16,110. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,369

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,369

(from totem to sputnik)     

Being tired of the normal, and

the paranormal too, I grow weary,

at times, of even you. It was a long

time back, truth be told, when 

anything mattered to me. I was

at NO Nukes, some shit-schtick

anti-nuclear rally in NYC, back

when the best they could offer

was Jackson Brown. Now there's

a struggling heartbeat : Jackson

Brown, Graham Nash, Bonnie

Raitt, and Darryl Hall, organizers.

That was enough to peak the shine

of one's loafers, and send a scarf

to New Delhi. (I think maybe that's

a reference to something of the time

about Ghandhi, a movie or two ago).

-

I'm old and I'm powerful, but I'm

as young as I am weak. I measure

time now in decades, though every 

one matters less. I think back on a 

gold-chest of memories, though now

I can't open it up.

-

When I was a kid, one of the most

startling concepts to me (one which

is almost unheard of now), was a 

'totem' pole  -  a tribal thing, carved

with the tribe's totemic animal, or

bird head, or whatever in a vertical

manner, repeated, and often strangely 

colored It was primitive and strange

to me. We, in the USA, had none of

that, unless you counted a dollar sign

or a 1950's television, as a totem. Or

even a Cadillac. Out in the Texas

flatlands somewhere, I think it was,

there was a place called 'Cadillac 

Ranch' - probably the USA's most

near equivalent, where they had

some 30 or more Cadillacs, stuck

or buried, face front, in the desert

sands, in a row.

-

Anyway, all that's gone. It was

replaced, for my own Twilight Zone

wonder and awe, about 1957, by

Sputnik, the first, Russian, orbiting

satellite. Not a Plymouth satellite 

either; a real spacecraft. The first. 

I can well remember just about 

every family on my block one

night, whenever it was, at some

allotted time when this blinking

Sputnik would be crawling high

over the night sky right over our 

heads had all come out, craning

their heads skyward to watch.

Fathers. Mothers. and kids, as

in some idealized version of a

new and space-age America just

bubbling up. What was it all to be?

Totems to Sputniks. What to me?

-

I think back now. At that moment,

where was Elvis, Chuck Berry,

Gerry Lee Lewis, Beatles and

Stones, and, yes, Jackson Brown?

Were they in on this new 'borning?'

Did they know and sense what was

underway? (I actually like Jackson

Brown, and, I guess, use him as my

'stand-in for the whole (avatar) on 

a whim and because I opened with 

him and the No Nukes rally). 

I'm a pretender?

-

There's a point past which we outlive

something and just become cranks.

I'm not sure where that point is, but

it always occurs. It's not as bad as it

may seem, because the world reeks 

of stupidity, and it really does become

painful to witness it. But what happens

is the removal of 'presence' that sets in

as one ages, removes the dross and only

leaves the essential qualities of what

passes for life. Mostly just a cracker

barrel full of crappy stuff. I can see it 

clearly.

-

It's the same point at which the things

of the world lose their luster and begin

to fade. It's no wonder Christ died at 33.

It's no wonder all the rock n' roll idiots

died at 27. It's no wonder, by age 26, the

Beatles were burned out enough to begin

singing about food and groupies : 'Savoy

Truffle;, 'Piggies', and even Apple Scruff,

which I used to think was about some

apple-crispy dessert concoction, but

which turns out to have been about the

groupies which always hung about the

doorways of Apple Studios, to catch a

Beatle entering or leaving, and which

they referred to as Apple Scruff, and 

George wrote a tune about. Damn it

all. life can become a bore, Honey Pie.

-

Things like this, once, always crossed

my mind, got lodged in, and often just

stayed there. 'Christ Stopped at Eboli'

was a book I read once, and now I 

always only refer to it as 'Christ Died

at Ebola.' Modern diseases too have a

way of sticking. In fact, lots of times

I just sit back and wonder. What's it

mean when my mind throws a line at

me like 'You have a mind that makes

bumps like Braille.' ?? I mean, it's a 

part of a thought, and I can sort of 

understand where it's headed, and 

pushing me, but where in the hell

did it come from, and what am I

supposed to do with it? The answer

is, 'Build around it. Make it work.'

