10,854. OUCH

OUCH

How do I shape this rudimentary being,

amorphous lag, hunk of clay? What

famed deliverance awaits the day?

Or is there nothing really thoughtful 

to be said about these primal moments?

Upon awakening, I hit my head. Ouch.

10,853. PEACE FOR MISS FRANCIS

PEACE FOR MISS FRANCIS

She bring delight; she bring

the nettles and joy. I be the 

one determined to employ :

She bring the gun and I bring

the ammunition  -  lounging

on a sunny afternoon, in

such a fine condition.

10,852. RUDIMENTS, pt. 332

RUDIMENTS, pt. 332

Making Cars

In some ways it always

seemed to me that you

could judge a man by

the men who hate him.

Anyway I was often told

that 'Jeez, Gar, people

either love you or hate

you, what's with that?'

And I of course never

had an answer; though

it never exactly made me

feel real good. There used

to be an old Teddy Roosevelt

quote going around, and

someone once gave it to me

on a plaque, to hang. It was

called 'the Man in the Arena'

or something like that. It

went to the effect that

everyone has opinions

and about this person in

the limelight, the doer. But

that was only because he

WAS the doer, the man of

action, the one hard at work.

I never judged like that, and

that quote always seemed

a bit too much to be belittling

others for being slackers.

-

I've been in a lot of touchy 

situations, a lot of it motorcycle

related, from back in those days.

Even though I was neck-deep

in all that stuff for a long time,

I never got to the bottom of it.

Looking back now, as I try to

deconstruct the Biker scene, I

get somewhere, and then it fades.

The people were sometimes

dangerous  -  I mean the club 

guys, just out and out hideous.

A beating, real blood, etc., could

end up meaning nothing to them.

There wasn't really a logic of

sensibility to much of it, just

as often the plain old schoolyards

antics of bullies who grew more

and more stronger by company.

The more the merrier, so to 

speak. One time, and this was

late, like 1998, in the midst of

a pretty good struggle going

on between the two big clubs, 

I ran across a strange scene, 

when I realized pretty much 

it was over for me or had 

better be or should really 

be, before something horrid 

befell me. I won't be 

mentioning any names, 

or club names, or nicknames 

either, so if you can surmise 

any of this fine; if not, no 

big deal. The times had 

been pretty vital and rough 

between the two clubs. 

One was headquartered 

here, NYC, lower east side, 

with some forays into 

establishing a central NJ 

presence. Which presence 

this other side, northern 

New Jersey guys and 

southern New Jersey 

guys and Philadelphia. 

The NJ guys had been 

sending guys to my 

ABATE office, and at

the same time demanding 

that we buy 20 or so 

tickets, etc, for the various 

runs and events they were 

pushing. They were maybe 

25 bucks each, annoyance 

and a sum when added up.

That's the story I've previously 

related about the piece of 

lumber thrown through the 

window with the scrawled 

message on it about 'I need 

that money;' etc. (I still have 

it, as it's now the back of a 

painting I did, using that flat 

wood for the painting surface.). 

Two or three guys in particular 

used to show up and hang 

around, mainly making 

sure the 'other' side had 

been having no dealings 

with me. (Yes, it as all 

very weird). There had 

been talk of some guys 

here and there playing 

both sides, or going to 

the 'other' side; traitors, 

turncoats, all that crap. 

It usually resulted in big 

trouble, shooting, beating,

stabbings, even death.

(Yeah, it was all very 

weird, did I mention?). 

Anyway, in the middle 

of all this, broad daylight, 

one day along the lower 

east side, on his bike (a 

hoped-up, radical Sportster, 

actually, and surprisingly) 

I'm standing at a corner, 

my wife with me, (how

homey!) waiting for a light

to change, and there comes 

guess-who? Yep, the NJ 

club guy who'd often been 

hanging around me the 

most, and a tough hombre 

he was. I wonder, 'what 

the heck's he doing here, 

downtown, this neck of 

the woods, NYC.' All 

way out of the ordinary. 

Well, when I saw to what 

street he was headed, and, 

knowing what headquarters 

was there, I said, 'Holy shit! 

Two sides against the middle!' 

