8918. CANNOT PING

CANNOT PING

Have deliberately gone awry.

Polish home at the basin bottom;

men in pork-pie hats, holding hands,

blessing hams. We are drinking this

gold liquid very late on a Saturday

night. The kitchens are still filled with

food, and all the people in this building

yet mill around. Feast of this or that.

St. Stephen, or Sylvester, or Stanislaus.

One of those inveterate foreigners who

another world go 'round. They bless the

food and then the booze and then the

klieg lights and then the cars outside and

then the clothing that people are wearing

and then intentions and hidden meanings,

and then mistakes in case of do-overs and

then the make-up and make-up, both kinds,

and the weddings and the divorces and the faint

explanations at the end of a stick and the children

to come and the mantelpiece relics from Sevastopol

and things Crimean and things Polish or not and

those twin brothers who died apart when they were

ruling that fair land and the caged birds and the flounder

fish and the eels and the waterways too. Everything,

everything including things that cannot ping.

8917. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, Pt. 253

253. WORKING CLASS HERO

(part 2 - a thousand ghosts)

So, anyway, I'd go from

Lincoln to Depression  - to

towers filled with lame and

infirm and old and sorrowful.

Families, just then beginning,

Spanish and black too, with

like 5 kids already, each. Old

people dying off, post-war,

sad Jews, and other East

European types, still seeing

fire and bullets in their eyes,

never somehow unlearning

that war. It was horrible stuff,

palpable, you could feel it in

the air as you walked. They

were all somehow lost -

these interior streets and

paths were curved and

smoothed (they seem to

have left off harsh angles

and corners as much as

they could  -  probably

an architectural trick to

lessen the dull monotony

of place). I never knew

or saw anything or

anyone really 'good'

by the usual worldly

standards, come out of

these projects. Don't get

me wrong, probably

there were some  -  you

read biographies of

people and such, and

someday someone will

pop up saying 'I was

brought up in the

west side projects at

16th street....or whatever.

On the lower east side,

another place from this,

(it too had its own huge

sets of projects, much

more so), there were

piles of leftover people

too. I knew at least four

people, old Polish Jews,

running delis and a

diner-counter and things,

who still had the number

tattoos on their forearms

from captivity. Like

dark-blue, faded-ink

old prison tattoos, just

a string of ID numbers

as an inmate, whether

gassed or beaten or

worked nearly to death,

here they were, living

out their time, herein

NYC, in silence and

struggle. But, they

were at least alive.

I wished them

all well.

-

I never had any of

that exposure in Avenel.

There must have, I

guess, been survivors

around, Perth Amboy,

New Brunswick, somewhere,

- we had synagogues in

lots of places  -  but none

of that was ever put out

to my attention Certainly

not in the seminary either.

We had one Brother there,

an ancient guy about 80

back in 1963  -  Brother

Isadore, I think it was.

We had three guys there,

with names and faces

I mix up. an Isadore,

a Cornelius, and a

Sebastian. I really

forget names or titles

-  this little, old guy

had a big white beard,

yellowed, as it was

around his mouth. He

never interacted much,

never spoke, and only

tended the barn animals

which we kept, where I

got to know him, a little

anyway. He had slapped

this Hitler guy, back

when Adolph Hitler

was in the German Army,

WWI days, and this

Isadore guy, before

being a religious, was

his superior. This

Private Hitler kept

complaining and

demanding, the story

went, more straw for

his bedding  -  so

incessantly that

eventually his

commanding officer

or superior or whatever,

slapped him down.

that was Isadore.

(The Salvatorians

were a German religious

order, based  -  within

the USA  -  in Wisconsin.

Varied numbers of them

would get posted to

Blackwood for a few

years at a time, as

seminary faculty and

management). So, the

German heritage and

history stuff was

everywhere, except

we never delved into

this Nazi and/or

extermination thing

at all. All our taught

History was kept to

ancient and Holy

Roman Empire,

ascendant Christian-Europe

material, the perfect

story laid out perfectly

in this church-history

setting. My brain always

started making all these

connections each time

I'd see one of these

sad-sack cases with

a numbered arm. Like

the guy who worked

at and owned the

Yonah Shimmel

Bakery  -  Jewish

delights, bagels, bialies,

coffees and and all that

stuff. He had one; sad,

sorrowful, tough guy.

It was always hard to

take  -  for me  -  to see

and realize  -  what a

world we had just

burned up, and all

these leftover people

still aggrieved and teary.

Like real bad muscle

ache after a too-hard

day at the gym. (I'd

guess anyway, because

I'd never done that). And

each time I saw one of

these people, the men

anyway, they were tough-

looking guys, real scrappers.

