16,377. MY CENTRAL BEAM HAS FALLEN INTO THE WATER

MY CENTRAL BEAM HAS 

FALLEN INTO THE WATER

My house has fallen with it. The center respite

of my days. I find many things to like, in this

naturally de-natured world, and for those I

hold them close. A whistle in the dark; some 

odd moment to remember.

16,376. I CAN'T REALLY LET THIS GO

I CAN'T REALLY LET THIS GO

My trust in mischievous things is gone :

marbles hitting against marbles, kids

throwing cards against walls, boys and

stickball in an old schoolyard. You just

don't see that stuff anymore.

-

Now they park the electric cars at the

charging stations and just sit around

with nothing to do but watch the

postal trucks come and go. The old

rail cars back there? No one delicately

cares.

-

I can hardly take living anymore, and

if the dying wasn't to be such a task, 

I'd be gone already?

16, 375. FRAGMENTS

FRAGMENTS

I dazzled my spaniel with my hipster elan, 

and once, and long ago. Now there are only 

penny candies, penny-antes, and penny-whistles

to go : The Bitter End, the Other End, Cafe Wha, 

and me. Bent and crooked and old and all gone.

-

When I see these places again, in my dreaming,

they are like lost dances from another place and

time. I am climbing to Heaven, in a descending

barrel of hopes and possibilities. (My fragments 

are all broken at the kneecaps).

16,374. SO LOADED DOWN

 SO LOADED DOWN

My saddled back is old and

groaning; there is a mystery 

now in every damned ache. I

want to run off, to ancient Egypt,

and be found in some cuspish

chamber. How long, I wonder,

can those tar-torches burn in a

deep, dark, pyramid; and would

I be alone? Or are there spirits

wagging, waiting for intruders.

-

I'll leave it all to imagination, since

there are not really any true ways

for me to balance the gauge of what

I say. This modern world has far

outgrown the idle speculations,

and we run from dark to light in

and instant - not much more to

be said there.

16,373. OF MANY MATTERS

 OF MANY MATTERS

In the mornings, here, as I arise,

before others, it's very quiet. The

hallways at 5am are dim). I get 

tended to throughout the night,

with changed IV's, etc. Then, 

about 6am, (and there are things

about this do NOT like), the old

people stir. Their thankless TV's

are off by then, and long before).

I've already gotten to know the

voices by hearing. Oddball old

female chatterers, who make the

rounds waking the others up. I 

keep my own doors closed, 

since my day-one here, to keep 

out  the chatter. But these 

so-simple voices drive me 

batty. 'Good morning! What 

will you be wearing today!'

-

A gold-mine of contested sanity.

16,372. NORMAL OCCASIONS OF EXCEPTIONAL MINUTES

NORMAL OCCASIONS OF 

EXCEPTIONAL MINUTES

On the main street of town here  -

they tell me  -  there's a nice little

supermarket. It keeps to itself,

though there's no parking at all.

Which is weird. One has to find  

a spot out front, metered or not.

Another item I don't know about.

I'm sequestered in here, all the time.

-

I only hear what people say. My wife,

who enters that fray almost daily, will

always tell me what she finds. I'm all

helpless here, and finding my way by

imagined steps alone.

-

In the commingled existences of some

200 souls, there's a lot of noise sometimes,

amidst the geriatric silences : that's pretty

strange too. A resounding echo, from a

silent auditorium.

16,371. MOSTLY, EVERYONE'S GONE MAD

MOSTLY, EVERYONE'S GONE MAD

You can slide the infraction under the door,

the place where the corn flakes glide. There's 

a raven in the window staring me down. Quoth

the raven : 'You're a bore!' My, my how things

have changed.

-

This quality of mercy is not strained; I always

wondered what that meant; baby food? Strained

peaches or beets or pears. I like my spinach straight.

-

The tan dog walks by again, looking sideways at 

me as it goes. In the aboriginal night of some

dream-time circle, I'd be fearful, but not now.

I am safe in the Heaven I stand beneath.

