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?

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.