15,555. I WONDER

I WONDER

I wonder if they served

iceberg lettuce on the Titanic,

and, if so, what the servers thought

about in their final moments. One

too many plate of dreams delivered?

How did it all feel going down?

15,554. HOLDING MY DREAMS WITH ITS HEAD UNDERWATER

HOLDING MY DREAMS WITH 

THEIR HEADS UNDERWATER

Until they finally all drown anyhow; no sense

in not upending the apple cart if there are

no apples left. That's how I feel. My guns

are locked and sealed, so there's no chance

of mishap. The Tarot Card read 'Death By

Water'  -  not by blood.

-

As comfortable in the morn as fresh coffee

at dawn  -  that's how I used to feel; it's all

different now  -  I'm dragging nightmare 

chains through the corridors and lanes, to

find another niche to settle down in. Not

much to pick from : charlatans and cheats.

Gypsies, tramps and thieves. Wasn't that it?

15,553. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,295

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,295

(majority fools)

The Delirious Coffee Shop was

on 1st street, next to the radio

station that had its engineering

board showing in the window.

Just a small group of crazy

Jewish guys, interviewing

leftists and revolutionaries in

full public view. The window 

showed everything, and people

would sit by and watch. I

always wanted them to call 

it the Deleterious Coffee Shop,

but they never bit. Olan Montez

was the guy's name  -  a sort

of station manager/king with

gusto. The radio station, I mean,

not the Deleterious Coffee Shop.

There were strange people always

hanging about : First and 1st, actually,

was the address. Kind of weird.

-

I used to clean an apartment house

there, once a week. For a few bucks,

but the guy never much paid me. He

was, ostensibly, the super, but he

farmed out the work to me. We were

both at the Studio School together. 

The guy was a bit of a jerk and to

make my 'pay' I'd just steal from him.

His apartment was on the topmost

floor, always unoccupied, and he

had tons of stuff  -  like guys with

money do. It ran the gamut from

records and books to magazines

and curios.. He never noticed a 

thing, plus as I was cleaning, he

had a nice bathroom that I always

took advantage of. Lots of things

walked. 

-

The five floors of the tenement were

filled with crazy Spanish people; a

hundred young kids, always babbling

and rousting about. I'd have to mop

and sweep the stairwells and landings,

with that waxy stuff that used to get

thrown about to clean floors. The

dreaded kids were always screwing

things up, and outside too when I

had to clean the stoop and entryway.

I didn't really mind, and some of the

girls were pretty cool; usually about 

14 going on 20. A real pinata of love,

the place could have been.

-

It was a tenement street, for sure,

even worse that 11th street, where 

I was. There were cars around, but 

no one I ever saw owned one. They 

were for other people. The few 

Spanish guys who did own one 

always doted on it, polishing and 

waxing like it was a God, with some 

loud radio crap blasting, taking over 

their part of the street. Nothing else 

ever much seemed happening, except

maybe spinner-wheels and fuzzy dice.

-

The interior hallways usually reeked

of cooking smells  -  all the stews

and chowders or whatever it was

the Spanish ladies cooked or baked

or broiled. It was always something.

I've never been a big fan of cooking

smells ever since that time, in a

Proustian way, in reverse, it all

does nothing but bring up bad

memories. No one ever seemed

to mind, or to notice. My cleaning,

whatever it was, was cursory at

best, and I admit it, but no one

ever complained and I was 

fortunate too in that there never 

were derelicts or addicts or 

drunks, or puke and such, to

be cleaned up after. Unlike 11th

Street, where there was always

someone either dead or dying in 

an alcove or doorway, stepped 

over like maggots on bad meat. 

-

It was funny too, how  -  in those

days  -  I'd end up saying yes to 

any proposition, like this 'cleaning' 

thing that would bring in some

coin, or was supposed to. Eyes

and ears always open. There were

a lot of ways, if you dug, to find

sustenance: I worked horses and

horse-carts for a while. In the late

1960's the chestnut vendors and

pretzel guys, they were still around

with horse-carts instead of trailer

wagons. The little fires had to be

kept going, to heat the chestnuts,

the horses needed tending, cleaning,

the oats and the street too. There

were little cart and stable shops,

all through the west teens and 

twenties, and more, that would 

always throw a few bucks out for

help or clean-up. Blacksmith shops

too  -  old, grizzled cranks bent

over anvils and fires  -  help was

always sought cleaning stables,

tending horses, loading carts, and

unloading new freight too. If you

got to know the guys, it was cool

and easy. The corner diners all

had the same waitress crews, and

in each if you got to know then it

was easy to cadge some simple

food. I did it lots. 

