Mexico Archive



Jim dreamt there were brooktrout in the stream in the mountains.  You could see them in the greenblueripples where the brownedges of their fins feathered.  The moss on the rockedges of the river was the same color as the water.  The fish were like polishedamber;  muscularandevanescent. On their backs were maps of the fourcorners: UtahNewMexicoColoradoArizona.  Maps, and also diagrams showing the mazes in the pueblos left by him which could not be put back, not be made right again.

Once Jim was in the town of Aztec, New Mexico where they have these amazing ruins left by Indians in the year 500 or there-abouts.  They are called the Anasazi people.  The reason the towns called Aztec is that the first white people that saw these ruins were so impressed that they thought that there was no way American Indians could build such magnificent structures, so it must’ve been a northern outpost of the Aztec civilization.



Jim gets on the bus. He doesn’t even know where he’s going. He’s going to Oklahoma. His brother-in-law lives in Normal, in the panhandle he thinks. Or is it Norman?, Jim wonders. The bus smells like ping-pong balls. A Hispanic woman wearing a brightly-printed dress sits next to him. The bus is full, and smells like ping-pong balls. Why did this occur to me?, wonders Jim, that it smells like ping-pong balls? As he ponders this, the bus crosses the Illinois-Missouri border. It goes through a town called Mexico. It passes by a bakery and the bus windows are open as it is late spring and Jim smells the baking bread and thinks that this beats the pants off ping-pong balls. This makes him recall the time he was beat up by a gang of bikers in Shreveport, Louisiana in 1973. They really beat the pants off him. After the beating, he was arrested for lying in the middle of Main Street in his underwear, lying in a pool of vomit and blood and urine. Not a particularly fond memory as far as memories go, but this is what Jim is thinking about.



Jim passes through the unshaven room in his underwear. He listens through the wall to your dreams and waking nightmares. His shuddering cloud-mood and brain-lightning leaps toward the poles of his consciousness like backyard green tree cemetery dawns and kind king light of mind. He is drained of brilliance; the stale beer afternoon cracks the doom of his fetid windowsill, his screaming vomiting whispering, his brilliant eyes. The ambiguous picture postcard that is his bleak furnished room in Kansas (or is it Idaho? He isn’t sure anymore; he is CONFUSED, yes, seeking as he is visionary supernatural ecstasies and impulses of winter midnight). Who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico? He just doesn’t care anymore. The ash of poetry is scattered incomprehensibly, and the machinery of other skeletons howls and screams with joy. Jim would like to thank Allen Ginsberg for his invaluable assistance in helping him to compose his thoughts.