11,387. RUDIMENTS, pt. 530

RUDIMENTS, pt. 530
(didn't othello kill Desdemona?)

Pt. #1  - Dear Poster Boy: The first 

thing you should know - 

RIGHT off the bat - is 

that this is not the usual. 

In a continuing effort 

to stay fresh, I want to

lay out a new approach

for today's post. My source

of 'sweat equity', if you will.

Serious writing; content, the

thought, creativity and format. 

This one is a simple case of 

looking back, straight-shooting 

and blasting at whatever and 

whomever I feel. OK? So 

then, enough said. Let's 

begin with post-Avenel

1967: Here I am: 509 

east 11th St. Sick and 

tired of  the moment, 

momentarily, at least. 

I can't believe the crap

that passes these days

for what I have to pick

from - the effusive beauties

with the greasy teeth, and

broken-handed fey-boys 

wearing jodphurs and 

boots and looking like 

some dumpy bum-old

statesman out cutting 

brush. Everybody runs 

to the Television God 

like goons on a campus 

of fools. Their names 

all ring bells : Jethro, 

Jared, Barry and Ted. 
(Universal soldiers all).

There's nothing to 

do but NOD nod nod 

and listen : name after 

name of popular shifted 

personalities, plots of 

inane shows, twisted

and anti-cultural climbers 

swerving towards their 

ignorance. Hare Krishna

blah, blah - strange '67

shape-shifting creeps 

creating stories from 

nothing and even Nat 

Hentoff blows the penny 

whistle too - Vestry Street 

Vesey Street - he's fooled 

them all. But all they 

want to do is [evidently] 

go forward. That's their 

speed. That's his too - 

midget caretaker doctor 

of weed, fist-fighter of 

the constant urge. The 

first thing to go with 

these little cruds is 

the name : make 

something up, pile 

it on, make up an 

identity and sell 

it to the public, 

one bullshit story 

after another - and 

then tell people still 

something else anew. 

(Make up a story. Do 

what you do. Bubonic 

plague coming at YOU!). 

People have lived their 

entire lives without a 

knowledge of any of this 

stuff 'cept what they've 

heard around the 

water-cooler, and all 

of a sudden they're the 

TV experts of the 

century on stuff which 

suddenly is clear to 

them and makes sense :

"He's funny! witty! And

we understand him now 

too! All he used to do 

was MUMBLE!" (But 

Mama, if he would just 

DIE and seal up this 

petty career).

-

And then around from

the 4th Street corner 

comes Dave Van Ronk 

and Phil Ochs and ME - 

swatting flies all the way 

to 11th Street next to 

Paradise Alley right 

where I lived when 

someone tells me

there's a dead body 

in my steamer trunk - 

the very foot-locker 

that my grandaddy 

came over with or

something like that 

('my friends, we better

hide'), and now they've 

stuffed  it with Billy Joe 

and Holly or one or the 

other, and they used 

to live just upstairs 

from me in a hovel 

all their own - but 

trading places (back 

then) meant something 

much different and 

drugs were the draw 

and the drawer was 

filled with drugs - 

thanks to Andy Bonamo 

undercover narc FBI 

plant stoolie and some 

other kid with a left-handed 

trigger finger peeling 

tens like pennies from 

the cat at the door and 

he says "never paid a 

month's rent with money 

y'see - and that bastard 

outside thinks he's 

gunning for me but 

I got his number here 

on the third floor - I 

can plink him in an 

instant and they'd 

never find the blood" : 

but that was too long 

ago Suzi Ruotolo. Sheeut 

man! I knew 'em all - 

Imiri Baraka before he 

was that and Philip Guston 

after. Allen Ginsberg, and
William Burroughs too. Tuli
Kupferberf, Ed Sanders, and 
how! All that was a long time 
ago. ('But I  was so much 
older then; I'm younger
than that now...').

-
My mother used to always
talk about people being on
'Easy Street.' Where she'd
have liked to be too  -  it was
a curious phrase to me, and
I often wondered about it. 
Sometimes I used to think, 
later on, that maybe that was
the allure for me of all this
cars and motorcycles stuff, 
always blasting around 
looking for Easy Street.
She never told me the
street was closed, it was a
dead-end, a cul de sac.
-

"How is it that a dead 

body can get in the wrong 

funeral parlor?" I asked 

that once of two yokels 

in Bangor, Pennsylvania 

and all they did was laugh 

hysterically. What I meant 

was that there were TWO 

funeral parlors of the 

same name in that 

rinky-dink town and 

my friend's body was 

- evidently - in the 

OTHER one. Well,

we did eventually find it; 

it, but as much as they

laughed, that's as much 

as we thought about it 

ALL THE WAY HOME.