I was flabbergasted, and 

immediately, in my half-stance 

between the two clubs but 

really neither at all, began 

figuring the odds of my 

getting caught in a lowland 

middle deal I was too fond 

of. So, at that point I just 

began laying really low 

and staying out of that 

harm's way (there were 

others). All secrets, yeah, 

safe with me. I ignored 

him, he didn't see me, 

and it was as if the instant 

never occurred. Another 

time, not near as 'strange' 

nor fraught with danger, 

but just as vivid. I was 

sitting in Tompkins 

Square Park, a misty, 

half rainy, early October 

day, presaging Fall, 

cool and damp. I'd 

known guy in the NY 

club, from Iselin, who 

had entered into  full 

club membership and 

been moved into the 

housing and headquarters 

the club kept down there. 

Famous spot; out of it, 

besides the motorcycle 

stuff, they had a few 

other enterprises going, 

under other business 

names  -  van/delivery 

service, a small trucking 

company, some bars and 

girlie clubs, etc. I espied

him, walking quite 

determinedly through 

the park. He was sort of 

criss-crossing, cutting 

the angle as a short cut. 

Out on Second Avenue 

there, one of the businesses 

I'd noticed was a temporary, 

pop-up sort of storefront 

for Halloween costumes 

and masks, capes, tophats, 

any of that ghoulish 

Halloween stuff they 

sell : lanterns, inner lit

pumpkin-lights, etc., etc. 

And that was right where 

he was headed. He strolled 

right in as if he owned the 

place. Which, I figured 

from that, they did.

-

These weren't drinking guys.

They couldn't really do any of 

that stuff, except maybe, if out

late at night somewhere, among 

their own club, at their bars.

Half of them were wanted for

one thing or another anyway,

their bikes gave them away,

facing confiscation  - even

though really the NYC Police

mostly let them be, hands-off,

by agreement. The Feds were

another story. They had Biker

Task-Force guys, drug and

alcohol guys, RICO act guys,

always out in force and with

ongoing investigations. There

were times, honestly, we'd go

places and the entire scene 

would be being filmed from a

rooftop nearby  -  long lenses, 

FBI guys standing around, 

radio contacts, you name it.

And it wasn't over Halloween

shops either. This was serious

business.

-

A lot of these hardly ever left

the clubhouse  -  which was also

a fortress and on what was termed,

because of their 'justice', the safest

street in NYC. It was lounge,

clubhouse, tavern dwelling, and

store, all combined  -  they 

sometimes sold shirts and other

support items out front. It was

touchy, and you had to be real

cagey, as an outsider, to get

involved, but people bought 

stuff. Some of their motorcycles

were always out front, protected,

with a guard posted (one of them,

on a rotating basis, the lower

echelon guys). It was just the

way it went. You hear stuff,

the stories and the tales. I

remember those two writers,

Hunter Thompson, and Tom

Wolfe, both writing 'books'

about their allowed-n time 

with the club guys, to write 

testimonials; supposed 'insider'

accounts of what really went

on  -  California stuff, runs,

parties, girls, women, funerals,

fights, rumbles, cops, indictments

and arrests too. How true and

how far any of it went, I don't

know. I hear tell once or twice 

they both got beat up along 

the way for one thing or another.

Separate projects, each, these

were. These two gents were

never in cahoots.

-

The writer Suketu Mehta, in his

'Maximum City,' wrote: "Each 

person's life is dominated by a

central event, which shapes and

distorts everything that comes 

after it and, in retrospect, 

everything that came before." 

I think I find that to be true, but,

for myself, I cannot decide which

it would be : being pulled out of

urban, waterfront Bayonne, early

on, with my little glimmers of its

memory still; The train wreck;

the seminary years; NYCity in

exile; or these little tidbits of

Biker years and lore; or any of six

or seven other episodal eras in

my own, dull life. One time,

someone's mother said to me:

"Life is out there, what you catch

sight of when the windshield

wiper momentarily clears the

glass obscured by rain or snow."

10,851. WHEN I WONDER

WHEN I WONDER

When I wonder  -  and sometimes

I do  -  it can be treacherous or not.

I know I always fail at seeing it

right. One way or the other  -

nothing equals anything else, it's

all apart and a difference. My idea

of 'treachery' is probably just, to

say, a  justice. What I mean. To 

even things out, and make them 

fair. In my eyes anyway  -  what

other eyes have I? That's not in

any way 'treachery'. We no longer

implement death penalties, and,

fair to say, if we did, you'd be

gone already. So go ahead then

remind me of the guy I worked

for in 2010. A real germ of a

notion, some Columbia hat-rack

with a shoe for a brain : size and

width, and how much to buy at

cost, by which to sell at profit.

