Thursday, January 31, 2019

11,507.YOU TAKE THE SOLO, PABLO, THIS ENSEMBLE'S OVER

YOU TAKE THE SOLO, PABLO,
THIS ENSEMBLE'S OVER
Whenever I get nervous it's
probably more nervous than need
be, than what the occurrence needs,
than warranted by the facts. Like 
when I'm doing 85, and my accelerator 
sticks. And that traffic light is red, 
about 300 feet off. Well you can do
the math  - my inner trajectory, right
then, is at true take -off point. And I
haven't even checked my brakes!
-
It's just like that : Whenever I get
nervous, my razor heads for my throat,
god-dammit! and I have to stop the
whole shave. Half done. Looking like
a clown with half a white face of foam.
Oh boy, yeah, the kids love it. The jerk
in the mirror, I swear, isn't me.
-
Whenever I get nervous my socks go
in the toaster, and I wind up wearing
bread. Whole wheat for in my shoes,
some rye as the hat on my head.

11,506. I DON'T KNOW WHY I EVER WATCHED YOU

I DON'T KNOW WHY 
I EVER WATCHED YOU
Or the Waltons either  -  what a bunch
of hokey stiffs. Earl Hamner Jr., go to
Hell. Lunch is served by the dismal 
pound here, with attendants riding
rocket-launchers to serve your every 
need, quick-to-be. While I am tired,
I profess to be awake and no one
notices my fabrication. Lance Loud
is coming over later; we seeded the
playing cards with angel-dust just
for him. A chorus of castrati will
serenade. The town hall is open, and
the bandstand now has lights for 
the midnight singalong.

11,505. HAMMING THE REAGAN EXIT

HAMMING THE REAGAN EXIT
I get so tired of people writing
about precious things : I guess it
has to do with Carlos Williams and
all that plums and wheelbarrow
stuff. When you think about it,
mostly a cage is air; rainy days
in Georgetown; when the tennis 
ball went back and forth in time;
my mother has taken me to
Paddington Station and we are
inside a whale; I want my mice
to be just like me - right now
they're all like mice; I didn't
want to eat the vine-ripened
tomato I saw on your table, but
it looked so good. I cut it in fours
and left half for you; black lives
matter, yes, but back-lives matter
more  -  we all have our stories; 
what really matters now is begonia,
and so we slit the throat of the
florist; my first drink was in my
mother, and my father died with a
bottle in his hand, and I've been 
drinking ever since both; but I have
not been, for a very long time, with
my feet on the earth; baptism is what
the living do; the rest are idols of
fish and worm; please bend that
reflection for me, OK?

