16,188. DIFFICULT TO PEN

DIFFICULT TO PEN

Difficult to pen, though not to withstand.

I stood outside the old movie theater

wondering. The wind-broken sign was

clanking in the breeze. We had just left,

once more, after another meeting together.

I shook my head in trying to recall the last

words we'd said.

.

Miles of marshland between us now  - the

wild Jersey meadows, and nothing making

any sense. A skyline of mis-begotten towers, 

and a turnpike roadway; all things heading

away. It all seemed so near, yet it was all

faraway. Gasoline station. Rest stop. Coffee

and food. I'm always footing the bill for 

nothing. The local turnoff beckoned.

16,187. NOT TIL THEN

NOT TIL THEN

I ceded you the checkerboard, but you 

still refused to play. Not knowing what

to do I walked away. Fantasy rhymes in

my treasure book? 'Tomorrow is another

day!'

-

I walked with that girl to the iron bridge;

looking up, she took some photos of what

she saw. What I dreamed I saw, she'll

never know. Some dreams come, 

some dreams go.

16,186. NORMAL WAYS

 NORMAL WAYS

There's a normal way of bringing

down the hidden kingdom. Palaces

come and go, but never a King I've

ever met hasn't tried to tell me so.

-

There are pasteboard placards on every

outside wall  -  'Vote for this' and 'Buy

this now!' Metal formations for another

war effort, free gasoline if you promise

to leave.

- 

I only went to 6th grade, and that was

so long ago. 'Never say good-bye; say 

So Long! instead.' My Grandmother

told me so.

16,185. IRONMAN MAIDENFORM FIVE

IRONMAN MAIDENFORM FIVE

Without a shred of evidence I plead my case.

I am the drawbridge you thought of. I am the

laughing gas I never needed  - the whole

world was funny to me.

-

At the edge of the stream was the brakeman's

ladder. We watched as we wallowed and fell.

I never came home feeling better than that.

-

Starlight all through the night  --  does this

situation never then end?

16,184. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,380

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,380

(In dreaming of something new, try the old first)

I just came back from what seemed like

another realm. That was from reading 

a book. I'd recommend it; it's a biography

of Elon Musk, by some Ashlee Vance guy.

It put me in another mind, thinking about

lots of things. Back in 1972, I think it was,

I read a trendy book that was just trending

then, called Future Shock, by Alvin Toffler.

He's dead now, but the curious spot that the

book caught me in was hypnotic. I still don't

know what it was that grasped me so about it,

and it probably deserves another read. But it

would never be the same. Situations and 

scenarios change.

-

It's like that with ideas too. For some 10 pages,

I was on this book, then, another 20 pages, I

was all turned against it, what he stood for as

portrayed, what he was saying, and how he 

acted. It was having nothing to do with me,

the way I am, my views of the same things.

I can understand a California techno

environment having overwhelmingly all

the factors of control and intensity, but why?

Musk's reasoning brought nothing of value 

back to me. I've long ago grown tired of the

sort of person who has to guage everything

against money. To them, money becomes

everything  -  when in reality money is NOT

value and all it ends up doing is denuding

value of having any value. Any idiot can

'make' money (make, in this instance, being

a wrong and insincere word for the use).

-

In a way it's kind of a shame to see someone

like Musk get all the accolades for, essentially,

steering himself in the wrong direction, albeit,

I agree, with verve, ingenuity, intelligence and

drive. But little else. Five kids and 3 marriages 

later, cars, spaceships, and a few other projects

later, he's sailing now, yes. Made it to the big-time

but only with the tangible things to show. The 

book makes for a good read from and interesting 

few decades of action. But an action that stayed

tethered, when it should have been flying high

with a kind of less material intensity. He's kind

of a space-Picasso.

-

It's a scant moment when people get inspiration

for something that doesn't include lucre or a return,

money in expectation of achieving riches and a

certain, composed, 'greatness.' It's all arranged for

that, but the true outlier is the Picasso like charmer 

who can actually make a new world without any of

that. 

-

Instead of seeing life as blindly spectating, it

can be said for certain that Elon Musk, from his

early youth on, was suspect  -  in my view, of 

course. I can't, frankly, place my interest nor

fate in the hands of a video-game brat, a man

whose current principles revolve around 'games',

and who references his entire life through the

promises of tech, how things work, how they

can be sped-up and altered, how 'people' can be

used as productivity tools, etc. It's just not my

field in anyway. I do not need to colonize Mars.