But crooked too, in  a rather

self-righteous way. There was

no movement for me; just dead

meat in equally dead water. I

should have spoke up for

myself, but I never did. That

was not my way; it was his.

10,850. ON THE SIMULACRUM

ON THE SIMULACRUM

Not going anywhere keeps a

person in place : the lampshade

has it shade, the end of the day 

has its night. A simple tiredness

makes us learn these things. 

-

Mr. Jember parked his car by the

maple tree. That tree's been losing

a few branches a year, progressively

and persistently, and I don't know

what to do. Perhaps something will

tumble down onto Mr. Jember's car.

-

Should I tell him now, ahead of time,

or feign my own ignorance when it

happens. Insurance won't cover it,

I know. 'Act of God,' they have the

nerve to say. They're supposed to take

the risk for you, that's why you pay.

-

Well, there's nothing there I can figure

out. I just wish he'd go. But, as I've

already stated, not going anywhere

keeps a person in place. Right under

my tree, in this, his case.

10,849. RUDIMENTS, pt. 331

RUDIMENTS, pt. 331

Making Cars

If you sit around drinking 

enough, you stop thinking, 

or you start thinking about 

'thinking' as your subject.

Which gets fairly weird 

because it's a bit incestuous

and totally self-referential. A

dead-end of sorts. I know. I've 

been there. What saved it for me

was the input of creative spark;

otherwise I'd easily be a dead man

by now; and long ago too. It's

somewhere in the Gospels or

one of those Jesus quotes, how

he said something like, keep

your wick trimmed and your

candle at the ready, for you

never know the time when - 

oh, I don't know, the Lord or 

the Fire of Righteousness,

would come. Something of

that nature, to the effect that

you'd better be ready, have 

your crap together for when 

the moment would arrive. Maybe

I even made all that up and then

convinced myself it was right,

and that it existed, I don't know, 

but I always lived by that. I made

sure, instead of just bragging about,

their work, (as I'd heard so many

do), all they've put into it, without

really having anything to show

(since it was all BS anyway), made

damn sure that I had at least 500

or 600 pages of stuff at the ready, 

in case the real God-lightning ever

struck. If someone ever demanded

that I show them what I could do, 

I'd at least already have it at the 

ready. It's still like that, multiplied

many times over. I'm a fool for

doing it that way, but, so it be.

-

What the do you make out of life?

A sticky wicket? (That's some

sort of cricket term, I believe).

Believe me, between Puffy's and

Nancy Whiskey, I found out how

useless most people really can be.

To rub my face in it, to make myself

be sure I was correct, I'd occasionally

drag myself down, a bit further

downtown, to a place called the

Raccoon Lodge. Now, if you can

consider the least-artificial tier 

of crudeness but still within the 

bounds of some sort of 'respectability,'

the same as those other two places,

the Raccoon Lodge had it only 

because of its nearness to the 

overflow sleaze of the financial 

district. Most financial district bars 

were just after-work-hours places

for the securities analyst class.

Strivers, with a drink to calm 

themselves down after twiddling 

a few hundred thousand bucks 

of other people's money all day. 

No dirt, no grime. The Raccoon

Lodge needed a Brillo Pad each 

morning to open up with. It was 

a marque, with alcohol and taps.

-

One day, on a whim, I had taken

a lonely friend there because it was

his birthday  -  stupid idea, spur of

the moment. We walked on along, 

past the Woolworth Building and 

turned east. It was along in the 

area sort of adjacent to City Hall, 

Chinatown, and Wall Street. A

fun walk, and he was all keyed

up. We got in there; it was the

last remnant of Fleet Week, of

which I'd completely forgotten.

Which meant, in these slumming 

hours, the place was not really

happening, except for a few 'girls'

and a good-sized clutch of sailor

boys, out still on the town. Real

Kansas rube types, just thrumming

along on what the assumption they

had of what 'New York' should be

was actually coming true. I always

hated that stuff -  transients, people

from other walks and places. The

idea of 'Sailors' made it all worse,

because all they were was gung-ho 

about there 'mission' and all that

crap. this one guy starts going on

to me about how brave he was

because he spends all his time

patrolling the Sea of Japan on

some big-deal cruiser ship armed

to the hilt in case Japan starts

getting trigger-happy. Yes, Japan.