-

There was a 'scooter' club that

hung out, on most any day but

definitely on Sunday mornings,

over at the Deleterious Coffee

Shop  - they were a goofy bunch,

kinf of Euro, and fey too. Weirdly

colored light blues and strange

pink motorscooters, a little frilly,

not like the old Vespas (Wasps)

and others; these were newer,

with lots of plastic and much

more tacky looking. The place

had a reputation for some sort

of food that they all seemed to

die for. I forget what it was,

but the portions were big and

the prices were cheap. And the 

Sunday-morning place was

always jammed. I mostly kept

away from the place; not my

crowd at all. They survived too,

surprisingly long  -  into the

Punk and CBGB's era, and 

even the Mars Bar days. Noisy

noise, bad music, and worse

references. All gone up and

sealed away now. 

-

Olan Montez? No idea whatever

happened or became of him.

15,552. STEADY HAND, BROKEN THROTTLE

STEADY HAND, 

BROKEN THROTTLE

Never knowing which is better, (steady

throttle, broken hand?), I merely hope

the tracks hold out. I'd hate to end up

in that ditch once more. Around the

bend, another town, another tavern

another whore. We whitewash to

sinks with regrets, and we mop

the floors with thinking back.

15,551. BEST INTENTIONS

BEST INTENTIONS

I intend to raise my ladder to

the stars, finding something

there, eventually, to hang upon.

That cow that jumps over the

moon, it will moo no more as 

it strolls by me. My head is 

wrapped in cosmic gauze : 

Nothing touches, and

nothing phases, me.

15,550. SO MY FRIENDS

SO MY FRIENDS

So my friends in the 'Market'

like to buy on the dips, seek

the 'dead cat bounce.' And

they're all treacherous gamblers

and nothing more than that.

Coca-Cola in their veins and,

once the market closes, Jack

Daniels if the day was good,

or Pabst Blue Ribbon on a

losing day. And many more 

than one, at that.

-

Who cares if they dribble back

into their sauce? Too afraid to

go home and face the music?

The little girl, a Shari, they just

pinched in the butt, isn't taking

to anyone at all. Insider-trading

is one thing, but this was just a

pinch in the butt and  -  if lucky -

a toss in the ladies-room stall.

-

I envy the powers of money.

Like a Cindy in her effervescent 

bloom, or a Mary, in her secret

room, panties down around their

ankles again. The scent of roses

in the air, the market still powers

many a man: fancy-flirt, or

banker-twerp. They don't say

the markets up, or the markets

down, for nothing.

15,549. SMITH HOLLOW

SMITH HOLLOW

Rather like a reluctant lancer

here, the military man with the 

minuet-face is staring out across

the field.  Gendarme-eyes in a

lockstep with violent intent.

-

Should a threat or terror loom,

he knows what he must do: the

problem is detained by logic,

in its proper earthly shell. How

far does one go willingly into

the deep, dark nights of doubt?

-

If that is a private plane, then,

approaching, does that plane have

rights with precedence? Those who

are inside it, must they too die?

Circumstance makes accidents

of everything, while a bomb

laced conveyance deigns to

fly overhead?

15,548. INSECURE BUT HOW?

INSECURE BUT FINE?

'Training wheels can't cure a

cough.' Mary-Jane Melinda

was heard to say that : talking

to John Phelps her new local

boyfriend. Honesdale High 

School football jock? They

still make them?

-

Mary's pretty fat; I mean fat,

like bursting those stupid shorts

she's wearing. They make 'em 

large in these parts : Milk-fed

heifers in jodhpur clothes.

-

'It's a farm-life for me,' I hear

someone else say. I figure to

agree; why else would I be

setting myself down here to

rest beneath a tree?

15,548. MEDICINE BALL PENNSYLVANIA

MEDICINE BALL PENNSYLVANIA

Mentholated Vapor-Rub, salves and

potions everywhere; no one knows the 

aisles or the lanes. These stores say

'Pharmacy' but maybe they mean

'Farm.' I took three pills with that

Choco-Floater you bought me at the

counter  -  now my head is spinning

and I'm seeing double again.

