13,020. SAILING ALONG

SAILING ALONG

We might have gone sailing along,

me in my jersey hat and you singing

that same old song : Fifteen scattershot

miles from nothing at all and sounding

like a lark in a broken treetop.

-

At the antiques stand all you were after

were cups and saucers, cups and saucers,

and cups and saucers again. Old things,

mostly chipped or faded or stained. 'How

like us,' I think I exclaimed. A shudder

or a laugh, something from you came.

-

There was a line of trees along the ridge,

and the old guy I was talking with while

you were shopping saucers said his 

great-grandad had planted them all, 

many years before. I can't remember 

what year he mentioned, 1904?

-

Then we both remarked, thinking almost,

alike - he and I - how it was strange that 

they all grew to different sizes like that, if

planted all the same. He said something 

about the wind from the west, or maybe 

the north, I forget, and how it pressures 

the trees to grow its way, no matter, and 

how the underground streams right there 

also bend the surface and influence the

ground beneath.

-

It all made sense, in a sneaky sort of way.

-

13,019. SAVING GRACES

SAVING GRACES

When the pentangle comes down to the

level of bliss, and triangular reflections

cut the sky, maybe then I'll relinquish this

crown of mourning I always wear: The

decibel messages, a'slant' keep arriving.

The man tries to sell me books; the lady

wants me to get a shave from her hot-towel

ladle. I'd be amiss to ignore everyone, but

truly how can I choose between?

-

I have a friend I never see. He hides his

head inside a tree? I heard that long ago;

rocking in hillbilly pines, drinking cold 

water from Evangeline springs; tasting 

the bitter bark of constant willow trees.

-

Now, as I pass the last doorway and am

rudely dragged back, the ice-picker who

grabs me proclaims: 'It doesn't say 'last'

for nothing!' I tell him little back, but reply

in my way : 'If we are made of alien matter,

there's little else to say. Can't you just let

me pass by; one saving grace for the

last stranger on Earth? C'mon, what

do you say?'

13,018. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,031

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,031

(a choice of two evils?)

In looking back over my life,

from any of ten varied

vantage points, I'd have

to agree to the assumption

that it's been a failure  -  in

any material, professional,

reputational, sense. I can

accept that, and, at this late

stage, no matter anyway.

Achievements being nil,

at least I can still talk about

some of the attempts and the

witnessings. For one thing,

I think I spent an inordinate

amount of time making

distinctions between what

things 'were,' against what

they  'did.' It's a bit of the

same dualism, or break-up

between form and function.

I didn't realize that regular

people didn't make those

distinctions, and that the 

workings of things were

meant to just roll along and

NOT be so much examined.

Apparently people today are

mostly concerned with the

function, and the form can

be damned. Just look at the

ugliness of the 'new' all

around us. It gives even

trench-mouth a good name:

Endless rows of flat-faced

compartments, partially glassed

and partially fronted too with

'doors' that go nowhere, and

which, instead, open out to

false balconies or 'porches'

that would fit, perhaps, a

tortoise and a hare and not

much else. The pathos has

gotten so bad that, for instance,

here, nearby to me, at Station

Village (a travesty if ever)

someone in the end-corner

street compartment has

suspended a huge, tan,

over-sized, baseball mitt.

I suppose to welcome in the

new, truncated, disease-addled

half-season of raw nothingness.

It little matters to voided brains.

-

But, such distortions 'work' -

which becomes the only thing

that counts. No further values

are needed, or balanced. Utility

rules : a place to stay, sleep, toilet,

showers, and a central-enough

entertainment-sequenced room

for all the piddling overthoughts

given to things like baseball,

illogical talking heads, and

'political' lies and malapropisms,

enough to baffle the Gods. And,

oh, speaking of which, there are

always, in these sorts of projects,

a close enough proximity to some

form of public worship center(s),

be they churches of edifice, or the

usual transformed and repurposed 
storefronts and painted holes of

ghetto churches for things like the

Church of the Divine Light and

Sword. Small doses, big heaves.

-

It's come down to the factors of

falsity, everywhere. Nothing is

'real' anymore. Ice cream is waxy,

to extend the melt-period and be

neater for at-home use; chemical

additives give the flavor sought;

Bread is plastic-wrapped atrocious,

etc. It's as if the 'utility' watchword

now is 'No bread, just the idea of

bread,' or 'No ice cream, just the

idea of ice cream.' And people tell

me I'm nuts when I say we make

the world up? I never cared for

the utility aspect of things. If

something worked, fine, all well 

good, but I was always getting

lost instead, in form and shape

design; a sort of 'romantic' view

of a world far behind, from where

these things may have come.