This is about 5 drinks in, on my 

part, and who knows how many

on his. I sort of started sputtering

back as to how it might be quite

possible that Japan, if it had

anything, perhaps had some

Made In Japan water pistols or

maybe a water-cannon or two

but that I really didn't think

there was much to worry about

from a de-militarized Japan

whom we had disarmed for 

good about 40 years previous.

Then I proceeded to line out

for him, mostly in alphabetical

order, all of the foul, curse-words

I knew. Now, my friend was 

having a good old time, talking 

with some girl and the barmaid

too, while a group of my guy's

friend-sailors were huddled at

the other end, yes, with a few

gaggling girls. These guys were 

all in their Navy Whites (isn't

that a contradiction of some 

sort too?) for landlubber duty

or whatever this all went by.

I pissed the guy off, like calling

his mother green or something;

I guess I'd defamed his outfit,

besmirched his country, called

a 'Tilt' to his estimable service,

made fun of his dangers, picked

at his metal capacity for being

gullible, whatever. Fortunately,

for me  -  mainly because I 

couldn't have cared less and 

would have probably just let 

the lame lummox punch the 

crap out of me, as he got up to

come towards me, sort of in

anger, the first, and only, thing

he actually did was trip himself

up and go sprawling to the floor.

Where he just stayed. I realized

he was pretty much d-r-u-n-k

past decay. I wasn't sure what 

on-land Naval regulation was

about something like this, but

I kept hands-off. Calling for

his buddies, who had started 

to come over anyway, I said 

something to the effect of 'you'd

better come over and help up

your buddy here.' That fall, I

realized, had saved my day. he

said nothing and all I said was

how I thought he'd passed out.

We all helped get him up and

over to one of the ratty old chairs

in the sportsman's corner of the

Raccoon Lodge  -  dartboard, 

card table, even a pin-ball

machine of some sort. It all

went okay, and my friend and

I managed out without any

further complication. We just

went elsewhere for the remainder

of our day, hoping we'd not

interrupted these fellows in 

getting their, perhaps 'nights

entertainment' arranged. Close 

call, but no real danger.

-

I remembered at that point, 

an old writer, and my father's

favorite book. My father was

a navy guy too, in his war 

years, and always talked about

Richard Henry Dana and some

sailor book titled 'Two Years

Before the Mast.' Only because

my father had often mentioned 

it (as well as one called 'Twenty 

Thousand Leagues Under the 

Sea' by, I think, Jules Verne,

which I could never get into),

I had studied it a bit. He was

like a rich guy, (Dana) who 

went declasse, to sign on with, 

after graduating Harvard, as an

able-bodied seaman, some

shipping company; signing 

on for two years, he 'lived

among the flotsam and jetsam

of humanity in the holds of

two ships, the Pilgrim, and

the Alert. Living among the

'scum of the sea,' Dana said 

of a superior that, 'Every sin

that a sailor knows, he had

gone to the bottom of.' Dana

ended up writing this sea-memoir

and in it to reflect his admiration

for these men, not so much for

their sinning but for their own

fortitude in withstanding the

hardships and privations of

maritime life, 'terrible at even

the best of times.' Arbitrary 

power by the sea captain, 

vicious floggings, so vicious

as to leave men permanently

damaged. He later, after 1840,

became a lawyer, defending the

rights of sailors under admiralty

law. Whatever had just happened

in the bar, however close I maybe

had come to real trouble, it was

amazing to me how all that old

information had quickly floated

back up for me to recall. Well,

meaningless recollection, yes,

but amazing nonetheless.

10,848. I AM SILAS

I AM SILAS

You remove the gloss from the

window's coating at your own risk.

Bright sunlight might come pouring

in. The New York Public Library,

on any day like today, beckons.

No stacks, just great, sunlit, rooms.

-

Let me wander a minute before I

come up with what to say : my lines,

like those spoken by a bad actor, will

probably skip and hold a lisp. When 

I was young, my jaw was smashed

and broken. Partial healing ensued.

-

At times, I feel the same way about

my heart : those harsh adventures and

and those querulous times. Figments. 

Spectres. Chimeras, and terror too.

When you get somewhere you didn't

want to be; and then you never

wish to leave.