8810. SIX AND A HALF DISABLED

SIX AND A HALF DISABLED

Why is it I always wind up feeling

sorry for everyone? Nothing escapes

scrutiny. This group of veterans, outside

their clinic, man what a mess was that. I

felt so bad. Poor guys; and the let them

out to smoke. Mercy killing?

-

There's a place a town or two off; I pass

it often  - they make beautiful conversion

vans, for handicapped and wheelchair

people. What another shame is that.

All sorts of bad things.

-

Out front, there's a dead clock-tower no

one's ever fixed. Yet I remember when

it was put in  -  big to-do, newspaper

story, people and photos. Now, that's all 

over too. This life's a sad, sad place,

running at a sad, slow pace.

8809. 'IF IT'S DOWN THERE ALREADY IT CANNOT FALL NO MORE'

'IF IT'S DOWN THERE ALREADY IT CANNOT FALL NO MORE'

Yes, yes, I've got plenty of ideas. Mr. Misfit 

lives right here. Closing my eyes only brings

me a memory. More of that and I'll be gone.

I can never tell myself exactly what I want:

a glandular table to place things upon, or

a nice soft floor where things can land

as they fall. Outside the Milano Deli,

those girls insist on eating in threes.

-

One wears the scarf of a foreign land;

something about Gay Paree. The other

has, in one of her hands, a new telescope,

in a box. New York people often use

them, from upper floors  -  looking out,

or down, or  -  so I've read  -  just across

the way at what their neighbor does. All

so true, but patently eerie.

-

There is a third girl, but I won't tell. She's

been forced to make this trio, I know.

Doesn't look it, can't be right, won't fit 

in. An eyelash of discontent. A shadow

of alienation. The doubting hands

of a female Thomas.

8808. CARRIED

CARRIED

I carried the torch through the

pounding streets. Must have been a

Halloween parade. Everyone looked

like some ghoulish shit. I couldn't find

a leader, couldn't tell who was it, never

found the entry or the way. I just said,

'I want out!'. And the jerks all told me

they were dressed as the deaf. 

'Again?', I said, 'Again?'

8807. HARM'S WAY

HARM'S WAY

Shouldering a rifle, like 

walking, a chore. Big 

families are like that, 

I guess. When I knew

my parents, they were

pretty poor. When the

others knew them, they

had so much more. Five

kids and a  twelve year

distance. Does this radio

work ship to shore?

8806. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, Pt. 223

223. SUPPORT

Psychological religion.

Well, not just religion.

I used to think the entire

swath of living was made

of people each on their

own private 'psychological'

quests. I probably do still

think that away. It wasn't

just me, or Leo Benjamin,

and me, or my situation, or

the seminary, and me. It

was everything all bundled

and jumbled together: a

massive, crying, scream

to be heard, by a million

different voices of

humanity all at one

time. Using symbols

and objects instead of

just saying what's on their

mind. It was part of my

freeze-frame, check-mate

layout of time. How could

I go anywhere or do

anything when frozen

solid in that outlook? But,

that's where I ended up, 

and I believed nothing else.

There was one activity I

took on, in the seminary,

one year, which was great.

I don't know how I was

selected for this, or I

forget it all anyway  -  it

may just have all been

coincidence; can't recall  -

but this activity, in its way,

really helped me gets this

envisioned idea of what

I later called 'psychological

religion' formalized and

made concrete. As this

task went, whenever one

of  the students, kids, friends,

pals, whatever I should call

them, in the school took sick,

or got a bad toothache or an

attack of this or that or broke

a finger or something on

an athletic field  -  whatever  -

when they needed medical

transporting to nearby-enough

Camden, for a medical visit,

hospital, check-up, dental

emergency, any of that, I'd

get to go along. It was usually

that new black-guy priest,in

his 64 Ford, new then, who

would be the driver, and,

along with me, came the

patient. I was, perhaps,

'peer guide' or 'comfort kid'

or something. No big deal.

I got a free ride, often at

night, an adventure, a real

problem ('how much more is

that going to bleed, or swell

up?' Stuff like that). It was

usually an hour or two later,

after the 'wound' when we

got there. (Nothing happened

in the seminary, 'fast'; and

perhaps the idea of slow

'seminary time' is to be

something  I can go into

in a future chapter). We'd

arrive, Camden being, back

then, by the terms of the

seminary farmland, a big

city. There'd be brick 

buildings, busy corners,

roadways, etc. I can well

remember, for instance,

one dental-visit night, going

up to the glass-brick and

illumined corner office of

some dental clinic and 

stepping out to wait by 

the car. (I never much

went inside, it being more

the job of Father Alexander,

or whatever his name was, 

and the patient, of course. 