His SpaceX ventures lead me nowhere. The 

crux of the matter is in how he can say he'd 

be wanting not just to send people and to

colonize Mars, in completely artificial and

 -designed environments, all manned and 

replenished by space travel going on

constantly (of course this is all BS based 

on space-load and profit, which would 

have to come first, and which apparently,

but first re-design people more 'fit' for that 

colonization, to wit, genetically manufacture

a rwce of permanent colonizers, a small coterie

of Mars-dwellers who would still somehow

call themselves Humans, but based on forms

of supply-line living and encampments based'

upon idealized, and artificial, conditions.

-  but automotively and space-wise, arranged 

by his leveraging public monies, government

contracts, and stock and trade deals. Yes, for 

nonce, it's all working, but it's a house of 

dreams and a precarious timber-ready 

geek's dream.

-

We each are, in a nutshell, what we are, and 

there's not really much that can be done about 

it. The self-help people and the actualization 

folks would have a bookstore fantasy with 

this one. I can see it now, rows and rows of 

'colonization section' books portraying 

everything you never needed to know, 

nor  care about, all the while delivering 

Humankind another step along the way 

to controls here,  anarchy in-between, 

and a complete dictatorship there. 

Iron-Hand madness.

-

I can see it now  -  a large roomful of PTA 

Gifted Program mothers bragging about 

their little Johnnies and Janies, who, although 

probably autistic and gifted, want to grow up 

to go to Mars and help colonize the dumb 

future. With dense emptiness, no values, 

and little reference to anything else of 

Human Civilization which  -   face it   

Jane and John  -  is really all you ever 

get or deserves, and I'm not so sure 

about that last part.

-

'For Musk, the call to ensure that mankind

is a multi-planeary soecies partly sems from

a life richly influenced by  science fiction and

technology. Equally it's a moral imperative

that dates back to his childhood. In some form

this has forever been his mandate...to sooth

an existential depression that seems to gnaw at

his every fiber. He sees man as self-limiting

and in peril and wants to fix the situation.

The people who suggest bad ideas during

meetings or mke misakes at work are

getting in the way of all of theis and slowing

Musk down. He does not dislike them as

people. Its more that he feels pained by their

mistakes, which have consigned man to

peril that much longer. The perceived lack

of emotion is a symptom of Musk sometimes

feeling that he's the only one who grasps

the urgency of the situation. He's less sensitive 

and less tolerant than other people because the

stakes are so high. Employees need to help

 solve the problems to the absolute best

of their ability or they need to get out 

of the way.'

-

This is also vainglory, complete egotism,

madness, vanity, and a simple drive for

completely and psychically-driven materialism,

stupidity, wastefulness and control over others.

As I see it, three families later and five alienated

children later, prove me out. The man should

designing garbage trucks.

16,183. NEED I RATTLE?

 NEED I RATTLE?

Sanctimonious as can be, here comes the

lady with locks. 'I do not love thee, Doctor;

I do not love thee well. You take my joys, and

bind them up, and diagnose them - Hell! What

is it you know of living? What is it you know

at all? Does the inside know of the outside?

Does the guard-dog see over the wall?

16,182. NOW'S THE NARROW MARGIN

NOW'S THE NARROW MARGIN

Can you keep me a keepsake and send me a dime?

Little things mean a lot, and I'm not trawling for

favors any longer. Them that won't talk is them

that won't gawk : So I keep quiet ever after the

fall. Reading books won't solve any of the world's 

problems, or, as they say in the ghetto now : 

'What'chu readin' dat fo, man? Dat's so unhip.' 

Then I tell him I just dumped a bottle of ink 

on his Mama and she called out his name but

she'll never live it down.

-

Another opening, another show!....Two more

weeks man, for the Auto Show! Or ain't you 

gonna' go? It's 55 bucks this year, just to get in.

That's so unhip; it's like paying for sin.

16,181. QUIET ENOUGH?

QUIET ENOUGH?

I'm quiet enough, like that mouse the never

roared, and I stand in issuance of a newer

citation. I should not speak of things any 

longer. Silence is so golden.

-

The suburb of Maryknoll? I'd never heard

of it. Wasn't that some religious name thirty

years ago? Monks and cops and police and 

nuns? But in so many ways they're all the 

same. Now I live in a lawless place. No 

cops around, and all is peaceful.