I could never believe that

they didn't fight like hell

to get out of their fate  - and

maybe that's what they did

and why they were still 

around, even in 1967, 

milling down the rough

edges of their old platforms

of sorrow and

retribution.

-

I saw women too  -

numbered. But they were

always more discreet, and

sad about things anyway.

Sleeves covered their arms,

usually. There was one guy,

the only one, and the one I

saw the most of, who  -

running his little corner,

morning eatery over by

11th, (my corner), who

looked as wispy and weak

as a kitten. I never knew

HOW he'd survived all that

brutishness. He was about

100 pounds, really slight,

and his skin and pinkish

pigmentation was just as

startling. He always 

reminded me, in his 

way, of being the 'Andy 

Warhol of the Holocaust.'

Sounds crass, I know. 

He had one eye that 

always teared. It was

just always tearing, wet.

He'd dab at it now and then.

He also never spoke, or if

he did it was in the most

minimal verbal fashion

imaginable. The word 'no'

was a long spiel for him.

I felt dead serious sorry 

for that man  -  all that 

sadness. The Con Ed 

guys who'd come in

each morning for their

usual workaday stuff 

never seemed to care

or even notice anything

about him. (There was

Con Ed generating 

substation or somesuch

down at the east end 

of  11th-14th streets. 

That's the one my 

houseful of anti-Vietnam 

agitators had been 

planning to blow up,

before they all got

hauled away). I guess

American Justice

lived in my 509 e11th

street digs too.
-
All those unearthly streets were
haunted for me; I'd walk willingly
among a thousand ghosts.

8916. HOW THEY ALL KEEP COMING

HOW THEY ALL 

KEEP COMING

They've got the lights on in the

closets, yet every room is dark. 

Kept that way, deliberately, to

manifest the problem, not the

solution.  Ten thousand people,

at the drop of a hat, screaming 

back. Nothing good at all, just

the old politics of death again.

-

Moonstone maidens and forested 

riders, guys in black capes on tall

white horses. It's the middle of the

fractious night again and the only

things running are those old

German tales. Of the forest. Of

the woods. Bavarian black magic.

-

If I were a spider, I'd weave you my

web; or a snake, I'd leave you my skin.

As it is, I've got nothing better to give

than used air, high-mileage thoughts,

these words, and  my grimace, looking  

up at the sky as those white contrails 

pass. Everything, to somewhere,

another opening.

8915. TEN THOUSAND NAMES FOR SMOKE

TEN THOUSAND 

NAMES FOR SMOKE

What is this, about not washing

your face; an ashcan school of

cleanliness? And how many others

can fit? I won't divulge the pattern

here, but it's not different than a

revenge porn of the mind: there's

the hot lawyer, walking into court

like she's one of them instead of

the lawyer to fight. Her whole

persona reeks 'do me.'

-

It a far cry from a Harrier jet that's

just landed on the roof. Military

guys in hats counting countdowns

backward while texting lovers home.

This happens all the time : saltines

and cracker pills, guys from Indiana

thinking they've hit it big but forgetting

they first had to drive through Ohio

to get here. New York, a flagellant's

paradise for sure. I'm out.

8914. MUSTAFA AT THE BARBER SHOP

MUSTAFA AT THE 

BARBER SHOP

There were candy wrappers blowing

around out front, and two young girls

had just strolled in. They didn't belong.

You knew that  - this was one of those

new sorts of men's haircutting places,

with the funny, man-cave names like

'Another Cut', or 'Made Men', or

'Clip Jobs.' No meaning, just a

posture; where men will be tough

and boys will be men. All that and in

an instant. The place was crowded,

like a gym guy's sauna. It was pretty 

obvious what was going on. No matter,

I guess you just pay more for the extras.

-

The guy Mustafa was cutting; he eyed

me watching. I wasn't a customer, 

just outside by the liquor store 

doorway. One of those movies like

'Trading Places' or '48 Hours' or

something where for Eddie Murphy

getting some 'trim' meant getting laid.

Too much complication, all that, for

me, and it adds a whole other level

to 'Made Men' as well. I don't need.

-

When he came out for a smoke, I

said, 'Tell me something, 'Stafa; how

you running this place with a good

conscience?' He smirked, and said

slyly, 'It's not what you do, my friend;

you see, it's more how you do it. I

could burn down the woods, but

you'd never find the match.'

8913. FIVE TO NOTHING

FIVE TO NOTHING

Here I am and it's coming on

in. There's been nothing to eat

here for five days straight, but

that doesn't bother me. I've got

my guideline cap on and no

lobotomy. It's all settled anyway :

I'm sitting here freely and reading

to my heart's content. The 'nothing' 

here mentioned is Midnight again.