So, I do, or try anyway.

-

I get socked around all day with 

things like this, and can hardly 

rest for a moment without some 

new scuttlebutt of a sentence or 

a thought slamming me to the 

ground and saying Use this!

I think in the ancient days, I'd

by this be considered a mystic in

his monastic cell, getting messages

from God. But we've outgrown all

that rubbish now, right? We know

miracles don't happen, and God

doesn't talk to us, right? But, you

know what? God's always been

with us, in some form or the other,

even if just self-identifying with

some bluster, from the most ancient

of totems to Sputnik and beyond.

Right?

16,109. ANGER IS THE SAUCE THE SOUP BOILS IN

ANGER IS THE SAUCE 

THE SOUP BOILS IN

My fellow dominators: I'm tired of this

world; a growling pit of egregious monsters,

seeking to tear my nuts from their casing?

I used to wonder why that was, but now I

understand : I am overdue at the packing

yard for my transportation to other lands.

-

Most of the men I've ever met, the good

ones and the bad, I'd already slept with 

their sisters, and sometimes their mothers

too. Both together sometimes! I learned

that from my owl friend Don. He's dead,

some drug bullshit in New Orleans. His

girlfriend's gone now too. Same shit. She

could have been, perhaps, a heroine, but

heroin's what she bit instead. Now she's 

dead. He used to live in Keansburg, NJ.

He mostly slept with anything that had

2 legs. Or that was my job to him anyway.

"Jesus, make sure it only has two legs! 

Sometimes I get really drunk." Yeah,

that was the 1980's with him. One time

my motorcycle broke down, Rt. 18, at

East Brunswick. So I called him up, and

he came, with his little Toyota pick-up

truck, back when that was all they made,

the small ones, not the 'Tundra's' like they

make today. It took him about 2 and a 

half hours to finally come to the place 

we were. The ass-end of some Macy's or

Bamberger's parking lot. I had to sit there 

and wait for him  -  amidst women and

their daughters, strutting the parking lot 

like whores getting paid by the hour, and

clutching their bags of linens and sheets

and towels and crap purchased on an

otherwise fine Saturday morning. 

-

I don't know whatever else ever happened

to me. Too much junk, not enough memory.

16,108. GARLIC AND ROSE

GARLIC AND ROSE

I often think in colors, like

Scriabin composed in colors.

Not knowing what any of it 

means, I wade on through

the colorfield nonetheless.

Every color signifies new.

-

I once was told, by an alien

friend, in the midst of talking

at the BarnRoot Tavern, on

White Street, about future

visitations, and how Earthlings

had not a clue to what they'd

be exposed.

-

The most startling thing 'it' said

to me was about colors, and how

it would all be comprised of colors

we'd have never seen before, a

different energy spectrum entirely,

and one that would work on the

emotional/electrical system that

rules Humankind and the physical

'reality' we think  that (supposedly)

rules us. As he put it, before walking

out, "when you see garlic and rose

changing places, get ready, it's time.

That's your signal, OK?

-

That was a little bit cryptic, yes,

but I nodded OK.

16,107. OUTSIDE THE BRITISH MUSEUM?

OUTSIDE THE BRITISH MUSEUM?

Well it was a dream and they were tarring

from pots the cracks in the drive. Why not

make it an art event? Numerous people

milled about. Convince them it's performance

art, and they clap and watch at anything. A

few years back I had a DIA recital ticket

set, for Twyla Tharp I can't remember, but

I think it ran for five Spring Sundays, the

last of them being Easter. The obvious

symbolism, you'd think, was rebirth and

renewal. At the end, no one wanted to rise.

They all stayed there, as if mesmerized?

16,106. EXTRAPOLATION

EXTRAPOLATION

Steady never the status quo, 

and never expect the normal.

Good terms to stand by. For

only little do things ever change,  

yet nonetheless the experts insist

on extrapolating the then from the 

now. That's usually how they go 

wrong.

-

I was tired today, yet I never slept 

a wink. Funny me, saying that. And

outside in the cold I thought of little 

else.

