13,191. JUST LIKE ME AND YOU

JUST LIKE ME AND YOU

Starlings seem gone and all that's

left for Winter now are dark-eyed

Juncos. Boy, are they small. The

book says that's 'Winter-Weather

Gray' they wear. Neat color, and

it'll have to do. 

-

Myself, in no ermine coat, I am 

walking a lightly-frozen wooded

path. I want to say without a care,

but, c'mon, really, that's all I have.

This miserable world is blind to me.

-

Roil the oasis; pass the jiggered salt.

Rewrite the final ending. Make sure

the liquor's malt. I want to go to Africa,

some place like that before I die. To

wish to see locals in cast-off Who shirts.

I guess that's why. They seem to get

all our junk, and like it.

 

13,190. THE WORDS

 THE WORDS 

The words are out again, and I'm

not. You may read your Celine, 

and Kafka and Dos Passos and

Grant. Some Civil War General he

was! I'd rather perform miracles

on top of the ice. But cannot.

-

Even simple I know enough of these

matters to read failure's own face.

Down below me, the vermillion cars

go by with all their spacy other colors,

and I hear their tire-entrance noises

approach from a half mile away. It's

just that way : This world has some 

sort of physical rules which dictate and

command these things. The light of

the big, fat moon, on Halloween Eve.
The disquiet such comfort brings.

13,189, MOTHER MACREE

MOTHER MACREE

I'm losing my hair as I'm sitting around:

hearing the crackle, hating the sound.

The gray ones fall first, from the top

of my head to the base of my face.

Bless me, Mother Macree; just

leave me a trace.

13,188. RAVAGED

RAVAGED

Just like the seamstress Betsey Ross,

Philadelphia too has been turned to a

troublesome moil. Yes, moil  - a tantric

mess, an accolade of false freedom, a

zoo where new monkeys frolic. First

step was touching the moon? Who said

that? I remember. Next was putting

titular heads in charge of things for

their symbolism only. Useless cotton

swabs, piercing a dragon's ear.

13,187. FIRST OF SNOW

FIRST OF SNOW

First of snow and fifth of Scotch.

I'm sitting alone in a mountain redoubt

(don't you just love that word? First

there's doubt, than there re-doubt). In

my other hand, a can of Wallenpaupack

Brewery beer someone gave me to try.

I usually hate canned beer, but this is OK:

Tasting like the water off a panther's thin

back, the sledge-rock drippings of the

hillside stream, with a hint of elation,

and a dollop of cream. Let it snow, let

it go, it's a dream.

13,186. RUDIMENTS, pt.1,082

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,082

(...that was that...

Not always do all the t's get

crossed nor i's dotted. At least

by old, handwriting standards

anyway. That's what I always

liked, but it's mostly gone now.

Many of the opportunities and

occasions for errors and mistake

that we all used to live with are

gone now too. Everything being in

fixed automation  -  more or less  -  

and accepted that way by everyone,

the world has turned boring. You

can't even go the a bank now and

hope that maybe some silly teller

will screw up and throw you that

extra twenty. Now the flash-count

machine counts and dispenses, and

all's right with the world. I guess

we all sleep better at night? I guess.

-

I used to like that old car-loan ad

that used to run, showing an 'Anycar.'

It was like a collection of fenders and

parts from a bunch of different cars,

all hacked together, and making a

car of its own. The idea was to show

how that particular bank was liberal

in its auto-loan policies and would

(almost) allow for any car-loan. I

always wanted an 'Anycar'  -  just

for that haphazard reason alone. It's

the same as when I'd see NYC guys,

the machinists and millers and all, in
their little machine shops and small

workplaces out along the westside

streets in the 'teens and 20's : Far

west 19th, west 25th, and the rest.

Below the area ran rail-yards, and,

before Javits Center and the rest,

and now Hudson Yards, gobbled it 

all up, it was the real hot-spot for

the workingman pulse of old, and

industrial, NYC  -  when stuff was

actually made, and products produced,

by men who were usually, silent,

powerful, and rude, all at the same

time. Many bore the results of their

'mistakes'  -  bandaged thumbs, 

missing fingers, humped shoulders.

The world, in and of itself  -  that old

world  -  was an Anycar of its own

happening. These guys knew it, but

stayed sullenly to their works. The

missing parts had been optioned off.

