13,459. AS MAD AS A LITTLE ZEN KOAN

AS MAD AS A LITTLE ZEN KOAN

One day  -  as I was sitting  -  at a 

favored watering hole of mine  -  a

man came in to break the peace. I

looked up. He threw an urn down

on the floor, saying they were his

own ashes, and then he proclaimed :

"Who says a man can't be in two

places at once!" I was as confused

as could be. Rattled enough too,

you might say. Thinking. Then,

down the seats some, a drunk 

guy piped up, 'Yeah, but you're

both in the same place!'

13,458. I'VE DRAWN

I'VE DRAWN

These guys were all legends: and

this photo-gallery shows them all.

Dillinger, Moran, Capone and Siegel.

I'd suppose if they were ever in one

place together, it would have been

murder to bear. 

-

In any case, they drew their time

time, and I've drawn mine. Death 

erases nothing but the harsher ends

of memory's stepkids. Those big,

round cars they drove in? Cool.

-

When I was 12 I got an eraser for

my birthday. I found it erased

nothing  -  but just made the past

more vivid with each scratch-line

I'd rub.

13,457. HEADED OUT TO YUMA

HEADED OUT TO YUMA

And never coming back. That's me.

Fleece-lined overcoat and long johns

of harsh velvet. Man, I'm svelte.

Mannheim? I've dwelt there too.

13,456. MUSEUM

MUSEUM 

Those small rectangles of color are 

said to mean something: Art on a 

spoon is often ladled out like money,

though a classroom of kids wouldn't

know that. So they have to come here.

-

While their teacher explains? But

what do they care? Nothing is done

this way anymore : Pre-Covid art

has a way-different feel. People

were able to walk by, in numbers,

-

and mutter. Now, only six at a

time, and they stutter behind 

decorated sashes of ad-art masks; 

artfully decorated artist-manques

for sale at gift-shop counters and

the museum's store.

13,455. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,148

RUDIMENTS, pt. 13,453

(the at-hand moment that the present is)

I once read something which I

call the Pizza Parable  - just a

stab at categorizing it; I'm not

even sure it's a parable by format.

Maybe not even a lesson'd-out

fable. Anyway, let's call it here,

'The Problem Of the Slice.'

-

This kid loves pizza, and one 

day, out with his father, they're 

walking along and his father 

stops them into a pizzeria for

a lunch. The kid orders two

slices. The father's watching

the kid, who is wolfing down

the first slice with his eyes on

the second. He wasn't even

tasting the first slice, in that

rush of eating it down. The 

father says, 'Son, you need to

learn that while while you're

eating that first slice of pizza

you should be eating the first

slice. Because right now you're

eating the second slice before

you've even finished the first

one, let alone tasted it. You 

can't always have your eye on 

that second slice.'

-

Well, perhaps it's not much of

a lesson, but I always liked it,

and it was validated for me lots 

of times. The giddy activity of

the 'activity' itself most often

shields a person from any true

experience of life, or of the

living of it through its successions 

of moments  -  each moment

being a building block of time.

To be savored. To be appreciated.

In my own life, I once or twice

came to a point of just 'stopping.'

It was the only way to bring sense

and sensibility to the fore. (This

also always brought up the curious

aspect of the writer Jane Austen,

who used that as a title once, and

who seemed overly fond of, in her

titles, using the 'and' conjunction.

Perhaps 'Pride and Prejudice' would

outplay 'Sense and Sensibility' or 

Time and Money, or 'The Power 

and The Glory,' which of course 

was by W. Somerset Maugham 

and used the article 'the.' But that's

all another story...). The idea of

the slice episode, the parable of

taking stock, appreciating the

moment, etc., made lots of sense.

What got funny about it, later, was

how the 'philosophy' side of me

would go along with the charade

of 'Maybe when you're eating the

first slice you're really eating the

second anyway?' It went nowhere,

in that vein; and it only led to the

most dangerous aspect of life, which

is when you proceed to the point

of ALL of life being conjecture.

Once a person accepts that, he or

she might as well jump, or put that

bullet, yes, to the brain.