When I was a kid, that was usually

the name for a horse of black.

8912. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, Pt. 252

252. WORKING 
CLASS HERO

(part 1)

There's a spot on the old

railroad-west-side that's

now a postal-truck building

or something. A long time

ago it was a railway depot:

'The Hudson Rail Depot'.

That was when the interior

tracks used to run right there,

above-ground, in the 1860's.

The whole world was different

then, and new things at that

time were things that propelled

people, moved people along.

Of course, they didn't have a

clue what was going to be

coming right at them, soon

enough. No different than

us, today now, with the

Internet and computer

world we've unleashed.

No matter. The building

there now  -  really crummy,

maybe from the 1940's, just

some truck loading docks, a

few ramps, and signs for

special parking, loading,

unloading, no idling of

engines, all that. There's

usually any number of

blacks or Hispanic guys

hulking around, with a

combined IQ of about 112.

Union guys, probably

getting a hundred bucks

an hour; loading, unloading,

pushing carts, moving

things, then, of course,

every 14th minute getting

a break, when they all come

out to smoke and look

around. It used to be all

used up and junk land,

around here, but now

every inch is worth about

a million bucks, and all this

old, fallow land is under

big-time construction,

constantly. Every time I

take a photo in this area,

any one of those shrouded

and unfinished buildings

seen comes right out of here.

There's a bunch, and New

York sure is changing.

Anyway, these bozos come

out like some extras from a

Pinter play  -  standing

around, minding only

their own vacancy,

squinting and wondering,

and they don't ever even

notice the Abraham Lincoln

plaque on the wall, which

to me is like revered ground.

Always has been. In the 1960's

(yes, a perfect, one hundred

year gap there; always right),

I'd get off the train from the

old Penn Station and deliberately

walk down this way to begin

my walk back downtown to the

Studio School by passing this.

It was the spiritual beginning

of each trip downtown. In

my mind, anyway, I made

it so. That plaque states

something to the effect that

President Lincoln was here

on his way to his inauguration

and then, as dead President, 

Lincoln, but a few years

later, his funeral train passed

through this station a well,

on the way to Illinois'.....

not exact, but something

like that. The point was

that he was here, alive, 

using a train, to make 

a date, and then he was 

here again only a short 

while later, as his funeral 

train trolled his dead body 

along to wherever. That was

powerful stuff, dead, deep, 

dark times. Not even the 

Kennedy assassination and 

all that TV pomp and stuff, 

could match this  -  these 

were dark times, back then,

and railroad times, people 

weren't in sassy and stupidly 

glib communication with 

each other and everyone else, 

things had meaning, messages 

took time, people passed 

slowly. In contrast, I hated 

all that monstrous 1967 stuff. 

Paltry and pathetic; we couldn't 

even spell mercy, let alone 

understand it. Brains were

filled with ads for hand lotion

and dish detergent. This older 

world, to me,  was dense

and alive, in a different 

chemical element, some 

essence in some other matter 

and space. I wanted to be 

there. I hated this 1967 

world, and as I walked 

through it I sensed I could 

walk through Time itself. 

I could commune with 

layers of ages as I wandered. 

I've never really kept a 

'home' port for my thoughts 

 -  just rather a 'go-where-random 

it all may lead'. That was my 

joy of living  -  the picking 

and assorting of what I'd 

stumble over. The man selling

 cigars and cigarettes in that 

crappy little stand, he might 

have said he was stuck, he 

was trapped, there each day,

making dish-pan pennies 

for all his time. Those union 

guys, getting their big bucks 

for cigarettes and candy, they 

may have never had a clue 

about their own presences, 

instead seeing life as a 

drudge and a draining  -  

of time and effort and 

money. I never shared 

that aura they walked 

through. I had a halo, 

and I knew that. I just

hoped it wouldn't interfere 

or get in the way. This 

was back when some 

rails still ran  -  over 

there, extreme west side.

There were still a few 

slow supply freights 

slugging around, pulling

carts of steel or bags of 

food and grain. Bakers 

and builders, all the same. 

They all needed their 

supplies. I had mine

in dreams of time.

-

I'd walk the streets, 

even though that area 

of the westside, as I

walked downtown,  

turned dumpy quickly. 

There were long rows 

of project-type houses, 

once I got down to Chelsea. 

