10,238. WHERE I WORK NOW

WHERE I WORK NOW

My office is in a cave;

I touch everything with

gloves. I want to come 

home clean at night. The

words that we exchange,

with whomever the moment 

may be, they're selected

carefully, by me. No 

decorations in this cave

either : nothing to celebrate,

nothing to show. I like it that 

way  -  living quietly, like a

pantomime, a guy walking

while playing with shadows.

10,237. MR. MIRACLE

MR. MIRACLE

Here's my umpire's cap; I'm

turning it in. I'm no longer

to be impartial or neutral.

I want a miracle. And I

need it done. I have too

much confusion now, and

that's all that's left. And 

I'm not liking that one bit.

-

The sodden culprit on its own

soggy field  - we sing paeans

to progress and gain? Is that

how it goes? I feel different

this time; nothing's fair and

what's undeserved goes to the

one who doesn't deserve it.

-

All's right with the world; I know,

I've heard that before : but there's 

a sad dog barking in the back of

that car; the little kid here cries

for candy, and the parking lot guy,

the one collecting carts, he just

shuffles along singing, and

with a whistling too.

10,236. RUDIMENTS, pt. 151

RUDIMENTS pt. 151

Making Cars

I'm far from being someone

who notices everything; but not

much  -  in the same vein  -  gets

past me. A part of me wants to

say 'environment' (meaning, where

I live), is very important to me.

But if that was strictly the case,

you'd correctly say, 'Then what

are you doing here, good God.'

That would be valid  -  this place

is a cultural dung-heap, a wreckage

and a ruin, and a sluice pipe, as well,

of lies and corruption. I know that.

I keep my eyes peeled, believe me,

for anything I can catch to pin on

people  -  and if I ever scientifically

can point to and prove corruption,

I'll be the first to trot it out. The

New York Times (I was researching

the agencies and the government

links to which to contact and share

information), says most endemic

governmental corruption is not the

big-city stuff but is most prevalent

and made manifest in the smaller 

towns and municipalities. Things

change hands, deals are made and

buried, quid-pro-quo ('this for that')

goes on all the time (yay knowing 

Latin!). A new car, a season pass 

to the country club and swimming 

pool, the re-paving contract you're 

cut into for some kick-back, the

redevelopment deal you're told

about before it's common knowledge

and the land-values go way up  - you

get in when it's still cheap; the way

things go now too, the Mayor who

constantly walks with the blond not

his wife, the committee people and

the shitty motel. All you need these

days is to dangle some money (just

like they do) and the next thing you 

know the female is saying she was

coerced, bent over the desk, unbuttoned

against her will. It ain't over 'til it's

over. And then it's over. And don't

forget the conventions, firemen's soirees,

dancing babes, and all the other nice

things that happen outside of church.

-

I used to know the guy who ran High

Hill Garage. In the 1980's, still up on

the top of Main Street, after Woodbridge

Center and right before the overpass for

the Turnpike and stuff. It was a small,

cinder block building, and remained

as the last vestige, once Centric Clutch,

the Township garage, and the Brass

Bucket were gone, of the old area

which had been there  -  grassy lands,

claypits, etc. before the municipal

thieves back then put their hands to 

it. He always told me, with some glee

and some sadness, how those fields

always were hunted on  -  each season,

1930's, 1940's, etc. The woods and

streams thereabouts, deer, small game,

birds and pheasants. Then the big

roads came, NJ Turnpike and GS

Parkway, Rt. One, Rt. Nine, Rt. 35,

They all converge right there (if you 

get the gist then of what I'm saying,

you'll see why Woodbridge and Edison 

and such areas prospered and made

many crooks millions  -  at the

expense of the common jerks who

ended up living here, ringed by

roadways, congestion, pollution,

cancers and death. All those Mayors,

then and now, nothing more than dirty-

dealing crooks destined for their own 

Hell  -  you name 'em, Zirpolo, Jacks,

(not a Mayor, just a guilty prisoner),

DeMarino, right to the present NOW 

day). He pointed out to me, on the

walls of the High Garage itself, the

various bullet holes from being

peppered, over the years, with stray

shooting from the fields. Believe me,

this guy may have been a smple

mechanic, with a heavy back, but 

he still gloried in all that he'd lost.