I always remembered my father's

story to me, when I was about 9,

when he sliced off his thumb on a

band saw at work. Upholstery,

furniture, frames, and and that. The

story was, he bent down, picked up

his sawed-off thumb portion, stuck

it back onto the thumb, and bandaged

it all together  -  until others intervened

and took him to an emergency room.
He came home that one day with a
huge, monstruous-looking white
gauze thing, over his wrist and
thumb area; smiling. 

-

But  -  no shock, no fainting or wailing.

Just that weird kind of 'stick-to-it-iveness'

that really makes little sense, by today's

world and standards. Of course, that can

be argued all day, and can also be called

'stupidity.' Who's to say? From that point

on I can only ever recall my Father with a

rounded stump for a thumb. Pretty poor
for any hitch-hiking, I'd figure. Like water,

which eventually evaporates out of, say, 

a salsa dip, leaving only the thickened

paste of the tomato essence behind, stuck

to the inside lid, (yes, you can tell I've

opened any number of old, refrigerated

foods in my day), the premise is still

there  -  finger, work, awareness   -  but

all the sweetness is long gone. We're left

with the mere stump of memory., and

just go on. 

-

I never knew what to make of any 

of this except watching. I absorbed 

everything. There were still, here and

there, in 1967, stovepipe hat guys; the

sorts of old, jumbly gents I'd see, all

nameless and aimless too, galumping

around in a half-stoop, or a crouch,

with long coats on and a tall hat. They

slowly withered and died off, an in 

another 5 years, it seemed, there were

none left. I always figured, if they

were 80, say, in 1967, that were from

50 years back, when they were 30,

which would have made them circa

1910-1915. Give or take. That was

pretty fascinating to me. Someone born

in the late 1880's. Quite amazing to see.

I always wanted to know more, about 

them of them, their world of memories 

and intentions. I never did though,

because in the 1960's, late, people

weren't yet like that  -  glib and frothy

as they are today. They stayed quiet

and within themselves, these old-timers,

nursing a wound or continually putting

back on that loose bandage covering

their raw and horrid wound. What was

it, I always wondered. I asked my own

grandmother, (b. 1900)but she never 

knew. WWI? Crimea? WWII? The

endless stories of the Depression (she

had those). Whatever it was, and whoever

had cared, were no longer around, and

that was pretty much that.

13,185. TOPHATED CIRCUMLOQUACIOUSNESS

TOPHATED 

CIRCUMLOQUACOUSNESS

Bend me the broom on the rubber handle 

and trash up the dirt with the floor. Go 

ahead then, I won't mind a thing. Bring

home the boomer with the yellow ID, find

me the program I was watching before.

Color inside only the lines but let your

mind wander as well. As much as it

wishes, no one will tell : Boom-Boom

Brittingham, we used to call Albert.

-

So long ago. So long ago. So long ago.

13,184. WHY I PISSED ON MY BALLOT

WHY I PISSED ON MY BALLOT

The New Republic tells me I should

be what they call 'Civically exhausted.'

It says I have a duty to vote and that

the republic's survival depends on it.

That's the first reason I pissed on mine.

-

I'm quite sick of this country. Quite

done with its bullshit antics. Up to

here with what they give and get : The

death of Joe Biden, the clubbing of

Donald Trump. I'd rather take Amy 

Barrett to a rathskellar and try having

my way with here. That's another.

-

I detest the frivolous days of Now:

slob-children decorating their premises

with self-righteous howls of determined

direction; being told what to do, and

doing it. That would charm the pants

off a mule; I am sure. And get you a

date  -  most certainly -  in any old

country-hick bar. That's yet another.

(I say, reinstitute the draft, yes! - and

drown them. The River Jordan is as

good as anywhere else).

-

Talk show hosts and rabid queens;

pansy-daisies and lumberjack women.

Donny Biden and Joey Trump... No,

I guess that wouldn't work. Those

are some more reasons.

-

I. Pissed. On. My. Ballot. While others

took up arms with superstars; jerking

off DeNiro and jerking off Alex Baldwin.

Two more reasons, OK? Man-hung Amy

Sideris, and man-hung Fran Leibowitz

too. I'm lost in space; what more could I

do? I went ahead and pissed on my ballot.

13,183. BEING TRANSFORMATIONAL

BEING TRANSFORMATIONAL

My hands are like claws, now dead

to the world  -  feel nothing twice,

pinch nothing once. Like a toreador

with a tired cape, I'm standing, but

listless and reserved.