I'd just stay there, taking in 

whatever sights and sounds 

there were  -  it was all like 

a secret, shrouded poetry

to me already at age 13; 

everything I saw had 

wonderment and

excitation).  A year or 

so later, whenever that was, 

there was a big hit song, 

by Petula Clark, called 

'Downtown'. Whatever that

song was about, I'd didn't 

really care; she seemed 

perfectly apt speaking to 

me, and what I saw on 

the fierce and busy 'city 

trips.' Man, if being in 

Blackwood had a fringe

benefit, that was surely 

it. Or one. When I stood

out there, on a darkened 

and unfamiliar 1964 city

street, I was in Heaven.

'Religion' could have the

rest. I never realized how

downtrodden a really bad

city could be. It was already,

economically, dead. The

housing stock looked beat,

the old buildings of the areas

where business and factory

work was done seemed 

smashed, really hurting,

or already abandoned. 

Factory gates, I could see,

just listlessly swung open, 

a hinged entry to nothing.

There hadn't been a shift-bell

in five or ten years, for sure.

Nothing at all. If there were 

guards, they'd long ago left 

on the last train out. or so 

it seemed. This was poor 

and destitute stuff. I always 

figured at least it gave us 

something to pray for, the

vision of helping the poor 

suckers, bringing back some

blood to a long blood-dead 

place. Mostly scary was 

the image I'd get  -  on all 

these big old, wood-frame 

leftover homes, with their 

big old porches and chairs 

and porch-swings and 

mattresses on them, yes,

there'd be black people  -  

seemingly dead, vacant, 

comatose, never moving, 

Just staring out. In the 

same silence that we 

drove through to get to 

these places, they sat. 

Any five of them could 

have been the pepper-pickers 

I'd seen, but these people 

had no life, no energy at 

all. It sure looked to me 

as if America had long ago 

left them behind. I'd wonder

why. And who or what had 

done it? Eisenhower? 

Kennedy? The lost 

'promise' of Kennedy's 

Camelot? Johnson? Was 

all this the planned result 

of some killer's random

Dallas bullet? How could

it be? That was only a year 

ago, then. Ruination like this,

I said to myself, takes a 

generation or more. Eight, 

ten or more people per 

household, Five households 

per house, maybe, I was 

just guessing, but none of 

it was pretty. America wasn't

'great,' as I saw it; it was a 

black revolution waiting 

to happen. All that strange, 

dark, ghost had to do was

stir. Little did I know.

-

The idea of psychological 

religion, I think, began right 

here, It' a sort of combined form

of sentimentality, good-wishing,

positive-thinking, idealistic ideas,

charity and feelings of good-will,

all combined. All those poor people,

arrayed like death-masks on their

porches. So bad; oh, they deserve

redemption. That poor child, the

boy in pain and tears, crying

into the dentist's chair, he needs

a calming and comforting hand.

Come to think of it, they both

need the Savior, the

comfort of Mother Church, the

hope and uplift of deliverance.

All the sick, and the hurting, 

and the downtrodden, I want

them helped...Yes! That's how

religion speaks. That's how the

psychology of religion rings

forth its personages and stories

and endings. Faith, faith, faith

is in the choir! I suddenly

realized  -  there was nothing

behind anything. Nothing

but the spatial filling up a 

void with the only the very 

best psychology of positive 

attitude and good force.

In fact, Naivete! And

that's what any of this

support-group religion

came down to. That's why

it always ended up 

depending on the childish, 

sweet, the lamb, the innocent, 

the slaughter, and the 

redemption! It was nothing

more than support. A support-

network of like-minded people

intent, together, on a task of

upholding each other.

-

And, just as swiftly and vividly,

I'd realize I had no part of it,

in it, with it, nor any desire

to partake 'of'' it. My host was

all inside, within me, and I

was hosting my own sort

of show.

8805. IN THE CITY CENTER

IN THE CITY CENTER

I'm outside the hat shop, watching some

queer wearing his blue derby. I wonder 

what's with that. I'm in the city center, 

where the young girls used to pine for 

me, until I grew so ugly and old : a 

battering ram hamster of yellow and 

gold. Yet, they're still young, and I'd 

still have them, show them a thing or

two. How to ride a mount, a trusty

steed. Where to plant their flowers,

how to plant the seed. 