-

Down aisle 471, where the lady

pointed  -  past the bicycles and

hunting equipment and knives and 

guns, I could barely see past the

mounds of paper products: tissues

and toilet and oil-rags and mops.

Kids were playing in the school

supply displays, cracking open the

markers and leaving new squiggly

marks. Anyone for a used Pen-Tel?

15,547. IF I HAD A MINUTE

IF I HAD A MINUTE

If I had a minute for every

minute I've already had, I'm

thinking I could double my 

lifespan! 

-

The sign said 'Open'.

Nope, peon, the door

was locked.

15,546. HAZARD ME A GUESS

HAZARD ME A GUESS

Indigo bunting at the top of

you dress? Hazard me another

guess? A patterned-doily that

someone has sewn in place?

Neither way matters, and a

ready handle is not what I

need. Most things I can

identify by sight.

-

Darwin and his turtles.

Dickens and his gruel.

15,545. NO BIG SHIFT

NO BIG SHIFT

No big shift in the travel lines,

like Neil Diamond I'm dead

in the water with Caroline.

(Even no, no, that was her

brother John). Funny how

things get mixed up. An

Icarus error amongst people

I never even really knew.

-

I did see John often enough, in

his 'George' Magazine days, when

he lived on No. Moore Street, across

from Atalanta Spices Company. I

think that's still there, though I'm

not sure. John's not; of that I'm

quite secure.

15,544. BASEBALL LONAGAN

BASEBALL LONAGAN

Lonagan slid in feet first,

got my chin with his cleats,

hit some teeth; no mean feat.

When I touched to my mouth

there was blood on my glove.

He was out! Only that mattered.

15,543. ONLY AFTER A MINUTE

ONLY AFTER A MINUTE

The guy said par for the course was

failure. I asked him what he meant;

he looked at me funny and replied:

"It's only after a minute that seconds

accumulate so we can call them that;

the rest, kid, is all crap." I was 18,

and had just gotten myself to Tompkins

Square Park. In a very Huck Finn sort

of way I was already on my mental

raft, and done with this world. Seeking

my Jim, with Old Pap' already in the

woodshed seeking me out. River oh 

river, come take me away.

-

The salsa group was banging in the

park  -  I hated that sort of music, but

there it was, now all around me. The

little bandshell held some five or six. 

All I had with me right then were my 

bongo drums. I loved those suckers,

and could play to most anything  -  

staccato, breaks, shuffle, rims and

centers, and double-shuffle too. My

thumb-knuckle corners were heavily

calloused. I started to play. At a break

they motioned me over  -  to come up

and join them. Cool enough, and they

were slightly mic'ed too, so I sat near

a pickup and got amplified as well.

It all felt pretty good, as the seconds

ticked by into minutes and more.

-

My first day in New York was a pretty good

day. River, oh river, come take me away.

15,542. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,294

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,294

(knowing Jeddi Fine)

Jeddi Fine was probably the

oddest guy I ever knew - I've

known lots of people, arts and 

creative types, and he wasn't

one of them; so that's not exactly

what I mean. He was perfectly

normal; normally intense, like

possessed and he could never

get off that. There are some

people who are like that; 

weirdly wired and intense, 

at every moment. Jeddi was

the only guy I ever knew, as

well, who had a detached 

retina. Untreated too, I guess.

He'd say mostly it was little 

blobs, like a posse, floating

across his vision, trying to

take over the scene; or some

gray blanket that would slowly

drop down over his vision. 

Difficult to see or focus. He 

said he was mostly always 

reacting to that, and wasn't

really as intense as it all made

him look. I thought a posse of

blobs taking over a scene was 

kind of a cool idea.

-

Someone once said his actual 

name was Jedediah, which may 

have been true; the problem was

Star Wars  -  the way that the

movies and film industries

screw up everyday life is pretty

bad. Of course, everyone began

only connecting his 1980 name

then to being a Jedi knight, or

warrior, or whatever all that crap

was. Jeddi (as we all knew him),

just laughed that all off. He'd say,

'They're all assholes. They're all

assholes. What cares I?' Jeddi's

real claim to fame was his fixation

on gambling  -  chips, horses, 

sports, and other things he really

didn't know anything about. We

all watched him carefully enough,

but he was always screwing up.

