12,249. TO MARMARA

TO MARMARA

Here it is said, to be a sea

within a place of marble :

stone pillages the coastline

like Humankind wrecks 

its Earth. To speak ill of 

the dead  -  I have heard

it said  -  is wrong.

-

Greek pillars. Turkish myths.

12,248. NOTHING EVER

NOTHING EVER

Nothing ever takes off and 

the entire world is dead. I 

look for lethal weapons or 

things on fire instead; but I

find nothing at all. Kindling  -  

one would think  -  abounds, 

but listless is the name today. 

No one moves a muscle, and

nothing lasts forever. That's

what all the people say.

12,247. RUDIMENTS, pt.855

RUDIMENTS, pt. 855

(I was annealed)

'Something like a blaze of blue

water'  -  I think if I had to

characterize what I do, that

could be the words used. As

meaningless as it is difficult,

or maybe obscure, it gets the

point across. I'll try relating

experiences to make it all fit.

-

Much of my time is lived in

a form of dream-time that

answers to nothing; kind of

a spirit-time without place

or body. It's the sort of thing

that manifests itself say, while

driving; 10 or 15 minutes go

by, and I suddenly realize I

have no idea where I just was

for the previous 15 minutes,

what I passed, or how I got

to that location. The physical

aspect is totally unclear, though

my driving was steady and

safe, and well-maintained.

Something else takes over and

does all that stuff, while my

mind is at its own workshop,

working. Very hard to explain,

and I've only used 'driving' as

one easy manifestation of

what I'm explaining. I fully

understand that entire process.

My both minds grasp it, and

carry me through. I first learned

of all this years ago when I

realized how disputatious

others made me. Their concepts

conflicted with everything by

which I'd been living my life

and expectations, but I never

really had to gumption to strike

back or counter. 'Live and let

live,' became in a way my

form of saying, 'Ok then, go

on. What the heck do I care

what you do?' For someone

however, with a sense of

mission, that remained an

unsatisfactory way of

engaging or facing-off the

'other side.' Modern philosophy

will tell you 'there is no other

side, all things have their

equivalency, and people are

free to choose.' I disagree on

that point too  - but again, I've

never acted but to scold.

-

It was as if someone 'other' had

stepped into my space, which

space was, really, made of up

things not for them. It was all

a private language and space.

Explanations and examinations

of it failed. We had different

straws, in different drinks.

Period. I think that's why I

always get so irked by any of

those blandishments to unity,

sameness, community, being as

one, and all that communitarian

ethos stuff. Beware of all that,

I say. It takes anything BUT a

village to stand up for oneself

and makes one's own way and

definitions. When that stuff

begins getting pushy, it's usually

for frivolity and because you're

about to get fleeced. For me,

it all began in those seminary

years. I was never distraught,

but I could never quite figure

out what was underway. Why

always the push for niceness,

the sentimental homilies and the

fragrant pleas to God above?

First off, it wasn't even manly,

and I always felt this 'God'

would rather have a man back

at 'Him' than a fleece-mongered,

picked-over weakling. Of either

sex; yes, 'woman, can be strong

and stronger than men, and I

sure saw that. Everything was

all screwed up and my own brain,

even at that age, was on fire.

-

When young I tried to piece 

together place and location 

and motive and meaning; 

bringing it all together, as it 

were. When you get born into

one situation, that remains 

fairly much all that you ever 

see, over and over. You start

making your riddles and your

own answers to it all. The big

cosmic questions, they wait for

later : Why am I here? What are

girls for? What happens after

this? What am I expected to do 

now, and or how long? Why

this life, and not another? It's

all enough to cook one's brain.

Every so often there'd be an

older person whose brain had

cracked, went bonkers, blew its

lid. I'd seen them; we used to

have a few walking about 

Avenel. That stuff's all gone 

now, people get treated. I

don't know where the crazy 

old people have gone to,

except, yeah, they're probably 

all dead. The whole equation

has changed anyway. Today

the crazies do different things.

Buy Tesla's. Get government

jobs. Stay happy as clerks.

That whole racket is just

'waiting it out.' Once you're

involved in that stuff it's merely

a time-pattern of stall. A big 

bore. Somebody finally retires,

and in 10 months later you

hear they're dead. The 

cocoon cracked.

-

Much of my dream-time, and

still now, is haunted by that

train-wreck all those years

ago. It was like a reverse

Kryptonite to me; I drew,

and still draw, power from it.