-

A hundred old-timers I'd see every

day and, to all practical purposes,

none of this had ever bothered

them, or, at least, if it did, it left no

visible traces or scars. Old people

always seemed bent and busy just

going on and very involved in their

task, whether it be walking, gathering

some grubby old grocer-supplies, or

just sitting on a bench somewhere

to face the sun and take it all in.

It seemed as if, for them, activity

was all over. Finished. Whereas

for me  -  an early 1967 all ready

to burst nut-case, it was all potential.

Errant; wild; crazy; anarchic; without

any reason except possibility.

-

I figured perhaps it was all like sex;

even the pizza parable part of it. When

a kid gets rolling with that sex stuff,

it's all future, all expectation  -  the

legendary hard-ons begin, everything's

all set up, you're all over the girl

in expectation  -  as is she in hers  - 

snaps and buttons are flying, the

rolling moans of salvation begin,

everything a'jumble. It's as if, even

in the moment of all that, the stupid

brain is always leaping ahead, in

its fiery expectation, to the next step

or level and the actual 'moment' is

never fully appreciated, or experienced.

Even as the big blasts start hitting, the

male mind turns to 'where do I put

this stuff, what should I do next...'

Too much thinking ahead like that,

and the moment loses value. (Well,

probably a crummy example, but I'm

hoping a reader would get the gist,

even from my inestimable approach).

Hopes and Expectations. Hits and

Misses. 

-

'To find one's art is to kill time dead

with a single shot.' Well, damn, how

about that! It maybe all goes back,

no matter how, to a parent or a teacher,

telling a kid: 'Do one thing at a time?'

I remember once, my own parents,

after having visited with my 2nd

grade teacher one day, on one of

those parent-teacher day things, when

the parent(s) are invited to sit in, at

the back of the room for 20 minutes 

or so, to watch the proceedings and,

I guess see their kid in action, (they

had these things, anyway, at Avenel

School 4&5, in the 1950's. I don't

have a clue if stuff like that happens

now; I guess maybe you can watch

the whole class on some sort of live

computer remote, if you cared; but

some dweeb would probably say 

that was predatory, and the stupid 

system  would agree with them and 

have it stopped. Some beer-guzzling,

unemployed, Dad, I can picture, saying,

'I don't care none much about the kid;

I think the teacher's hot!'). My father,

driving a car with us in it, after school,

going somewhere that day, along Route

One, tells me that from what he saw

I hunch over too much, I squish down

too much at the desk, when I am

writing. I ought to sit up straight and

not hunch so. He demonstrates my

posture  -  and nearly creams us into

the center-divider at 55mph, while

demonstrating my single-minded 

dedication to he craft of putting pen

to paper. Thinking only of that,

ONE, pizza. The at-hand moment

that the present always is. I already

knew how to get lost in it. 

-

Anyhow, that's the way it went. Old

folks lining Broadway, uptown, sitting

on all those benches in the middle of

Broadway. 1968; often Nazi-camp

victims, survivors, yet alive, hanging

on, nearing death. You could see it in

their eyes, the hurt, the sorrow, the

lethal anxiety, all still there. It had

stopped everything  -  talk about 

dwelling or doing on thing at a time!

Their lives had become calcium. Bones.

Ghost figments. Irrational and Fearsome.

Lethal and Haunted. Dead and Alive!

13,454. HERETOFORE ALL EARNINGS

HERETOFORE ALL EARNINGS

Trying to find direction without a

compass isn't that hard. The difficulty

level lessens as you get closer to home.

For whatever the reason, over time,

everything transforms : Paints fade,

metals rust, the solid stuff weakens and

the weak things solidify. It's a crazy,

mixed-up world. And one wonders

why oldsters start babbling on?

The human mind can only

take so much.

13453. CATARACT FALLS

CATARACT FALLS 

All the contracted attentions of

living: we come and we go. I left

your gloves on the heater. They 

were soaked and needed drying.

-

I'm just a bundle of nerves, trying

here to figure how leftovers work.

Heat and eat? I suppose.

13,452. OH HOW I'VE TRIED

OW HOW I'VE TRIED

The nickelodeon won't take my

coin. Another nickel down the

drain  -  some rat kid, festering

with sugared acne, sits nearby

wolfing his crap. He watches,

but stays where he's at.

