Book of Sketches, Jack Kerouac

the motionless green
grass is like iron, chloro-
phyll, Chinese, densely
personalized, rugged, almost
  pockmarked, rich, as
  if chewed — hanging
  pajamas & rugs on
    lines move majestic
    & slow in a cross
  movement, now they
    hustle a little up —
    flowers blaze in their
    own radium world —
    in night they aureate
    to no human eyes
    unseen magical darts
    of prismatic Violet
    light, for mosquitos

to whir in front of —
Huge purple transparent
  phosphorescent night
  fall now pinks the
  white pages of life,
  face lost in hate
  & personal pitbottom
  dislikes, hasseled heavy
    footed too-much-with
    himself man fawdling
    in yards of pride,
    whining at the dogs
    of time, overhead
    groans the airplane
      of his far reached
          folly —