-

Jeddi always had this thing about

Monika Voltare. He said she was

his Jewish Dream-Queen, and was

the only woman he'd ever care for

or care about. Maybe it was true;

I often thought Jeddi was way too

stupid to actually ever think about

his fixations  -  a man's got to have

some sort of self-reflection to look

back on things with; maybe to judge

an error or a mis-step, or even to

just take stock. Everyone else just

laughed, about Monika. She had

like quadruple Double D breasts;

so large that it would have been

best for the world had her father

owned a string of bra-stores. To

hell with Victoria's Secret, years

later  -  those things couldn't act

as a napkin to one of her bazookas.

In the bar, they were so large they

ordered their own drinks, and at

their own table too. All it ever did

was make Jeddi the butt of lots of

bad jokes. But, he withstood.

-

So, like I said, Jeddi's biggest

problem was some really seedy

addiction to gambling, or maybe

it's even called playing the 

numbers, or book-making. I 

never knew. There were some 

shady guys involved; barroom 

creeps and alley guys, always 

lurking. Every once in a while,

Jeddi would come back bruised

up. You could tell he been busted

about  -  they said it was when 

his debts were getting too deep,

and his means of repayment were

getting even slimmer. It always

remained a mystery to me; even

some of the words. Things I'd

never heard - one word in 

particular that was new to me

and that I never got to the bottom

of except it was trouble. That

word was 'vigorish.' He'd say,

like, "Horses? What do I know

from horses? I should'a never 

layed that bet down, dammit."

It was when he owed somebody

a bundle. His friends, and Monika

too, went around saying 'He was

in trouble; he could hardly pay

the vigorish.' You see, there was a

great quote here. I asked someone

what was the 'vigorish' that Jeddi

couldn't pay? The guy said: "Vigorish?

The vig is like Interest on a Visa

card, except this Visa will break

your fucking kneecaps if you

miss a payment." GULP! I'd

heard of penalty fees, being

assessed, but holy shit! The guys

who seemed always after Jeddi

were referred to, also oddly, as

'The men who held his papers.'

-

Poor old Jeddi; yeah once again

he took a massive and nasty beating

and I don't know what else. They

might'a taken any money he ever

touched or stashed. Maybe Monika

too, because she was never seen

or heard from again. They said it

wasn't the mobsters, more just

like local syndicate guys. The

barroom guys weren't talking, 

and the TV kept blaring: the 

odds and the football spreads 

and the games and the horses 

and the races and the muds.

None of it ever seemed to 

touch Jeddi Fine  -  he still 

bounded about here and there

along the bar, bouncing to the

stupid doo-wop music the old

bar still played. He never spoke

much, nor talked about what had 

gone on. Kind of an inveterate 

NYC guy, gone forever to seed, 

lost in his own weird reverie. And,

I suppose, willing to take whatever

and any lumps and bumps along 

the way that it might bring him.

'What's the story, Mr. Fine?' I

asked. He simply put a finger

to his lips, to say, 'Stay Quiet.'

15,541. WHEN THE MERRIMENT TURNS TO MONUMENT

WHEN THE MERRIMENT 

TURNS TO MONUMENT

Mostly now, I live in the past: city streets

and darkened turns, in poorly-lit parks

at evening when the swings are inactive

and the kids are all gone. Junkies and

losers take over. The majority of time

has been theirs anyway. Mothers have

gone home, with their babies and their

carriages, prams and promenades, kids

and all their noise. I rather revel in that

half-light they leave behind.

-

If Jesus had still a 'manger,' I doubt it

would have been here : Nothing trumps

something, and even the angels that

hover now on the evergreen tips and

the tall elms that arc, even they would

have turned away. A lone candle tremors,

like a brand new fire in a Black Forest

wind. When the merriment turns to

monument, I can't go out, and I

can't go in.

15,540. ONE MILE A MINUTE?

ONE MILE A MINUTE?

One mile a minute and my

belt comes loose? Is this like

in outer space? And what is

that anyway? You can marshall 

your forces all the day long, and

still need commands from the

home-base. Sometimes they

come through like a song; 

other times, just a rattle and 

hum. Rather than drum me 

out of the space-force, they

threw me into the sack-race

of time. Now I'm a Harlem 

Globetrotter in a wheel-chair

league of nine. I don't whether

to run, or play along.

15,539. CORGI

CORGI

Like the toy or the dog; not

much difference. The tag is

still hanging on the human

neck and that's the only ID

we get. If dogs could talk,

they wouldn't stoop to talk

about us. 