16,370. THERE'S PLENTY TO DO

THERE'S PLENTY TO DO

Planning revenge on Putin, in a

criminal game called 'Retaliation',

is an online delight. I crush him 

under a bulldozer just for fun.

The moon comes down to drip

on him. The scandal of the century

is called 'Co-existence.'

16,369. I DON'T REALLY WISH TO WRITE

 I DON'T REALLY WISH TO WRITE

I don't really wish to write about this 

because it's not my way. Everyone meets

someone somewhere. A girlfriend? It was

so long ago. I used to walk through all

weathers to the library each night. Maybe

2 miles at most, but I don't even know that.

She and her girlfriends followed me there.

I guess we began talking, but I really don't

remember. They were all a pretty-nice bunch,

of 4. Without much to say, I just started to make

stuff up  -  being from somewhere else, stories

about my life. All of it, at 16? What a walking

funhouse-mirror jerk was I.

16,368. HOMAGE

HOMAGE

Atlas? Zeus? Thor? Aries? Any

of those folks worth messaging?

Would they even know? The dastardly

cast of eras gone my. Another Mt.

Olympus Mafia.

-

We can't contact the past unless they

already knew their own futures. That

never happened, so give it up. Ideas as

wild as lemongrass just fall down and 

wither. Here I stand, Lord, somehow yet

without you; my barren civilization

somehow fighting feast and fire, 

famine, wars and murder.

16,367. MINOTAUR

MINOTAUR

I don't know who left the door open, 

but man they let anything in these

days. There's no sense in making 

sense, just like that. I've moved

mountains before, so I guess I

can move one of these. Chattel, 

to roof shingles, is there really

any difference these days?

16,366. MARTIN BUBER

MARTIN BUBER

I'd like to leave the trees and

the forest, and the scrutiny of

others. I am tired of being looked

at up and down by empty caskets

of renown. This is a dismal world,

and one which holds nothing but 

a frugal sense of stupid juggling,

back and forth, to me.

-

Leaving the covered area vacant,

I'd like to stand aside again and 

see the wide expanse of possibility.

Be damned, these small and 

strictured things, by contrast 

now (and I, and thee, and thou).

16,365. I CAN'T IMAGINE

 I CAN'T IMAGINE

I can't imagine anything else but this, 

and if I 'can', it all comes out some

other way: Leaves that grow from 

sockets instead of trees; rivers running 

uphill, and under caverns; deer and

animals that can talk.

-

It's really too onerous for me to 

hold onto. Not creation's way, for 

one thing. The Sun, which may 

run from left to right (depending 

on where one stands), insists 

instead on east to west; how to 

make sense of that is a test. 

-

Help me, help me. I don't need 

the confusion. My hands are full

and my mind is busy.

16,364. HUNTING TO THE GLASS

HUNTING TO THE GLASS

As in a museum diorama, I can see

through to the other side of life. The

hunters with their spears stare back

at me through weeds, and there is

little beyond the marsh grass but 

murk, and a sabre-toothed tiger.

-

I have to stay crash-happy, even in 

this wreckage. Too little to say about

the ivory and the tusk.

16.363. MY SAVAGE DESPERATION

MY SAVAGE DESPERATION

The birds have gone from off the

ledge. There was supposed to be a

band, in town, somewhere today, at

the bandshell, but I heard nothing.

No matter. At noon and nine the fire

whistle blows; a sort of central

notification for a town still afraid 

from its last conflagration. Any

of that has GOT to be better than

my savage desperation.

-

At night, all night, for me, this all

turns ghoulishly wrong : my mind reels,

expanding my imagined troubles into

new and worse grotesqueries. I have 

nowhere to turn, no friends, no kin, 

here, in a place like this. The power 

is worse than the wish.

-

I'm pretty sure, for me, this is the end of

of the line. I'm scared and I'm desperate;

like in a savage way, when a glass no

longer will hold water. (And the

birds are gone from the ledge).

16,362. RUDIMENTS, pt.1.303

 RUDIMENTS, pt.1,303 

(the shakedown was in the kitchen)

I've long lived without certain things; 

items I've always disliked and avoided.