-

The phone rang too, it was a medical

sales call, from Dingman's Ferry. It's

odd how these medical and automated

calls work. If I do pick up, the robo

voice never talks, or someone hangs 

up. If that's a job, I can't understand

how any jerk would do that 8 hours

a day. Usually I never even pick up,

but now, after this heart-surgery crap,

these fools are drooling for me. Then

why waste my time by calling and 

then hanging up? I sure don't  get

a lot of things, (though I do get 

a lot of rings). If they extrapolate

from this, they won't get a thing.

16,105. MUSEUM

MUSEUM

I visited the Museum of

Lost Things, just yesterday 

(It was deep in the woods, 

back behind my house). I

went first to the 'Panel of

Lost Experts' exhibit.

-

Wholesome and satisfying

it was. A gallery of photos

of cave people, and some

medieval men too. Old-time

experts of things gone by,

with their quotes up on the

wall.

-

One said, with a caveman

pointing to the fire he was

cooking meat over, "Yes,

it's for certain that if you

stand away some, and not

get too close (it does something

funny to your skin and hands

otherwise, and it hurts too, like

when Immumu got bit by that

large dragon), it will make hot

and very tasty this large 'iguana',

I think we call it."

-

Another photo had a caption that

said "I am certain, yes, that if we

take this block, and rub it until

it's a 'xircle', (is that the word),

or 'round?' we can then put it

to that open box Guzuba has

built, and roll anything we want, 

with great ease, all the way to

El Tahari."

-

A third guy piped up, "I too have

an idea. I call it a map  -  I can

draw lines that, if you follow them,

will take you directly and without

delay, to El Tahiri itself!"

16,104. HISTORY ON TWO WHEELS

HISTORY ON TWO WHEELS

Got the shit kicked out of me in 

Hoboken once  -  a couple of

Angels holding a grudge. At

Hoboken MC, got stomped to 

ground. And it was over almost

nothing..

-

Another time, same kind of deal,

but another bunch of guys. A big

lug named Tiny took me down,

over a tee shirt I was wearing. Big

stupid baby. It was an Angels' tee

shirt  -  go figure that out. I'd have

been better off meeting them at old

Robert Hall's, to get the clothes

checked out first. 

That was in Monmouth County 

somewhere; from a Swap Meet 

that turned into a meet and greet 

or meat and beat. 1989, maybe it 

was - and the girl there who 'turned

me in' to the Breed guy she was

sleeping with was a high school

bitch I'd hardly known. I hope

she's rotten in her kingdom now.

-

My history on two wheels is full of

shit  -  nothing I'd want to relive, and

nothing I'd ever giver to anyone else.

Alcohol, booze, titties and beer.

Here, there, and everywhere.

-

I lied to many people, back then;

lied to cops and riders, regular people,

and insiders. But nothing ever stopped

me no-how. I covered all 5 boroughs,

and upstate and down. New Jersey?

Just a poop-deck for small outsiders.

The real deal was New York City.

16,103. ARCHIPELEGO

ARCHIPELEGO

Eating my sandwich in these

Darwinian trees, I have evolved 

to this point at least. Giant tortoises

and half-made lizards. I am all of these!

16,102. THEY SAY I INVENTED THE HAT BLOCK, BUT I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT A HAT BLOCK IS

THEY SAY I INVENTED THE HAT BLOCK, BUT I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT A HAT BLOCK IS

Here I am, standing outside at the corner of 87th and

Riverside Drive. That's right by the Sailors and Soldiers 

Monument, if you don't already know; down a few blocks

from Grant's Tomb. You know who's buried in there; sure,

everyone does. But they always leave out his wife, poor

lady. She's in there too. Emelia Rodenberry Rolteagh Julia

Boggs Grant,  and mostly just known as Mrs. Grant, to us.

That's OK, not everyone is well-known.