As nice as Chelsea itself 

was, these 1930's or 

post-Depression projects 

were real crud, to me 

anyway. I guess if they

 meant housing for others, 

a sort of deliverance, that 

meant a lot. But for me, 

they just represented 

depression, small 'd'. I'd 

been born in the same

sort of place. A cheap 

commercial brick, facade,

no design ethos; courtyards 

and post-box rows and 

playgrounds with benches. 

Plazas and a government 

office or two  -  Dept of 

Housing, all that 'Relief' 

stuff, my Grandmother 

to call it. She was always 

talking about people, 

friends and neighbors, 

who had to go on 'Relief'. 

Like it was the end of the 

world or some horrible 

fate. Maybe it was, 80 

years ago. I don't know. 

Things were different :

they'd still let you struggle 

in shacks and shanties. 

Now, like here, they just 

tear it all down and stack 

those people up, 20, 25 stories 

in the sky, in dumb-looking, 

ringed, red-brick towers. 

Often with schools at the 

bottom  -  so, you figure, 

a poor kid, in fact, is made 

to never have to leave 

his or her 'poor' area. To 

learn about others, to 

mingle, to see. That was 

way too bad, I thought. 

Why wasn't it just called 

segregation too? I had to 

walk past them  -  still do

sometimes; they're all still 

there, done over at least three

times that I can remember 

 -  new tiles and bricks, new 

walking areas, even new 

names  -  after Socialist 

heroes and leftist heroines. 

David Dubinsky Center, 

stuff like that. Everything's

 named after someone. 

You can probably look 

Dubinsky up, right now 

I do forget what he did 

to get his own name on 

a tower. Like he was 

President Trump or 

something! Socialist 

hero is something to 

be. John Lennon said

 'Working Class Hero' 

but, whatever. To me, 

a socialist hero is a 

gigantic sandwich 

that everyone 

can eat from.

8911. SURRENDER ME TO THE FORTRESS

SURRENDER ME 

TO THE FORTRESS

The trying station is open : a policeman

stands around for those who fail. My life

gets miserable too. But what does it avail

me to complain? I keep making things to

no acclaim. Haphazard guesses, and a 

sidelong glance at that wonderful woman

in blue. Why is she buying iceberg lettuce?

Certain things I can only wonder about.

-

It's a long story, kid. Little boys shouldn't

be so nosy, and I haven't got time to explain.

I should hang my head in shame? No, this

morning's a different temple and they have

switched now all the Gods. Everything's

been moved about. There used to be a

little guy, right over there, who sold

hot dogs from a cart; and over there,

another man gave pony rides around

an ever-dwindling circle; but one

ride would last you all day.

8910. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, Pt. 251

251. THE QUEEN'S HOT DOG

I think that what bugs me

most  -  in today's world  -

anyway, is the way people

have been co-opted and have

let themselves be taken over

by everything else directed

at them. Everything is glib

and happy  -  or presented

that way. In 1967, in the

years I'm talking of here,

through my lens of the

Studio School and the

rest -  my Daniel Boone

moment setting out

through a strange city  -

there was, by contrast, a

dark blanket thrown over

everything. You 'knew,'

for instance, that cartoons

existed, but they were for

kids. Farmer Brown really

could hide behind skinny

trees, and cats really could

come out of faucets, but

that was kept away, aside;

everyone knew it was

a kid's thing, and left

it. Now, by contrast, and

only as example, you

have idiot adults swarming

a midtown Manhattan where

every ad-board, light-panel,

and even store-by-name are

'Cartoon.' A quality of pure

infantilism has crept in, and

been pressed on, whereby the

serious, dour world of adult

and adult concerns, and

philosophical motivations

and psychological presentations

have all been usurped. Billion-

dollar movie industries have

in the face of all the world's

problems, been erected which

peddle and continue this

dreck  -  and the wisest

and most cool among us,

supposedly, stay involved

and speak for it. People

worship their retarded

entertainment people.

Endlessly. What a dumb,

sick world. There is no

longer anything

introspective. Not even

in Art  -  which is where

I set out to be. It soon

enough lost its fervor

of mission for me as

I began realizing how

it too had been nearly

corrupted. Introspective

aspects of work and

design were beginning

to fall away to flippancy

and the ironic detachment

of comic distance. 'Look

at this all, how silly it is!'

That had become the

catchphrase. Like the

Monkees too.

-

Andy Warhol used to say,

as a form of dumb amazement

at the 'wonderful' world we

are presented with, that

a movie star could drink

the very same Coke that you

do, and that the Queen of

England couldn't get a

better hot dog at Yankee

Stadium than anyone else.

I suppose he meant that some

great equality of everything

had finally descended on the

consumerist paradise this

land had become (off of which,

of curse, he made millions

repeating it endlessly). His

notion of 'Democracy' sucked.