-

What wonderland I wonder is

this? Green cars and a bicycle;

two nasty mothers with their

five-year old brats, slinging

Ho-Ho's at nothing.

13,451. MISHMASH OF KENNEL NOISE

MISHMASH OF KENNEL NOISE

It's charming morning at the edge

of the world : dark skies vomit

lightning and the fierce wind blows.

It's all something like a reverse-oasis,

but it's not. I'm about to ride the

Caribou Express. 

-

Up along the hillside, the vacation

homes are empty  -  left idle four

months ago at least but more like

years. Simple fact, like Yogi said,

'That place is too crowded; no one

goes there anymore!'

-

Those teasing lines, funny quips:

Oranges hanging from clothespins

on some fiberglass, white, twine?

13,450. THE INSIDERS HAVE TAKEN THE FIELD AGAIN

THE INSIDERS HAVE TAKEN 

THE FIELD AGAIN

It's funny to watch Americans applauding

the way to the gallows. 'Nice hallway! Easy

Entry' Many things handed out!' The usuals

are back  -  careerists and blind fenceposts,

those in play for 35 years. No one cares.

-

Effectiveness, as movements go, heads

but in one direction. The missive is out:

'Keep them active and detained; keep

them busily entertained, while we

 run madly on our way!'

13,449. NOTES

NOTES

The brown car from

Red Bank with the Blues

Brothers in it was last seen

leaving Orange, NJ headed

for Tanner's Falls PA via

what seemed Green Valley.

Watch out, Yellowstone,

here they come.

13,448. JANA HAD HER HAT ON

JANA HAD HER HAT ON

Roustabouts and dangaloons,

we all remember finely. It was

starboard to the moon, and far 

at sea were we. The ale and rum

were good; the food, though 

meager, held its own as well,

though for solace we had nothing

but the meager tales we told each

other. Lies and derivations, mostly,

of other lies and derivations. Row,

row, row your boat, gently down

the stream? In all our dreams, as

one, Jana had her hat on.

-

She was a creature we'd all met

in old Rangoon; at least I think

that's where it was. Burma? What

do they call it now? We'd awake,

and the ship, still rocking along

its bottled sea, insisted on yet

keeping us afloat. We scratched

our heads, to think about if we'd

all had the same dream, but if it was

all forgotten, was it the selfsame

dream, or were we forgetting what

had not been? 

-

Crackers? Way too many. Rum 

and ale, I've mentioned. The

distance seas were always green,

adding to our tensions. And what

a way to go was this.

13,447. FINGERPOST

FINGERPOST

This being an encyclopedia of Earth,

I'll announce right here that all that was

is ever after; lingering to remain, and

layered so you can not forget it. The

illusion is of space, and you have

nowhere to go. I talked to John and

Bill and Jonah too, and everyone said

the very same thing, though it sounds

funny now. 'These are moments of

of meaning.'

-

Everything I ever loved has left me, yet

I remain aloof, and with a standing of

my own. Lacking dirges and mourning,

I'd rather just remain mute.

13,446. JUTEMAN

JUTEMAN

Dangling Django heart and soul;

no more matters where I go. Items

that can change hardly ever matter.

-

Three small boats locked in ice.

Now is no time to be moving

about. Take the peace as given.

13,445. THE DIGITAL LIVES OF MY CHARITIES

THE DIGITAL LIVES 

OF MY CHARITIES

No one ever said I was humble, but I

am of the moment. I'll admit to that. 

Like a flat tire at a wheel-rim party. 

A dinosaur in the house of the lambs. 

Everybody wants something, it always 

seems; and man's a taking creature?

Or is it man's a giving thing?

-

Nothing great any more about Britain?

Well, maybe, but so what? What's great

now about anything? Ferocity? Villainy?

Virility? Animus and Anima, why not?

A trio of wonder-women is coming to

shake my tree! The digital lives of

my charities!

-

The land of dreams is both melancholic

and surreal. I should send ten dollars?

I should buy a meal? For any bum who

calls me twice, a pint-full of rum would

do them nice; but I already gave at the

office on my digital charity line.