A character like that has all the

earmarks of going nowhere, and

by my concern for the certainly

non-productive aspects of a still

and meditative life I was never

much of a bet for anyone else 

concerned with the future, and 

lucre, and Moloch. See where my

was headed? Few takers.

-

That was one of the things I

always liked about the middle

ages, or the way-old, or whatever

you'd like to call it. Back then,

utility be damned, some King

or royal personage could have 

taken me up; been my patron,

supported me, given me a niche,

a place in the castle to stay

and work. Some crazy, and

hard-wired artist nut-case

kept on the premises. That used

to prove things to Kings and

all, back then. It was considered

high style, and real goodness,

to have someone like that on

your premises and within your

close realm. And every so often

producing something to prove

it. That's how the modern word

has ruined everything : utility,

profit, loss, balance, forecasts,

shareholders, and all the rest.

OK, sure, it is said we no

longer have people hungry 

(wrong), dying in the streets,

(wrong), sick and maimed

(wrong), indigent (wrong) -

how do you disprove a notion

like that? On the other hand, 

we get wasteful and devious 

corporations, making 40 kinds 

of toilet tissue, 3o different 

kinds of redundant butter 

and spreads, 100 plus kinds

of cereals, cookies, and kiddie-

torques of breakfast foods and

other slop, vitamin-enriched

death and stupidity, and everyone

is happy, right? Yeah, but look

out the window in most any

urban area, and see what's 

happening, and even the

suburbs are sinking. So I

was always stuck, and right

between things too. My friends

at the Village Diner, they seldom

understood what I meant in trying

to get across to them how I actually

enjoyed their torments  -  they'd

have hoodlums come in for

payoffs and stuff, and a scene

would ensue, the place would get

pushed around. No one really

blinked or even ever really got

hurt  -  it was all more sort of the

typical New York City ballet that

everyone went through. I'd say

that, and they'd laugh, thinking

as if to say back, why should you

care? Fact is, though I never

admitted it, I bled for everyone,

for way too long. That too was

unproductive, but I'm still a

sap when I see a bad situation.

And I still never know if that's

how things are, or how they work.

13,017. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,030

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,030

(otis redding?)

I used to sit in John's house

and look at things around me  -

it was possible there to think

of it still being, say, 1924. Mary

and he kept a severe and steady,

old-format, household. I'd sit

there and think to myself that

this was 'quality,' the way it

maybe used to be. There seemed

to be, kept by John and Mary,

a transcendance to things, some

quality that was above everything

and realized the old days  -  before

plastics and gilt had a claim

to the storyboard of everyone's

life. Of course, it wasn't conscious,

they didn't have an awareness of

it; for that was their characters

and it was ingrained. The lens

they looked through to see and

partake life was of it, and they

realized not. It only stood out

so grandly to others, like myself,

and was remarked upon often; like

visiting an old catacomb in an

ancient village. Something like

that affects everything else around

it, sheds the very language used

in talking of it. Plastic wall phone?

No, this was an old, cord-wired

Bakelite desk-top style phone with

a cradle and a heavy handset. In

the kitchen, everything was solid

and traditional, the way you'd see

in old magazine-ad kitchen

illustrations : egg plates decorated

with painted chickens, some old

wall clock reflecting a barnyard

scene as motif. Wooden pegs

along the backdoorway, to hang

jackets and coats upon coming in.

It was all as quiet and deep as their

voices were  -  seldom spoken,

and when they spoke it was slow

and deliberate and tired too.

Old John Harkness never spoke

much, as I said, but when you

arrived at his place to volunteer

a day's work, he'd give out a few

words, of thanks, etc., but any

instructing or laying out of the

day's plans always came from

someone other than him, whoever

it was who was running that day's

operation, whether baling, stacking,

or whatever, The regular milking

and cow stuff, John and Mary did,

the old way, milking by hand.

There wasn't any vacuum pumping

system, or auto-hoses in place;

just buckets, towels, and maybe

some of the disinfectant used to

swab each cow's teats before

milking. Yes, I said maybe.

When John did speak to you,

in this case me, it was as if from

within an odd tunnel of time and

distance, as if from someplace

else. The voice was old, and

deep, and possessed of other

things. On the day of John's

funeral, and burial, the house

was very full, many people

arrived. I was, myself, totally

surprised, after introductions,

that he and Mary had a grown

daughter, maybe 50 plus years

old. I thought about her, as a

girl, growing up there, and

I wondered about what the

environment must have been

like, around her, how she'd

fared, and what she remembered.

That funeral procession, by the

way, once it got started, went

up along the small road to

East Smithfield, just a narrow,

hilly, paved road between two

'towns' (in name only, places

on a map), towards where ther

was a large, local cemetery

which had serviced the

surrounding places for decades

past. The line of cars, maybe

60 long, stretched all along

the road in a slow, mournful

procession, following the

open-back lead car carrying

the coffin. It was an amazing

sight. I cannot recall the reason,

but we did not go to the burial,

somehow remaining behind,

tending to regular concerns.