'Sweats', for example. Those loose, saggy

sack-pants that so many like to stay in, for

days at a time. Pretty gross, to me. Shorts

too. In my adult life, I've never worn shorts,

and won't. I don't like the feel of them, and

that Etonian, British boys-school thing that

goes with them, was never me. Anyway, 

back when, riding a motorcycle in shorts

just seemed a terrible travesty. 

-

I co-existed with lots of things I disliked:

schools, church, various cares and palliatives.

TV. Some music, and all those short-end of

life things that can really ruin a day. Most of 

my life was spent 'undirected'  -  I pretty

much roamed, at will, and came and went

as I chose. It was funny, in its way, because

after a few years of seminary training and

discipline, I took off like my own Huck Finn,

once all of those rigors were removed. 

Procedures and process, be damned.

- 

Good or bad, I don't really know. At home, 

my parents seemed more confused, or feared, 

of me, than anything else. Nothing was ever

instilled; advice was nil. It was a busy family,

and I just stayed away and then was gone

(again); given nothing, and taking nothing.

It was an empty, quiet, life, which I liked, and

my rigors of self-training and book-learning,

after all that had gone before, were gracious 

to me, and important to me too.

-

Nothing held much meaning to me;

holidays and celebrations without any merit.

I ignored them all  -  if I wasn't laughing

in someone's face over their 4th of July

ridicule, I was throwing a firecracker

on my way out. Demon-trouble lookalike,

but I knew my ways.

-

After a while it all appeared simple; the

family dichotomy was was : Father represented

brute force, anger. Mother represented a

soft, feminine (in those days) passivity

and some sort of drag-line by which she

has pulled along by kids, family, stove and

home. 'Too much confusion; I couldn't

get no relief'  -  to paraphrase.

-

I found out, after some time, that things

that don't start out correctly never end

correctly either - call it Destiny; call it

Fate. Your choice.

16,361. A COMMUNION OF BUM MAGICIANS

A COMMUNION OF 

BUM MAGICIANS 

That's not me, that's Allen Ginsberg writing :

a crisp soliloquy of words once more, in

pursuit of the damned technocracy, in 1955.

Military-Industrial complex, and Herman

Kahn together, rolled in a ball of fat.

-

It was all rough edges, along the groin of

11th Street. The fastidious love-doors of 14th,

always in service, stayed quite busy as well.

I tried to listen. I tried to listen. But there was

really nothing there to hear.

-

The multi-lingual desperados had already laid

their claims to all of the street  -  from NYU up

to Columbia too.

16,360. LIKE A REMBRANDT

LIKE A REMBRANDT

Like a Rembrandt afire in

some Rotterdam hallway, I

listen to myself burning. One

of those so aimless portraits

now flaming. My multi-tiered

hat, atop my very dark head,

on fire as well, and raging.

-

Nothing really to be done, for 

there is no fire-brigade here or

I would have seen one painted

already. It's funny like that  -  in

a town like this, what shows up

in census books and business 

lists can't always really be found.

16,359. RETURNING TO THE FOLD

RETURNING TO THE FOLD

Returning to the fold is one thing, but

expectations of not showing a crease

are another. (I an now a wildman, in

calm-man digs). Having parked my

chariot, and doused all the flames,

I've even turned in my Thor-hammer.

I'm too shot now for that shit any

longer.

-

Haven't you heard the news? No one is

wild in the streets anymore; unless it's 

the Gay Parade or some Juneteenth

revelers let loose; those are the only

ideologies left that people know.

-

Philosophy? Existentialism? Paradoxical

Realism? There are foreign concepts in

such an Idiotville we now are given to

live in. Our leaders are hacks and criminals.

Our nails should be scratching their eyes, 

but our inactivity rolls over into a sold 

mass of nothing  -  a Mass even the Pope

won't recognize.

16,358. NOW IS THE SEASON OF NOTHING

NOW IS THE SEASON OF NOTHING

The air is carrying nothing today, and the

day's new nurse lady just told me it's humid

out. I don't feel a thing like that, even with 

these tiny windows up, the little bit they go.

