12,522. DREADNOUGHT OASIS

DREADNOUGHT OASIS

This black sky is deep and

callous, light-years back into

space. Any stars are just stars.

What flies by is space debris,

any moving thing I see.

-

Why have we made these

mountains, I wonder, just so

we can shave them? Deeper

velvet than this never happens.

12,521. NEWSPAPERS OF NOMENCLATURE

NEWSPAPERS OF NOMENCLATURE

'This President is surely dead!'

the headline read. I replied in

a broad scrawled hand, 'Only the

living know the dead!' Meaning,

take heed, think forward, stay

positive, forge on. Never really

knowing what it meant, I stole

my friend's Ducati and rode off.

-

I don't think he ever noticed.

12,520. RUDIMENTS, pt. 949

RUDIMENTS, pt. 949

(no Paradise involved)

Every so often I about just

give it up. Like now. Going

back to Elmira where it seems,

at least, like a more sensible

place and I don't need to keep

up with the sub-par Joneses,

as it goes. Mad dukes and

all those Ferdinands. There's

a place there, calling me.

-

Now, I mentioned to tell you how

nothing exists, and I intend to do

so. If I was a cigar-smoking man,

about now I'd light up one of

those long-burning, expensive

ones, to tide me over for the

onslaught. All the days I poked

around in NYC, I spent a lot of

lost moments looking for things

like answers. Some of them were

church kinds of things. Funniest

item in the world is how, in most

parts of the center sections of the

city, and Philadelphia too, now to

mention it, there are churches and

church edifices every 1500 feet, it

seems  -  along the broad avenues,

clustered and regal, high, soaring,

impressive. Even Elmira, at its

old city center, was a fort of

churches. Denominations and

anti-slavery places, where the

great northern Abolitionists

preached and fomented their

sedition and civic unrest, in a

manner you'd never get away

with today  -  Homeland Security,

due to insecurity, would have

you in a snatch, and, probably

if you were a woman, they'd

have your snatch too, and get

away with it in the name of

National Security. It's funny

now how we allowed that sort of

totalitarian-type control to seep in

and not even be thought about.

I think that's called 'insidious' or

'invidious,' or one of those, close.

The whole idea of these churches,

however, was display; not much

else but pride actually. There was

no tie-in to the story line of birth

or creation or well-being of the

spiritual kind. The key object was

money; was showing off, was

comparing your own status

against those of others. In a

place like a congregated and

mercantile city, as well, the

usefulness of all that garment

and materialism shopping was

in having it out on the display-day

Sundays, when one or more of

your household servants and

dressers would put it out for

you and maybe even help you

adorn yourself in it. That was

the extent of church and religion,

and don't tell Papa. If any of

it was highbrow it was the

lowest form of highbrow then

known to man.

-

The concept of 'God' and 'Deity,'

although it got a broad billing,

was actually far behind the rest of

all this and was granted a lip-service

at best. There was, and probably

still is, a curious vein of America

life equating good-fortunes, riches,

and business success with a proper

form of righteous divinity. If

you were 'no good,' it was thought,

your efforts and appearances in

turn would reflect your position as

a non-elect. As time went on, all

that ever occurred was the deepening

and enrichening of the God and

origination stories.  In so many

respects, that embellishment was

really the only reality these stories

had. You see, as it all went along,

everything was translated downward

into the situation of 'God' operating

in purely human ways and with

purely human motivations  -  as

if this Earth-tending was the one

and all-consuming task of the

Deus guy. Here's the rub:

not true.

-

Mankind has been called the

Crown of Creation. Not sure why,

no, but  -  still got that cigar?  -

it has been. Granted, we make

pretty good bombs and guns, know

how to split hairs and fight over

borders, maintain ideologies, and

destroy the Earth. But apparently

none of that counts for anything,

certainly not as anything detrimental

to the Human cause. Yet. God

would have known all this, or

should have, by our designs of

Him anyway. BUT, a true God

would really need none of this;

not evidences, not tangibles,

not sequences, not any this-for-

that stuff. Embroiling all Creation

in a 'ONE,' and a cosmic 'One'

to be sure, all this God would

have had to do  -  and it would

probably have taken maybe 10

minutes of God-time  -  was to

make a 'Human' format being

with the capability built-in to

accept everything. Causation.