-

Grant's Tomb, then, is by Riverside Church. Now, that's

one big-deal place. It's large, and huge, and skirts the river,

high up, and you'd hardly ever know it. The Hudson River 

doesn't like to get shunted aside. There's a little section there,

statues, memorial signs all that stuff. It used to be a lot of

Hispanics, almost a Hispanic ghetto in all those adjoining

streets; some dangers too  -  a playground with some sketchy

sorts always lurking. That's where they invented Sketcher's,

those running shoes or sneakers, or whatever thy are. Just

like how they tell me I invented the Hat Block; but I don't

even know what a hat block is. I thought it was a block in

which you stored your hat. But no, now they tell me it's

more a 'form' than a box, something you put your hat over,

so it doesn't lose shape. For storage, I guess, and not for

everyday use. Now how could they say I 'invented' that,

when I don't even know what it is? Man, this world is mad.

16,101. JUST A PILGRIM ON THE JOURNEY FROM ARKANSAS

JUST A PILGRIM ON THE 

JOURNEY FROM ARKANSAS

I'll stand where I stand, and you shut the

fuck up. OK? No more digitalis, no more

taking sides. Here, the flatlands prosper, and

all sorts of crazy things may grow. Then they

put a new building up, and bye bye meadow.

-

Look at that girl by the center. She has an 

amazing shape, no? She makes me so hungry

without knowing where to go. I want to be

something here, but I never get the chance.

Watching her walk into the IHOP in the

plaza, it seemed like a dance. I was tight

and I was mesmerized too.

-

A Sunoco Station, and Falcon Music Supply,

another store for budding geniuses. Is that what

brought me here? I forget the rest. Three kids in

that old Pontiac (where'd they get that?), eating

their MacDonald's that their Mother just bought.

Is there an age-minimum for kids at the counter

buying their own smack-food? Addictive bullshit,

french fries to the head, salted machete-burgers

with crazy desserts eaten first? Get me out of here, 

you naked nurse? Oh, sorry, that's the kids' mother.

-

So in passing through Arkansas I see nothing much

but a glut : pig farms, high grasses, a marijuana store,

(are they most everywhere now?), and a Munchies

Factory Pic N' Pay. Nice tie-in, they must make out

real well. What else are they going to say though,

'Pic N' Go?' To have to pay first, I suppose. Kids

running off through the forest with five bags of

yodels to go?

-

I won't stand on this label forever. You're

one creepy jerk, you know? And - no -

I don't have a return address.

Not even a stamp.

--------------

16,100. NOTHING NOTABLE, NOTHING SMART

NOTHING NOTABLE, 

NOTHING SMART

There ought to be an award given at

the end of each person's life. A badge

of some sort for the grave. An accolade, 

or some retrogade notice; something to

be left behind. After all, each person 

needs a proof of their own existence.

'Nothing Notable, Nothing Smart.'

16,099. LOCKED IN THE BATHROOM ON THE NY TRAIN

LOCKED IN THE BATHROOM 

ON THE NY TRAIN

Weird but true, though not what it

seems. Some young black dude, full

of push and venom, gets on the train, 

headed north, from New Brunswick, 

or somewhere stupid, to NY. I always

called it north, but I think they actually

say east, out of Princeton. Always

troubling.

-

This Mr. Slick here I'm speaking of,

was a fare-beater faking a need for the

bathroom. He locks himself in, well

before any conductor catches him for

a ticket or a fare. OK, so he thinks to

ride out the 30 minute trip (on a good

day), locked in the bathroom. Good

luck with no other schmuck needing 

to use that room too.

-

Sure enough, some able-bodied nitwit

comes and starts banging on the door.

You just knew it had to happen, and,

even though no ladies ever use a train

car bathroom, he's lucky it wasn't a lady,

This guy sits down to wait, and 10

minutes elapse. Conductor finally shows,

to click and ticket the car, and this guy

tells the conductor the tale of woe, and

about the 15-minute guy 'hiding out' in

the bathroom. To beat the fare.

-

The conductor lets on that he knows.

'Yeah, happens all the time, and out of

Brunswick too. But you'll just have to

wait. It's a game they play. I'm not

starting a fight over nothing like this.

I'll try and get him on the way out,

and if there's cop at one of these 

stations, I'll try to have him run in.

But they always win; it's his word 

against yours and mine, and there's

no proof that this ever happened. Law's

on their side, ticket or no ticket.'