-

There's no sense in me pretending,

my fine and lovely lass. If I'm

still here in seven years 

I'll kiss you on the ass.

8804. CAVENDISH AND SALAMANDER ARMS

CAVENDISH AND 

SALAMANDER ARMS

She weren't no lady, and I could tell. She

had a Bob Dylan sticker on her inner

thigh, and a line from Leonard Cohen

on her eyelid when she closed it. I

sensed psoriasis too, and plenty of

other stuff. Weasels ate my flesh.

Where'd I hear that before?

-

The lay of the land  -  that's usually

a geography term but that was what

she was called. And I should have 

known. Two days before Halloween, 

and I'm shucking shells where

oysters should have been. 'You

really complement me,' I said.

She didn't understand, and I

let it go at that.

8803. MAN AM I BEAT

MAN AM I BEAT

I'm in the sculpture room,

listening to torture radio 101,

which is somehow it -  one

of those idiot kids with purloined 

hair and tattoo'd smudges where

her lips should be has left it on

again. I figure myself for a

goldrush of doubt; any moment

now. The parking lot out front is

blemish-free  -  all those over-the-top 

regardless cars are piling up again : 

the distraught mothers with the 

dangly airs and all those little kids 

they drag around. Yes, I can see 

them from here. Six kids and a 

declension of two. You'd think 

they'd just give it up by now; 

use their hands instead, No

matter now. man am I beat.

This shadow play is killing

me, a monstrous salvation

I'd long forgot about.

8802. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, Pt. 222

222. IN THE SANDY WOODS

Out back of the seminary,

along a warren of sandy roads,

pretty much all to nowhere,

there stood a few cabins and

actual places, deep in the pine

woods, where people lived.

Strange, South Jersey families

at that point  -  I never knew

what their kids did, schooling

and the rest. In fact, except for

the times I did see them, I

never saw them, if you can

understand what I mean. The

woods hid things. I always

used to think it had to do

with smell  -  not them, I

mean the smell of the land

and soil (sand). There was

just some enticing and

seemingly important, or

different anyway, aroma

that the seasons and the

mornings, or the rain or

the Autumn, brought up,

drew out from the soil. It

was captivating  -  and it

wasn't really 'soil'. I don't

know what 'sand' is, even

though I've read it's 'silica',

can be burned into making

'glass' and silicates. No

matter, none of that made

any sense to me. This was

not that. It was that 'other'.
Something unmistakable.
All that crap is science and

techno-talk. This was,

instead, the world

primeval. This was

the quiet beginnings

of time and awareness.

It was a very fortunate

thing, for me, I felt, to

be there. Because I

soon realized I could

'read' that. I could

sense and understand

that old slate of time,

as it presented its

ancient self before

me. When everything

else was beginning to

look hopeless, there,

it gave me a new impetus

to stay, and withstand,

and put up with, the

other junk going down.

I was still forming;

wasn't done yet.

-

We had seasonal workers

there too - some of the farm

fields around us had been

leased to Campbell Soup

Co., over in nearby Camden  -

fields of peppers, mostly,

but other things too.

Anyway, when harvesting

 time came they'd send

flatbed trucks of workers,

pickers and bushel baskets,

and these people, all day,

would be walking the fields.

Everything was hand-picked,

no power implements. It

was very old-school, quiet,

and spiritual too. Like the

old south, these black people

would do call-and-response

talking, chanting, singing,

and shouting. prayer and

not. A remarkable sight

and sound. Old sharecropper

women, it always looked

like, with head-wraps and

big loose plantation dresses

or whatever. They be in the

fields declaiming about

something, or singing. Or

just quiet. A few of the

field-foremen types

would be standing along

the edges, chewing straw

or just standing out. No

weapons or anything that

I ever saw, but it was

'authority' nonetheless.

The field-hands heeded

it  -  brawny black guys,

younger women, and the

old  -  the uncertain

certainty of being

watched and controlled.

It all used to fascinate

me. Some days, from

the second floor classrooms

in the main, education

building, I'd  be able to

see and watch, from

where  I sat. Very akin

to daydreaming, I'd let

it all take me away.