A perennial offshoot of the

controlling acceptance of every

new and latest contingency as

it arose. Every form of Godness

and origination, and thus all

the religions and inflammatory

aspects of same, the ideas of

things like box, shoes, logic,

trees, steel and water. If I told

you that backwards was forwards

and water was round and fire was

cold and hollow was solid, and

if I did it all blessedly enough,

it would be believed and taken

up, purely by the factor of the

Human aspect of reciprocation

and validation. The psychology

of Life is based on the shared

and inter-personal assumptions

of billions of people at any one

time and  -  if this 'God' figure

was wise, which is sui generis

to the thing itself, It would have

known all this; needing to do

not a darned thing after the one

point A of input origination.

We were given all we'd ever

need to much things up. There

was no Paradise involved, nor

any reality either. Just make a
'Human' that believes all that.

-

So, anyway, it was a slow drive

and a short trip for me to enter

the halls of craziness. I did it on 

the Bowery. There had been a fight, 

and a man was there, lying on the

sidewalk, atop much broken-bottle

glass, and blood; I figured 'his' blood.

Short of alcohol, it's usually blood

that seeped from these guys, wounded

or in any other kind of in-extremis

scene. No one did a thing, not

even stopping. I just stood there.

Crying. I had become overwhelmed

and confused by everything, and I

truly felt something inside my

head snap. What that snap may

have been, it's never returned to

set me back a'right. It was a

damage, to be sure, but a damage, 

as I saw it, in the right direction,

and a direction away from all this

human bullshit I'd been attempting

to deal with. That was my last foray

into marketable reality.
(Next: All that wasn't there).

12,519. HABERDASHER METRONOME

HABERDASHER METRONOME

Sliding my fingers into new gloves,

the soft kind with rabbit-fur, that

used to be such a frilly thing to do.

I haven't done that for 30 years now,

since that particular work-era's been

over. Sensations pale with all that

stuff : wearing a Winter scarf, along

with those gloves, and a gentlemanly

adult long-coat. Why?

-

Stocks and bonds guys went like that

everywhere, everyday. Riding their

seamless trains with aplomb, fussing

mightily over their shirts and ties.

Did you ever see how many shoe

stores there are in the financial 

district? Tie stores as well. I

never even understood what

a 'wingtip' was.

-

Weighty loss. Character of flight.

Haberdasher metronome, all those

coats and ties. The clanging sound of

Earthly fashion, pealing for nothing

but concealing a passion. No one

knows what they're really doing.

12,518. ALWAYS TAKEN CARE

ALWAYS TAKEN CARE

I've always taken care with the

little things I've handled and mostly

let the big things slide. Figuring they

were expansive enough as it was to

take care of themselves. Concepts

and derivations alike. Not that

there's any motivation for me

to do either. Each foot in a

different world?

-

I can't slice tomatoes, and I've

never cooked a thing. I'd rather 

starve than eat, given to choice,

of course, by necessity only. I've

never been a refugee, so I've never

faced that point.

-

Once, I heard of rumors  -  old and

fading things, like 'Moxie' when it was

a drink, back then, with Coke and

Pepsi. Mello-Rolls once; same deal.

Tumbleweeds; Depression shacks;

Ricketts and starving horses. I've

had a fortunate life, I suppose.

12,517. RUDIMENTS, pt. 948

RUDIMENTS, pt. 948

(coming down easy, lord god almighty)

You know how someone

always wants you to level

with them? I quit caring at

about 7:15. There are always

too many variables, and no

way of ever knowing for

sure that you've got your

point across. It's just, after

that point, a deep, chancy,

hole. That was most often

the kind of gray area I

always lived in, even when

little (young). Some say

'Libra'  -  you're all like

that; others say, 'You're

too sensitive.' Who knows

what about any of that?