-

With that the conductor knocks on the

door a few times, and walks away to 

do his work. This world. This world,

I'll tell you....

16,098. RUDIMENTS, pt. ,1368

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,368

(it's all just payback now)

I never much thought abut getting 

old and then failing; which is what 

happens to everyone  -   except 

those  who never make it to the 

'getting old' part. A definite and

solid make on the ends of time.

I'd seen any number of the most

definitely 'batty' old types who'd

flitted away their brains and led

themselves into a crazy world 

of their own survival. All you

young tigers of different natures,

who have the liberty now of 

deciding - for Christ and pity's

sake - what sex you want to be,

have never lived in the closed

world of good sense and decorum

anyway that was once the world

where  -  into the lexicon  -  words

such as Alzheimer's and Dementia

were not common at all, and were

so soon surpassed by 'Take-Out'

and 'Dunkin Donuts'  -  both of 

which were quite the thing in 

their days. Now, of course, all

is different, and not worth a 

bother. Now they make the

machines that talk and think,

the cars that drive themselves,

and 3D printers, for making

guns and bombs.

-

What it comes down to is trusting

reality  -  what is real, and what

isn't.  In the early 1970's, I'd

already I'd already met a few 

old-timers who'd gone around 

the bend. They'd mutter and 

grumble, they'd misidentify 

people and stories and things

which may (or may not have),

occurred. But it was all accepted

wholesomely, and the settled

life of an old crackpot wasn't

though that much about, as all

these farm families were large and

always had the needed caretakers

to keep Pops or old Mama at home

and kept in stir enough to get by.

The entire bunch stayed happy.

Nowadays? Well, nowadays we

have mandatory break-ins by

State personnel to make sure 

Grandma's not being mistreated

or neglected. These oldsters are

given drugs to keep them sedate,

and probably sedated too. 

Syndromes and conditions are 

attached to them,  health-care 

providers carefully selected,

and they're cared for to their 

very end by the 'expectations 

crew'  -  which  knows exactly

what will be occurring, what

deteriorations will set in, and

on what schedule too. But, hey,

who's complaining? Ha.

-

Dazed, old-time farmers were

certainly cool. When they weren't

tragic. There were a few suicides, 

and falls and then the 30-car 

processions would wend their

way slowly, right on up to the

cemetery out along the way to 

East Smithfield where were

encased together the good and

the lowly, the fair and not so, 

the sweet and the beautiful too.

So many times, and all things

ran together. Some crazy things

were, and yet remain, simply 

unexplainable: how John Harkness,

in his mid-eighties and strong 

and silent as whatever, got irked

about something, and walked 

out to his old barn, and hung

himself, like a tragic mule, 

just worn-out, dismayed, and 

tragic. That was 1972, about, 

and pretty much, by then, I 

realized, this was all about 

coming down and over.

-

I was always good with words,

and fairly sharp at numbers  -

the relationship between words

and numbers (and they both had

connections and similarities), was

very difficult to explain. Akin to

an almost alchemic mysticism 

the world turns onto its entire other

system when that connection to

the magical other tier is reached.

That's when an individual can really

start flying. And if you're old, you've

earned the right. (Alas, most never

first learn to exercise the 'damn

the world and all its compartments'

looseness that's necessary. They

just stay locked up, and

go looney.

-

I never thought, back then, 

I'd lose my slop  -  but it's 

happening, and  I know it's 

underway. For whatever 

reason. But, you can't just 

sit around listening to 

Warren Zevon records for

the rest of your days, 

welcoming in the fog 

that's grabbing at you, 

and trying to take you. 

All of life ends up hurting,

and each of us gets to feel

it. I guess it's all just the

normal run of things. As I

thought to myself, lying on

a hospital bed, getting prepped

 and sedated for heart surgery:

'It's all just payback now.'

16,097. KNUCKLES AND CALAMITY ON THE STREET TOGETHER

 KNUCKLES AND CALAMITY 

ON THE STREET TOGETHER

I had lots of places. Yeah. A lot of my

stuff was on W17th, after I did E11th;

back and forth between three places was

a cool gig. There was never any disorder

in the house, when the house had never had

any order to disorder. And anyway, what is

it one really needs to do. Toodle-loo? Get

out of town, Mr. Brown.

