Thursday, November 30, 2017

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.

Wednesday, November 29, 2017

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.


Tuesday, November 28, 2017

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?