-

I like being transformational, twisting

things up, churning the surface. Here,

where they repave the road, all traffic

stays stopped to let nothing happen.

-

A lamplight, dusky yellow, shows

the trace of a paver, followed by the

glum face of a man atop his own

yellow steamroller, pressing things

down. What's this all about? I wonder,

probably not really wanting to know.

-

I'd rather the jumble, the mysterious

noise, like a trance of a shadow in the

dead of a night. Being transformational

is better than that plodding order so

easily seen by my eyes. They have

their work to do, these busy men in

their own oases. Never transforming

a thing but the road. Such a quite

heavy load for one man to carry.

13,182. RUDIMENTS, pt.1,081

 RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,081

(calculated risk?)

Back in those long, flat times

of 1967-era  New York City,

when the world really was truly

different, I had a friend with

whom I'd discuss or argue

any number of topics. No 

venom; it was merely a thing 

we did between times. He

liked to smoke his pipe and

be a bit pompous about his

opinions and categories, while

I was just my usual, sniveling,

first-responder sort. It worked,

and topics ranged to/from most

anywhere and any subject, with

female anatomies often included.

His definite inclusions of a few

items often left me blushing. I'd

not known girls as he had.

-

Hesitating to really delve into

this too much here  -  alas, poor

fellow is now long-dead, having

blown his own brains out in a

car (just like the Beatle's song?,

except I think they said mind, not

brains. I wonder whereat the meant

difference?)  -  I'll let him be and

just instead use one oddball example

to show what I mean; a strange one,

but an example nonetheless.

-

To my knowledge, there were about

six girls in his stable. You'd never

know it, really  -  he was not a charmer,

nor a looker, in any sense I'd ever seen,

but perhaps the chalky tone of personality

and pipe somehow combined to draw

girls into a fantasy of arty bliss. Or,

perhaps, he was just greatly endowed?

Much like Dean Moriarity, in 'On the 

Road,' he'd juggle girls, have set

time-frames for each, nothing ever

overlapping. I'm not really sure, either,

if any one of the girls knew about the

others; it was that artfully done. To me,

just another one of those crazy mysteries

of life that I never got the gist of. It was

always as if the inside-out of life never

got me to the inside of anything; it

just instead became in inside reversal.

anyway, that's how I spent my time.

-

One day the subject had gotten to the 

'Astronomy' angle of the cosmos, in a

sort of manner by which, a few years

later, Carl Sagan and his 'Universe'

series would achieve his fame and 

renown. The subject we'd brought

up to each other was the 'expanding'

universe, and how it was just then,

in those early 70's, being found that the

only constancy in the universe was the

ongoing, and unfinished, expansion of

the universe; the 'growth' outward

coming from somewhere no one knew

yet of; the infinite potential of the

universe's expansion; the essential

reversal by all this of the epic concept

soon/later to be termed 'black hole,'

which sort of refuted all this expansion

drivel or brought it in any case to a

severe, almost scary (far beyond the 

word 'dangerous') conclusion. 

Conceptually anyhow. The 'coming

in becoming the 'going out,' in one

dark and fell swoop of cosmic time.

-

The premise was the universe, being

unfinished, had to have a location

where the 'seams' of reality did not

meet. An opening had had to be left,

open, active, moist, and raw, from

which new matter spewed. It was a

sensual-visual image for sure, and he

then took it the next step. Egads!

Explaining his endless search,

through women, for that very spot,

in symbolic essence  - unfinished

and open  -  which each female

possessed. I have to stop there.

-

Anyway, my point wasn't about 

that. Instead, what I'd meant to 

write about was a modern phrase 

I ran across, which phrase encapsulates 

precisely another one of our discussion 

points. The phrase, these days, is 

'Shifting Baseline Syndrome,' which

sounds boring and vague enough.

It's known to refer to the 'generational

change of perspective' by which modern

kids view the world as totally different

then we did, or that we ourselves did

in relation to our 'parents' worlds, or

grandparents. As he and I used to

put it, in our discussions, 'WE' had

started out at '0'  -  meaning, for

instance, live telephone operators,

streetcars, tokens, round headlights,

etc. (to have named just a few, dopey,

ones), where the new kids of the '70's

began instead already at number 30,

say  -  Moon landings, wireless space

communications, color TV, expansion

baseball teams, and vacuum-packed

foods and freeze-dried coffees. So

the gap created thereby was '30.' A

zero was often hard-pressed in 

communicating with a thirty : a

different worldview; a different

set of assumptions. 