To him it somehow meant an

agreeable access to accessible

consumer goods for everyone.

Oh, just great  -  the problem

never was the access, it was

more, first off, the means of

access. I could NOT afford

the same Rolls Royce or

caviar that this 'Queen' could.

(Only Warhol would use

'Queen' so unself-consciously).

It was not just about the

'access.' I too can watch

Chinese TV, but I wouldn't

understand a word. The

disparity of both wealth

distribution, and purchasing

power, and the conscious

awareness of that, makes

the difference. The rabble

in the street are just the

'rubble.' The rich remain

the rich. Like that current

dumb-ass statue of Ralph

Kramden  -  in the previous

chapter, at Port Authority

Bus Terminal  -  it makes

the 'assumption' by those

that be (in power, or ruling)

that their selective input

into your life, all as

approved, will reflect

reality, and not be offensive.

For instance, I could not put

up a statue of, say, Verlaine,

or Rimbaud, or even Walter

Scott. They pre-date

everything, here, and no

one makes the connection,

but they 'represent', as well.

something 'other.' How many

actually know or care about

who Ralph Kramden is/was,

or Jackie Gleason, is beyond

me, but that never matters.

Idiots attract.  Here's the deal :

'the universal modifications

in the fabric of daily life each

transform novelty items into

constant and utilitarian objects

that we then have no choice

about. They alter our temporal

dimension in radical ways,

bringing us ever closer to

the usurpation of consciousness

by our incremental transformation

into automata.' Kind of means,

they got you by the balls.

-

That's what I objected to. All

that 'same' consumption of goods

and all that 'same' thinking and

habits of use : no distinction

between you and me. Transiency,

redundancy, an entire mass

unconscious being messed

with. That's pretty evil. I

stayed clear.  Today's morons,

gathered around that statue,

gaze at it, unfocused, not even

sure what they're looking at

IF they even see it. The tourists

from Dubuque, they go 'Aw!',

and smile, and take photos

gathered around it  - arms on

it like some best friend.

Boyfriends and girlfriends

kiss at it for their photos.

It's (literally) mind-numbing

and a really bad display, as

well, of all the rest of the

Times Square gibberish

just to the east. This was

once America, a place of

standards and values, with

a traditional reverence (or

at least I had it) towards

all those writers and artists

and strugglers who came

through here : darkness, with

an intensity. I hold my  hands

out to William Carlos Williams,

not Ralph Kramden; sorry.

-

Down to Chinatown, and 

it's sort of the same thing, 

maybe a little in reverse. 

Even weirder. They tore 

down, in the late 60's

and early 70's, a large 

swath of things in order, 

near to Canal St., and

the Bowery, to erect what's

called Confucius Plaza. 

It's very strange, especially 

because, first, no one

seemed to care, and

everyone just let

themselves get plowed 

over and pushed around,

by the usual 'interest' 

groups and Chinese 

Benevolent Societies

in bed with the usual 

city authorities, to then

re-make and thematically 

alter their own central

Chinatown crossroads.

But what was even weirder

than that was the 'retro'

aspect of all this. Confucius

was in dis-favor  -  not just 

in China, but everywhere. 

His old, very traditional, 

filled with protocol and 

ancestor-worship approach

to things by then had

been relegated to the 

junkheap. It was as if,

perhaps, a monument 

to Cuneiform chiseling 

were to be erected at 

the site of some Johannes

Gutenberg printing plant 

headquarters. It was

that different  - from the

cultural and consumer 

ethos of the present, from

the now (then). There was

a large, very oversize statue,

a center plaza post, flags,

granite, inscriptions. and

seats. Whoever they thought

would be attending to this,

they never showed up  -  that

plaza now is a dead-man's

traffic island with little sense

of place or purpose. 

-

People have been 

somehow 'equalized' by 

all their everyday habits  

all those phones and

messages and tweets 

and posts and computers 

and games. Everything's 

been lost when some 
current fake-media 
wanna-be (I only use as 
an example, and am, in
fact, not really even

sure what that is) gets

presented as the  'same'

thing for me as for you.
As if we all must be 'in'
 on the know, and each in

the same, glib/stupid way.
Same for you, same for me
Just like the Queen's 
hot dog. (Huh?)...

8909. MADRIGAL GAIL

MADRIGAL GAIL

Arriving is so easy, it's the

coming down from that

mountain again that hurts.

So much depends on the

moment, each to each and

all the same. High atop the

bluff, the lancet castle will

beckon  -  sunlight glints 

and glistens, but there is

little to be heard or seen.

Past the point of nearness,

only songsters in the forest

are even heard at all.