-

I think that when you're a

kid things happen to you

differently. There's more

of an 'elastic' sense to all

things  -  time and ideas

can be stretched, one can

formulate what going to

occur by reading omens.

I used to be able to tell

which way a decision

would go  -  'for' or

'against'  -  just by

picturing the result.

Whether or not I was

foretelling or predicting

it, I never knew. Yet, it

often happened I'd turn

out to have been correct.

(Of course there' were

only  two alternatives

presented, always a 'yes'

against a 'no', so failure

against success was a

1 out of 2 proposition.

Very good odds). When

young, everything somehow

seems more alive or more

electric, with possibility

or with the 'magic' of

chance and possibility.

As the grim years pound

along, it all gets more

and more dreary, over

time. I'd guess that a

person just stops

demanding a result

and instead just begins

'accepting' results. No

push back, no fighting

ahead.

-

Those old cabins and

cinderblock houses 

out in the sandy stretches 

(I'd never seen 'cinderblock' 

homes before. They are 

just what they are called. 

Square, right angles only, 

squat, and almost boring 

to look at. Made only of

stacked/mortar'd cinder-

blocks, and windows with 

frames, of course. There 

was never much activity, 

and much more mystery). 

Broken cars, something 

like a 'driveway', if it had 

to be called such. Small

wooden buildings and 

things around too, made 

from old lumber, leaning, 

pallets, stacked. Here and

there a couch or some chairs, 

a campfire spot, always 

blackened and fresh with

recent burning. Usually a

dog or two, some chickens.

One time, my friend Leo

Benjamin and I, coming 

upon one of these, did 

make contact with the 

sweetest, most definitely 

mysterious girl, of about 

maybe 13 or 14 herself.

I was completely taken 

by storm, though I could 

hardly speak a word. It

was all about Leo anyway,

he was the talker-guy. I

just dreamed. I don't know

what they ever had or got

going, but Leo was gone

no matter, by the next 

semester. If it had anything

to do with this situation,

and if it ever had 'advanced',

I never knew. But I can still

see that place and scene, and

the girl, It's like a forever in

an instant.

-
It's very difficult to 'proclaim'
anything  - but in a Christian sense
on is supposed to 'proclaim' at all
times. I felt blessed and worthy.
I saw life in a slightly different
light, even though it was stranger
and more difficult. Those sandy
hills, those cinderblock houses,
a lot of that stuff was all the 
same, just repeated. The kind
of old, archetypal  scene you
imagine - a cantankerous guy
standing off in his yard, 'cussing'
and hanging onto his shotgun
or 'thirty ought six', which was
like a really large-bore serious
country boy rifle. Wouldn't want
to mess. Yes, the Pine Barrens
were sure a point off from normal.
I always felt that if I'd had to

really tell anybody the sort of

life I was leading, back then, 

1963 or so, they would have

been totally amazed. As I 

look back, even now, in the

writing of these things, it's

almost other-worldly for 

me to glimpse back into a

deep and mystical past along

paths and by-ways I actually

walked, talked, and partook. 

Yet, I tell you, this is so.

8801. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, Pt. 221

221. THE CURTAIN COMES DOWN

I sensed I didn't care, and I

knew that made things tough.

I was sitting, way down in some

southern Jersey outpost in the

pure middle-fringe of the

Pine Barrens, on a sandy

roadway -   nothing paved,

farmland around me, a few

pigs squealing as I threw

them their slop, it was a

late October, long afternoon,

the sky was fading to a dull

sort of orange, the roadway

paths and the endless scrub

pines had taken on a strange

orange glow themselves. I

didn't actually 'know' it was

the Pine Barrens, if it was.

That was a name people

 gave the area  -  not much

yet development, an odd

water-table, sand and little

hillocks, animals and ground

creatures, a filter-like sandy

soil, through which everything

liquid ran  -  self-cleansing,

as it were. Back home, before

all this, my father used to use

what was called 'Diatomaceous

Earth', or something like that,

in the pool filter system  -

same thing. Some ancient,

granular soil, from the real

true heart of the land, through

which the water ran to be

cleansed. Talk about Paradox.

Running through dirt in order

to be cleaned. Like Salvation

-

At each turn of events, there

was criticism, always: 'Done

incorrectly, skipped step five,

forgot about his, did too much

of that.' I got tired of hearing it.

What did I know anyway  -  if

all the others knew the rights

and the corrects, let them do

it all. I wanted my refuge.