-

My eyesight has always

been different  -  I can see

all those burn marks and

nicks and things that others

miss. It's not always fun.

This morning I was standing

under a line of fir trees, which

were slightly blowing in the

wind. At one level, the usual

swooshy noise that fir trees

make was going on, and then,

at another level, with the wind,

there were groans and creaks

and almost song-line music

sounds also emanating.

And....I got to thinking. I

began wondering about this

entire Creator/Creation thing.

Doing ONE thing at a time,

I'd imagine, didn't exist in

this God's kingdom or things

by fiat. Perhaps it was all-at-

once? Or just outside of time

and any considerations of it?

BUT, how much of this did or

would this Creator have known?

Take the fir trees, as an example.

Would Creator X have known

of the wind, and the swoosh;

probably, yes? Or just the trees?

In addition, would Creator X

have also know that, in addition

to the swoosh and wind, there

was another entire level of

interactive 'music' that was to

be achieved? Would Creator

X have tried all these sounds

out; to know that, instead of

music some vile strings of

curse words would not

emanate instead? That the

rubbing branches would not

burst into flames? How much

of this was concept? How much

was conjecture, if 'God' even

does conjecture? Anyway,

the wind (that same wind?

Or does sequential time divide

things up so there are always

'different' winds?) was blowing.
It was nice moment and then

I hear some lady screaming.

I'm at the river-bend, Raritan,

and just off a ways there's a

dog park. She's screaming,

'You pushed me! You assaulted

me!' Way out of control, I

could tell, instantly. A guy

had come in with his 2 dogs,

the lady's dog got a bit aggressive

over the new entries, (they were

all 'small' dogs), the guy had

gotten pissed off, swept the

ladies little dog up and quite

nearly threw it at her, during

which time it did come off as

him pushing the dog into her

chest. He then 'ordered' her

and her dog to get out! It was

not developing very well, and,

in the interim, another lady in

the large dog park starts yelling,

'I called 911!!' The doom bells

began ringing. The guy's freaking

out; two cop cars swiftly arrive.

-

I knew nothing, and had seen

nothing; did not wish to be

questioned, implicated, or

pointed out as a witness. 'The

hairy guy saw it, the bum was

a witness.' The bum was not.

The big scene took ten minutes,

the people were separated, some

sort of a review was written,

and I kept on walking.

-

When each of us had arisen

that morning, was this already

in our cards? Or was this a

chance meet and a chance

happening? Was Creator X

here aware of this small plight?

How free is free, how wrong is

wrong, and how right is right?
Sometimes I think there are
too many songs playing at once 
for there to be any music at all.
Was that figured in too?

-

I guess I'd have to say I've always

been touchy about time. Like, as I

opened this chapter, I said it was

7:15 or something. Right now it's

1:04. That's already into the next

day. I kind of hate sleep, except

for the dream quotient parts of it,

which I always enjoy, read into

carefully, and try never to get out

of. Reverse-step backwards. I

like it there. It was always my goal

to stay up right through as many

nights as I could  -  I mean, cleanly.

No drugs or amphetamines. That's

just BS cheating. I liked it straight

and natural, and I got it done any

number of times. 2 days was about

my limit, then everything got hazy,

groggy, and I began losing interest.

Which is a bad sign for a writer-type.

Missing too much of what's around

you can be deadly. It's important to

be on full-alert. What starts happening,

to drunks and addicts, I've noticed,

is that everyone begins writing like

Hemingway. Ernest (that's a wordplay),

short sentences. Direct head-hits with

little flourish. And you know why?

That's because they tire. The mind

tires. Its discretion for detail is

lost. Bravado takes over. The fire

is dwindled. Long-views, like any

outside vantages, are gone.

