Jack Kerouac - October in the Railroad Earth (1952/3)
This is taken from the documentary 'What happened to Kerouac?'
There was a little alley in San Francisco back of the Southern
Pacific station at Third and Townsend in redbrick of drowsy lazy
afternoons with everybody at work in offices in the air you feel
the impending rush of their commuter frenzy as soon they’ll be
charging en masse from Market and Sansome buildings on foot
and in buses and all well-dressed thru workingman Frisco of
Walkup ?? truck drivers and even the poor grime-bemarked Third
Street of lost bums even Negros so hopeless and long left East
and meanings of responsibility and try that now all they do is
stand there spitting in the broken glass sometimes fifty in one
afternoon against one wall at Third and Howard and here’s all
these Millbrae and San Carlos neat-necktied producers and
commuters of America and Steel civilization rushing by with San
Francisco Chronicles and green Call-Bulletins not even enough
time to be disdainful, they’ve got to catch 130, 132, 134, 136 all
the way up to 146 till the time of evening supper in homes of the
railroad earth when high in the sky the magic stars ride above
the following hotshot freight trains--it’s all in California, it’s all a
sea, I swim out of it in afternoons of sun hot meditation in my
jeans with head on handkerchief on brakeman’s lantern or (if not
working) on book, I look up at blue sky of perfect lostpurity and
feel the warp of wood of old America beneath me and I* have
insane conversations with Negroes in second*-story windows
above and everything is pouring in, the switching moves of
boxcars in that little alley which is so much like the alleys of
Lowell and I hear far off in the sense of coming night that engine
calling our mountains.
But it was that beautiful cut of clouds I could always see above
the little S.P. alley, puffs floating by from Oakland or the Gate of
Marin to the north or San Jose south, the clarity of Cal to break
your heart. It was the fantastic drowse and drum hum of lum
mum afternoon nathin’ to do, ole Frisco with end of land
sadness--the people--the alley full of trucks and cars of
businesses nearabouts and nobody knew or far from cared who I
was all my life three thousand five hundred miles from birth-O
opened up and at last belonged to me in Great America.
Now it's night in Third Street the keen little neons and
also yellow bulblights of impossible-to-believe flops with dark
ruined shadows moving back of tom yellow shades like a
degenerate China with no money-the cats in Annie's Alley,
the flop comes on, moans, rolls, the street is loaded with
darkness. Blue sky above with stars hanging high over old
hotel roofs and blowers of hotels moaning out dusts of interior,
the grime inside the word in mouths falling out tooth
by tooth, the reading rooms tick tock bigclock with creak
chair and slantboards and old faces looking up over rimless
spectacles bought in some West Virginia or Florida or Liverpool
England pawnshop long before I was born and across
rains they've come to the end of the land sadness end of the
world gladness all you San Franciscos will have to fall eventually
and burn again. But I'm walking and one night a bum
fell into the hole of the construction job where they're tearing
a sewer by day the husky Pacific & Electric youths in torn
jeans who work there often I think of going up to some of
'em like say blond ones with wild hair and tom shirts and
say "You oughta apply for the railroad it's much easier work
you don't stand around the street all day and you get much
more pay" but this bum fell in the hole you saw his foot stick
out, a British MG also driven by some eccentric once backed
into the hole and as I came home from a long Saturday afternoon
local to Hollister out of San Jose miles away across
verdurous fields of prune and juice joy here's this British MG
backed and legs up wheels up into a pit and bums and cops
standing around right outside the coffee shop-it was the
way they fenced it but he never had the nerve to do it due
to the fact that he had no money and nowhere to go and O
his father was dead and O his mother was dead and O his
sister was dead and O his whereabout was dead was dead but
and then at that time also I lay in my room on long
Saturday afternoons listening to Jumpin' George with my
fifth of tokay no tea and just under the sheets laughed to
hear the crazy music "Mama, he treats your daughter mean,"
Mama, Papa, and don't you come in here I'll kill you etc.