There are no morning noises here at 6am;

just her.

-

I could sit here dazed and confused, but

I manage to stay sharp with writing and 

reading, in a very nice one-bed isolation 

of my own. It's a gracious world in that 

respect. It's a nice world, in my drawn

imaginings. I keep a mental sketchbook, 

sort of, of everything and I do have an 

actual one as well but haven't brought 

it out. Never dug that 'Art-as-Therapy' 

stuff, and won't start now.

-

From here, I'm betting that it's not a solid 

world, and I can walk through clouds and

other objects as I go. Probably wrong on

that, but I can learn 'bruising-as-therapy'

to work that out.

16,357. KETTLE BUMS

KETTLE BUMS

Not the glory of the drums; just the bums.

Those streetside guys who hang around the

fires in barrels. Leaning against a signpost

or fence, or something larger covered in

shitty graffiti. The landlord wants it gone;

the street crowd, with their lattes, say it's

Art, with a capital A. A big, fancy car 

rolls by; ravenous and wild in its polish

and space. Rap Star or mogul. Anxiety.

Notoriety. New Variety. Impropriety.

-

All these sidewalk mirrors, they reflect 

nothing. The model's teeth are gone. The

cocktail crowd lined up at the curb is

facile. Dumb. Stupid, and Loud.

Anxiety. Notoriety. New Variety.

Impropriety.

16,356. A HAPPENSTANCE OF CAVALCADES

A HAPPENSTANCE OF CAVALCADES

They say the Earth once shuddered and shook, 

with a wobble to end the world, and a flood, and

a confusing 'redo', by the maker in charge of us

all. Why would that be then, and not now? We 

are all more sick and mentally deranged. For 

our God to ignore all this is ignoble.

-

I'm claiming  -  OK  -  the world as sick; a

nightmare of philosophic dimensions, deeper

than we ever have had before. If the world

doesn't now wobble, we do; and stupidity 

rules our day.

16,355. MY TRAVEL BAG

MY TRAVEL BAG

My travel bag is filled with 

nothing; would you like to 

share it too? Yes, I've ranged 

the local hills and mountains,

but all of that is now gone. 

Through each journey, I've

brought something home, yet

now I can't find a thing. While

the solemn night's moon tries

ascribing motives to me, I tell 

it back I've never had any.

Anarchic then, I simply 

ranged and roved.

16,354. DRAFT JUNK

DRAFT JUNK 

(just fade away)

I've come from afar, to bring you

something new - though now that I'm

here there's really so little to do.

I've been 'interfered' with, from 

so many angles.

-

There are officious agents of change

afoot, though they don't even know 

who they are, nor what they do. I'm

tired already of so many old, encrusted,

voices around me. The old should fade;

just fade away.

16,353. A WILL TO UNREASON

A WILL TO UNREASON

I seem to be awaiting something : I can feel it

in my bones. Were I a willow, it would be the 

water flowing below-ground for sustenance

and pleasure. As it is, it merely irks.

-

As usual of late, I am alone  -  staring out at

nothing much, through a plate of glass. The

world at this remove can sure seem dreary,

as if in a Summer that never came.

-

'Containment' was once a policy to keep the

'Commies' at bay and in check. Some 1950's

George Kennan gibberish that held a great

credence then. Now that's all over, and we

are as they were....while 'they' again crumble,

we hope - maybe warring between themselves,

before it's too late, and us.

16,352. A WONDERLAND OF MIGHT AND GLORY

A WONDERLAND OF 

MIGHT AND GLORY

A Chaplain came to see me, three times in a week;

he said his name was 'Norm.' That was OK by me, 

and - when were done - (first visit), he gave me a

Gideon's Bible, the kind hotels and motels all

used to have. It was a kind and gracious gift, 

thought I - all those episodes of power and

strength. Norm was pretty meek, though

with the Word he kept a certain power.

-

He left by telling me to take to heart the

words of psalm 139: Every word in it; and

that I can do nothing except accept whatever

God has already written for me, a script

from before I was born: cryptic,

mysterious, and already settled.