-

Do you see what I just did there, 

in my maleficence of spite and 

ill-will? I mimicked a suicide. I 

acted a Hemingway. Not good,

mind you, but I did it. That's an

up-two-days binge and all on 

dry matter. I used to walk the 

docks, when there were docks, 

and there'd be all these sheds

and almost lean-to's, all jumbled

together at water's edge; trucks

and guys hanging around, boat

noises, and those really cool

nighttime harbor whistles and

bare lightbulbs glistening off

the swaying water. I was there

one day, I sense it was afternoon,

with my father  -  who'd come

in to the city in his 1960 Chevy

station wagon, sky-blue, looking

for me; making sure maybe I 

wasn't dead or something. How 

he ever thought he'd find that

out just by cruising around is

beyond me. But, this time he

knew where I was. So we're

sitting around, watching stuff

happen (this was the years when

the elevated West-Side Miller

Highway still ran overhead, along

the waterfront, and you could

freely pork or dump a car or truck

there, under the overpass roadway.

It was real east then, and, as

they would say now, real 

laid-back). All of a sudden he

springs up, all agitated and

excited, and rushes over to the

nearby hot dog guy at the cart.

Turns out, it's 'Tony Mantovani'

or some guy from Bayonne he

grew up with. They hadn't seen

each other in like 4,000 years

and it was great, old, homecoming

day from that point. I got called

over, introduced as Number One

son, all sorts of geographical

crap exchanged, life-tales, 'where

you been, what you do now Andy,'

stuff. It was OK, but after that

time this Tony guy always knew

who I was, which I didn't much

like. But it got me a free hot dog

here and there, which was good.
It was cool to know my father
knew a hot-dog vendor! And

my father was always funny

about stuff. Like friendships,

and names too. To him the

whole idea of being a friend

was a constant 'present.' Time

never existed; like with this

Tony guy, it was as if only

10 minutes had elapsed and

and they were still 14. And

names too  -  Tony was lucky

because he was already a Tony,

but anyone else, instantly, got

the shortcut name. Robert

was immediately 'Bobby.'

Joe was 'Joey.' Ed was 'Eddy.'

you might as well always have

been born with a first name

that ended in 'y'  -  as far as

he was concerned. Mostly it 

was OK, no one ever really 

seemed to mind, but, to me,

to be honest about it, I detested

my father for given away his

low-class status by doing that.

Like at the Studio School once,

I introduced him to this rich guy,

Bontacore du Montpassant,

from somewhere in France

or something. He starts to

immediately address him 

as 'Bonny.' Not really, just 

kidding, to produce a point.

-

So, anyway, I'm going to

go on here with lots more 

stuff, but these right now 

particular recollections are to

show how I became 'religious.'

I don't know what else it's

called; it's not about any of

that defined church-crap, or

doctrine, or any of that. That's

all secular junk you can heave

out the nearest window. That's

all the 'Devil coming in the

name of the Lord stuff.' I'd 

rather pace the stage at Carnegie

Hall naked than have to put up

with any of that. Real 'religion'

is different. It's spiritual, and the

sort of thing that fills the lungs

with fire, but doesn't burn

them a bit. Next chapter is

my theory of Creation, as 

revealed to me, perfectly, and

it all proves that nothing really

exists at all. You'll see.

12,516. SEEKING SOLACE IN A PURBLIND WORLD

SEEKING SOLACE IN 

A PURBLIND WORLD

I'm just looking for comfort but

that smudge in the finish, the thing

I keep seeing, the blur that my eye

cannot miss, continues to interfere

with my sight. If I were a medievalist,

I'd call it a vision to then be revered.

-

How ever did all that go : those hymnals

and prayerbooks, those people on knees,

those flagellants, propelling themselves

with the hot steam of their presumed guilt?

Then, when, and how? Black Death. The

pestilence, and plague.

12,515. THE BREAKFRONT IS BROKEN

THE BREAKFRONT IS BROKEN

My dog's name is Weemie. It's just

a name. The same way as iceberg

lettuce is just a name, and the same

way my Mother called a breakfront

a 'China Closet.'