There must have been a reason,

though  I cannot recall it; maybe

it was just regular farm-work

that kept me back. At any point

there were always 3 or 4 locals

working at John's farm, giving

their time.

-

Before any of this Pennsylvania

hide-out stuff, I would only have

had clues to 'other' lives like this,

maybe, through crap like watching

The Waltons,' or 'Apple's Way' or

any of those lower-grade emo

shows they used to run. Purporting

to show the truth from some 30

years previous, in the FDR days

of WPA and CCC and all that

bail-me-out Mr. Govt. stuff. They

didn't have a clue. I learned it by

walking right into it. You know 

how, today, a big thing is to make

a statement with a tattoo and a 

nose pierce and what else; well, the

1970's ended up bagging nothing

except regrets, more lies and slander,

any number of dead bodies STILL

being shipped home, and voices

saying, 'No, really, we've ended 

the war?' Honestly, I couldn't tell;

but the black-night walk into the

large, empty, maw of that day had

none of the earmarks of John

Harkness, nor his ways, his

house, his needs, and his urges.

It ended up killing him.

-

Before this, again, in NYC, I had

somehow reached a point  -  never

knew how  -  that people would 

come to me, for things, truly

thinking I was somehow in

touch with or 'connected' as it

was to the powers and fames of

those who mattered. It was a sad

comedown too, like hanging

my own self, weekly. (Weakly?).

My stock response had become,

'I don't know anybody who's

anybody, but anybody who's

anybody wouldn't know me.'

I liked to mix it up in people's

heads, and most often still no

one got it. Even if you don't

have the power of the street,

as people think you do, it's a

pretty heady thing to run around

knowing that people think you

do. It's a rough equivalent to

saying, 'How it all got started

is that it never got started.'

-

Sometimes, my hands felt like 

they were put on OVER the 

gloves. I was reverse-protected,

but completely powerless too,

an owner of hands with nothing

to do. I had friends who sold 

blood (their own) for money.

Others who sold drugs or any

contraband they could steal.

I did that too  -  the contraband,

not the blood. I hated needles 

and medical stuff. Even when

I finally did get really sick, and

way out of it, in the basement

room at the Studio School, the

best they could do was call 

for my father, who came and

got me, with another Avenel 

guy too. Threw me, prone onto
onto the back seat in his 1960 

Chevy station wagon, and 

dragged me out of there for 

my own recuperation, back 

at home. That took about a 

month, and was just about 

the time, as I recall, when

Otis Redding died in a plane

crash. He was some black

singer, with a big number,

'Sittin' On the Dock of the 

Bay.' It was a big deal, at the

Studio School, his death was,

and I never really knew why.

I couldn't have cared less, being

way on to other things, realms,

and worlds by that time. That

all seemed so mundane.

13,016. HERE'S THE CLOCK

HERE'S THE CLOCK

Oh great time-man, keeper

of the flame, all I've got left

is nothing (barely, my name).

Tiger Lilies and cicadas too.

Things I don't really care about

but, whatever : We sit outside

now, umbrellas and lawn chairs.

Some people talk; I brood, and

stare out to the water. New York,

here called, off Red Hook; really

not the harbor, just a bunch of

watercraft taxis and some hump

of Lady Liberty adrift atop the

water. These days I've seen

better buoys than that.

13,015. MY PANORAMA BROCHURE

MY PANORAMA BROCHURE

Welcome to this old world, and it's

still squeaky clean. You may have

it all  -  mountains and valleys and

hills, rivers, and streams. There's no

end to the glory of Man?

-

You may stay in our places of

lodging and worship; open to all.

We offer the best amenities; swans

at Driver's Lake, outdoor breakfast

served daily at Marsberry Pool.

-

We offer ringside seating, let it not

go unannounced as well, for the Second

Coming; the Rapture; and any future

Resurrections you may plan. Cool!

-

Let us help make this world a better

place, from Pleasure Pond to Sunbury

Lake. parking for 300 cars!

13,014. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,029

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,029

(done by hand)

For a while then, after that

whole Bobby thing, I just

wanted to pack it in. I was

pretty disgusted with most

everything, and filled with the

sort of hurt you don't get rid

of easily. It's too hard to live

with the idea of having been

looking up at a fire-scene and

unwittingly witnessing a friend's

demise. Yes, I had nothing to do

with it, and no, he was nothing

to me; not family, not romance,

not even a solid connection.

Just a cool guy with whom I

identified any number of the

better things in life; outside of

the usual rathole of festering

crap we all deal with or assume.

