in need of, damn, life. He swore (an oath, not a Catholic brimstone and damnation no no word) on all that his twelve- year old dreams could dream on that he would get out, get out just as fast as he could.

And further south, Jersey town south, down past the Jersey piers, and dotted oil tanks, Paterson, a town of towns of long ago boss fights and John Reed big story reportings, red, a town name now to make a poet blanche. Another bobbing sound, a bobbing machine sound, ten thousand bobbing machine sounds at once all day and all night along one blessed textiles to clothe a modern world section of town (including modern armies to kick Hitler’s butt, and Tojo’s too), all red brick and waspish-sounding owner names, peopled by Irish, Italians, Greeks, and occasionally some Jews fresh from New York Seventh Avenue flights to get away from big city noises, crimes, distractions (strangely their sons and daughters, and Adamsville and Lowell son and daughters, will be moth-drawn to the big fussy neon cities), the ethnics, the usual suspects in mill- town America (who knows maybe the world) another smell, smoke, endless smoke from endless chimneys form long phallic (don’t let Allen know that, or maybe he already knows the metaphor ) lines across the Paterson sky and add look, look at the rushing river torrent now colored blue ,or red, or yellow, depending on day’s fabric as those looks are carried to the Atlantic seas. Money to spend, money to burn, sounds very familiar, after hard time 1930s depression days (not called great depression, not by the Penn railroad siding, shanty town shack, downtown park bench newspaper for a pillow living, but only anointed as such later by august historians and quirky plainsong singers). He noticed, like his Adamsville cousin up north with his blessed savior ships and his up north too Lowell cousin with his infernal be-bop bobbings, that those bobbing sounds, grey smoke belching chimneys and flash- colored river torrents were less frequent, less frequent at night, in childhood 1950s and while he could hear occasional muted bobbing and fire- spark crackling smokes, those long smoke stacks lost his undivided attention.

His attention now drawn to sullen laborers, mill hands mostly, mostly not Jewish kindred now (they had moved on to Jersey shore suburbs and away from all cities big and small), but Irish and Italian (and, a few, what did Gregory call them, oh yah, spics, from Puerto Rico, thrown in)when sturdy hands and fellaheen forbear hearts were needed to clothe a naked world, unemployed now, sitting in Billy’s Grille, Nino’s Bar in the barrio, hell, even the Galway Pub (where they could get credit, drink credit, a universal need in doldrums days, okay), gnawing over wife- nagging troubles (she tiredly counting out the bill envelopes, food, gas, electric, oil, telephone, no skip that this week ,to cover the weekly graft, or a little bit to keep the wolves away from the door for another week), kids getting to be strangers troubles (not knowing of sullen dads, or penny-pinching moms, but only of Jones’ children with sporty clothes, not hand- me- downs, personal record players and money, cash money to buy be-bop Elvis records and rock the night away), and rent (no more mortgage troubles, thank god, since the house went last year along with that six payments short of completion up-scale Buick that was a pride and joy).

He noticed too the town at daylight seemed kind of ashen grey not real ash, like some erupted volcano, just metaphor ash, kind of preternaturally quiet against the bobbing-less world, trash strewn, uncollected, over ball fields, in front of abandoned downtown store fronts, up in the square, average citizens with their head bent down walking around just to walk around (just to get out of the house, and get, what did his grandfather, universal Jewish grandfather, call it, oh yah, to unwind the mind and think kabala thoughts of ancient times, or, simple Hebrew translation , just to get the stink blowed off) and houses, too many houses, in need of lawn trimmings, in need of paint to color the world again, in need of, in need of, damn, life. He swore (an oath, not a Talmudic brimstone and damnation no no word) on all that his twelve- year old dreams could dream on that he would get out, get out just as fast as he could.

… yah, towns to get out of, towns to be long gone daddy gone from.

Paterson

What do I want in these rooms papered with visions of money?
How much can I make by cutting my hair? If I put new heels on my shoes,
bathe my body reeking of masturbation and sweat, layer upon layer of excrement
dried in employment bureaus, magazine hallways, statistical cubicles, factory stairways,
cloakrooms of the smiling gods of psychiatry;
if in antechambers I face the presumption of department store supervisory employees,
old clerks in their asylums of fat, the slobs and dumbbells of the ego with money and power
to hire and fire and make and break and fart and justify their reality of wrath and rumor of wrath to wrath-weary man,
what war I enter and for what a prize! the dead prick of commonplace obsession,
harridan vision of electricity at night and daylight misery of thumb-sucking rage.


I would rather go mad, gone down the dark road to Mexico, heroin dripping in my veins,
eyes and ears full of marijuana,
eating the god Peyote on the floor of a mudhut on the border
or laying in a hotel room over the body of some suffering man or woman;
rather jar my body down the road, crying by a diner in the Western sun;
rather crawl on my naked belly over the tincans of Cincinnati;
rather drag a rotten railroad tie to a Golgotha in the Rockies;
rather, crowned with thorns in Galveston, nailed hand and foot in Los Angeles, raised up to die in Denver,
pierced in the side in Chicago, perished and tombed in New Orleans and resurrected in 1958 somewhere on Garret Mountain,
come down roaring in a blaze of hot cars and garbage,
streetcorner Evangel in front of City I-Tall, surrounded by statues of agonized lions,
with a mouthful of shit, and the hair rising on my scalp,
screaming and dancing in praise of Eternity annihilating the sidewalk, annihilating reality,
screaming and dancing against the orchestra in the destructible ballroom of the world,
blood streaming from my belly and shoulders
flooding the city with its hideous ecstasy, rolling over the pavements and highways
by the bayoux and forests and derricks leaving my flesh and my bones hanging on the trees.

Allen Ginsberg