-

So, today's world now has an actual

phrase for denoting this, which to

us had been merely some further

gibberish to rant about, to each

other, over a beer or alongside some

decrepit and pitted W30's railyard.

(We often hung there, doing little,

mingling with the losers and bums

and old men. Chestnut wagons, horses,

carts, and hookers prepping to ply

their trade too. It was where the

'newbies' were sent to try their luck).

-

The phrase  -  no matter how hard I

thought, and think, about it, doesn't 

seem to work, and is, certainly, not 

'seamless' enough. Rather like saying, 

'identifiably incognito,' or 'recognizably 

anonymous.' The entire thing is a

bad mousetrap. In honor of my late

blown-to-smithereens friend, and all

his early girlfriends, and their own

'openly unfinished' bodies (as he

would have put it), I say, like in

describing the universe itself:

It's all 'Unfinished business.'

13,181. MAY HAVE LEFT THIS

MAY HAVE LEFT THIS

I went to Rome, to seek my

fortune, and all I got was the

clap. Romulus and Remus held

nothing back as they lent me

their sister, Fornicata, and I

was grateful of that.

-

Life seems so simple when the

sheets are all white and the bed's

always made and each window

has a most-perfect window shade.

-

Within five days, I was in an

intemperate vice; the Carabinieri

were everywhere, covering me  -

long guns and rifles, making no,

sense, did their dance along walls

doorways. I felt frozen, and

could not move.

-

Then they told me 'That's the way

it always goes to new visitors in

Rome. The secret's in the cooking;

taste is better left at home.'

13,180. MISERY LOATHES COMPANY

MISERY LOATHES COMPANY

Well here it is, and I've had it

coming : two steps forward, 

one step back. Don't mind me 

with my lethal frolic, my body's

twisted, and I'm on the rack.

-

Any gentle medieval torture 

would be better than this, but

as it goes I've had it coming.

One step sorrow. Two of bliss.

13,179. DESERT FRAGMENT

DESERT FRAGMENT

You can hold ICE in the

palm of your hand, but try

to convince anyone it was

ice when it's water.

13,178. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,080

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,080

(time heals what?)

Somehow I was brought up to

respect everything. I was told

that anyway, at most every

empty turn and angle of the

crew and the compass. Those

two things which, oddly enough,

were the same things keeping me

in shackles. 'Land of the Free and

Home of the Brave' seemed to hold

little sense to me, or any point

of allegiance. Apparently 'home

of the brave' was meant to be

profligacy, large-finned cars, and

baseball cards  -  Ted Williams

and Louis Aparicio, flipped

against a wall. 'One way leads

to guidance; one way leads to

trust,' was more ever my own

watchword, and I ended up

caring little for what others

thought or did.

-

Now, it seems, I've climbed my

big hill, alone, and all of that

old pabulum and the sweet-sound

of parade-phrases and drum-major

marching cheers to live by seem

as silly as driverless cars; which

apparently too have been taken

up as an idea by the electric masses

to whom the waste of a life seems

nothing, but screaming about a 

wide-horizon world and global

climactics, as if they knew

anything at all about butter.

Hey, girls and guys, 'climax'

is not 'climate'  -  go find a

mate.

-

I never liked to mix things up. Even

here, in these courageously tedious 

daily briefings I've been writing

since "Hector was a pup'  -  as the

old saying goes  -  (Hector must be

long-grown and dead by now, poor

doggie), I've always tried to stay

focused, to a summation point,

somewhere down the end the line.

Shooting and raving all over the

place, though it may easily pass 

now for contemporary 'writing,'

does little good in making serious

points. [Street rabble and rock/rappers

take heed; your noise is useless scum,

NO lives matter, in the real end, and

what you get out of this life is the

endless and bottomless basket of

pomp and circumstances, and layers

of fake, erroneous, and twisted

psycho-babble by equally-twisted

little mind-benders].

-

But, (step back one step), fear not.