12,514. CATALOGUE

CATALOGUE

The milkman no longer has his matinee,

and these are some things I dislike : Emotion.

Vanity. Exhibitionism. Children. Motherhood.

Childhood. Sentimentality. Self-Absorption.

Fandom. Loud Noise. Screeching. Pretension.

Piling On. Money. Lists. David Reed's Electric-

Colored Art. Actual Blueprint Figures, Designs

and Sketches too. And Self-Correcting Errors.

12,513. RUDIMENTS, pt. 947

RUDIMENTS, pt. 947

(those guys were like nails)

You know, people talk a lot

about nostalgia, and all those

dear old days they remember.

All that's good, as it goes, but

there has to be more substance

to memories too. Just alone,

a memory really isn't worth

much. It's only when a memory

gets ingrained, within the psyche,

that it too begins producing its

own force-field, a sort-of playback

into the present time and space.

Usually, the predictable dullards

will step to the fore and say that

anything will leave a memory,

and kids today will just have a

'different' memory of things.

Yeah, I guess….and it works

like that if you're an idiot. Of

course they'll say that, because

they're making money off

the changes, now.

-

One interesting thing I ran across,

in a book by someone else, ('Body

Leaping Backward - Memoir of a

Delinquent Girlhood') - and used 

as the opening dedication-quote,

is by Bruce Springsteen, of all

people. It's not the most clear

image, nor said in the best way,

but maybe it bears some thought:

"The first eighteen years really

shape you forever. It's like a

glass of water filled with mud.

You can pour clear water in it

until it appears clear, but there's

still mud there." So, I guess it

carries something, but the thing

that baffles me, often enough,

and here now too in the town I

live in  (major-domo hell-hole) is:

They're to be in the process of

removing from the 'town' center,

(which isn't really that any more at

all, since everything is dead and

abandoned and moved out to the

sameness of the highways  -  motel
truckers living right next door to 
welfare loafers, next to a CVS tucked 
inside a Walgreens tucked inside 
a liquor store, next to a TD Bank 
tucked inside a Chase bank), the

two schoolhouses that have been

in place forever. Moving them for

the usual bogus and crap reasons,

but anyway. They're being moved 

out to the lower swamps, next to 

the prison and a state facility; real

crappy area, Authority pouncing

everywhere, sex-offenders, 

behavioral modification centers,

etc. and in the flat-ass middle of

nothing good at all. And let's
not forget the 83 million dollars
needed (bond issue) after the tax
giveaways and come-ons extended
to the sleaze-projects in the first 
place as 30-year tax exemptions. 
Something stinks in Denmark, and 
it isn't Hamlet the Dane.

-

In any case, whenever anyone talks

about their growing-years' memories

of Avenel, it eventually usually does

always come back to those 2 school 

structures and the small wall that 

fronted them at the street. Now they're

even taking that away and the kids are 

going to have absolutely no sense of 

place and being. They're going to be 

schooled in a concentration camp, 

locked and closed up, environment.

All they're going to  remember

is that their parents threw them to

the dogs, in the middle of nowhere.

Cop cars and prison vans. That's the 

stupidest sort of 'Adult' thought I ever 

heard of. But at least it's near to an

'Adult' correctional facility. Most all

else around there is gone or broken

up, to the extent that the new people

gagging around are clueless about

even where they are. In addition,

they couldn't care less. The same

authorities however, who lug their

big butts around bragging over

legacy and lineage and history,

and local stuff  -  intent as they are

on thievery and not preservation  -  

will go about squandering still

more and unaccountable tax dollars

to erect a 'Museum' for all this

echoing and long-ago-lost crud.

And the locals lap it up like Maypo

in the morning. If idiots ran races

here, we'd be having a brass-band

double-marathon. We stupidly
celebrate the past while offering
them crap for their future; not even
noticing the difference, tell them
we're the adults here.

