It’s the beat generation, it’s BE at, it’s the beat to keep, it’s the beat of the heart, it’s being beat and down in the world and like oldtime lowdown and like in ancient civilizations the slave boatmen rowing galleys to a beat and servants spinning pottery to a beat.

The faces! There’s no face to compare with Jack Minger’s who’s up on the bandstand now with a colored trumpeter who outblows him wild and Dizzy but Jack’s face overlooking all the heads and smoke. He has a face that looks like everybody you’ve ever known and seen on the street in your generation; a sweet face. Hard to describe, sad eyes, cruel lips, expectant gleam, swaying to the beat, tall, majestical – waiting in front of the drugstore. A face like Hunke’s in New York (Hunke whom you’ll see on Times Square, somnolent and alert, sadsweet, dark, beat, just out of jail, martyred, tortured by sidewalks, starved for sex and companionship, open to anything, ready to introduce new worlds with a shrug). The colored big tenor with the big tone would like to be blowing Sunny Stitts clear out of Kansas City roadhouses, clear, heavy, somewhat dull and unmusical ideas which nevertheless never leave the music, always there, always far out, the harmony too complicated for the motley bums (of music-understanding) in there.

The Beat Generation

Praised be man, he is existing in milk 
and living in lillies-
And his violin music takes place in milk
and creamy emptiness-
Praised be the unfolded inside petal
flesh of tend'rest thought-
(petrels on the follying
wave-valleys idly
sing themselves asleep)-
Praised be delusion, the ripple-
Praised be the Holy Ocean of Eternity-
Praised be I, writing, dead already &
dead again-
Dipped in acid inkl
the flamd
of Tim
the Anglo Oglo Saxon Maneuvers
Of Old Poet-o's-
Praised be wood, it is milk-
Praised be Honey at the Source-
Praised be the embrace of soft sleep
-the valor of angels in valleys
of hell on earth below-
Praised be the Non ending-
Praised be the lights of earth-man-
Praised be the watchers-
Praised be my fellow man 
For dwelling in milk 


228th Chorus, from Mexico City Blues, 
by Jack Kerouac




Praised Be....

San Francisco,
San Francisco,
You’re a muttering bum
   In a brown beat suit
   Can’t make a woman
   On a rainy corner..

Broken plastic coverlets
 Flapping in the rain
 To cover newspapers
 All printed up
  And plain. 

Guys with big pockets
In heavy topcoats
 And slit scar
 Head bands down
 The middle of their hair

 All Bruce Barton combed
 Stand surveying Harrison
  Folsom & the Ramp
 And the redbrick clock

 Wishin they had a woman
  Or some money, honey

 Westinghouse Elevators
Are full of pretty girls
With classy cans
And cute pans
And long slim legs
And eyes for the boss
At a quarter of four.....

- Old Age is an Indian
 With grey hair
And a cane
In an old coat
 Tapping along
 The rainy street
 To see the pretty oranges
 And the stores
On his big day
When the dog’s let out...

Mexico Blues

In the ocean there is a very sad turtle
(Even tho the SS Mainline Fishin Ship
is reeling in the merit like mad)
Swims longmouthed & sad, looking
for the Impossible Except Once
afternoon when the Yoke, Oh,
the old Buddha Yoke set a-floatin
is in the water where the turtle raises
his be-watery snop to the sea
and the Yoke yokes the Turtle
a Eternity --
"Tell me O Bhikkus
what are the chances
of such a happening
for the turtle is old
and the yoke free
and the 7 oceans bigger
than any we see
in this tiny party."
Chances are slender --
In a million million billion kotis
of Aeons and Incalculables. Yes,
the Turtle will set that Yoke free,
but till then, harder yet
are the chances, for a man
to be reborn a man
in this Karma earth...

....Broken plastic coverlets

 Flapping in the rain

     To cover newspapers

     All printed up

       And plain. 


Frisco Blues / Mehico Blues (excerpts)

Few tracks from the E.P called
'The Beat REgeneration'
 Bagula Bhagat  vs. Jack Kerouac.
 
" So therefore i dedicate myself to myself, 
  to my art, my sleep, my dreams, my labors,
 my suffrances, my loneliness, 
my unique madness, my endless absorption and hunger -
because i cannot dedicate myself to any fellow being."

Jack Kerouac 
1922-1969

Bagula vs. Jack Kerouac

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