-

Beech Lake? Beach Lake? Cheese steak,

hand brake. All these and numbers amount

to nothing. 20 miles in that direction and

I'm somewhere else.

16,180. REPLACE THE MANTLEPIECE

REPLACE THE MANTLEPIECE

Replace the mantlepiece on the fireplace header,

and put the chopping block out in the cold; lance

that bubble on the butter package, and bring in the

IN from the cold. Like ships, passing in the night.

Straighten that bookcase, it loos like a mess. Put

this place in order. I think we've got guests. There's

something coming up the driveway (and they don't

look like they're here to deliver the mail).

-

Don't forget to clean my table, darn my socks, edge,

my edges, and, maybe, even, trim back the hedges.

Even though it's still cold, take no changes. Be bold?

16,179. ZOE GETS MALIGNED

ZOE GETS MALIGNED

'When this place was great, I wasn't cool. Now, I stand

here on the sidewalk beneath the bar's neon sign. United

we stand, or divided we fall. I never know which it is. I

used to sit in this bar and try to stretch one drink over an

hour and a half because it was all I could pay for, the one.

I'd basically be sitting there, hoping someone could catch

sight of me, think me interesting enough to but a drink for,

and come over. It usually always worked. Biker shit, back

then, attracted people. Like maybe I was a murderer...'

-

Other times, I'd tell someone I was a writer waiting for

my agent, Irwin Schwartz, but he was late, and I was

doing stand-up on the side. Stand-up, on the side, get it?

It's funny. That too would usually get me a drink, and 

then I'd say I knew Mark Knoepfler, who'd be coming

back in about 20 minutes with a date. In so many ways

it was more fun being a stupid outsider making up stories.

-

There are a lot of people here I don't know. It must be

cool having a bar to which writers come, because then 

at least it gets written about. Right? I used to joke too,

'Nobody comes here except Tibetans.' But of course I

meant Tribecans, which party of NY this is.' They'd

laugh. If they heard me  - there wasn't that much else

to do. A lot of things have happened to this city, and a

lot of great places have gone under.' Another guy came

over, and said he lived on Duane Street. He said the bar

was more 'populist' than it was 'posh.' And then he said

'no writers come here; just journalists; but hey, are they

really 'writers? For real, man.'

-

'He's a nit wit, let him be. Everybody thinks this is a big

celebrity place, but the reality is that it's really just the 

best neighborhood bar in town; small and dingy some too.

The tourists come in here, thinking to see celebrities. So

I bring some in, for nothing. They drink for free, but they

tip the place, and the girls too, and the wait-service. Not

regulars, but I make them almost that. Then the idiot

tourist types keep coming in, or back. You can always

tell. They walk backwards, yet somehow hit the wall in

front of them, while gawking.' Paulette somebody, with

earrings on the size of business cards and a rhinestone

cross dangling from around her neck. Think she was 

Jewish? I wonder. Half blue hair, and a twisty hat.'

16,178. GOES FLYING OVER AMBLER

GOES FLYING OVER AMBLER

The semblance of a nation is clownish now,

as it goes flying over ambler to bet money

on the day. Everything's a future when the

past is all behind you  -  and if a man can

plan for tomorrow, does he not then see the

future? Indeed he does, by need.

-

The caravan is stopping by the woods today.

Not 'stopping by the woods on a snowy evening',

no, not exactly, and that was Robert Frost whose

name most everyone knows. This is merely a stop

along the way for bathroom use, and maybe a snack.

-

It's exacting how one must keep to schedule on

those wiry trips to nowhere : in a bus with the

windows unopened and the air-screen blasting

cold air. There is a 'bathroom' in the rear, but

it's gross and filthy, and more a urinal for pet

males; nothing a dainty lady would use.

-

'There's no excuse for how they treat us gals!'

I hear the fat one say as she waddles away.

16,176. MY SCROLL BOOK

 MY SCROLL BOOK

It's already quite full, and overflowing,

my dead friends outrun each page. I make

notes and new markings, in a manner of

time, to keep track of what's going on.

Everything hurts at this point, each

point is a reference of leaving.

-

Snarky or wise, I've been called both once

or twice  -  and I don't know the meaning of

either.

