The shack of Desolation is dirty, with broken boxes of wood
gathered by me like a Japanese old woman gathers
driftwood on the beach or on the mountainside,
Full of mice, fat drops, chips, ancient chewed up fragments
of religious tracts, crap, dust, old letters or other lookouts
and general unsweepable debris too infinitude to assemble
and sweep
Paniaw Powder Olympic Pawmanow
And Mt Hozomeen — most beautiful mountain I ever seen —
frights me acme out the morning coffee window,
blue Chinese void of Friday morning,
And I have an old washtub covered with a wood door of sheds
that when I saw it made me think of oldtime baths
of bathnight New England when Pas was pink —
Patiat rock mounts snow spomona’d that I drew at ten
for Kuku and Coco everywhere, hundreds of miles of,
and clouds pass through my ink
Kerouac