To be factual, I never much trust

anybody, and the local business 

longevity of this guy and all he 

'knew,' always ended up making

me suspect even of him  -  for not

standing up the those jerks who'd

ruined the place while bragging 

about it. I remember Mayor Barone, 

in about 1970  - a perfect example 

of the sort of municipal sleaze that 

permeated the area. I know of

more than one case where girls

working for the 'Sheriff' in New

Brunswick, (no names), who then 
became Mayor  in Woodbridge, 
leaving the job rather then continuing 
to be chased around the desks by  
him. If it had been the present day, 
he'd be hung, and not well-hung either.

-

The High Hill Garage guy said it was

all lost by the time they got to the clay

pits. We used to race motorcycles in 

there, just kid-fun, trail bikes, etc.

I used to change car oil in there too  -

just open the drain plug under my

Valiant, and let it drain out. The clay

soil was like a sponge. Absorbed it all;

and it wasn't just me. There were rutted

spots where cars one after the other came

in off what then was a shitty near-dirt

road. You had to be there; I can't even

rightly get across to you what it was

like way back then. The High Hill

Garage is long gone, Woodbridge 

Center, condominiums, office parks, 

and shopping plazas replaced it all.

And each time that happened, another

of those sleazaball bastards made a

million. They got away with it all;

the 'American' system is made for

that  -  let no one tell you differently  -

and these people knew how to game 

the system perfectly. ('All the criminals,

in their suits and ties, are free to drink

martinis and watch the sun rise...').

-

There used to be a little boxing club

there too, right next to the High Hill.

You could go in there and get your 

brains battered a while, for a few 

bucks. Then the civic-freaks took 

over. It's now a huge 'community'

sports center, mostly crap for kids

to do, a 'Y' kind of place. A perfect

foil for the needed money laundering

needed. Even to this day, with tax 

dollars, they're still building 

unnecessary things there  -  a

large signpost and entryway. It's 

all completely un-needed but it

keeps the spigot open for the project

dollars to keep coming in. Costs of

the sign, concrete, electric, macadam, 

etc. They all have their hands out for

a slice of that panty raid. Back when

I worked at NJ Appellate, there was

a guy who bought in, loudmouth,

local municipal brawler, hands in

everything. He lived right there, by

the ramp for the turnpike overpass.

A bunch of new split-levels had

been built there, about '67. He'd

grabbed one of those. First his

printing business was in Fords,

in an old firehouse, re-purposed 

commercially. When he bought 

into Appellate he and I moved 

all his stuff, in two station wagons,

back and forth all day. Type-cases,

fonts, typesetting machines, etc.

Jim (last name not used here),

used to come to work nearly 

every Thursday, well every third 

Thursday anyway, with a black

eye, a shiner a'building, from some

brawl he'd gotten into at the Wed.

night bowling league thing he

was part of. It was pretty funny.

He knew a lot of stuff, had a lot

to say. Jim and his family, that

next Summer, went on vacation

to Peru. Jim never came back. As 

the 'story' went, he and his wife

were strolling on some Peruvian

beach, and out of the forest came

a poison dart that killed Jim. Yep,

he died right there  -  a 'poison dart'

no less. I'd have bet my car, house, 

wife and kid too, that some local

goons had been hired and paid to

get him  -  Peru or not, just get 

him. Some things are just better

left unsaid. That's how these

kingdoms and municipal fiefdoms 

get build. 'Dumbest guy, to the

front of the class, now.'

-

None of any of this was ever worth

crap to me. I stayed as far clear from

any of that stuff as a reindeer from 

heat. But at the same time, I never

fell for the prevalent storyline either.

I've ended up pretty much right back

in the local hell-hole I started out of.

I'm completely different, and couldn't

care a whit about what I do to them.

But they're all exactly the same, in fact

I think the whole bunch of them run

out of the same bloodline. If they come

from the devil, they come from evil.