There came a point that I

realized there was no way

in hell I wanted to become an

active agitator or representative

for the existing structure of

whatever 'religion' was going

down. Candles and candelabra.

Fire and scent. Incense and

peppermint, curse of Mankind.

(No, no, that was later).

-

Little boy lost, come blow

your horn, the sheep's in the

meadow, the cow's in the corn.

-

There seemed just always

too much going on : men

in bad suits, pomaded hair

and narrow ties. It always

seemed that politicians

ended up looking like

real-estate sharks, real-estate

sharks wanted to be like

barbers,  and barbers wanted

to be Managers of some

Woolworth's somewhere.

They are all interchangeable,

and stupid too boot. It's all

the same now, just slightly

changed, a new and better

'frequency', as it were. I had

two, interchangeable, cheap

dark-fabric suits, and I hated

each of them. On days when

I had to wear them (often

enough, and in a place

like that I always questioned

why), I gulped. Hated each

moment. The rest of the time

I had some really lame, cheap

and tacky, 'school' clothes.

Overused and over-worn.

What the hell does a 13-year

old kid, in his second year

in some private-school dump,

know about laundry, or care?

I know I didn't. The bloom

had long ago, and quickly,

left this rose.

-

There was an outpost, a place I

found once, deep in the barrens.

It was a cranberry camp, for all

the seasonal pickers. Abandoned,

off-season, I guess, no one around.

During cranberry season, the area

is busy  -  Ocean Spray and the

others, they have plants and

warehouses around here and 

there. This location, onto 

which I stumbled, took some

getting to  -  scrub woods, lots

of weedy stuff, an old path. 

Eventually, by walking, 

(obviously, there must have 

been another, better-traveled,

road in, maybe from a front

or side I'd not seen), I passed,

with surprise, a collection of

bee-keepers' things  -  those

hive-cabinets they keep or

whatever they are. About 

thirty of them, in a semi-circle 

range of each other. And then

some barracks-like buildings.

What was cool was that, 

communally, each building,

perhaps having no running

water, faced and shared a 

sandy, outside court wherein 

was a collection of shower 

stalls, sinks, three or four

outhouses, and a lean-to

type shelter of bench seats

along a wall. Making it even

more astounding, the line of

sinks ran in a row, and arrayed

along it, every 10 feet or so,

were metal, chrome soap dishes,

shoulder-high, and in each one

was still a bar of soap. All this

was mysterious and strange to

me. It (only vaguely) reminded 

me of Boy Scout camp : Camp 

Cowaw (little pine), in which 

we too had had a sort of

'communal' shower and wash

area, though nothing like this 

one. And that was 1959 anyway.

This one was, first, much larger

and far more industrious in its

set-up; serious, camp-like. I

immediately wondered about it.

Was it current? Only men? 

Only these seasonal men 

workers (I'd seen cranberry

bog workers, in the past, of

both sexes)? It all seemed like

a labor-camp, almost as if

some slavery set-up took place

there. Work by groups. All

quite confusing. But, in any

case, I loved it and thought it

to be the neatest-looking place

I'd seen. We had just recently,

in the seminary, done a Nazi

prison-camp play, entitled

'Stalag 17', and it reminded

me, immediately, mentally, 

of that entire milieu and 

scenario, which we'd only 

tried imitating or suggesting 

on the stage by props and

imaginings  - chairs, a few

tables, a fake, painted

camp-view out. In the theater

and on stage, that stuff is all

done by the visual suggestion

of props and painted scrims.

You kind of have to 'get' the

point across, almost scientifically,

with the most minimal of space

and effects How big, really, is 

a stage, and one 70 feet away 

as well? It's all trompe l'oeil

(trick the eye) kind of stuff. A

gimmick, yes, but an important

and vital one for telling the

purported storyline and getting 

 an adventure-in-time across. All

suggested. All made. By contrast,

this was solid-real? I wasn't that

sure. And then my mind, as it 

usually does, and did then too,

began extrapolating outward with

the ideas : how like life is all this?

Props and visual suggestions put 

to work to accelerate our own

somehow self-accrediting 'version' 

of acceptance and belief in what

we are viewing. It has its own

time-scheme, an opening, an 

Act I, a changeover, a 

denouement, a tragic, or a comic,

 lesson, an Act II, or III, and, 

curiously, an ending  -  always 

that. The vast curtain comes down.

Just like water, getting

cleaned by running

through dirt? I

wondered.