Wednesday, January 30, 2019

11,504. RUDIMENTS, pt. 581

RUDIMENTS, pt. 581
('you can't do that')
I always had trouble 
with absolutes, the
idea that things can't 
be 'that' way and must 
only be 'this' way; that
there are categories and 
fixed values. I still do. 
Sometimes I believed 
that, and other times not  - 
sometimes it seemed more 
that nothing was fixed, 
and all things were always 
moving, in flux, with 
changeable notions and 
limits and that there 
weren't really any absolute
rights and wrongs. Yet 
then I would stop and 
say  'but there had to be, 
otherwise  the law of the 
jungle would  have taken 
over long before,' and then 
I also stopped and said 'but
yes, hasn't it done that, 
isn't that it?' I guess I 
never knew  -  even people 
with flags most often have 
that flag blowing, changing 
direction, going around 
with whatever wind was 
blowing harshest. That 
made no sense either. 
If they never look up 
to see that, that's not 
my problem. No flag
is made of tiles and 
concrete. So, what then 
to do about anything? 
Get all forceful and 
scary, start throwing 
weight around? Making
sure things are only that 
ONE way  -  that's pretty 
much the way of Society 
and schooling and churches 
and doctrine and catechisms 
and all. But it never made 
any solid sense for me  -  
unless it came from me, 
I didn't much believe 
anything. I'd be walking 
around, in these big walks, 
just to go on thinking of 
things without an interruption. 
Pretty much along the way 
anywhere in NYC, if you're 
out walking and all, wherever 
you're headed or wherever 
you are, no one much 
bothers you. There's a 
certain sort of forced 
anonymity there that 
just drapes itself over 
everything, and that's 
pretty good and valuable
too. It allows you to think; 
the rest of the place might be
a wreck  -  people struggling 
and scraggling over things, 
trying to sell and buy, and 
all that  -  everything that 
just seems so fruitless and 
short-sighted. Some days 
I'd be on the subway, for 
somewhere, and I'd watch 
all these flashy-dressed 
dudes getting on for their 
downtown runs to stocks 
and finance jobs and all. It 
was all confusing to me, in 
that their flash and protocol 
seemed to be all about looking 
good, dazzling with shirt, 
suit, shoes and coats and 
jackets, as if they were NOT 
just going to some telephone 
cubbyhole to be soliciting 
buy or sell orders and day 
and sequencing trades. Any 
one could do that, in pajamas 
if need be. I realized there 
had to be something else 
going on  -  and there was. 
The Narrative.
-
The narrative here was: 
if you do it right, if you 
can project your success, 
it can be yours. These guys 
were like prom dates every 
day, just for some almost 
dim-witted pencil job  -  
papers, clips, clipboard, 
telephones. An order 
board and a stock ticker. 
It was all very primitive  
-  no computers yet, the 
old ticker-tape registers 
were always clacking and 
running, updates of prices 
and featured stocks and 
offerings were kept current 
on posted on long wall 
boards, attended to by 
stock-clerks; runners ran 
with orders and reports 
and envelopes and packets, 
one brokerage house and 
back to another. It was 
mad mayhem, and for 
some reason, other than 
'lunch' when it all turned 
back into that preening 
glamour of all these guys 
and ladies seeing each 
other in neutral places  
-  lunch rooms, bars, 
eateries, restaurants of 
whatever rank and station. 
That's maybe really the 
only time the clothes and 
fashion and look made 
any sense, perhaps. To put
across a sense of station.
Then it was right back 
into the shout and the grind. 
I couldn't figure  -  should 
I get a cool job as a stock-boy 
runner (I could have; they 
were a dime a dozen, got 
paid cheaply, and were 
basically the mules and 
burros of the financial 
district, like I said, 
running orders and 
packets around). It was 
bottom-rung stuff, but 
sometimes it was a leg 
up for far better jobs 
within the market rooms 
themselves. But I denied 
myself the glories of 
having to look like that, 
in those ways and manners 
of dress and comportment. 
I was a bum, and I sensed 
I knew it, from my core 
out. And anyway, if I had 
to do something (which I 
didn't) I'd much rather be 
tossing fruits and vegetables, 
or boxes of whatever, down 
at the docks. Drinking and 
saucing with the old guys, 
hanging around the diner 
there, seeing Tre again, 
watching a good rumble; 
all that.
-
Funny thing about it all 
was that I would keep 
thinking about the rules 
and the absolutes people 
lived by to get to those 
junctures  -  places that 
corral them narrowly 
into something for the 
rest of their days. It all 
comes down to agreeing 
to accept preconceived 
and agreed-upon ideas, 
as I saw it, and they'd 
all willingly accepted 
that, and the flash and 
the clothes and the 
glamour and the 
briefcases and the 
money too, I guess, 
all that came with it. 
A trap, I thought. You 
lose options, you glimmer 
your personal creativity 
and wonderment down 
to nothing. Like a guy 
coming back from Vietnam 
with his bottom jaw blown 
off; a real mess on one's 
hands for the rest of one's
days. It's manageable, 
but damned tough. 
I just always figured that 
universalisms and reason 
sucked. If you're fixing 
a washing machine  -
motor to pulley to water 
tank to agitator spin switch 
and all the rest  - it's perfect; 
the sequence, the logic, 
the precision. Cold and 
secure, A following B 
and the rest. That's good 
for machines and metal 
and plastic switches maybe, 
but not for people and 
hearts and minds. It's at 
that point that everything 
goes wrong, sets out 
wrongly, on the wrong 
spur, and starts speeding. 
No philosopher or thinker 
has ever even agreed on 
things like equality and 
justice, and of these things 
they have no unambiguous 
meanings or answers. What
does? (In fact, look at that 
initial sentence here, 
'If you're 'fixing' a 
washing machine...'
  -  that in itself says 
a lot. To be 'fixed' it 
has to conform to its 
procedure).
-
Things were just always 
too ambiguous for me. 
We may think we have 
a clear idea of things like 
justice and equality, but 
those ideas then depend 
on other ideas, which we 
also have no surety of. 
That's what 'Society' is 
about, and those in charge 
demand that you follow 
their dictated narrative 
so as to understand things 
their way. This we end up, 
sullenly, accepting ONE 
reality and ONE way of 
things, when all of that is 
completely false. 'Meaning 
and truth are always deferred' 
(Jacques Derrida). They are 
never present in the ideas 
that we state. NOW, read 
this carefully (Derrida again) : 
'The signified concept is never 
present in and of itself in a 
sufficient presence that 
would refer only to itself. 
Essentially and lawfully 
every concept is inscribed 
in a chain or a system 
within which it refers 
to the other.'
-
Certainly out the window. 
Our ideas only have meaning 
in relation to other such concepts 
of same, even if they are not 
explicitly thought of. Thus, 
we never have a complete 
grasp of what we are talking 
about, or the ideas we are 
writing or speaking of. 
Because definitive 
understanding is always 
elusive, the project of 
reasoning together to reach 
a shared sense of justice, 
or whatever, that preserves 
the freedom of all parties, 
is doomed. Someone will 
always claim ownership 
of the Narrative; and then 
you/me are sunk, unless 
that is accepted. I refuse 
the acceptance. It's a dog 
eat dog world, and I notice 
that dog is eating steak.
I wonder at whose expense.