16,175. AVALANCHE BROTHERS CONTRACTING & HAULING

AVALANCHE BROTHERS CONTRACTING & HAULING

Such things as go like that, on Steep Hill Road :

The broken meters of the day, and rocks galore.

You better have your brakes along.

-

One big road over from Bavarian Hill. A junkyard,

Branning Road, those weekenders always here

from Jersey  -  Totowa, I was told.

-

But, lazy as I am. I don't care no more. The sun

goes up, and the sun goes down. I don't

give a hoot about their town.

16,174. OLD DAYS ARE GONE

OLD DAYS ARE GONE

Uncle Remus having turned into

Uncle Ream Us Out, for saying

something incorrect  -  this naming 

of names that will not do. The old

days are gone for me and you.

-

Mr. Tallman Oakes is now a new

midget, having been cut off at the

knees for a parallel infraction of

which no one knows. All the

backstage passes are gone now,

and Cinderella has become a

whore. Her and her friends now

waltz among their Barbies and

Kens.

-

Interchangeable teat-babies

cry for many things. Turns out I

am not restless, just incorrect.

16,173. I DO NOT KNOW

I DO NOT KNOW

The hand with the jackknife has just

slit a throat (I feel like Bertolt Brecht).

It's a Pirate Jenny kind of feel given to

the air and the wind and the sea. The ship.

The black freighter. But I stepped back

and decided I wanted nothing to do with

that.

-

I sort of love everything. Yeah, that's true.

All this other gibberish means nothing  -  

how can I hate a race that professes love

even in its lowest moments? Everything

AND everyone. We tie the ends together

and get a mix of love right in the middle.

-

It seems like everyone is game. The clock 

that shows in the barber shop window is off

by maybe 12 minutes? Fast or slow, to say

the truth, I do not know.

16,172. TRUSTWORTHY

 TRUSTWORTHY

This poseur at the end of the line has

sure been a waste of my time. Bring the

pancake-boy back in again so I can once

more slap him in the head for the crap

he's done : emerald isles and difficult 

miles. Irish guys are the hardest to get

drunk.

-

Where I used to park on the meat market

sidewalk with all my old buddies, is now 

a Tesla showroom. They don't even often

have showrooms, but this is NYC, and,

glamor and money now live down here,

so the brownout crowd all wants to use

juice and charge up these vehicles to 

nowhere, inventing new futures while

draining down the past.

- 

Henny-Penny and Jackie-Ron the killer.

I'll drink to both of them. They're very

trustworthy fellows.

16,171. HAMSTERS ON A STRING

HAMSTERS ON A STRING

I've been going somewhere, for a 

very long time  -  if I counted it in

minutes I'd go crazy, for hours are

bad enough. It's been as a witness 

to 'many moons' mostly, all that

time and its subtly changing ways.

Not that I'm done yet. Even though

the guidebook shows me already past 

the limit, I'd like to stick around for

a few more paths.

16,170. NEW MOURNING

NEW MOURNING

I thought I had all that and then it was

gone  - a locomotive motion rolling down

the rails. One shrug of my inattentive eyes

and shoulders, together, did it all in. The lanes

were then empty before me. I watched the rail

foreman bark out his commands : the postal car,

the newsstand barricade, the roller-carts for the

luggage. When Amtrak comes through this town,

this town knows it.

-

I later laid down to sleep, but couldn't. By then

it was 12:39 and I found it too restless to sleep.

I got back up. Was I hungry for something to eat?

No, but I really couldn't tell. I remembered those

white cows I saw along the trail. All they ever do is

eat, but I never see them sleep. Rather, they just

stand in place, and stare. Maybe that's the key.

16,169. EXTEMPORANEOUSLY

EXTEMPORANEOUSLY

There's a happy catcher in a

very sad place  -  it's the catcher

of souls on Earth. He's got a net,

this angel does, made of golden 

strings, and rescues the Spirits of

everything :  animal, person, man,

women, and children too. Not all

come willingly: some escape while

others flee  -  loosing shape

'extemporaneously.'

What they're left with, they can have

16,168. THE WITHERING MOTH OF PESTILENCE

THE WRITHING MOTH OF PESTILENCE

When they ring the bell for the Captain and no

one comes forth, what shall we do then? That

writhing moth turns withering when? Outside

my window, the water looms again: same the

boundaries, same the tier. Leaves soon to grow

are but buds now to me. I hear the hallowed 

wind winding through the wooded lane. And 

a buster for a bolster, but still I'm glad I came.