Why split the atom? Should you

not, first, be fully cognizant of the

manner in which all things have 

consciousness and are, in actual

essence, irreducible? You make

claims to 'follow science' but you

do not do so. 'Science' towers over

you, in all its essentials  -  and if

Science was ever to level with you

you would gasp and die by the errors

of your ways. When you say 'science,'

you do not mean 'Science.' You mean

functional utility  -  which pretty much,

and in the same way, as saying 'functional

illiteracy,' begs the question, 'what?'

-

Have you ever noticed how the most

sainted historic spots have always been

'taken over' by Government?' At one,

easy, level, we get the schools and

civic halls, police stations and hospitals,

most often with some little pocket-park

and a marker nearby, attesting to the

'sacred' ground nearby, where Indian

raids despicable in form, took place,

or where soldiers massacred 5,000

local natives, or some weird battle

or strange bloodletting for a cause

took place  -  here at the grist-mill

or at Brandt's ferry crossing, where

the local Indians revolted at Minisink,

and torrid fighting and desecration took

place. Fort Delaware; any dim port

along the old Hudson River, some

deadly, Catskill pool or eddy. Even

little-famed Mt. Pisgah, atop Troy, PA,

has its statue of the weeping Indian

being forced out by Sullivan's sabres.

-

Going with the 'territory,' obviously, 

has to be this takeover for validation;

by the powers that move in, and 'write'

the narrative they want written, and that

one alone. Replacing all this with the

monumental suffering of the bureaucrat,

the rules and the local Ruler, the subjugation

of land and water; the destruction of it all.

That's how 'claimants' make their claims

and take over the physical world. It happens

here, and it's happened everywhere   - in

Europe, in Africa, and Asia too. Annunaki

and Sumerians; beware  -  Humankind is

a slave race, once created mechanically,

for burdensome work, for drudge, and

now let loose with only the faintest world

and tribal memories of their constant

past, present, and future. Which they

somehow still think are three different

things.

-

The simple fact is, Consciousness rules,

and from afar. And Consciousness is soon

returning. To all the souls of the dead, this

is actually nothing, and they really will

arise once more. And to do this all over

again, as well. All things recur, just as

much as all things do NOT exist at all.

-

What Governments, Title heads, Claimants,

and all the rest, do not realize is, in

coveting, claiming, and taking over

these sacred, old, energy-vortex spots,

for their own foolish and passing and

linear and rational purposes, their greater

souls are unwittingly reacting to the

cosmic 'Energies' still current in these

places. They MUST cover them up;

they MUST conceal. Time itself, which

is merely space and shape and form, 

(a teardrop of Nature), 'heals' nothing.

Those 'Noble' savages? They too are

all still present, 'out there,' to weep and

to avenge. The avenging takes place

by the functional uses of....error.

-
Order has to be put, to a wild hand. 

13,177. NO REGRET

NO REGRET

Let it never be said

that I walked out on

the world; for, truly,

'twas the world that

walked out on me.

13,176. WHEN THE HEART IS A RAMBLER

WHEN THE HEART IS A RAMBLER

Ah, everything is wrong, you want to say

but shrug and say instead, 'So what and

what's the difference?' Blow it all off to 

calumny and walk straight away. The 

world is a light oneness, and I've still

get a head on my shoulders.

-

Just down the road some, there's a

peacock-oyster-rooster and a guy

with two horses and four dogs. That's

a real crowd to manage, but he does

it well : a few grown kids thrown in

too. Boys, mostly, it seems.

-

I wouldn't know what to say, if asked,

but evidences remain that they're all

pretty wild. Always shooting guns

and cannon, or so it seems to the ears.

Out behind the barn, some sort of a

shooting-range exists.

-

I walk the woods, shaving dreams and

intent to listen; knowing I'm lost in

another world  -  of things I've never

seen at all. What's an oyster-rooster;

and what is the sound of its call?
When the heart is a rambler, it little
matters at all...

13,175. RUDMENTS, pt. 1,079

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,079

(somnambulent tempest) 

When I was about 7 or 8, I can

well remember, I was often

transfixed by the large, black

Pontiac which would come

next door  -  the father's, in that

house parents, from Brooklyn,

often visiting. It was nothing,

really. I was young, the two,

plodding, parents, if not truly

old, seemed so to me. When

you are 'young' like that, it

seems anyway that every person

over 40 is 'old,' so their age

was surely misread by me.

Their cars always had the

New York license plates, in

those years, which were a

strong shade of orange. 'Empire

State' the state motto was, and

the state slogan too was, as I

recall, 'Excelsior,' though back

then none of that was actually

on the plates. In any case, it

was vivid to me  -  some other

place, indeed, not ours at all.