How many other occurrences

do people have where that 

happens? I don't know, maybe

it's no big deal. Something

came and got me that day,

and kept me for a goodly

amount of time too, and then,

slowly, I re-entered the pattern

of rectification that makes up

this weird life : objects, time,

patterns, memories, recurrences,

and more. When you're in

3rd grade, and then 4th, and

all that happens to you, you're

still fresh and raw enough to

be able to work with the

re-jiggering of things. All 

that I was given back was

completely different from

what been before. I was

tapped back, into other ages, 

and led back out to walk 

straight through again, all 

of it, differently. I was

'annealed.' Coolest word

in the world.

12,246. THE BEAT LANGUAGE HAD A NEGRO BASE

THE BEAT LANGUAGE 

HAD A NEGRO BASE

And all the square cats were cool

at heart, I could dig the dog, yeah

man. There was no proposition

that ever was true or false. Your

own hang-up, man, don't be so

hard. Yo! Project your fantasies

before you turn off!

12,245. SYMPHONY

SYMPHONY

I love the attack and the

slather. Dominoes and chessman,

piled up like trash on a cardboard

tray. Checkers never did it. Marbles

seemed OK, but they weren't either.

The people who liked marbles drove

me nuts : the scatterbrained minions

of cat's-eyes and purees.

-

Then, there was the dance folks:

ballet and inebriation, to me, both

were about the same. They each

had a language of their own; one

perfect and well-sounded. The other,

a slur like a pig.

12,244. SWALLOWS IN THE CLEARING

SWALLOWS IN THE CLEARING

Desperate Michael, doing the

bird-count in the clearing

again. How that goes on, time

after time. Thin people walking

the high grass. The other man

says 'No phones, please! Turn

them off. We shan't disturb the

birds.' What a sloppy crock these

posers are. 'Shan't' -  indeed. A 

man with such compunction is

a man in need.

12,243. RUDIMENTS, pt. 854

RUDIMENTS, pt. 854

(a dump, and a lost pile of crap)
I've never been to Istanbul

but I've read 'Istanbul' by

Orhan Pamuk three times

already   -   he won the Nobel

Prize for Literature with that

book some years ago, back 

when a Nobel Prize of that

ilk really meant something,

and before it was slavishly

given to rhyming-couplet

midgets with rock n' roll

horns, and then picked up

for them by the same but

in a female guise. Seeing

Peter Handke get it this year,

believe me, really did my

heart good. At least it was

a step back into a literary

direction. I've always seen

things like this as combined

effects of effort and quality.

Effort's easy and is everywhere,

but 'Quality' has long ago

fallen off the chart and been

overwhelmed with the happy

force-field of pleasure and

entertainment. Things now are

just foisted off on us, as if

all standards, instead of

pulling up the bottom, have

allowed themselves to be

pulled down, from that top

perch into some much lower

berth of rhymes and rhythms.

It sells, and it makes money,

But, honey, literature it ain't.

-

Sometimes when I'm writing

this material myself, here, I

muse over both its caliber 

and its locus. Essentially I

have 4 things going at any

one time : Seminary; Avenel;

the Pennsylvania farm; and 

New York City. It's like a

flotilla of four small warships,

plotting through some inner 

sea and picking up along the

way, as cast-offs or found

stowaways  -  things as varied

as Camden, Ithaca, Vermont,

jazz, females, art world and

Studio School, etc., and it

runs right up to the present

day when so many things

around me (like this 'Nobel'

Prize), have fallen away to the

indentured list. There was a

time, twenty years ago, when 

it seemed safe to say, 'I know

everybody!'  -  but it's not

like that now. Many are 

deceased, from Indian Larry

and Jeff Gordon (no, not

the race-car guy), to any

number of others. In that

respect things have gotten 

fairly solitary again. But I 

have great fun and the elixir 

now seems just right.

-

'Counting ships passing

through the Bosphorous might

be a strange habit, but once I

began discussing it with others

I discovered it's common among

'Istanbullus' [residents, like him,

of Istanbul, Turkey].' That's Orhan

Pamuk speaking. In this book

I've mentioned. He writes, as do

a few others, in the vein of those

whose worlds don't stray far

from their homes, of birth and

place. Now, many people like,

instead, to travel far and wide,

relocate themselves to exciting

places, distant and rich. My circle

has closed back in, and made me 

happy. I can finish out this game,

I hope, right here, but with a

wagon-load of memory and 

experience by which to carp 

and holler about the malicious 

present. It's one thing to be in the

hands of fools; but inexperienced

fools can do no one any good.

Like Hitler and Goebbels, their

plans far outreach their reality.