13,444. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,147

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,147

(inklings)

I never had an  idea of what 

that may have been  -  a name

for baby octopus? I was dizzy

and amazed at the same time,

mostly by everything. People

came and people went. The

fervor of NYC was different

than most anything. My own

predilections, whatever they

may have been, were always

in turmoil - historical turmoil.

I'd go to places where grand, old

items of history had happened,

and find only remnants, or the

ghosts and 'inklings' of the past,

but nothing real. Like most any

other place, New York City was

dishonest about itself. As dishonest

as any other small town or suburb

would be about itself. The supposed

historic societies, the recreated

period-rooms, the cutlery and

place settings, fabrics, damask

and silk, the shoe-irons and the

dressing gowns, urns, pitchers,

utensils, and old tools. Each

proudly shown with their stories

of that which once once, supposedly

was. No smells or odors. No stains or

leaks, no blood and death. It was

all  made nice and settled  peaceably

and presentable as a harmony of the

whole. The regularity of farmfield

and homestead, of course, had been

all but obliterated in all of these

places by the forward progress of

the march of time's destructive 

earnings, but that was all ignored. 

New York City was no different  -  

in fact its own leading-edge of 

denial presented a reality that 

never was.

-

I'd always guessed that, in isolation,

anything was quaint, or could be

made so. It was easy to romanticize 

a false past by looking at it in some

misrepresented version of false

concentration  -  like looking at an 

evil strain of bacteria under a

microscope and saying how 

beautiful the squiggles look, as

they squirm and swarm about. At

least they have movement. The

presented versions of a false, frozen, 

past have that not! Manufactured 

as a past, they can do nothing.

It was interesting, in this vein,

to visit Trinity Church and Chapel,

a few blocks apart from each other,

and to see, amidst the perfect and

neat interior, the Presidential pew in

which George and Martha Washington,

it was said, made their weekly trek

on white horseback to worship in the

reserved, 'Presidential' pew. At that

time, very early on in the American

Republic, he and she lived in a house

offered to them on Cherry Street. The

'Presidential Residence,' as it were.

It all seemed so orderly and preserved.

Things never mentioned were   -  that

house is now long gone, as is most of

Cherry Street, all having become the

embankment, supports, and pilings

now for the Brooklyn Bridge; no 

respect given, if you please. Just as

there is NEVER any respect given

to things while they exist, but only

after they and their times are gone

do the purloined stories and tales

made pleasurable take over. In

the words of Voltaire: "History is

lies agreed upon."

-

It used to irk me how or why George

Washington, as a for instance, would take

a seat in one of the proudest and most

powerful New York City institutions,

and a bastion of the very-powerful

Anglican Church of Britain, after so

decidedly having just spent 8 years of

toil and warfare destroying them and

extricating them from the new lands.

That was but one item never addressed,

and it always remained curious to me.

'By the Autumn of 1784, the issues

were shifting from retribution to 

reconstruction. Most especially, the

popular party sought to reform the

old elite's institutions. Trinity Church,

the immensely wealthy Anglican

congregation in New York City, came

under attack. So did the city's chamber

of commerce and King's College, later

re-named Columbia.... I'm sorry but

outside of any of the manufactured

historical fictions erected everywhere,

and in this case NYC, I didn't especially

figure to be seeing George and Martha

graciously taking their place in the pew.

Of course, however, once the false

narrative is in place, it then all fits,

or has already been made to fit

-

Pleasing narratives and calendar-photo-

like perfect portrayals of a bucolic and

reverent past are fine, I suppose, as

far as parlor-living and sentimental

claptrap goes, but where real life and

all of its incidentals intrudes, it ought

be stopped or at least warned against.

The tourist hordes who come to see

Mrs. Higginbotham's tea-serving sets

should first be read a disclaimer, of

the sort the old movies and stories used

to have: 'This is a work of fiction; any

similarity to names, persons, or places,

is purely coincidental.

13,443. A PUNCH FOR THE JUDY

A PUNCH FOR THE JUDY

Abstract. Fulsome. Rather queer.