getting high by myself in room glooms and all wondrous
knowing about the Negro the essential American out there
always finding his solace his meaning in the fellaheen street
and not in abstract morality and even when he has a church
you see the pastor out front bowing to the ladies on the make
you hear his great vibrant voice on the sunny Sunday afternoon
sidewalk full of sexual vibratos saying "Why yes
Mam but de gospel do say that man was born of woman's
womb-" and no and so by that time I come crawling out
of my warmsack and hit the street when I see the railroad
ain't gonna call me till 5 AM Sunday morn probably for a
local out of Bay Shore in fact always for a local out of Bay
Shore and I go to the wailbar of all the wildbars in the world
the one and only Third-and-Howard and there I go in and
drink with the madmen and if I get drunk I git.
The whore who come up to me in there the night I was
there with Al Buckle and said to me "You wanta play with
me tonight Jim, and?" and I didn't think I had enough money
and later told this to Charley Low and he laughed and said
"How do you know she wanted money always take the chance
that she might be out just for love or just out for love you
know what I mean man don't be a sucker." She was a goodlooking
doll and said "How would you like to oolyakoo with
me mon?" and I stood there like a jerk and in fact bought
drink got drink drunk that night and in the 299 Club I was hit
by the proprietor the band breaking up the fight before I
had a chance to decide to hit him back which I didn't do
and out on the street I tried to rush back in but they had
locked the door and were looking at me thru the forbidden
glass in the door with faces like undersea––I should have
played with her shurrouruuruuruuruuruuruurkdiei.
Necrofilia - Leopoldo María Panero
(prosa)
El acto del amor es lo más parecido
a un asesinato.
En la cama, en su terror gozoso, se trata de borrar
el alma del que está,
hombre o mujer,
debajo.
Por eso no miramos.
Eyacular es ensuciar el cuerpo
y penetrar es humillar con la
verga la
erección de otro yo.
Borrar o ser borrados, tando da, pero
en un instante, irse
dejarlo
una vez más
entre sus labios.
Deslumbramiento por el deseo - Raúl Gómez Jattin
Instantáneo relámpago
tu aparición
Te asomas súbitamente
en un vértigo de fuego y música
por donde desapareces
Deslumbras mis ojos
y quedas en el aire
Casi obsceno - Raúl Gómez Jattin
Si quisieras oír lo que me digo en la almohada
el rubor de tu rostro sería la recompensa
Son palabras tan íntimas como mi propia carne
que padece el dolor de tu implacable recuerdo
Te cuento ¿Sí? ¿No te vengarás un día? Me digo:
Besaría esa boca lentamente hasta volverla roja
Y en tu sexo el milagro de una mano que baja
en el momento más inesperado y como por azar
lo toca con ese fervor que inspira lo sagrado
No soy malvado Trato de enamorarte
Intento ser sincero con lo enfermo que estoy
y entrar en el maleficio de tu cuerpo
como un río que teme al mar pero siempre muere en él
Ombligo de luna - Raúl Gómez Jattin
Dibujo tu perfil del faro a las murallas.
Luz de alucinaciones son tus ojos de hierro.
El mar salta en las piedras y mi alma se equivoca.
El sol se hunde en el agua y el agua es puro fuego.
Eres casi de sueño. Eres casi de piedra en el vaivén del tiempo.
Arquetipo amoroso firme en la turbia edad
esa manera tuya de calmarme las lágrimas.
De desbocar tu cuerpo contra el mío enloquecido
como un potro en una llanura incendiada.
De verter tus palabras en mi entendimiento
cual veneno que cura la ausencia.
De recordar cosas usadas y olvidadas
con un vuelo que ilumina y asombra.
Es tarde amor. El mar trae tormenta.
Hay una luna pálida que recuerda tu ombligo
y unas nubes livianas y pesadas como tus manos
beben sedientas. Así, cuando yo sobre tu boca muero.
El mar salta en las piedras y mi alma se equivoca.
El sol se hunde en el agua y el agua es puro fuego.
Eres casi de sueño. Eres casi de piedra en el vaivén del tiempo.
Arquetipo amoroso firme en la turbia edad
esa manera tuya de calmarme las lágrimas.