11,503. DODGE TRUCK

DODGE TRUCK
The guy with the truck
was yelling at the other:
'Don't lean on my truck,
you arm will mar my Ram!'

11,502. YOU'VE DONE SERVICE IN '45

YOU'VE DONE SERVICE IN '45
The other day, in a large and
rambling military cemetery, I
was looking for an uncle I'd 
known. A married-in guy, later
in  life -   nothing blood or like
that. He'd just been buried there
in, maybe, October or so. My
own in-laws were somewhere 
there too. This time my wife
found them right off; they're
right at the edge of their row.
It's crummy place though, all
flat plaques, no headstones to
speak off, nothing sticking up
from the ground  - row after row
of military casualties and vets.
The people line up, with their
cars, every day, for the latest to
be interred come rolling in. Each
little plaque gives their war and 
their dates. Everybody's old now,
and everybody dies; and even
the young ones come here.

11,501. IN THE BACK OF MY CAR SINCE FOREVER

IN THE BACK OF MY
CAR SINCE FOREVER
The box was forgotten and
unmarked too -  some books 
and a notebook I'd written in.
I remember its 'being,' but never
knew where it had gone. I mostly
had tried to forget it. The it turned 
back up, by chance, or by the chance
moving of something else. All the
references seemed out of date, but
that could easily be changed. A
few good things, right off, jumped
out : like the one about the spotted
jungle animal being the 'ocelot' and
the average American animal being 
the 'owes a lot.' That might still hold
up. But some of the other tales were
trite and just as foolish. I'd given even 
Aesop a damn good run, but I 
didn't want any of it now.