D'evil is the family name. These are all

my own evil memories of an evil place,

and before I die they're all coming

out, right here. I can toast this place

over a fire of my own making. And
where there's smoke, there's fire.

10,235. INJURIES TO THE PALATE

INJURIES TO THE PALATE

Inundate the wayfarer who passes too

swiftly; drown him then, with beans and 

butter. The way Hubert Braun reveres fat.

Injuries to the palate can affect one's speech

for life. Or, sometimes they can be fixed.

Palates, that is, and then I guess what they

mean is that the speech gets fixed too, but

more automatically then by plan. That's a

weird consideration. Just another reason,

this doctor guy said, to wear a seatbelt.

He mentioned that he'd had, over the 

years, a few cases of horribly-shattered

faces and jaws (and palates too, I guess

he was meaning) from smashing into

dashboards and steering wheels. But,

I said, but, aren't airbags supposed to 

get their first, and stop all that with a

violent pillow? Yes, he said, but I go

back a long ways, before all that, even

to when the dashboards were still hard

metal. Wow, I realized, he was an old 

man, but he was even older than I had

thought if he could remember all that.

10,234. HANGING WITH ALBERT

HANGING WITH ALBERT

Einstein said God doesn't play dice with

the universe. I said Marbles either. He

looked back and sneered. That was

his wife, next to him. She looked

like a cake in the flesh. Together, we

marveled at something, and lit a

candle, and cursed the darkness.

-

This was before soccer had hit the

American shores. He was a fan, but

I had no idea of any of that. I asked

him, 'What do you eat?' He said he

ate most anything he was given.

10,233. THE STATELY ARCHITECTURE OF A USELESS LIFE

THE STATELY ARCHITECTURE 

OF A USELESS LIFE

In all of so many ways, quite charming.

I walk through the stables in my slippers.

If I was Peter Handke, no one would

laugh. That's all it takes  -  you crusty

ones all want to look so good.

10,232. RUDIMENTS, pt.150

RUDIMENTS, pt. 150

Making Cars

In about 1994, I went to

Washington DC, to meet

with Senators and others,

for purposes of motorcycle

legislation and helmet law

hearings and testimony and

all that. It was to be a bunch

of crap, and I knew that, but,

with a few other people (in a

large van I rented) we left at

4:30am and gleefully rode with

the moon all the down to DC.

No huge trip, mind you; I make

it out to be something here for

effect. It was a cool way of scraping

the dust of home off our feet.

Once we arrived there, other

people were waiting for us, etc.

There's something down there, for

lobbying purposes, etc, called the

MRF (Motorcycle Riders Foundation),

and they keep (or kept anyway) on

office on a very low-number street, 3rd

street, to Massachusetts Ave; I can't

remember. Back then, there was a

guy running the MRF, named Wayne 

Curtin, and he'd just recently become 

a little notorious because of some

things he'd said in Congressional 

testimony about helmets. Some

gory stuff, considered insensitive,

and which hadn't gone over too

well. You know how all that goes,

I guess; Curtin gets half a big head

over himself from it, (he'd even

been written up with a little blurb

in Time Magazine), and starts acting

more like a bigshot than he should 

have. People like that wear me down 

immediately; they always want to dine,

meet for breakfast, talk big, look

impressive, and eventually they just 

end up undermining their cause. That

was somewhat the case here too. But he

had a nice suite of offices, and a nice

office staff   -   the last kind of people

on staff that you'd ever think about in

the context (then) of motorcycles, but

that's how it went. Stepping outside,

(we had three or four hours to kill),

the street was really nice, like almost

Lincolnesque, and everything was but

a near walk away  -  the Federal

Reserve Building, Union Station,

and the Capitol Building too. It was

to the Capitol Building that we walked,

when the time came, to get started. 

Along the way, I kept having problems,

in my head, as if I continually was entering

another time and place  - Civil War era

buildings, the lamplights, the little fronts.

Everything right along there, then, was

still almost all 1880 legislative. Small

and simple, Federal style architecture,

with Georgian touches. I had a real

difficult time stating within the time and

place ethos and references of those with

with whom I was walking. It became

a real problem, and I was leaving the

space. Instead, I found myself entering

hospital encampments, pitched and

rickety barracks filled with men

screaming out in pain, pails of bloods,

doctors with saws and limbs, a small

pile, in fact, of lower legs, and arms.