Rather bizarre. Something about

puppets that always are  -  much

to many items that jar. 

-

I grew tired by ten minutes in.

I'm old now and jarred myself.

13,442. I WENT TO MICHAELMAS

I WENT TO MICHAELMAS

I went to Michaelmas to watch the

homesick people : They were lined

up along the iron fence, awaiting a

gate to be opened. High above me a

sunshine glistened, dripping like the

honey from God's rock 'midst an

excelsior of warmth both sudden

and unexpected. The patter of voice

from the sorrowed and forlorn went

on; and this wasn't even a funeral.

-

Displaced people, perhaps. but aren't

we, really, all? Encampments in minds

of lockstep precision, where in we sit

and wait out our dwelling.

13,441. FAIR TO SAY

FAIR TO SAY

There's no end to reality, I'd

say, if my head was forced upon

a block to say. Otherwise, it's just

to self-indulgent an item to mention.

The philosophic guys would make

mention, I'm sure, of interpretation

and observation, first. As they always

do; but it make no difference in the

end whether I describe the train that

hit me of deny that it occurred.

-

You see? Accepting the simple sense

of existence that we 'feel' as being quite

real does the rest. So, make your needed

appointments and get to them on time.

The boy you love will be waiting for

you, or perhaps you'll simply meet him

there, along the way.

-

The dream. The gleam. The one with

the big blue eye; or she, with the most

captivating enchantment for you. So all

and so very much real. Yes, fair to say.

-

He. She. Them. They.

13,440. THINGS I MIGHT WANT TO DO

THINGS I MIGHT WANT TO DO

Aren't many. Erecting a statue to

shadows and doubt; weaving a 

willow-hut at the side of a hill.

Maybe a reverie or some other

form of ease.

-

Not much one can do on hiatus.

13,439. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,146

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,146

(only what I ever needed)

I always liked the word 'frugal.'

It has a weird and heavy push

to it, the connotation perhaps

being a kind of hard strength

for NOT doing things : Wasting

money, jumping at chances.

One of the secrets to being

frugal, which makes it pretty

easy too, is when you have no

money, you have no choice.

Approaching 'frugality' is par

for the course. Think how, if 

talking cost money, there'd 

be lots of silence.

-

Ask any homeless person what

frugal means, and they'll laugh.

At the same time, they are both

frugal and rich. Havens, hovels,

huts and hideaways hold them.

There was a time when, from

72nd street right up to 124th, there

were networks of tunnels and

walkways that were perfect for

hiding out and through the 80's 

homeless had taken up residence

in them in an almost quaint form

of village living : Rooms, couples,

small housekeeping, areas claimed

and separated. People lived, in all

weathers, under there, in strange

corridors and walkways. And died

too. In addition, of course, there

was always a need for help as babies

were born and oldsters died, whether

from exposure or violence, hunger 

or neglect. The entire thing was

Victorian in its way. The few times

I got there, always feeling as if my

own life was at any moment in 

danger, I realized the ease of

organization by which even the

most dire situations arise  -  if only

people allowed it to occur. It was

a natural-selection of hands-off

living. One section held the angry

blacks, another the whimpering

and vulnerable older ladies and

men, always seeking the protection

of one another. Criminals and people

simply waster, done-in, and forlorn,

beaten to a pulp by situations and

endings (of their own). It was all

a hospital-ward-by-selection sort

of set-up. But it functioned. It was

sad, and police said it was violent 

as well. The 79th Street Boat Basin

was nearby, as a sort of safety valve

able to keep the pressured fumes 

from exploding. Nothing like the 

open water to cleanse the air, in 

its way. People lived there, on their

houseboats  -  perhaps 30 boats of

varied forms and sizes. Gated, and

with services. Water anyway;

chemical tanks for toilets (I think).

Malcolm Forbes often had his yacht

tied up there. I forget the name of it

now, but it was large and white. He

was always fond of naming things

'Capitalist Tool' so maybe that was

it. Or Fool. I always liked the area

around the boat basin -  there were

large stone arches and steps, open

pavilions and seating, even a place

for 'refreshments' and bathrooms.