-

That one-time funeral we held at the

Church of the Little Savior? I barely

remember it, though I do recall the

dead guy was a dwarf. Do they have

little saviors? Every card-suit in the

house had to match?

-

Sometimes when we were stealing pretty

good and pretty steady, it was as if nothing

could ever stop us. Mother Mary Saints 

Almighty, where do we want to go from 

here? You might think a robbery is haphazard.

Not these. Every freaking step along the way

was timed out, the steps marked  -  how many

to take, how to carry the bags, where to turn,

and when. It was no fun really, and where the

thrill in that. This was all studied maneuvers, 

like a boxer in the ring. 

-

A person never gets caught until caught doing

the same thing one too many times. In the

annals of crime, it's called 'The Undetermined 

Ending,' and even the best guys never know.

16,096. THE FAMILY LINE OF JUSTIN TIERNEY

THE FAMILY LINE OF JUSTIN TIERNEY

I am not kin to Justin Tierney, though

I may have been once. John Tierney was

the explorer who discovered The Brooklyn

Bridge. After that, he sided with the tribe

of breakaway Algonquins who resettled

what's now called Staten Island. He built

the first multi-screen movie palace there.

I think that was 1724, as I recall.

-

Then, when they put up the superhighway

for horses, in 1740  -  same year as the

black-slave riots that burned NYC, he was

never heard from again and his lineage was

lost  -  as well as his horse.

16,095. PECULIAR HAPPENSTANCE AT THE MEXICAN HAT DANCE

PECULIAR HAPPENSTANCE AT 

THE MEXICAN HAT DANCE

One day after the other, they're pretty much

all alike, brother. My pinata of new adventures

has not yet broken over : Rover, let someone

else take over? That was Hendrix, when he lived

on Eighth Street. The Marlton Hotel was a haven -

or a reprieve - from that sort of Hell.

-

Ming the Merciless was there, and everybody took

their turn. Fair enough. I had never seen anyone

dressed solely in black leather before : Hendrix

again, right outside the door. I let it go, but I dug

his hat as well. A nod and a 'how you doin?, Swell'

thing  -  like normal guys who operate on another

mental level. 'You going to the revel, man?'. No,

brother, I already am there.'

-

'Those hippy chicks sure make my day!' Kind of

like everybody said that. Stuff was easier then, like 

in that movie 'Four Friends.' You maybe should see

it if you wish to know those days, how it plays, play

it as it lays. Joan Didion days. Always.

-

It's never fair to reminisce, because the bias tends

always to the now, and all the past if left behind.

16,094. I MIGHT TRY THIS AGAIN

I MIGHT TRY THIS AGAIN

After all, what's to be the harm in that? 

Like a Heaven's fury descending, the

cob-bound matters withstand each

effort, and this world shall never fade

away from me.

-

I stride valleys. I walk through villages.

16,093. WELCOME HOME

WELCOME HOME

Nothing for me but these 

expectations. Blimey, sordid,

matter. I'm watching too many

old people now, and they stare.

The one man doesn't realize the

water fountain has been turned

off. I guess he slept through Covid.

-

The sweet-looking old lady, on

the bench by herself at the 

corner, seems mesmerized by 

the weather-TV that's on in the 

corner. I'd bet she's had a 

salacious past.

-

These waiting room moments are

killers. This hospital seems crazy:

First you sign in, then they ask you

the very same questions they asked

you yesterday: 'Have you been out

of the country in the last 30 days?'

'Have you been treated or diagnosed

for Covid in the last 3 months?' Any

contact with anyone who has Covid?'

-

I like to say 'Yes' to all three. Just to

get their gourd. And then I cough and

gag in their window.

16,092. I LIKE A LOT OF THINGS

I LIKE A LOT OF THINGS

I like a lot of things: I like all

the books on all my shelves, and

wouldn't lose them for minute.

I like the cars I keep in my drive;

the way the look different in the

varied kinds of light. I like my

leisure time now, the way I can

do what I want to do. I like the

water here that's free, as it just

comes out of the ground, the way

God intended. I like the lay of

land, as it seems to sway and to

ripple with all its little rises and 

dips. I love the way there are so

few around. We simply come and

go together, and just as we please.