16,351. WHOEVER CARES?

WHOEVER CARES?

So then yes actually, who cares?

Why all this solicitude to life and

manners? The women come in as

nurses, exuding their manners and

forcefields, leading nowhere. I bow

at nothing and, apparently too new

and young for this 'patient' crowd,

here must only accept their medicines,

upon which my manner of being hinges.

There's no one here I'd recognize, nor 

even take an evening stroll with.

-

Good fences make good neighbors, but

on such a count, really, who cares at all?

-

My skin is raw and my hairs are all ripped

out, for tapes and removals and needles in 

place. Blood sticks to skin, and a large

bruise now grows where the needles go 

in. 'Tis said, 'Pride goeth before the fall' - 

but whoever now cares of that at all?

16,350. TITANIA

TITANIA

The Titanic, I see, keeps having its own

'Titanic.' A ploy to keep the headlines 

current? Or a plug for the nickel and 

dime froth of modern, expensive, 

tourism? Who knows now, and who 

should care? All these modern Tesla 

types have too much money, and too

many expendable kids.

-

In the background now, some ancient

nitwit keeps playing old music. 'Volare',

by Jerry Vale, or maybe Dean Martin.

Thank God it's distant and I cannot hear

it well. It must be on repeat, like a more

solid me, and all my moments.

16,349. JUNE TRANSPIRES

 JUNE TRANSPIRES

The May Apples are gone now; the

June Bugs too. Half this Summer world

already slides away. I stand winsome and

soiled. A pig here, in a smart, human suit.

There's no value to any of that, but it 

doesn't matter now. They gave me a

TB test, today, as I entered. 'Mandatory

Government rule, and the damned needle 

went in. 'It's highly unlikeable you have

TB.' I love the new use of words.

-

If the world too could be so re-defined, 

it might then be a better place.

16,348. RETURNING TO THE CAPSTONE

RETURNING TO THE CAPSTONE

Somehow, my life has flown off its handle, and 

I've never been more afraid of it - ever. Keeping

me over the edges, in these soulless, hospital rooms, 

midnight-long beepers and buzzers leave nowhere

for me to go. The fate of a 'patient'? Always impatient.

Yes, fate keeps own wheel, and I feel strapped to it.

16,347. THE MOB HANDLE

THE MOB HANDLE

Outside this sheltered hospital window,

the local landscape is green and sweet. In 

most respects, a place to be - or pleasant for

me anyway. I enjoy these sights, even in my

near-fatal lock-up now yearning to be free.

-

There's little room for me to turn. My situation

dire and  -  for now  -  my hands ae tied, and

will remain so; for I have no key, and - lucky

to be in this on place, remaining.: And I will 

stay this way for as long as it may take to reach

 my proffered ends. (Not quite happy, but filled

with the love of friends).

16,346. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,302

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,302

(read it again books)

This is going to be a Rudiments in

a different fashion. The day will be 

Saturday, June 10, a nice, pleasant,

warm and temperate day which was

quite welcomed in. The drive we took

covered, in total, the 25 miles between.

here and Monticello, NY. We make this

trip perhaps once a month. The main

reason being a used book store with a

a strange sense of assortment and 

selection. It calls itself, 'Read It 

Again Books' - and is run by the

Literacy Volunteers of Sullivan

County. It is run tightly, and squarely,

with an exceptional assortment of 

books, sold inexpensively and

orderly. Now, you must understand

from where I speak. This is the old

Catskill Borscht-Belt Comedy section.

Sullivan County. At this time of year,

whichever Jewish Camps and Schools

are still around  -  and there are many -

are rousing to life as the greenery here 

spreads. Wherever these books come 

from, I do no know. Yet, the selection 

is large, and invigorating, in ways 

you'd not find commercially  -  lots 

of Jewish-religion titles, memoirs 

(One of my first, and most-prized 

buys these, which I've read, and 

re-read, was a book called The 

Rise of David Levinsky, (published 

1917) and written by Abraham 

Cahan, publisher of the Jewish 

Daily Forward

-

I return here to that section of Route

17B that runs to Monticello and then

connects with the larger Rt. 17. If you

look at a map, you'll see. As I said here,

all along the way are remnants of the

old Summer Camps, and (current today)

the Hasidic Communities and settlements

current in place. Monticello Racetrack.