That was all a plus as much as a

minus, but it allowed some respite

for the homeless. It went on this way

for years, certainly through the 1970's

and '80's. At some point through the

1990's efforts began at cleaning it

all up, in the newly-scrubbed way of

NYC's present state. Disneyfied play.

Apparent luxury amidst the dregs

of death and defiance.

-

All very confusing, and occasionally

some horrid rendition of a crime, 

drug death, or murder, would be

luridly reported through the media  -

a new 'crackdown' would ensue.

Cops all of a sudden waking up to

a problem, and then a week or two 

later all was forgotten again. The

major difference, for destitute people,

is the time of year. One must always

be mindful of that. Winter-deaths were

horrible; the frozen never sagged,

just stiffened and died. In the fair

weather and the Summertime, on the

other, dishevelment and a near-nudity

took over in the sometimes sweltering

heat. Pants and shirts became gross

and disgusting with piss stains and

worse, turning to near sweat and

grease along and clinging to sick

bodies. Cavernous odors and reeking

smells matched, on a one-for-one

basis, the pathetic halls and false

corridors these people walked. The

deeper and more dense one walked

into the shadows, the worse it got.

And that was only there  -  in Midtown

and the more busy places of rail yards,

abandoned sidings and the hundreds

of abandoned sheds, huts, and alleys

of the piers-areas and beneath the

elevated roadsides both east and

west, the same sort of anarchic-order

set in. Marching corps of the homeless

lived by their wits. Remnants of food

and food-containers, dumpster-finds,

old chairs, wooden boxes, closets of

found clothing and shoes and other

objects. Shopping carts, of course,

and the piled heaps of collected cans

and bottles, everywhere, awaiting

'Redemption.' 

-

What a funny word I always thought

that was too  -  for bottles and cans 

anyway. Entire cycles of war, crusade,

and death and slaughter, have been

waged over promulgating the concepts

of things like Salvation and Redemption;

yet here again it was, being used by

bums and homeless to gather cans and

bottles for their nickels a piece, or

whatever it was then. Amazing stuff.

I'd remember my Mother, redeeming

her Plaid Stamps and Green Stamps,

and wonder if she too had considered

what I considered. 

13,438. SAILING HOME

SAILING HOME

There's a sailboat on horizon; some

schooner with a pirate flag? I'm not

exactly happy, though I' not exactly

sad. Whichever way this ends up, a

death at sea or a return to land, I'll

have to accept my God-driven hand? 

-

I came here for adventure, the high

and hoary sea of distant ports and

far-off calls : the grand Peking and

all those squalls. Battered but proved,

I am stronger now. Nothing can stop

me but death.

-

My contract calls for 8 months more,

and then we take our cuts  -  I get 

2 percent of ship-weight value, and

freight on board brings me 2 more.

Where oh where is that battery shore?

13,437. STEINMETZ AND HAITZ

STEINMETZ AND HAITZ

Two New York merchants like these

are all it sometimes takes :  wares

from Paris and London, fine carpets

from Turkey and Peru. Line the streets

with entry-shops; ladies and gents and

servants too.

-

'It is 1848 now, and 'we' are just getting

started.' They talk like that to one another;

'midst damask and silver  -   starting out

with scarves and ending up with cloaks.

-

'Master Henry feels he's due; keeps

saying he wants something better  - to

head out west, to get away. I do what I,

but cannot get him to stay.'

13,436. HAMMERIN' HANK RIDES THE SLED

HAMMERIN' HANK RIDES THE SLED

(for the stillborn within us)

At the top of the crest is just another

fool; and this one in another suit and tie.

They all lie. Brandishing paper stilettos

and ground-down ideas, the political sorts

want Hank stopped, for he sleds at night.

-

These are the same ones who steal. We've lost

an old country to them and now nothing

but new things congeal. Kix and Alpha-Bits

are a major challenge to them, though these

days that's considered Freedom of Choice.

Happiness fits the wearer, I'd guess.

-

The Pursuit of Happiness, to them all, is

now doing what others allow. But how!

We re-define our codes of duty so that

the worst of us somehow go first. My

broken arm is hurting, but this heavy

ladle I've been given has nothing

but holes in its bottom. Hammerin'

Hank, I've heard, is still dead.