-

Outside the kindle-wood shed,

the new sign has new prices;

this year's different than any

other, and the dollar has soared

to new lows (?). The kid sitting

there is honing a knife, after

having sharpened a saw-blade.

-

If I had the notion, I'd ask for

his job  -  a hide-wood shed

and a Carhart jacket; Autumn 

boots and it's getting chilly 

already. The big dog is

asleep by the fire.

15,538. RUDIMENTS, pt.1,293

 RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,293

('nothing ever runs out')

I never liked it when people 

were wrong about me. There

were lots of times when that

occurred  -  I guess the private

school/seminary education

thing, going away to schooling

disappearing for those 12-16

year-old-formative years that

often meant the most to young

people, had a lot to do with

it. Hell, I never saw 'Green

Acres,' 'Man From U.N.C.L.E.'

nor 'Beverly Hillbillies' as

original shows...now who can

be American-normal after that?

Fact of the matter was, I was,

for most of my early years, in

recovery mode already. I'd been

hit by a train at early age 8, had

survived that, reawakening as

as mashed-mangle, in traction

and on crutches, after a prolonged

period of being in a coma, and

then faced a lengthy rehab and 

re-entry into school, kids, pals, 

and all the neighborhood buddies 

and doings kids face. Peers were

painful; Hell everything was

painful! Life ain't easy when

you're green? (I don't know,

is that a saying?).

-

I awoke, long and slowly, for

my re-entry into this world; I

guess there's nothing called 

'Post-Comatic Stress Syndrome,'

but boy I sure had it. I'd been

somewhere far and distant, and

more real than the most surreal,

and it stayed with me, and there

were words and voices everywhere,

and I really did seem to have new

and special relationships with lots

of things others never noticed. Or

understood (about me). Perhaps

that's were some of this stemmed

from, others misunderstanding me.

I became hesitant and withdrawn,

pulling back in. My Aunt Mae, the

most special character I knew then,

said differently  - in later life she

said I was none of that at all, rather

the funniest, quirkiest kids she'd

ever met. Squirrely, even. 

-

Seeing a self-image reflected back

is yet another self-image, mirrored

into something else again, entire.

We accept and we absorb, constantly,

both the things we see and imagine.

It was sort of like that for me. My

Father, and his four other siblings,

were Foster Kids, scattered all over 

the place, in their youth. He had

people he called 'Mum' this or

'Mum' that  -  meaning different

families with which he'd been 

placed, utilizing then different

names for the 'Mother' parent.

They were never really lodged

together anywhere. My Aunt Mae

had garnered an actual education  -

which none of the others actually

had gotten  -  by being placed in some

Brooklyn Nuns' Home, or school,

or whatever it may have been (all

these stories remained sketchy and

half-told to me during my life, rife

with contradictions, and the differing 

accounts of things, and told to me

by each the differing party). Mostly,

their locus was the ragged streets

of old Bayonne  -  waterfront, Kill

Van Kull, Broadway and Boulevard

streets. Everything was street-urchin

living, for the two boys anyway  -

walking the streets with a shoeshine

box, finding his brothers and his

sisters along the way, and sharing

whatever little money he'd made 

be shared  -  that part of his story

always touched me the most. Old

Dad was a fiery and torch-like,

pugilistic man, but at center he

harbored a fierce loyalty, and a

sense of 'family' and kin that never

had left him. I read a book, twice,

entitled 'The Madonna of 115th

Street', which explained a whole

lot of this Italian sensibility to me.

It was an eye-opener, and still is.

Not much else to be said on that

count, if you've not read it.

-

Back to me, I seemed to have been

given, if nothing else, an extended

sense of dread and foreboding, and

about most anything too. It didn't

much matter if someone was talking

about my bicycle tire blowing out,

or WWIII or an atomic bomb - in

the early 1960's, as well, the usual

BS 'journalistic' talk was of the 'new'

generation (1950's too, beatniks and 

all that crap) that had to grow up with

the idea of instant annihilation over

their heads and the existential idea

of being vaporized instantaneously

by a nuclear bomb, from the Red

Russkies, or Red Chinese, either

way, both plotting against us. It's

longer much like that  -  now the

forces of propaganda play by 

business rules, financial suspension,

and other forms of interdiction.

It's all still driven into peoples'

heads, by the ways of doing it

are different. I still suffer  -  at

every turn I find goblins and

omens of (my own, al least)

doom and destruction. Survival

now, for me, does truly become

a game of the fittest; a ledge on

which I sit, and fail (or flail),

miserably.