-

When I look down, everything is covered in

last year : leaves and branches, and some tracks

where tires have been. Animals too leave scat.

Not knowing what to do with myself, I lunge

through the clotted path : for stickers and vines

to clutch me, and entangle me fast. I do not yet

know what to say about something like that.

16,167. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,378

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,376 

(where am I going, where have I been - Ending, pt. 8)

Ok, so let's open it up. I'll widen the 

playing field with a few new stories.

The first October, Freshman year, when

they had 'movie' nights (yeah beats me),

we'd go into the auditorium/theater, where

a big movie screen was dropped down.

Everyone filed in, and, taking seats, the

room was darkened and a movie began.

I was never a big movie kid, and, at home,

as a youngster, maybe a few a month

Kenny Kaisen and myself would go

down to the Woodbridge Theater, by the

hall, and watch whatever Saturday noon

drivel was being played. Invaders From

Mars; Journey To the Center Of the Earth;

Around the World in Eighty Days; and 

others. Nothing like today, with big-deal

space bullshit movies, sequels and tie-ins.

This old 1959 crap was just filler. We'd 

sit there like fools, squirming.

-

Something about these seminary movies

bothered me, and at first I couldn't figure it

out -  only after time did I realize what was

underway. They were all Westerns, and - 

like the best of the motley lot, 'Shane' they

were all about older cowboy kinds of 

western men, and young boys; young 

boys who they supposedly saved from 

some horrid fate, had adventures with, 

trials and tribulation great on the dusty 

western plains, and then abandoned! I

will always remember that plaintive boy's

voice, at the end of Shane (the kid is about

12 or 13), yelling out, 'Shane! Shane' to a

departing figure on horseback.

-

Something bothered me about all that, and it

was only much later that I realized it as what

it was. A clinical auto-eroticism. Somewhere

these priests and brothers kept selecting movies

based on man/boy hidden lust. I know I never

enjoyed it, and I didn't know about anyone else,

though they all seemed raptured! A total waste

of my time, and I just stopped attending, which

usually meant a fake trip to the bathroom but

out the door instead. I'd go into the dark and

chronic night, maybe down to the small pond

and dam'd lake with the water-wheel, and just

sit there, until I saw others leaving, as it all

ended. The cool cook's house and the kitchen

staff's quarters were there, sometime lit up

and frolicsome; other time just quiet and

dark.

-

I had a different mindset right then; 1964/65

was merely an introductory marking to my

entry into real life and I knew I sure as Hell

didn't want it spent there, or as a priest or as

an acknowledging witness to what I was

detecting going on within the confines of

that. Putting any ideas of a 'Roman Collar'

behind me, I knew it to be more like a

steel, well-locked, collar around me neck.

I'm not going to dwell, but it wasn't for me.

I was gone by mid-'66, and the entire place

was closed up by end of '67. To add bafflement

to wonder, last-ditch efforts were tried, I was

told, to keep it open. They even brought

girls in! People were expelled for girl

infractions, the 'solution' compounding the

problem. They ran out of funding, and the

'Class of  67' was the last. It became Camden

County Community College a few years

later. The hopeless effort to forestall close-up

was futile and, in a few further years, different

developments had changed the place entirely. 

The last of the old buildings, all of them, were

torn down in 2022, and the current place looks

more like the Pentagon than any country-school

stand-out far. For all I know, next, the way

education is cheapened in this country, it will

be calling itself Camden University. Just more

stupidity from the same old fetid, sour well.

At that particular stage of my life I didn't 

have time for even thinking about this 

stuff. Sometimes I'd detect some odd goings 

on, but I kept away.  I knew there was, out 

along my way to the pig field, an odd white, 

old, house where it seemed only certain kids, 

and the occasional Priest-Master would go. 

I went in once, by a sort of invite, but

wasn't interested. It was a very nice little 

house, chairs, two bedrooms, and beds, 

and a bumper-pool table too. I never liked 

bumper pool: undersized table, and those 

bumper pads disrupting the pool table's 

surface. But these guys seemed to like it. 

I left, and never followed up on the clues.

Once I was gone, that place, the entire

seminary experience, was out of my head,

immediately. It was easy to leave, and

easier for me to forget.