I used to be the tiniest 

bit involved in local 

politics, until I found 

out politicians were all 

liars. They sat me down 

one night, around a large 

rectangular table, the 

entire group of local 

pols seething with the 

resentment of those 

who run scared and 

are afraid of change, 

and asked me question 

after question - much 

as happens on a larger 

scale in any of the media 

circus hearings for justices 

or appointments to 

administrations - and 

I realized (to be sure) 

that what these clowns 

were actually doing 

was making sure that 

I did not possess ANY, 

not one, individual, 

unique or authentic 

thought about anything. 

They were scared that 

I would become not 

THEIR candidate but

my own candidate and 

thus represent the 'people' 

amidst whom I lived (who 

were, of course viewed 

NOT as 'people' but as 

pliable and stupid interest

groups and vote-mobs 

to be manipulated, 

lied-to, stolen from, 

etc., all in order to 

maintain incumbency 

and all the rest). There 

isn't a political person 

around who cares a 

damn about the people 

they represent - and 

if they say they do 

they're STILL lying. 

I've seen it from the 

inside-out (my own

interest in all this

lasted about two days. 

I was dropped like 

news of the plaque 

once my name and 

story hit the newspapers. 

I was told there were 

people in town who 

'wanted my head.').
'I came, fella's for your
funeral, but I went to 
the wrong place.'

-

In one of the bookstores

I worked at, one day we 

were told we had to take 

and move, or make sure 

that, any copy of the 

Koran for sale in our 

Islam religion section 

was on shelving which 

was higher than three 

feet (or maybe it was 

four feet, I actually 

forget) from the floor 

- as the Koran cannot 

be closer to the ground 

than that or it is deemed 

sacrilegious or whatever 

the Muslim equivalent 

of that is. So we raised 

them up. I asked if that 

meant that a Muslim 

child of less than that 

height could not hold 

or walk while holding 

a Koran, and was told 

yes, that's exactly what 

it means. That sure 

seems like a stupid 

stipulation to me - 

worrying (once again) 

about the 'appearance' 

of things rather than 

the REALITY of the 

things themselves. 

As if any LORD would 

care about a human 

measurement or a 

positioning of the 

material object 

representing the 

Word or whatever. 

It reminded me of 

the extreme reactions 

of really dense and 

stupid people - of 

which there are just 

as many, believe me, 

of the Christian faith 

- who regard slavish 

dedication and fealty 

to fixed, artificial 

and rather random 

rules about things 

and allow that to 

take over their lives. 

Much like the Catholics 

who make the sign of 

the cross on their heads 

as they walk by a church. 

What fealty to what 

motivation is that? 

GOD is watching sacred 

ground? Making sure 

the servile pig passing 

makes the sign of the 

cross? Measuring and 

ascertaining the exact 

angle of walk and 

distance which 

delineates walking 

IN FRONT of an 

edifice? I think not - 

GIVE ME in fact 

A BREAK!! If GOD 

does not play dice 

with the universe 

(Einstein) neither 

does He measure its 

rank and file as they 

walk to and fro. Get 

that? And, in  addition, 
by the Relativity of God, 

there would be no 'front'

of the church, as angles 

intersect, and in the cosmic

wheel  all things blur.
(These folks demanded

an elevator in their
one-story church, 
St. Andrew's Church.
And they got it  -  an 
elevator in their 
one-story church, for
the basement? 'Scuse me,
what? Shouldn't it only go 
one-way. Up you'd hope.
But they got it, and
air-conditioned too)
One of my best memories
are of the sweltering days
in that high-arch'd
church before AC was
installed : the heat was
unique, and I've never
since experienced that
atmosphere of presence.
A chilled church never
achieves that sense; nor
does an 'elevator' give it
any sense.
-

Doesn't it seem 

that there are no 

original thinkers 

any more - no one 

to call what is IS 

and what isn't 

ISN'T? Instead, 

we're run by the 

monsters of assembly 

hall and school, the 

hooded masters of 

thought and conjecture, 

the Big Brothers of the 
manacle'd oppression. 

Call it politics, call it 

education, call it 

whatever you will - 

it's all CONTROL 

and massive fraud. 

(Don't believe a word 

you hear until you 

source it out yourself)....

Didn't Othello kill

Desdemona?
-
Now I lay me down to 
sleep. I pray the Lord 
my soul to keep....