-

Anyway, my soul, before and

after my re-entry to the living,

was suspended between places;

nicely enough so, I suppose. I

seemed to be able to function, in

the eyes of others, but remained,

at the same time, someone with

a mysterious, if not ominous,

cloud around me. My father-in-

law said I was 'accident-prone' 

and often was reluctant to have 

me driving his daughter around.

I seemed to worry others, whether

by my impetuosity or gruff and

frontal attack on matters at hand.

I never even addressed this stuff,

just laughed.

-

Personal caution is one thing;

but worrying overtly over the

welfare of others? That just

always seemed too much to me.

My own foundational strictures,

I knew well, were stern and harsh,

yes, but they only extended to me.

I would never harm others. In

my motorcycle days, my friend

Neil, was often berating me for

speeding, or weaving in and out

between cars while in traffic, etc.,

and he'd say 'While you may be

skillfull at it, others aren't, and

they all end up following you.

Someone's going to get hurt.' I'd

agree, and of course, at the next

bar-stop we'd all again proceed

to get poundingly drunk, and 

start the whole process again.

I figured, when things run out,

and people say there's no more,

it always ends up there IS more,

and nothing ever runs out.

15,537. I HAD A TIME

 I HAD A TIME

I had a time when

everything disappeared,

and I was alone in the 

world. Then everything 

came back, except the 

people, and everything

was mine! I had riches,

and banks, and cars. All

you could imagine, for

the taking. But, like Adam,

I said, 'It is not good for

man to be alone,' and

someone made me you 

instead. That was the

best deal I ever got.

-

Yes, well, you know

how it goes and is. My

life in a single moment

yet hangs here by a thread.

Little to say for that without

you : the pounding in my

heart meets the pounding

in my head.

15,536. IN A SUPERMARKET

 IN A SUPERMARKET

In a supermarket everything

conspires to put food in a bag;

in a candy store, to put mints

in a jar. In a tavern, it all goes

off to put beer in a pint-glass;

things just hover like that.

-

Are there enough changeable

manners and patterns to alter

the ways of the world? The

weatherman is half right half 

the time; the stock market

brays when things go bad,

and rises for days. When

good news finally happens,

the market tanks.

-

The guys on Wall Street say,

'The Market hates uncertainty.'

I say bullshit to that, the market

is perverse and thrives on peoples'

ills. Woes accumulate, and the

securities guys get rich. That

pencil up their ass? May

they sit on it.

15,535. TOO MANY TENSES

TOO MANY TENSES

What language is this, fella',

that you be trying to speak?

I've fallen by the wayside

like a tired, old dog  -  but

I can still hear you , and,

though my memory is 

jogged, I can't understand

what you're saying. What

was the planet again you

said you were from?

-

You seem like a wandering

mad minstrel from a place

I once heard of: where a

King Alford went mad when

his lute player slipped him

a Mickey in the Royal Court

Chamber. Things were never

the same after that; and I

remember it well : the 

candelabras fell from the 

ceiling and walls, the royal

carpets took blaze and the,

King, burned to death, simply

became King Ember the

Fiery Head after that. His

8 year-old-son was given

the Kingdom, and nothing

was ever heard from again.

-

That's where you're headed,

Super-Tenses Tony.

15,534. MAGYAR BURIAL MOUNDS

MAGYAR BURIAL MOUNDS

Across from me  -  in a most lazy

way  -  the stern and the hum of

Grand Central Station rolled. As

I turned the corner from a Joe's

Coffee and a Hudson Books, the

newsstand kiosk caught my eye.

At first, without understanding,

I was mesmerized, and then I had

to think. Some obscure paper's

headline blared : "Ancient Magyar

Burial Mounds Found : May

Contain Millions!"

-

Millions of what? People? Coins? 

Money? Riches? Jewels? Something

seemed left out. Like the Chinese

horsemen once found as statues

all lined out in a cave, there was

something else in store to be found.

Newspapers never lie! I stammered

to my disbelieving self. The stony

rattle of the marble atrium resounded.

-

Nothing much about being imprecise;

no one cares or knows that stuff any

longer, and imprecise is the watchword

of the new-informative crowd : 'We may

patter, we may rumble, we are loud!',

they say. And I don't care.

-

But someone ought to answer for these

ancient Magyar mounds. Please, please,

what are they and what do they have 

there?