-

I had a different mindset, and I knew it. Back

at home again, I was considered troubled, if 

not crazy. I painted my 'bedroom' oddly, and

kept weird things around. At one point it got

to the point that my mother called in the local

St. Andrew's priest to check in on me. It turned

out to be a sort of really lame psychological 

chat by a priest who didn't know squat about 

what he was talking, or delving after. He was

a fey, and creepy, guy himself, and easy  to

move on from. Father Genecki never held a

hammer over my head. No one ever did, and

no one ever will. THE END

16,166. HOW MANY THINGS?

HOW MANY THINGS?

The symbol of an orchard is meant for fruitfulness.

Too silly is that for me : plan, and apparent too. No.

Stand aside for that, the end knows no collision with

the beginning. We live, turn Earth, and die, and the

Earth is turned again, or used to be anyway. Now?

It's anyone's guess. My God, My God, why have

you forsaken me? Is that too trite?

-

Here it is, two weeks before another Easter without

resolution. Whatever dies, face it, will never rise.

-

I'm of the sort to whom sackcloth and ashes have no

appeal. I'll sit in a barren cave, dead, till I rot. Those

parameters which made up my life are disappointing

anyway, but even right now they can't be read. My

bones will be part of History's plight. Far enough away,

even they will be gone to sight. How many things does

one truly need to see? There's more grave than gravy

about me.

16,165. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,377

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,377

(where am I going, where have I been? pt. 7)

This kind of seminary memoir is a bit

like a bad heel. You know you have to

walk on it, to get there, but you also know

that the pressure hurts. That's how it is

with recollections too. Why am I always

so sad? I don't even consider that.

-

The more I delve back, the more I want

to tell more than I remember. That's always

a danger  -  time shifts and bends and distorts.

So that  -  when I re-tell something  -  it all

first comes through the present, which has

a lot of new catch-filters. Or, I can wind

up stumbling over stupid things: Was that

a '64 Ford, or a '65, that Father Alexander

used to drive around in? (The Drama Coach).

Well, what to say: I don't much care.

-

There were two things also that I glommed 

onto, and both of them were cool and sensible

too, because they afforded me time away, even

if just a few hours, and even if only occasionally.

In neither case can I remember how I did it, or

how I got it arranged that I'd be the guy, but I

became like the ride-along assistant for these

trips. As I'll explain: Blackwood NJ to Camden

NJ was, oh, 15-20 miles, and back then, on 

small roads, took probably 25 minutes.

-

Whenever anyone got a toothache, or some

dental of digestive problem, or was running

a fever or otherwise ill, or  -  with all the

sports crap we did  -  sprained an ankle, broke

a finger, or an arm, whatever  -  and it was

determined that a doctor's care was needed,

myself, and one of the Priests, and the new

'patient' would hop in the car, (that black

Ford again), and take a drive  -  to the 

Camden dentist or doctor or emergency

room, with whom the seminary worked.

I guess they paid extra or something for the

night hours, because we never went in the

day. It was usually after 6pm. They'd go in,

get treated or fixed up, and the driver-Priest, 

and me, would sit around for as long as it took.

Sometimes it got a little awkward, especially

after some infraction I'd just been called out

on, but the Priest who would go on that trip

wasn't usually the disciplinarian type, and

most often wasn't even a classroom teaching 

priest, so it went easy. (Father Alexander was

the Drama Coach).

-

The other routine that I got involved in, which 

didn't happen often, but which I loved, was with

Brother Cornelius, or Brother Isidore  -  whichever

of those farm guy Priests it was. I can't remember,

and they both blend together as the two, bearded

recluses at the farm/barn. Whoever it was had

a 1952 Chevy pick-up truck, for the farm use.

He'd occasionally have me, with him, load it

up with scrap, from somewhere. I never knew

where it came from  -  metal, steel, old metal

shelves and lockers and stuff; all sorts. We'd

secure it onto the back of the pickup, and t

some point about 5pm, head out to the junkyards

area of Camden. Some really Jewish junk man,

also bearded, scrappy and gruff, would look it

over, weigh it all, and the truck, and we'd unload

where he said, and weigh the truck again, empty,

and he'd hand over some money for the metal.

It sounds easy, and simple, but you really had

to be there to see it. First off, the junkyard area 

roadways were dirt, and gouged and pitted.