-

Funny how, in ancient Greece, the

word idiot meant 'One who does

not partake of public life/events.'

No it means just the opposite.

It's Greek to me.

-

It's funny about memories anyway;

they come from all over the place,

if you know how to catch them, and

they are the most human of things.

They hang by a hair, and in dying

give birth to a dandruff  -  it's that

dandruff that gets us. Names running

back to sources. Reverberating like

spun harps. Tears that fall on warm

fruit, and make waterfalls far away.

Another of the problems around here

and one that's way overlooked, is 

that there really never was anything 

here to begin with. The great houses

and knowledge, they all followed

the great crops : tobacco, cotton,

sugar, apples. Nothing here, Charley

Brown. Nothing at all except fast

food, doctor's offices, car shops, 

drive-ins and drive-outs and that

sweet smell of excess, everywhere.

-

I walked through lots of trees in

my day, and every tree'd lane was

filled, as well, with memories. When

I was in my seminary days there was

a tree'd walkway for the Stations of

the Cross, outdoors, a sort of circular

path for the pious to walk; it never

made much sense to me, and I

never saw anyone walking it anyhow,

but it was suffused  - and I knew it  -  

with the sweat and labor of slaves.

Before all this religious stuff, the

place had been a south Jersey

plantation, and there was no denying

that. The tar-paper-shacks of those

who used to work the fields, they

still stood, dilapidated and sad,

out that long dirt road running 

rearward. There wasn't anything

there then, in my day, but a retreat

house and the garbage dump the

local town had made for their

trucks to drop stuff. That's what

people think of their own damn 

places. Pretty disgusting. The

retreat house was another anomaly

in the midst of a sandy wilderness  -

all these suburban NJ church types

would come down in buses, and stay

5 or 6 days, on their parish 'retreats.'

To sort of get right with themselves

and their God-concept, before they

went back to the usual pillage, and

plunder, and abusive tactics for

another year. Like a Day of 

Atonement, but a week's worth.

-

That's the kind of genial nastiness

(there's a paradox for you) that's

now everywhere. I noticed, as I

went long and as politics progressed, 

starting with the NYC draft creeps

pulling me off the street, that once

Authority wises up they realize that

they can do the same sorts of control

tactics that dictators and communists

and all those others they were always

warning us about and fighting off do

but if it's done softly and smartly, the

captive folks don't even notice and,

in fact, they welcome and enjoy.

That was real apparent to me, just

the way it was being done  -  the

entertainment and pastime goons,

the Legion Halls and veterans clubs,

the sorts of boosterism places running

strong, they all brought the people

together in 'cause.' Mouthing crap

and all thinking the same stuff. It

wasn't any different than East 

Germany, the Soviet Union, or 

even China today, in the present.

It's a massive fraud. I knew a guy

once, a prison guy, there, and he

said to me to 'watch out for the

softness. When the hard edges

are gone and only the soft 

approaches are left, that's when 

you know they've got you.' He

told me to stay harsh and swift,

never slow. Old-timer already,

and armed, he sat there, free, in

the waterside shack telling me

shit I'd never heard. Prison stuff.

Sex. He was drinking black

coffee that he'd made, and

sharing it right there, with his

dog. He said, too, a prisoner

has no sex, he is God's own 

private eunuch. No one's ever

going to throw open the door 

and serve you a naked woman

on a platter. Then he winked,

and said 'whatever you do,

always keep that in mind.'

That was down at the west 

docks, right by where there 

used to be a boat, or a floating 

classroom set-up for something 

that used to be called the 

'Maritime High School,' right 

there. I, myself, had just recently,

in 1967, gotten done with what

I considered the most miserable

high school experience ever, and

by contrast this thing looked like

a dream, but I never got the gist

of it, never saw much activity,

and never learned how you get

in. Going to school to be a sailor

or deckhand or whatever it was,

that seemed like the coolest thing

in the world. Those guy were

all like nails. Ah, but's that a
history, of another day.