In the history of America, it's 

been done time after time, 

and cities ruined. East St. Louis. 

Camden. Detroit. Great parts of 

Baltimore, New York, and

Philadelphia, thrown to the dogs.

That's the large city contingent.

What's even worse is what we

have here now  - small men, with

pea-brains running on automatic,

smashing all records for idiocy and

overreach on the smaller places
of our land. Pride goeth before

a fall. Ok. A fool and his money

are soon parted. Power corrupts,

absolute power corrupts absolutely.

(That last one was Lord Acton).

Growth and over-reach are great 

on paper, until you begin bringing 

in low-lives, borderline indigents,

and the ailing, those categories of

people who are already used to

dependency, taking and getting

from others, working the system,

and having others pay for their

miserable lives. Every one of 

those new places do not come 

cheaply  -  sewer and toilet, 

waste-water, cars and parking, 

congestion, lights, services, 

bureaucracy, clerks and clip-board 

people, agents and social workers, 

those who determine needs and 

allowances. But, we're getting 
them. As Margaret Thatcher put it, 
'Sooner or later you run out of

other people's money.'  You can't 

bring a dead town back. I can

go up and down the blocks around

me, and every 3rd or 4th house is

someone, in some capacity, working

for the government and living off

tax-dollars. I must ask, how is

that American? What principles

does that fact NOT violate in

the older, original scheme of 

the American Republic? Every 

one of those represented houses,

as well, has a fair chance of right

now having a political sign on 

the lawn for Mayor Goofball and

his Marvelettes. Is it any wonder?

-

What's gone out of the equation, 

totally, from Nobel Prize right 

down, is the factor of 'Quality.'

Noise has taken all that over.

The noise of clamor and interest

group, of the intolerance of those

who will demand never 'change'

but rather the continuation of their

status quo. That's a deadly disease,

living without quality. You can do

a million things in that capacity, 

and none of them would be worth

spit. Without quality everything is

endemic and everything is evil.

-

When I arrived in NYC, July

as it was, 1967 the first thing

I noticed (e11th street, lower 

east side, w8th street, etc.) was

heat and how tawdry everything

was. Yes, it was bad, and it was a

startling eye-opener. What saves

New York City  -  and this is for

right now too, because it's all

probably on balance about the 

same was it was then, but with

air conditioning. (Henry Miller,

'The Air-Conditioned Nightmare.'

You probably should read that too)  -

is legacy. Its legacy as 'place.' Other

places don't have that, surely not

here where I'm living now. In

NYC, if you're smart, you can find

and tap into that golden richness 

of a past that still is vivid, and it

lives, and can be found and 

accessed. It has openings! The

thing that must be done in NYC

is to keep away from the 'today'

and only find the 'Quality.' That's

the still quivering past, shaking 

yet and infiltrating the present,

for those who can read and see it.

Otherwise, just like here, it's a

dump and a lost pile of crap.

-

I've never met Orhan Pamuk,

but I bet we've spoken, and I bet

our fragment personalities know

each other well. Here's a cool

tip, if your car, by accident,

ever ends up in the Bosphorous,

with you in it : "I should remind 

readers that once a car starts

sinking it's impossible to open

a door because of the pressure of

the water against the door. How

to escape? Don't panic. Close

your window and wait for your

car to fill with water. Make sure

the doors are unlocked. And ensure

that any other passengers are

very still. If the car continues

to sink into the depths of the

Bosphorous, pull up your hand 

brake. Just as your car has almost

filled up with water, take one 

final breath of the last layer of

air between the water and the 

car roof, slowly open the doors,

and without panicking get out of

the car. I am tempted to add,

finally, that with God's help,

your raincoat won't get caught

on the hand-brake."

12,242. DON'T BE IDLE

DON'T BE IDLE

Not the section of the purple seats,

or the orange tags either; this is

the life of general admission. We

get to watch the calendar fly.

-

Winds are more fierce than you

think, so bundle that up and lean

in as you walk. It's not easy being

seen. The Matterhorn still looms.

-

'Children build houses of cards,

and knock them down. Adults

don't worry; they realize the

child will develop and they

will learn better.'

-

But the child still keeps that

sense of utter desolation, when

it realizes that it was its own

hand that knocked down the

constructed pile of cards.