Pale light, flickering flames, tired

nurses in badly-stained long white

dresses. There were occasional corpses,

seen, clopping horses, slowly pacing

by, someone yelling out, nightfall

descending. Man, it was the true

experience of a lifetime, and here I was 

130 years later somehow, supposing 

to be testifying and visiting with Senators 

and Congressmen. To make it all worse,

the people I was with were modern-day

numbskulls, going all on about their

concerns and stuff. I was having a freaking

out-of-body experience of my own, and 

they're yapping about steak-lunches at

Hogarty's, and the last movie they saw.

-

Everywhere I turned, besides the

lamplights and old doorways and such, 

there were weird little mementos of war,

and various quaint historical markers.

Names of the sort I'd read about. It

was momentous. (If I could have escaped

away, I would have and not come back).

We made it to the Capitol Building, and

had to wait outside a bit for some staff-aides

for Senator Bradley (NJ, Bill Bradley, the

basketball superstar guy who was then

NJ Senator). But as it worked out, we

had to start instead with the lower guys,

honestly, now I forget, Representative 

This and Representative That. Frank

Pallone, and other guys. They each had

really nice, traditional Capitol Building

offices - it was really impressive. Each

of the offices have these lights in them,

visible at the desk, and the large room.

They light up and click off  -  whenever 

there's a vote happening, like HR549L

(the bill number), 30 minutes to voting

time, and then  another set of lights 

come on, and it says 20 minutes; etc.

So the Representative or Senator, visting

with constituents, watches and knows 

when to leave, interrupts conversation,

throws you to a staff aide, and all. We

were fortunate with one of those guys,

Representative Bob Franks, a NJ guy.

He let us go with him  -  there's a House

subway, and these little underground 

cars you ride in, to get to the House

floor, or the Senate floor, and there's 

a visitors galley and a spectator galley.

The votes are oral, after reading out, AND

there's a tally board that lights up, all

of that after no one else wishes to speak

or testify, etc. Very formal rules and

procedure, and each bill has a long trail

of hearings first, readouts, testimonies,

speeches, etc. Nothing is quick, or easy.

Lobbyists and others who've pitched

this or that, they're also in the gallery,

sometimes cheering for their bill, or

applauding a result. It's kind of crazy.

-

I pretty much just sat there mesmerized.

Everyone else was hungry, wanted to get

to that 'lunch place', etc., or thirsty, wanting

a beer, blah, blah. Fools and interlopers.

Sitting in the Senate chamber, looking

around (it was mostly empty, visitors and

some tourists milling), all I could visualize,

and again it was freaky, was how some 

Senator, in the latte 1850's, Schuyler or

somebody, got beat to death or near to

death, by the cane or walking stick of

another Senator  -  who'd attacked him,

right there, on the Senate floor, over

some speech or something on the Slavery

issue. Man, it was a different world then, 

and emotions ran high and men were 

brutes. And, in that chamber, another

weird thing was how these Senators,

mostly for the folks back home, and

for re-election purposes, they come in

and, on camera, but on them only, they

give these big, fancy speeches to an 

empty chamber, on whatever the issue 

is  -  to the empty house, but it is the

Senate chambers, so the constituents 

back home get to see Senator Scruncho's

speech on the Senate floor, for their

interest no less! All the while thinking

the's speaking to a packed house.

What a guy! He gets my vote!

-

When we finally got to Bill Bradley's

office (he'd never really wished to see

us, a lame group of Bikers meaning 

very little to him as 'votes,' after all)

he wasn't there; so they claimed. Blaming

a mix-up, the office people said 'Sorry,'

etc. We knew he was in there somewhere, 

so, (sneaky) in the corridor we went in

another direction, around to where his

offices 'rear' doors were. Yep, and we

caught him, 'sneaking out' on us as it 

were. He laughed it off, was unabashed, 

and gave us ten minutes, in a stairwell.

