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