My wife said he looked like

some dancer or movie guy, to

her. I hadn't a clue, and, frankly,

for a period of time at first,

thought he was gay. But he

had a girlfriend, an Alfa

Romeo spots car, kept at his

house over on Staten Island,

and he was good, strong, and

tough; no fake about him,

whatever he was. One time

he said to me, 'I was out your

neck of Jersey on Saturday.'

I asked what he meant, and

he said (still a little foggy

to me), that he had to drive

one of the fire-tank rigs over

to a station in Edison, filled

with water, which they had a

need of there. And then he

drove back empty. Like I said,

I don't know what he meant;

firemen stuff, I guess. They

transport water?

-

To realize him gone, and the

way it had happened, really

sucked. I'm not so sure I was

ever the same. You know

what life is  -  that plain

old boring portion anyway?

It's one slap to the side of

the head, and then another,

and another, and eventually

the accumulation of all that

gets to you, wears or breaks

you down. Like a blown tire,

and then a bad transmission,

and, finally, a blown engine,

and you too are dead. Bobby,

missed all that accumulation,

at at 56 or 57, whatever it was,

he got hit with one, solid,

unseen, airless brick he never

even saw coming.

-

When I lived in Pennsylvania,

there was an farmer nearby that

I used to help, now and then.

Everyone did, often. He was

like 80 or something, and he

hung himself in his barn. Just.

one day, had had enough; there

were some current problems

over 'modernization' of his

dairy-farm practice and

equipment, and they were

talking of dropping him, no

longer accepting his milk,

at the creamery, or by pick-up.

It just destroyed the old guy, and

his wife too; who, unfortunately,

he left behind in his bullheaded

reacting to events yet unseen.

Life's like that too. Sometimes

it just blows up in our face.

I've known about 4 or 5 suicides

in my life; close dudes. That seems 
like a lot to me; I don't know. Males.
And one female; sweetest young
person I ever met, and my feeble
heart was gone. She left Princeton
and was working at a coffee bar
in Grand Central Station, where
I'd see her occasionally. And then,
alas, not ever again. Just a sign
that said she was gone. And
her photo too. I guess it's not

so prevalent among women. I

wonder why that may be? The

guys walk around with a tub

full of life-giving semen all

the time, yet they never seem to

care about that; ladies, on the

other hand, being nurturing and

motherly, etc., they maybe can't

seem to take that step. Except for

a few weirder ones, hard-cases,

poets and writers and painters

maybe, who were female. I guess.

Ann Sexton. Sylvia Plath. That

ilk. Real intriguing to me. But

anyway, I never bought into

that gender stuff anyway; every

person's fluid enough, all along

the way, emotionally, bravery

and courage-wise, bold and

anarchic; any of that stuff is

all the same.

-

John Harkness, this old farmer

person, he was a guy, through

and through. Tough and rugged,

he was, with hands like two

vice-grips, coarse and solid. He

ran his entire operation, with

Mary, in the most basic, old

way possible. They were quite

nearly Amish in that respect,

except they did use lamps,

bulbs, and drove a car. Everything

else was frugal, and done the old

way  -  a real  paucity of machinery,

little small talk, and lots of rope

and twine, heaving and baling of

hay and straw and silage. His

totally classic barn was probably

new in about 1880. He was,

maybe, one of three or four 

people I'd ever met who could

date themselves from the 1890's,

not including my own forbears,

who I assume fit that bill too.

This was 1972 or '73, so if he

was 80 years old that would

comfortably tuck him into the

1890 period. His death too was

sad and tragic and memorable,

but, frankly, at least he did it to

himself. Bobby's death was gifted

to him, somehow  -  as if that

counts for anything.

-

I used to go up in John's barn :

You knew you were going to

sweat, and deadly too. Piles and

piles of hay bales, in 90 degree

heat; in the hayloft up top of a

barn makes it for some dead, still

air, intense heat, and dusty matter

everywhere. In addition, John's

included hemp-rope, blisters, 

muscle strains, aching backs, 

calloused and bloody hands, 

by the end of five or  six days 

haying-season, hard work.
I can't ever imagine what things
were running through his head as
that morbid rope tightened around
his throat. All the good he ever
had done, right down the drain
 of the modern world, that day.
Everything he ever did was done 
by hand, right to the end included,
and as I recall, it was the merry 
month of May too. Farmers had a 
saying : 'Cool, wet May, pile that 
hay!' Meaning that with good 
moisture  and some rain
days, there'd be a good, 
heavy crop of hay.
-
On the other hand, in the 
printing industry, my boss used 
to say, (it was a bit of a sex joke), 
'There's only one thing you do by 
hand in the printing industry.'
John kind of fell in between the two.