It as slow going, with bumps and with things

slamming around. And dusty too. A real

no-mans land of dead or twisty trees, bare

landscape, hulks of junk everywhere, old cars

and scrap. BUT, what was most amazing

amidst all his was that in addition to all that

there were homes. Houses. Or domiciles

at least that once had been that. The seemingly

dazed and lost poor blacks would be out,

on the front porches, like an old southern

scene, just languidly staring out  -  wordless

and sullen. They'd watch us, slowly driving

by, with the faces of inquisitive but very

distant, witnesses. It was a bit strange, but

also was an image that stayed with me. For

all I knew, some of them were the pepper

pickers who'd come in on their work truck

from Campbells. (see previous chapter). 

No words were ever spoken.

-

Back at the seminary, with all that seared

into my brain, the news and words were of

Freedom Marches, LBJ, Civil Rights, all

those new issues of integrating schools, 

sit-ins for the 'privilege'(?) of eating while

black, at a Woolworth's lunch counter. Was

that considered equality? Was that all they

were after? Figuring all that to be Christian 

stuff, I wondered why none of this was ever

made mention of. We had assemblies, and

talks about grand matters, but all that I heard

and read about the turmoil in the 'outside'

world was simply ignored. It baffled me. 

All I could see to understand any of this 

were the faces of those benumbed, Camden, 

poor-black folk. Their world seemed beaten 

down and befuddled, a hovel amidst the 

mansions of others, yet they too were

speechless, without response, and simply

silent. It was horrible for me to bear, like

having to watch, over and over, a dog

getting hit by a car.

-

Remember, in the first chapter, about

that Mannlicher rifle of Lee Harvey

Oswald. That's really more along the

lines of what was needed to set thing 

country straight. Everything was turning 

rowdy and out of control. Ugly stuff

was happening. Down along the hallway

behind the Drama Dept and prop rooms

there were doorways, one for each class,

for the lounge room. Chairs and furniture,

a radio, TV, etc. Freshman Lounge, all

the way up to Senior Longe. One day I

was sitting in the Lounge for my class,

Freshman or Sophomore, I forget, and on

the little B/W TV, I watched Malcolm X

get shot on the stage of the Audobon

Ballroom, in Harlem. It as a stunner for

me, but, again, was more violence and

rabid out-of-control stuff  -  yet I kept

thinking maybe it was a good thing, like

whipping a nation with the oversize rosary

beads off a leather belt of fate that it

deserved. I was almost willing to 

accept, and allow, anything. A real

feeling of turmoil began to well up

inside me, like too much hunger

after a fast.

-

I tried everything to stay there, to

cooperate with the programs presented -

codes and beliefs that were beyond belief.

Pope Paul VI visited NYC on October

4th, 1965. That was the first time a Pope

had ever left the Vatican for a state visit.

It was well-covered by the media, all that

pious and reverential bullshit hype, and I

watched as much of the coverage as I

could, in that class lounge room. To my

mind, it could also have been called

giving in the an unsettled compromise

with the secular world. I thought the

Pope was nuts, and making a huge 

mistake. When he should have been

scolding and mouthing off, he was,

instead, acting like a tourist, being

co-opted and exploited. That  -  to me -

was the real sin. In my mind, I knew

it was over. I just had to find a way to

extricate myself. A long year later, I

was gone. By Thanksgiving and

Christmas, the latter end of 1966,

they asked me to go home and

reconsider everything. It was a nice

way of saying 'Go home and don't

come back, OK?' And that's the way 

it ended up. I had a few measley,

lumpy months I had to finish up

at my local high school : misery,

pathos, and stupidity combined.

-

Don't look back, it is sometimes said.

That' an empty-headed saying if ever

there was one. Looking back is everything.

Review and re-examination are where all

the lessons are. All the rest is impulse.

(But I'm not done with this yet).

16,164. HACK TO HAVERSTRAW

HACK TO HAVERSTRAW

That sounds cool enough; gonna' call me

a cab from here to there; a Checker, the

kind they don't make anywhere  -  one

with magic-lightning wheels and a

sound-proof divider glass so I don't

have to speak. No driver small-talk

for me.

-

I'll have him park on the city-edge,

where that park that ends at the river

is. Cloisters. Hudson way down below.

Probably that's as far as I'll go. If

I tell him to wait  - while I jump, to

the rocks below  -   and to leave the

meter running, think he'll catch on

too soon before I go?