12,241. RUDIMENTS, pt. 853

RUDIMENTS, pt. 853

(it's a good fit, that prison suit)

A few days ago, two women

came by my house, at the

corner. They were taking

photos with their phones,

down the street, when it

ends (Cornell Street). At

present, that dead-end stops

at what's left of a nice, peaceful

chunk of woods. I asked them

what was up, what was the

interest in the end of the

street? The one lady said,

'The Mayor said this was

going to be opened up,

and a thru-street made here

instead, for access to the

new road connecting to

Rahway Avenue.' She was

all in earnest over it, the

two of them, though they

seemed a little dense and

had some trouble, it

appeared, at first , in

determining which street

was Dartmouth and which

was Cornell. The town has

plans afoot to erect a new

school, probably more access

and apartment-ease too. My

problem immediately, again,

becomes the search for truth.

It seems there is no one around

from whom to gather correct

information, nor is any communal

outreach given, for locals. The

usual ball-scratchers, if this turns

out to be true, will go around

saying how good it is for real

estate values. That in itself

constantly baffles me. The local

midgetmen here say that all the

time. What I don't understand is

their complete lack of any grasp

on reality. People LIVE here,

and when you live somewhere

it's not so that you can move

from here. An 'increase' in some

supposed paper-value for your

house makes no sense at all

in the basic run of things. If

that was the case, for instance,

certain homes, say numbered

64 on a neighboring block,

for instance, ought immediately

to be coated in gold goo, so as

to increase future sales value.

-

Whatever goes on here, goes on.

There's no way to find out. But

I will admonish my friends and

neighbors here about civil

disobedience. And their will

be some if this takes place. I

assure you. By me. Henry

David Thoreau, sainted American

Transcendentalist and otherwise

revered figure (usually by the

same folks who know nothing at

all about him) has a fine book that

covers the topic, entitled 'Civil
Disobedience.' You should get

it, and read it. The problem with

iconic Americans like Thoreau

is that 'everyone' proper loves

them as part of the 'American'

canon  -  which they salute and

bow down to at Legion events

and parades, etc., until someone

tries putting their words into

action. All of a sudden it's a

shit-fit and a travesty. The 
barbarian sixth-graders, oops! 
I mean local politicians, from 
the tribe of Know-Nothings, and
their apes, start gagging. That's

the trouble with politicians.

They're ALL full of it and as

fake as a three-dollar bill. I will

say now, ahead of time, that 
and equipment or tractors, 
left overnight, will obviously 

not be safe, nor will the line

of illegals brought in to do the

dirty-work. There are a hundred

ways around this problem.

-

When does someone just say

they've 'had enough?' Evidence

points, in each direction, to the

multi-leveled layers of corruption

and insider sleaze that we are

presented with. Those campaign

things that keep getting sent

around, have you at all really

looked at the faces of those people,

I mean a detailed, deep look. I

can read multifarious layers of

meaning from appearances, and

these folks are already in

reptilian overdrive. Go ahead,

look again. You who like to

'vote.' You'd rather lay down

your hammers and flintlocks?

You then deserve what you

get. The silence is deafening.

-

The way Humankind has betrayed

itself  -  let itself be betrayed  -

is by acquiescing to the prevalence

of such matters. Warehouses in a

row, next to the prison, which the

school is next too, which needs

the access-roads for truck and

travel, ingress and egress (using

two old words). It's kind of

sinful. The power-suits control

you like a paddleball, and no

one barks or snaps back. Mutants

and zombies to the left, please.

-

Now, those two ladies walking

the street  -  I wonder of them.

Where'd they come from? What

sort of information did they 

possess? At this point, I don't
even know if they were correct, 
but in a dungheap of a place,
such as this town is,  with a
bastardized ruling clique, I can't
even find out, or get, a truthful 
answer. It would seem to me that  - 
with their own new traffic light
and their own back entry area, 
Station Village ought to get the 
thru-street, not Cornell Street. 
dangers abound, and I wonder 
how the fireproofing is in those 
walls. Cornell Street pays taxes.
Unlike Station Village's 30-year
rake-off. The ladies didn't even 

actually know the streets, nor 

the corner they were looking 

for, yet, they had more privileged
info than I did, and, they said, 
from the Mayor. WTF is that?
And in what way did this

info get to them? Is it even to 

be true? Is it true already, in

some short plan-book of the 

near future? With input from 

those affected? Or just to be 

a fait accompli? What are the

rights of local taxpayers? Is

Superglue in ignitions and in

steering wheels good enough?

Bowie knives and flat tires?

Citizen action doesn't usually

draw bounds, and it brings 

with  it the the consequences, 

per Thoreau. Responsibility 

of accepting what comes. Oddly

enough, that's nothing that local

sniveler political types ever face.

They never get 'consequences.'

They just stream along in their

filth and lies and corruption.