De desbocar tu cuerpo contra el mío enloquecido
como un potro en una llanura incendiada.
De verter tus palabras en mi entendimiento
cual veneno que cura la ausencia.
De recordar cosas usadas y olvidadas
con un vuelo que ilumina y asombra.
Es tarde amor. El mar trae tormenta.
Hay una luna pálida que recuerda tu ombligo
y unas nubes livianas y pesadas como tus manos
beben sedientas. Así, cuando yo sobre tu boca muero.
John Lennon
Hoy Lennon cumpliría 86 años, pero lo mataron a los 40.
No puedo evitar pensar en todo lo hermoso que podría haber creado y compartido con el mundo, este artista tan genial. Qué injusto que es el mundo
Theme Time Radio Hour. With your host, Bob Dylan. School Full episode (2006)
Photograph by Barry Feinstein. Bob Dylan. 1966. Liverpool, England.
"The (slow) Death of (Musical) Colors" (2026)
Esto explica porqué me siento retro
(en los últimos años más)
sigo usando colores y bicicleta
y me gusta la van y el beetle (Volkswagen)
como si viviera en los 60 o 70s.
New Skin for the Old Ceremony - Leonard Cohen (1974)
Side one
1. Is This What You Wanted2. Chelsea Hotel #2
3. Lover Lover Lover
4. Field Commander Cohen
5. Why Don't You Try
Side two
6. There Is a War
7. A Singer Must Die
8. I Tried to Leave You
9. Who by Fire
10. Take This Longing
11. Leaving Green Sleeves
Nuestro "Carrieguito" en la Filatelia Argentina (1983)
Donación a la casa: Archivo Marcela Ciruzzi (nov. 2023)
Sello emitido en 1983, fue impreso en Casa de Moneda, tiene un valor facial de 5000 pesos. El dibujante fue Alvarez Boero. Forma parte de una serie de sellos sobre escritores célebres argentinos.
Evaristo Carriego: (1883-1912) Poeta argentino de musa popular, reaccionó contra el preciosismo modernista. Misas Herejes (1908).
Kingfisher - Hai-Dang Phan
for Roya
You are far and I am a falling thing.
My winter haunts our summer hunts
when we were blue and blur. Remember?
I remember watching you watching the river.
How you wore the sky on your back and the earth
on your breast. How you pierced the river
and scattered the clouds. A bolt split through me
seeing you at work and at play, hearing you
rattle and rush up and down the river the length of day.
Those spring mornings, I sensed new depths
in the meaning of the word alive,
understood how sunlight and mist conspire
to reveal us to each other. But each winter
I must lose you to find you again. I see you everywhere,
in everything the wind stirs. This morning,
for instance, as I was reading the book of the forest,
I noticed how each ghost gray beech tree clings
to its autumn leaves, saw in their trembling
the color of your flanks, a copper nimbus
clouding my love-sight. My dagger, lover, queen,
eros arrows us to the spot. The river talks
stories of us if you listen, and the trees keep our secrets
like moss, like lichen. Maybe memory
is not such a bad thing after all—
memory will fly you back to me.
Until then, any perch will do,
and a little river medicine.
Flor Sin Retoño - Pedro Infante (Letra: Rubén Fuentes Gasson)
Sembré una flor
Sin querer
Yo la sembré
Para ver si era formal
A los tres días
Que la dejé de regar
Al volver ya estaba seca
Ya no quiso retoñar
Al volver ya estaba seca
Ya no quiso retoñar
Yo la regaba
Con agua que cae del cielo
Y la regaba
Con lágrimas de mis ojos
Mis amigos me dijeron
Ya no riegues esa flor
Esa flor ya no retoña
Tiene muerto el corazón
Esa flor ya no retoña
Tiene muerto el corazón
Yo la regaba
Con agua que cae del cielo
Y la regaba
Con lágrimas de mis ojos
Mis amigos me dijeron
Ya no riegues esa flor
Esa flor ya no retoña
Tiene muerto el corazón
Esa flor ya no retoña
Tiene muerto el corazón
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