Route 17, the Main Route, reintroduces

one in the larger make-up of the developed

world, with all its assumptions and gross

mannerisms. If you let it; for that need not

happen. Like avoiding a major turnpike,

and staying on back road  -  those other 

roads with their small paths and stories  -  

it can all be avoided. You really can avoid

the 'Present' which is not 'present' at all.

Fosterdale. Smallwood. Callicoon. Liberty.

Mongaup. Jeffersonville. And - lest we 

forget  -  Bethel. Where Woodstock 

actually happened, though it now calls 

itself Bethel Woods. Though places, all 

still speak their tales.

-

All along these ways are numerous

ruinations  -  massive hulks of old Hotels

and Boarding Homes, Summer Camps

and Settlement Houses. When you get the

farthest out, that's Liberty, home to the

Sullivan County SPCA, where, of late, I've 

been sorely tempted to undertake an

adoption. Also along 17B, at some Road

Puckee Huddle Road, there remains standing

a home (?) to which I always swear it will

be falling over in five minutes. Never does.

-

The influx of people are (to the bookstore)

is always curious to me too. Yesterday,

a threesome of svelte, quite fetching, NYC

types came in. They were obviously urban NY

types, and I could only imagine what a

surprise this place may be been to them.

Perhaps they were each about 28-30. They

chattered amongst themselves about what

they were finding, and the prices. I was nearby,

in a reading chair, and could most of all

their conversations and impressions.

16,345. WHAT WE MAKE

WHAT WE MAKE

What we make are all segmented lodgings

of other concepts of time and logic, to fit

within our magic of space and time. That's

how lines are made  -  for the places we can

walk between. The Philadelphia Navy Yard

can answer of the score; not me. Mothballed 

ships are a contagion of old time. Things will

fit in the sky that will cover the eye!

16, 344. CAPSTONE

CAPSTONE

Every dog has a damned-double of itself

hidden in its innermost soul. That's why

they're always barking, when it catches 

their attention. No leash nor cage is any

good for that. Maybe people are like that

too (I won't stick around here; instead just

dive in and swim away). I don't feel the

need to stay.

-

Down at the water-side, there's an old 

light-pole, one which hasn't had a light 

on it for many a year. That's OK with my.

I hate outdoor lighting, and it's people too.

-

My last couple of days have been relentless

and engaging too. Nothing' I'd wish to retell 

or repeat. I awake each morn with a scalding

anvil inside my chest, on fire, black with heat.

16,343. LOGICAL

LOGICAL

For 5 weeks now, I've again been 

dragging around a fairly dead body

that couldn't make it through a day

I've never taken naps in my life.

Not stopping progress, the shovels 

still run, but I'm not sure of the results.

-

It's all finally lifting, and I have yet lots

 to do. The yard has cars, and I have yet

more bills to pay.

-

There's a nonchalance I'm trying, like

walking into a supermarket and whacking

someone with an orange. I want to rise up.

I want to do push-ups. I want to break the

narrow bonds of Logic which hold me down.

16,342. WE STILL LIVE

WE STILL LIVE

We still live next to a

watery pond, where all

the kindred spirits fire :

Now red-fire. Red skies,

and dark light.

16,341. LIKE A MUSIC WHAT USED TO BE

LIKE A MUSIC WHAT USED TO BE

Narrow times, and distant angles, like Grenoble,

and Iceland together. Sounds in a strange tongue,

yet gentle and real. Are we entering this world? 

Or leaving another? Each time I seek finding 

out, I am lost once again. The sign on the fence

reads, 'Keep Out,' as a Private Property for sure. 

I cannot see why. To let more wreckage bloom,

to let more wreckage bloom.

16,340. WHENEVER I LOOK AROUND ME

WHENEVER I 

LOOK AROUND ME

Whenever I look around me at all the things there.