11,500. RUDIMENTS, pt. 580

RUDIMENTS, pt. 580
('hold this on your head')
In the late 60's there was a
rash of art-inspired happenings,
sort of seat-of-the-pants type
provocations, done right out
on the street and in people's
faces. The idea was to drag
the morons out of their own
lethargy and push their myopia
forward a bit, to see other
angles  -  like Vietnam, for
instance. No one knew shit
about that 'war'  -  least alone
the grunts who had to go out
and fight in it, perhaps die in
it, and never get the full tally
of what was going on and why
they were being told to do what
they were doing. The average
stateside, at-home, person,
they'd get more worked up
about Muhammed Ali being
a Muslim, or Jimi Hendrix
screwing around with the
Star-Spangled Banner, than
most anything else, 'cept
sports and sex and TV shows
and the rest. Pure American
drivel, yeah, and expected to
be defended with a bullet to
the heart or through the brain,
just so those 'Yellow bastards
don't run down and take over
Vietnam...' as the wordings all
went. What a nasty crock of shit
that all was. Over at e11th, we
had kids coming in, scared to
death for the living of their own
lives, deserting in numbers and
running up to Canada. 16 at a
time, mostly, they'd be slumped
out all over the floor, sleeping on
blankets, until the next van came,
Toronto bound usually. To my
mind, that was patriotism. Get
outta' town Mr. Brown, and my
own patriotism too was in seeing
that it all got done. Guys, and
girls too, fleeing the military.
In all those days, really I don't
think I ever needed more than
two bucks a day to live on. It
was all easy; people leaving
clothes behind, money around
or left in their pockets, forgetful
stuff. One guy gave me a great
pair of shoes on his way out,
he didn't need carrying an extra
pair and they were just my size,
14 triple E (OK, just kidding,
ladies). I wore them for a long
time  -  real leather, round toe,
zipper side. Real different. It
was all like that  -  cast-offs and
things left behind. The part of
the street theater and all the
provocation, that was gravy.
-
To me, all this went to show how
broad, misguided, and lethal,
propaganda could be. It was
everywhere, even back then. 
The Coke and Pepsi commercials,
heck, the Miss Breck print ads,
they were all set up as the sort
of propaganda that advances the
narrative of those in power  - 
same as now, it's still done, it's
just that now the people doing it
are smaller, have smaller brains, 
and fewer references to fall back
on. That's what the street-theater
and art-provocation was all about:
to smack people around, wake them
up. You get a local representative 
with a sixth-grade level mind now,
and you're supposed to be 
thankful for it.