It was nothing like now, when,

in the course of a normal driving

day, you can probably see plates

from 20 different states within 

the course of an hour. Apparently

the state of 'mingling' has been

opened up, and people are

now most everywhere. Let

alone the fact of rentals.

One of the fun parts of renting

a car now is to see what far-off

state will be represented on

the license plates of what you

rent. Such cars are out and about

now, from all over. Back in

Metuchen, funny to say, I once

had a rental car with plates from

some outlying state, a Carolina

or Georgia or somewhere, and

I beeped at some guy who was

nudging out too far in an entry,

at an intersection. The guy took 

offense, got slamming crazy over 

it, and followed us the few blocks 

home  -  at which point he exited

his car and came screaming over

to ours, ranting all the time about

'Why don't you people go home 

and stay out of Jersey.' He'd taken 

offense to my presuming he was

about to run the intersection.

Doing my best imitation of nice

guy, I stepped out and said, 'You

stupid, fucking Jersey asshole; we

ARE home. This is a rental car.

Shithead.' Pretty much that was

it. He mumbled, and walked off,

back to his own, pathetic, Jersey

car.

-

It was a funny moment, in that

the modern-day equivalent of

distant 'place' had been turned

on its head and, in this instance,

somehow tried to be used against

me. A homeboy. It does seem,

however, that when a person is

enraged there is no stopping the

escalation of anger from one

subject into another, in an almost 

ad infinitum style, until some point

of a personal satisfaction is reached  -

way past any point of logic  -  by

the person doing the raging. In

this case, vast assumptions were

made, on his part, by the simple

evidence of a license plate. When

you are 'wrong,' oftentimes you

are, just, wrong!

-

In my own same way, now, looking

back, I can see how my assumptions

about the neighbor's recurring Pontiac

visitations were used by me for flights

of fancy too. Imaginings. In reality,

I knew nothing of Brooklyn, nor had

I any inkling, in Brooklyn, of where

they might have lived, and how. It

use to seem to be logical to think of

how or why anyone would have ever

wished to leave such a place as that

for the lowered confines of Avenel

and its current Inman Avenue new

development of same-style homes

in every direction. Have you ever

looked at Brooklyn; the real part,

not the Heights or any of the other

streets and sections where the monied

live? Most of Brooklyn, if not the

working class, or labor-class, is

comprised of sameness. Just a

stone's throw from any section can

be found the next  -  abject poverty,

run-down housing, or immigrants; a

different sort of sameness, probably

closer to hovel-format sameness,

but quite expensive now too. It's

all quite baffling. I always held it

against my parents for deserting

an urban area and moving out

to 'Avenel' and the rest. It seemed

to me like the abandonment of all

principle, and a turning of the back

on any historic richness and alternative

lifestyle-thinking, etc., which was

available there. My own parents,

and the parents of friends and neighbors,

evidently cared little of having missed

all that. The norm was the usual

cookie-cutter house, nearby school

and shopping, and the closeness of

friends and neighbors. The rest be

damned, and none of that was for

them anyway. So, in very many

aspects, it was all quite the same.

-

In many respects, my own premature

reactions to all of this was to have

prepared already, at age 8, for my

own form of non-conforming living.

I was an 8-year old, 1957 Beatnik

by that time already! I was rolling

along mightily, feeling, yes, that

I was onto something, and then the

train wreck waylaid me. After the

long, dreary coma and convalescence,

I re-entered a quite different world

and a quite different me. The cards

in my hand had all changed, and, for

the most part, my imaginary 'Aces'

were no longer ace-high. I was

immediately introduced to at least

3 or 4 new years of preparatory

human drudgery, mostly centered

around turning 11. One small step

for Man, one giant leap for....Nothing.

-
'Why don't you stay home where you belong?'

13,174. ALL MY FRIENDS

ALL MY FRIENDS

Apple-picking time again, and all those

friends remembered are standing on a

bridge looking down on me. The fog,

again as thick as a ladled-soup, is now

slowly peeling back through dabs of

sun and light. It will all return, soon

enough, to the way it has been before.

-

Isn't that all History is anyway: All

our tales of war and conquest, rest

and peace? The King with the golden

chariot, the Queen with her secret 

priest? Each of these  -  points of lore,

not light  -  take their place of shelves

already heavy-laden with myth.