13,435. GHOST TOWN

GHOST TOWN

Not content with rocks and 

gravel, I kept pressing on. This

land was made of a different

soil; getting harder by the

minute. I figured : Maybe I

was on to something. You

can't land a plane in the water,

and you can't sail a ship on

solid ground. Fairy self-evident

premises; each, maybe. Now

I am high up, above the valley

below.   

-

I will call it Willy, that bald-eagle

I see flying. This Narrowsburg

precipice just out of town lends 

itself here to all fantasy. Yes,

though I am sad for all the losses,

this disease keeps running things

through. The bookstore's a joke,

and the wine store is gone too.

-

They shut the big restaurant down, 

and, even though the weekend is

here, there's no crowd to partake

if they hadn't. We are ghouls now,

in a very tattered land. Even the

library stays shuttered.

-

Some New York City people

stutter around, trying to see things

to see. They're like that, always.

Facemasks with messages, or

replacement grins from a funhouse

mirror; they remain in place for

too long, and then when they

move it's with some indirect

aplomb  -  seeking nothing, which

is the same as something, here.

13,434. HIM, WHO RULED

HIM, WHO RULED

It was he who ruled Delancey

Street and I was but his servant.

In 1741, we burned the whole

down. That city I remember well.

The nights were long and dark, 

and the wintry blasts were fierce.

Flames fired flaming flew. We

had set a place a'fire.

-

They called it a black rebellion,

but it was more than that. What

they couldn't say, they didn't say.

What they said, they didn't 

understand.

13,433. CALL ME UP

 CALL ME UP

Call me up, patch me in.

I hardly remember then.

There was a time when

some sort of number, I 

recall, used to be printed

backwards on the fronts of

vehicles so that  -  in your

rear-view mirror  -  it would

be seen correctly, as an ad.

Wasn't that crass? And wasn't

that weird? Business people

at so stupidly crazy.

13,432. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,145

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,145

('it little mattered in the foxholes')

I've always had problems with

'obedience.' To me it's always

been merely a codeword for

accepting collectivism. As a kid,

for sure, it meant 'doing what

others said,' and I noticed a

lot of different people impressed

that idea in a lot of different ways.

Some of the 'Dads' I've seen over

the years of my growing up were

truly discipline-oriented psychotic

basket cases, with Marine-like

tunnel vision and a demand for

seeing things ONE way: Theirs!

On whatever street that was, in

Avenel, which ran behind A&W,

back then  -  (some 1950's glimmer

of California idiocy, with carhops

and a sort of collected car-port

wait area with remote voice-boxes.

All that California car-hop business

was always so dumb, to see and to do,

and it never fit NJ very well, and the

A&W is now a pizza joint without all

the car stuff)  -  there lived some kid

whose father was a crazy man,

always ready to wield a hammer,

and most especially at the sort of

'me' he apparently thought he saw

me becoming. (I always figured he

was just angry about all those new

lights in his backyard. from the 

car-hop. I pitied the kid whose

father that was. On Clark Place, right

near me, the same thing went on with

some cop-sergeant guy who took a

constant umbrage at my presence.

It was harassment, and nothing more;

by today's standards I probably could

have had him dragged in.

-

Obedience to me always meant 

'Obedience to others.' I never liked

that. As a kid you really have no

choice  -  reform school beckoned,

and that phantom-dark-image always

loomed. In fact, it became more myth

and legend than anything else. I forget

the names now but we had a few 

locations (place-named, Yardville, 

etc.)  which were meant to evoke the  

spectre  of imprisonment for wayward 

boy miscreants. As I grew older, and

in the seminary years too, I realized

the game of 'obedience' involved a

collective agreement to ask no questions

and just do what one was told. That,

in turn, grated as well.