Most of my provocation was
in just going back and forth
and keeping people off-key.
Or off-stride anyway. Like
today, jumping ahead fifty
years, I got into this slimeball
Mayor's speech using a good
disguise (as Rabbi Ari Schneerson,
Temple Beth Orr). I stayed at
the rear, and just slid out as
he finished. It was funny, like
the President, he gives a 'State of
the Union' Address, to Congress,
to the assembled Senators and
Representatives, those are the
people to whom he answers,
as the Executor and they the
Legislators. To those to whom
he's beholden. So, what's the
asshole Mayor do? Talk to the
people, who pay him and for
whom he is supposedly Mayor?
No, he speaks to a roomful of
salivating business schmucks,
realtors, brokers, developers,
corporate handkerchief types who
can't wait to continue the destruction
of Woodbridge as they pocket the
dollars, deals, payoffs, and people
they can steal, and steal from. It's
all so disgusting I sat there thinking
about gun control. We can't have
them. I bet the Mayor has a gun.
I bet the assorted council babies
own guns. I don't know what
any of it's all for, but it sure
ain't Government, in my book.
And, by the way, this is one of
those times when I maybe just
get angry and stay that way. It's
all a provable case of pure and
reckless dereliction. When those
thieves come to get you in the
middle of the night, don't say
I didn't warn you.
-
Sometimes, better than other
times too, I was so lost in the
deep, green woods I had trouble
remembering my own name.
Everyone used to think drugs
were the answer to the tremolo
of trouble they all bore. Hell, that
wasn't anymore true than that
Alice in Wonderland was a whore
for Jesus. The truth of the matter,
and I found it out, dead serious
and on the money too, was that
it's all inside you, everything.
Every last one of us has the
resources to turn this world
ass-over backwards into truth
and allegiance, but all most
people do is screw it all up.
I never drove my car through
the drug-scene, nor their crowd;
mostly a bunch of self-absorbed
misfits with dicks for brains. I
didn't need any of that, and I
already knew I was better at
heart than any of them  -  the
Long Island drug-pushing sons
of bitches, the landlord-Jew-
excelsior types living for
money alone and expecting
to have to do nothing for it;
the fakers, the story-tellers,
the liars  - I was sick of all
of them.
-
The farther I got out and away
from all that, the better it began
feeling. Except for the Winter
isolation  -  which never much
bothered me  -  most people really
would end up liking country life
better that the bottled-up gin
and misfit suburban crowd of
living they go through here. For
one thing, country people are
inured to realty. They don't take
keenly to misrepresentation or
being lied to. Around here, it's
just normal process.
-
Oftentimes I look around me
now, when I'm doing things, and
I realize they're all dead, lots of
the people I knew. They're
dwindling and dying off and
that whole old world with them
Right about now it's not charity
and it's not goodness that keeps
me going. The girls tell me not
to curse so much, that I should
start saying nice things and be
mindful  -  hell no, I say. Now's
the right time for me to be the
nasty alleycat nobody wants
around  -  because they're all
a bunch of shits anyway, those
people around. They have the
gall even to call themselves
men. The way they now lurk
about,  with nothing going
on, no thoughts in fool heads,
beaming in their little uniforms
and hanging tight with their
on little asshole cliques while
pretending to be doing people's
business. The little midget
bastards.
-
One thing for sure, no one
ever says I'm true or not making
stuff up. Everything I do is a
mystery with a clue, and it's all
put out there, parable like, as if
it was holy writ. You take your
clues from where you hang.
-
The worst guy I ever knew,
really, in the wilds of Pennsylvania,
well, maybe second-worse, was
a newly returned Vietnam veteran
farm guy from out there, right
around where I lived. If you can
say morose, vile killer, you've
about summed it up for him.
There wasn't anything noble
about this guy at all. and the
first thing they did when he got
back, in the next, nearby little
town over, was make him one
of their police force. It was all
supposed to be some honor and
homage they were paying this
local boy for defending the colors
of Liberty in those faraway
hamlets and jungle scenes. I
don't know where any of them
got their thinking from, but it
was probably the usual civic
and municipal-minded upchuck
that usually runs things  -  this
guy was a certified, unregenerate
madman; he still fought some
strange, weirdly schismatic war
in his head, and his new battlefield
became the highways and roads
he patrolled. How you could deem
to, first, arm someone like that and
pay him for his services weekly,
and, secondly, give him a badge
and send him out there alone with
sole prerogatives as to what was
and was not the law and lawful
things, was beyond me. That's
the how; why would come next.
-
The big, old Troy Hotel was about
a block off from the small police
station, and I'm not sure the two 
ever met. In between them was
a small, one-level cinder-block
thing they call Troy Hospital. That
was as good a middle-ground as
ever to have between the two, 
since it probably well-served the
purposes (and overlap) of each;
even if it only had a part-time
doctor for whom the average wait
time for arrival was 45 minutes.
'OK, so don't die on us and press
this hard onto the wound while 
you wait, to keep the bleeding
down. Doctor will be here soon.'
Yeah, the nurse-ladies were real
nice. I went in there one day
with a stitch-able head-wound, 
early on in the morning, like
7am, and had to wait until
10:30 until they opened, or at
least until someone showed up.
-
Some of the stories this 
cop-trawler guy used to tell 
me were enough to make even 
me shudder  -  and I can take
a lot, usually. His stories 
seemed pretty much evenly 
divided, sort of, between a
Vietnam setting (boy, none 
of them were very nice, and 
they all involved death, killing, 
or snuffing. If that was 'war'
I was triply glad I'd never seen
it), and highway happenings 
right thereabouts, Route 6, 
Route 14, etc. From what he 
told me, the last thing I'd want 
to bee back then was a female
pulled over for speeding.
-
Well, that's my report for this
chapter. Rabbi Schneerson.