I will say this for him, he stood his

ground, didn't promise us anything,

said he wasn't exactly in favor of our

bill, gave us reasons for his opinion,

let us talk, and then said, 'Well, gotta'

go,' and he took our reference papers,

etc., and promised he'd study them

and carefully consider his vote. 

Nothing ever came of it, and that's 

the way things go. At least he didn't

beat us with a cane.

10,231. READING APOPLEXY

READING APOPLEXY

Some crazy guy in an amplitude 

suit was wielding a hammer at me. 

I disarmed him with a chainsaw, 

and just kept going. Not to besmirch 

his reputation, but he pretty much 

just looked like an ass, not  really 

knowing what he was doing. Now, 

you might say, 'What's an amplitude 

suit?', and I'm not going to tell you. 

The people who ask questions like 

that are the same ones who go to 

Open-Mic Poetry Nights at their

local Town Hall Arts Center and

really shake things up with their poems

about ice cream and malls, and the

broken-hearted schoolmarms in old

Wappingers Falls; who turn nasty 

when they're green, and angry 

when left lonely  - those dishrags, 

those floorboards, those sinks.

10,230. CAME DOWN WITH SOMETHING

CAME DOWN 

WITH SOMETHING

A store bought lie tastes the same as

a home made one. I'd not known that.

I read it in a guide book to money  -  

more junk I didn't need to know.

-

I sold my last car, in Rahway, to

a quadriplegic who couldn't drive

anyway. He liked the way it

looked in the rain. Now, there's

an interesting guy for you.

10,229. IN THE CONCERT HALL

IN THE CONCERT HALL

I had to play a marvelous Chopin.

Yes, surely, and I knew I couldn't.

Everything here was 'Samuel Butler

 this, Samuel Butler that.' And who 

the hell was that? Even the bellhops

were mouthing Butler  -  and that's

when you know it's all gone too far:

'Life is like playing a violin solo in

public and learning the instrument

as one goes on.' Don't tell anyone,

but there's a drunken riot in the

concert hall, and nobody at all

is minding the music. Play on,

my friend, play on.

10,228. XERXES THE MACHINE

XERXES THE MACHINE

Every where I go there is an

arrow in my head  -  a pointed

feeling, a brain dagger for sure.

I sit and eat buttered bread, something

that goes maybe with coffee. How

do I know these things? What do I

feel? Xerxes failed, invading Greece.

In James Joyce, Molly Bloom, being

wooed by Leopold, said, 'As well him

as another.' Couldn't she just have

easily said, 'As well another as him.'

These things rank as the mysteries of

the ages; all this talk and rubbish.

Xerxes failed, invading Greece.

10,227. RUDIMENTS, pt. 149

RUDIMENTS, pt. 149

Making Cars

I had a teacher in second grade, 

(I do remember that), Mrs. Schur, 

who cryptically wrote, as a comment, 

on one of my report cards  - second

grade, mind you  -  that 'Gary has 

a problem with questions?' My 

parents tried, in their jumbled way, 

to tell me that was of concern and 

something I should work on (?), 

but no one ever told me what it 

meant  -  like some adult-talk

teacher-lingo, did it mean to say 

I was unable to understand a 

question mark? Didn't know if

something WAS a question?

Wasn't able to answer a question?

Or asked too many questions?

It was all too confusing to me, 

all these foolish adults looking 

back at me with their frizzled

comments. I felt  -  even at that

young age  -  that none of them 

knew what they were talking 

about, ever, and that mostly 

they just role-played these 

really boring character acts. 

I still had a year to go before 

getting conked with that train, 

so I guess I can't blame that. I 

don't know what adults make 

of kids, these days, but back 

then it wasn't much to go on. 

Everything was ordered and 

straight  -  row after row of do's 

and deeds to do. The pleasure 

principle had been left out 

of living. Poor kids. Poor me.

-

I decided, on my own, that 

what she meant was the last 

one I listed up above  - that 

I asked too many questions. 