-

It's a real adornment of expectation:

something tomorrow, or maybe not.

We just stay around as we please, at

ease; never looking, but for always

something. Battlements of the ages,

please come forth.

16,091. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,367

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,367

Elmira, in the early/mid 1970's

was filled with a just starting

to be run-down housing stock

that remained amazing to me.

These gigantic, tiered wedding

cakes of homes, still standing

but yet just beginning their

neglect and demise. Some,

a few anyway, by 1978 were

already gone. Now, when I

get back there, those that

still remain  -  and many do -

are amazingly rancid looking,

wrecks, ruins or abandonments.

That doesn't always mean a 

lot, because as I walk around

them I can see the evidences

that people still live in them,

or in some partially habitable

portion of them. Often with

old rickety vehicles hunched

over, and with broken, removed,

or sagging porches that I wouldn't

trust to put 50 pounds on but

which the current squatters or 

inhabitants seem to have no

concern over, or as little interest 

in as they have of a coat of 

fresh paint ever hitting the 

outside. And I've not seen 

insides! Yet, they manage.

-

It's always been funny as to how

the ideal of an imagined and

still sought for 'America' yet

exists. It's myopic, in a way, to

stay focused like that on an old

ideal that now has no grounds,

nor bounds, to have ever been

considered real. Like a village

Fourth of July on the town's

center green; flags unfurled,

and village-inhabitants both

joyful and 'together as one.

That old world is long-ago

fragmented and broken up,

and only remembered as lost 

ideals, or the shards of a now

broken mirror that used to

reflect the ideal. 

- 

The other day a friend of mine

posted a photo of an old white

house, in Rahway, NJ. Nothing

I actually remembered  -  that

home  -  but people were saying 

it had been this or that  -  once

a doctor's office, and who had 

lived there, and when. I'd guess

now it's multiple rental apartments,

or whatever. (see photo). But it

got me to thinking about all

that it means and all that's 

now gone  -  a typical beat-up,

run out of purpose, NJ half

industrial town, with a few 

fine rows of old homes from 

when the early managerial 

classes still liked living 

proudly in their 'finer' parts 

of these small urban areas,

and not running off to the 

suburbs and developed 

fields out of town. When

there was still a pride taken 

in whatever 'personal' 

achievements had brought 

them to that station in life. 

Proud of their small towns 

and still-civil cities and urbs,

and where the respects and 

ideals of were still honored

and abided by. 

-

Think of this scenario in any

one of those towns: The big

old house (before its America

failed) where the doctor lived

and took patients. Like old

Dr. Abramson, also in Rahway,

next to the Elks Lodge, an office

and a waiting room with deeply

polished wood on the walls, a

serious picture or two, and a 

WWII photo of the young,

emerging Doctor himself, in 

his WWII Army uniform. 

Medic-training and a

Diploma of Med. School

graduation.

-

Now think of that very town 

itself; how the doctor visited

homes and made calls in person.

Think of the hardware store, the

local pharmacy, the charm of 

the yards and the houses mixed 

in with the storefronts and those

who sold groceries, fruits, pickles

in barrels :  the car-sales places,

and the mechanics and even the

blacksmiths and the places for

stabling and shoeing horses. 

-

Now jump ahead to today  -  the

doctors of old are gone; their old

houses are probably broken up

into rentals. A few pharmacy 

conglomerates have rounded up

all the old shops; medicine has

deteriorated into group practices,

walk-in street clinics, and the

doctors know no names without a

reference to screen or computer.

The pharmaceutical industry has

been heavy-handedly handed its

free-pass to peddle drugs and

concoctions to unwitting users

of medicines for syndromes and

disease more made-up than real.

The town squares and centers have

become 7-11's or convenience stores

rife with highway lighting and lots

for passing cars and loitering kids.

The bandshell is dismantled or

destroyed. It all makes on wonder

of the placid serenity that once

marauded as America, wherever

it was. Anywhere, USA. 

Now long gone.