-

Every story has its end; every end

has its new beginning, friend.

13,173. HOPING

HOPING

I've always wondered what a charnel house

must have been like. Some semblance of a

voracious instance of stern factors : smoke

and bones and the rest of all that. Needing 

nothing of it, I always moved on. Now, by

contrast, we stand together, delirious, just

looking in. At one another? No, not that at

all  -  into some other room where people

are moving with hesitation, amid a glum,

gray fog and imprecise shadings, steady.

-

Somehow I cannot look away, though I

do not want to see. Forgive me then my

trespass, though I hope you'll let me be.

13,172. OLD DAYS REMAIN THE BEST

 OLD DAYS REMAIN THE BEST

Another wild harbinger forgotten :

thus a yes, and a maybe, together.

Wild high the vast scheme cries. This

life is but a fragment of completion

undone. I never wish to lose. I never

wish to lose.

13,171. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,078

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,078

(oh jeepers, what I've learned)

Lots of shade and room under

those old spreading elms : But

those elms are all gone. When 

I first moved to Columbia

Crossroads, my dirt road was

lined with the hulks of about

10 dead, quite, old elm trees.

It was once, I'm sure, a majestic

and thoughtful sight, when they

were in full finery. I wondered

who perhaps, in the 1910's or

before (since surely they were 

80 years old), had planted them,

in such a fine row, on either

side of a slaggard dirt road, and

one which did little, really, but

lead to my old, leftover, house.

Up at the very top end, yes,

there was a cemetery, dating

back to the 1860's era, but

by 1971 it was mostly neglected

and overgrown. I'd never seen

a 'moribund' country cemetery

before, or never one to inspect 

and pick through, so I found

it fascinating : Imagining the

old, almost spooky, processions

of the funerary rituals  -  wagons,

horses, mourners, etc. All things

I'd never seen. Adding to that

was the fact  -  I only found out

later  -  the majority of the names

of the dead therein were family

names which had come through

the very house I lived in, as well

as the neighboring farm(s) and

folks I dealt with, Many familiar

and local names. The 'spooky'
factor therein was quite high;

especially as it was both neglected,

and ringed with a wrought iron,

squeaky-gate high fence, amidst
trees, darkness and, sometimes
intense moonlight.

-

Fifty years on, now, that cemetery

is no longer moribund at all. As I

go now, it has been 'unspookified,'

shall we say  -  expanded, widened,

and is now filled with modern slab

gravestones etched with sunlight

names of the men, then in their 

40's, early, and wives and others,

all now passed on. In a new
section, ll this, just adjacent to
the old. I knew those names well,

and smile or sigh as I read the

 persons marked.  The living have 

died; just like the old trees. I
stand in place, awed by life.

-

The American elm, in its heyday,

was the tree seen pictured in all

those old paintings and wistful

representations of old America.

Lining the streets and lanes of

many a small village, whether

New England or not, they bespoke

early America  -  tall, arching

bowers, plentiful shade; they

grew strong and steady, and

and lasted long. Until the 

disease we now refer to as

'Dutch Elm Disease,' had by

the middle 1950's taken nearly

all of them, and smote the rest.

It took 3 or 4 seasons, and the

grand trees slowly browned, 

and died. By the time I'd 

arrived to the location I've

mentioned, all I had were

two rows of dead trunks,

and occasional falling limbs.

Within two years, whatever

road department handled all

that had removed everything.

I still miss them, even the

dead ones.

-

In my time of life I've learned

any number of lessons. Paramount

among them is the one that says

to me that I should never trust

only myself. Paradoxically, it

seems to go against all I stand

for, but I've learned just as well

from it that, yes, I am most often

wrong, in error, about what I 

do or think, not often correct,

and really ought to listen

more, and heed others. And

it's true  -  I've made so many

errors in this life that it grows

pathetic, just the recounting.

All it does for me is generate 

a numbing fear, and often a

reluctance to go on. I don't

always know what to do, and

am often just frozen in place,

regretting all things. It's a

perilous impasse, and I hope 

I can get past it. Otherwise,

the horror. The horror. Like

a stand of once-grand trees,

I too, in some weird instant,

can be reduced to dead rubble,

limbs, assumptions, trunks,

branches, and ideas, falling

from me precipitously, dropping

only to harm others. Heaven,

please help.