-

Seminary 'obedience,' for instance,

was a cruel joke. The element, the

low-buzz, of perversion and gayness

always hummed through the corridors,

never with an explanation nor even a

recognition of its own presence. The

idea of 'obedience' became the catch-all

phrase by which the dictates of man-boy

love or attraction was diffused. Once I

sensed that, as much as any of the others

things, I began to know the exit door

was meant for me. I just had to find a

means of extricating myself from a new

mess. Soldiering on? Jesuit-like disciplines

for Rome and Jesus in the guise of a

jerk-off planet of male lust? Man, I was

flabbergasted before tomorrow's breakfast

even got started. I saw how demands for

'discipline' usually just end up to be the

mechanisms by which other people make

their own formats of controlling others.

If something is enforced, but you're

never told what it is, and can never really

question it, then why observe it? Why

be obedient? Life's a big risk anyway; ask

any regular German creep from 1938 how

they managed to wriggle or observe what

they were told to do, what was coming, and

what they saw  -  and what they did about it.

Saying 'no' to something is always a risk.

These Salvatorians that were holding their

'obedience' over my head were all Germans,

of whatever order and degree. Was that

something endemic? Did it all come with

cause? How in the world did that get all

tied up with God and church and Rome?

-

In NYC, I never once really observed anyone

I dealt with being that way, nor undertaking

any of that discipline and obedience stuff.

The place was so wild and anarchic that it

went beyond all the bounds of propriety

I'd ever know. I'm sure there was, however,

plenty of 'obedience' and 'discipline.' I just

never saw it   -  as I read now the varied

memoirs, tales and recounted life-stories of

New Yorkers, famed or otherwise, I see that

it all was as legion for them as ever it was

for me. Even the Park Avenue rich kids

thought life stunk. That's because 'obedience'

as an idea never stops. It's present at every

level of society, and adheres its miserable

way onto whatever that societal 'detail' is.

For rich kids and the wealthy, it all was

just at another level. The 'collective' there

is the same collective misery by which we

all are born, grow and mature into our

own batch of mistakes and miscalculations.

Trying to shut all that down by obedience

ends up making one the equivalent of

today's Chinese minions getting pushed

and shoved and bashed around. And now

everyone calls that the future!

-

I always had escape hatches; they saved

my ass. Hell's Kitchen escape hatches  -

of which I saw plenty  -  involved theft

and deception and murder and mayhem.

I'd seen any number of Irish dock thugs

get taken in, harbored and hidden by

compatriots, after some or another of

the gruesome crime-tasks they lived by.

There were warrens of buildings in the

west 30's and 40's with interconnected

passageways, secreted rooms and 

doorways to hidden areas. The most

innocent-seeming panel could open

onto the craziest of scenes. Much of

it was leftover stuff, from the previous

75 years or more. Nothing was new.

Prohibition, immigration, even fleeing

fugitives and slaves and criminal

reprobates came through these places.

Guys thought nothing of slicing someone

to shreds, and life was lived on that

knife-edge of moment whereby at any

one time something else could break 

out. Mothers, daughters, and sisters 

were often in on it too. The point for

the 'criminal' was to decide risk  -  how

much of anything ought he to share

with others? Would this or that 

information end up compromising

him? Can this or that person be

trusted? Who knew what? Cops of

that day were very often of the same

ilk, just on the other side  -  covering

for others, or taking cuts to look the

other way sometimes paid off. The

connections of family and place never

hurt either. A person had to remain

alert. There was a time when most

of the reporters and such from the 

nearby New York Times would hang

out after hours or after-shift, at a

chop house named Gough's (an

Irish name; at 212 w43rd). Linotype

operators, reporters, editors, all

together. It was a good place to step

in and listen  -  and often the crime

beat guys would blab stuff. Irish

hoods from around the docks and

areas nearby would use that as an

information conduit  -  if any new

developments or leads had come up,

some murder or heist or whatever, any

one of these guys, believe it or not,

loosed-up enough by beer, could talk.

It was the sort of intelligence-gathering

that went with the conduit-tunnels and

the hideouts too. Grand  old world it was.

-

So, 'Obedience' again? To what? To

some Catholic-Irish saintliness that 

most often ran off the tracks anyway?

That was for the mothers and old ladies.

They could abide and listen and bow

and pray to whoever it was they chose.

It little mattered in the foxholes and

ranks of the firing-line guys; which

is where real life was lived, and how

it was done. Screw obedience. It

never meant anything at all.