And I probably did, but I never 

stopped after that either. It 

became almost a spiteful point

of pride from that point. It 

seemed  all I ever got were 

answers to questions I hadn't 

asked, but which conveniently

fit the 'question' they would have 

had me ask instead. I still see a 

lot of that in modern-day junk 

too  -  press-conferences and 

all those political mumbo-jumbo 

confabs where they're all trying 

to impress each other by their 

depressed impression of impressing. 

Go figure that one out, and tell 

it to Mrs. Schur. Just don't 'ask'

about it. Another thing, two things 

actually, that I notice now: the first 

is, back in Avenel School 4&5  - 

my most early educations  -  how 

in actuality, most all of teachers 

were Jewish. I think about it now  

- Schur, Stein, Artym, Roloff, 

Levine, Mudrack, Coyne,Burse, 

to name just a first few  -  and I 

understand how that produces 

a slow, plodding, utterly 

conventional, customary and

conservative education, even 

for little kids. No wonder I had 

problems with questions  -  that 

deep-seated Jewish stuff doesn't 

reflect reality very well, so why 

foist it on kids? And the other 

thing, still funny to this day, is 

how the short-man syndrome 

cracks me up (I'm not tall at all 

myself, but I don't play act the 

parts either. I'm just a bum, and

proudly look it). We had some
goofy, short teachers. It cracks 

me up with I see over-compensatory 

short-guy types go for the waddle-duck, 

muscle-bound, sharp-dresser routine.

I had a brother-in-law once in that 

speed-category, and it was pretty 

funny. But, that's all about the 

most walking knowledge most 

people escape from elementary

 school with anyway. Maybe they 

can read and so some numbers 

too. I said maybe.

-

One thing that hit me, pretty early

on though not in elementary school, 

was this idea I had  -  it was kind of 

a dense, cosmic idea, but it connected

to reality pretty well, and I guess could

have been a question, one too many, had

I uttered it. I was curious how, like as,

say, my father was driving along, he'd

a turn signal on, to signal an intention

of turning, and that would produce the

clicking noise of the signal relay. And

outside of the noise of that signal,

the oncoming driver or the driver 

behind, would get the message, see

the blinking light, etc., and the human

mind would factor all that into a recognition

pattern and allow and accept that 'turn.'

It was all unspoken, but it worked. I

could never understand why the

human wasn't equipped as well, in

that way : picture how, when you see

someone, gazes meet, whatever, along

the way, anywhere, how greatly

different and satisfying, in its way,

for some palpable sound to be

generated, acknowledging a kinship,

or some sort of 'kindred' moment.

Why must we go about our days

in that doleful silence of not being

able or willing to express to others 

what we felt? At the level, I mean,

a deep and almost spiritual, level.

Not like 'yeah, you're a jerk,' or

anything like that. I mean instead 

the interior freight of our intuitive

innards. There are plenty of those

connections around us. Because 

we remain blind (or deaf, in this 

context), our moments, and so 

many lives, get screwed up. I

think it would be so cool, a world

where all those noises resounded.

And I bet we'd have a lot more

peace and happiness too.

-

And lastly, another thing I'd ask 

about, to myself, and anywhere 

else but never getting an explanation, 

was on the subject of what's been 

called 'Evolution.' Stuff like that 

just doesn't really exist  - I'd ask, 

of those people who say Mankind 

evolved from fish in the sea, aquatic 

creatures, crawling up as legs 

were developed and fins and 

gills replaced and developed 

into legs and arms and lungs, 

and eyes took proportion and 

all that. Sitting down to eat, 

when I ate fish, it was white 

meat, fish, and flaky, and broke 

apart to the fork and all. Whereas 

meat was meat  -  a hunk, sinuous, 

unified. How then, and when, 

and by what means did that 

changeover occur? All I ever 

was told was that the fish aspect 

breathed with gills and therefore 

oxygen permeated everything, 

producing a whiter, lighter, 

flakier 'version' of the 'meat' 

matter of fish  -  so that in 

essence they were both pretty 

much different versions of the 

same thing. Yeah, right. I 

wanted to say that I detected 

a magic hand here that they 

may have been overlooking 

or avoiding. But I never did; 

too much to ask. Got a
problem with that?