La periódica revisión dominical


Dossier Kerouac: Fragmentos escogidos mayo 4, 2009






The Subterreneans (extracto)


(…) So there we were at the Red Drum, a tableful of beers a few that is and all the gangs cutting in and out, paying a dollar quarter at the door, the little hip-pretending weasel there taking tickets, Paddy Cordavan floating in as prophesied (a big tall blond brakeman type subterranean from Eastern Washington cowboy-looking in jeans coming in to a wild generation party all smoky and mad and I yelled, “Paddy Cordavan?” and “Yeah?” and he’d come over)–all sitting together, interesting groups at various tables, Julien, Roxanne (a woman of 25 prophesying the future style of America with short almost crewcut but with curls black snaky hair, snaky walk, pale pale junky kerouac_wideweb__470x457044anemic face and we say hunky when once Dostoevski would have said what? if not ascetic but saintly? but not in the least? but the cold pale booster face of the cold blue girl and wearing a man’s white shirt but with the cuffs undone untied at the buttons so I remember her leaning over talking to someone after having been slinked across the floor with flowing propelled shoulders, bending to talk with her hand holding a short butt and the neat little flick she was giving to knock ashes but repeatedly with long long fingernails an inch long and also orient and snake-like) — groups of all kinds, and Ross Wallenstein, the crowd, and up on the stand Bird Parker with solemn eyes who’d been busted fairly recently and had now returned to a kind of bop dead Frisco but had just discovered or been told about the Red Drum, the great new generation gang wailing and gathering there, so here he was on the stand, examining them with his eyes as he blew his – now-settled-down-into-regulated-design “crazy” notes — the booming drums, the high ceiling–Adam for my sake dutifully cutting out at about 11 o’clock so he could go to bed and get to work in the morning, after a brief cutout with Paddy and myself for a quick ten-cent beer at roaring Pantera’s, where Paddy and I in our first talk and laughter together pulled wrists–now Mardou cut out with me, glee eyed, between sets, for quick beers, but at her insistence at the Mask instead where they were fifteen cents, but she had a few pennies herself and we went there and began earnestly talking and getting hightingled on the beer and now it was the beginning–returning to the Red Drum for sets, to hear Bird, whom I saw distinctly digging Mardou several times also myself directly into my eye looking to search if I was really the great writer I thought myself to be as if he knew my thoughts and ambitions or remembered me from other night clubs and other coasts, other Chicagos–not a challenging look but the king and founder of the bop generation at least the sound of it in digging his audience digging his eyes, the secret eyes him-watching, as he just pursed his lips and let great lungs and immortal fingers work, his eyes separate and interested and humane, the kindest jazz musician there could be while being and therefore naturally the greatest–watching Mardou and me in the infancy of our love and probably wondering why, or knowing it wouldn’t last, or seeing who it was would be hurt, as now, obviously, but not quite yet, it was she Mardou whose eyes were shining in my direction, though I could not have known and now do not definitely know-








Chorus 239th



Charlie Parker looked like Buddha

Charlie Parker, who recently died

Laughing at a juggler on the TV

After weeks of strain and sickness,

Was called the Perfect Musician.

And his expression on his face

Was as calm, beautiful, and profound

As the image of the Buddha

Represented in the East, the lidded eyes

The expression that says “All Is Well”


This was what Charlie Parker

Said when he played, All is Well.

You had the feeling of early-in-the-morning

Like a hermit’s joy, or

Like the perfect cry of some wild gang

At a jam session,

“Wail, Wop”


Charlie burst his lungs to reach the speed

Of what the speedsters wanted

And what they wanted

Was his eternal Slowdown.


A great musician and a great

                             creator of forms

that ultimately find expresión

in mores and what have you




Chorus 240th



Musically as important as Beethoven

Yet not regarded as such at all,

A genteel conductor of string


In front of which he stood,

Proud and calm, like a leader

                                   Of music

In the great Historic World Night

And wailed his little saxophone,

The alto, with piercing clear


In perfect tune & shining harmony,

Trot – as listeners reacted

Without showing it, and began talking

And soon the whole joint is rockin

And everybody talking and Charley


Whistling them on to the brink of eternity

With his Irish St. Patrick

                        Patootle stick,

And like the holy piss we blop

And we plop in the waters of


And white meta, and die

One alter one, in time


And how sweet a story it is
When you hear Charlie Parker
tell it,
Either on records or at sessions,
Or at official bits in clubs,
Shots in the arm for the wallet,
Gleefully he Whistled the


Anyhow, made no difference.


Charlie Parker, forgive me-
Forgive me for not answering your eyes-

For not having an indication
Of that which you can devise-
Charlie Parker, pray for me-
Pray for me and everybody
In the Nirvanas of your brain
Where you hide, indulgent and huge,
No longer Charlie Parker
But the secret unsayable name
That carries with it merit
Not to be measured from here

To up, down, east, or west-
-Charlie Parker, lay the bane,
off me, and every body




The Moon Her Majesty


The moon her magic be, big sad face
Of infinity. An illuminated clay ball
Manifesting many gentlemanly remarks

She kicks a star, clouds foregather
In Scimitar shape, to round her
Cradle out, upsidedown and old time

You can also let the moon fool you
With imaginary orange-balls
Of blazing imgainary light in fright

As eyeballs, hurt & foregathered,
Wink to the wince of the seeing
Of a little sprightly otay

Which projects spikes of light
Out the round smooth blue balloon
But full of mountains and moons

Deep as the ocean, high as the moon,
Low as the lowest river lagoon
Fish in the Tar and pull in the Spar

Billy the Bud and Hanshan Emperor
And all wall moongazers since
Daniel Machree, Yeats see

Gaze at the moon ocean marking
the face –

In some cases
The moon is you

In any case
The moon.








One Response to “Dossier Kerouac: Fragmentos escogidos”

  1. […] Fragmentos escogidos (con audio – en inglés). […]


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