I get ruefully sad. John Baylor will be leaving here 

soon. Trees, and sheds and buildings. Old homes 

and grand places. Ancient pastures where yet the 

cows range round. Everything together in their 

one happy place. John Baylor will soon be gone.

-

It's not a manticle of fear or stagefright, for 

everything is all arranged: The flowers and

the incense. The funereal sadness and the dull,

plodding ache. A release in a way, more than

it's worth. I can no longer focus nor even see

straight.

16,339. I TOOK A TRAINLOAD OF PEOPLE TO CONNECTICUT

I TOOK A TRAINLOAD OF 

PEOPLE TO CONNECTICUT

None had ever been there before. For a minor-league

baseball team of the Colorado Rockies. It was all I 

thought it would be, but the why? Everything had 

funny names, and they thought it all was Yale. (The 

Hartford Yard Goats, formerly the New Britain Rock 

Cats), swaggered and huffed through the root-beer 

like innings. Beer for the swigging, thankfully, 

wasn't that easy to get. These minor league guys 

keep a close watch.

16,338. WAITER, WAIT, THE WAITER'S HERE!

WAITER, WAIT, THE WAITER'S HERE!

There are any number of way to visualize this: 

One waiter waits, while another shows up. But

I dislike crowds, so no crowded table scene for 

me. Someone, seeking to talk out of the crush,

finally utters the words, 'Waiter, wait, the 

Waiter's here.' It sounded funny, when it 

was said. Everyone laughed. Great service!

I like this place!

16,337. TIVOLI GARDENS

TIVOLI GARDENS

The stretch of groomed grass to

get there was engrossing. I never

had done that before. Like hiking

high to another home. Overall, it

was nothing I needed. Two dogs

came over, trotting along. They

make friends easily too, I guess.

16,336. ICE CREAM

ICE CREAM

Intense to a fault, the ice-cream

guy is trying. What can he do?

You either want ice cream, or 

you don't. It's just the crowded 

mess of competing, more and

more. I remember a place in

Flemington NJ - it was ice cream,

and then coffee, and then right

next door, the same thing again.

Everyone tried so hard to push

the things that no one necessarily

wanted. It was so bad people let

their dogs decide, and what

sort of life is that?

16,335. IN TRYING I FAIL

IN TRYING I FAIL

Everywhere I go, it's fake. Up

in Callicoon, at one of those

dispatchy old hotel bars where 

no ever shuts up, I watch the

flapping jaws take over : now

blowhards, now tyrants; everyone

in the right. Mouths a'jumble.

-

This end of the colorful bar, a

new story or two : the farm girl

newly widowed, out with her

friends for solace. 'They say it

all rolled over on John and he

was crushed.'

-

The barkeep  -  or whoever that is -

is a crabby old guy, counting, always

counting. Seems like there's never any

fun if that's all you can do. Multiply

the occupied seats by an assumed 

number of people entering, and he

already knows his day's take. Must

be the rain bringing him down.

16,334. ONE SHOVEL FOR THE GREEN LAWN OF LOVE

ONE SHOVEL FOR THE 

GREEN LAWN OF LOVE

Morning again, at the one-headed shower,

at the apple-grove water-pump, near the

parked tractor-mower still ready for haying.

The fields have their rows now, as things go 

in and other things grow out! The crop-fairy

is already hard at work. We move so slowly

it is  -  by contrast  - a surreptitious deal.

16,333. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,301

 RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,301

(a peculiarly engrossing graveyard) pt. ONE

I've always had lots of sideways entries

into things during my life. Never having

been one of those sorts who strove for

the best or the most of anything  -  cars 

(I actually always 'enjoyed' buying used 

cars; heck with the new), beating oneself up 

over the inimitably dreary quest for money

and riches, jetting off the see Europe (screw

them, hadn't we done all that shit already,

and finally just agreed to separate). Because

of that, lots of times I'd learned how to merely

finagle myself into situations I'd otherwise

not be. You have to keep an eye out, and an

ear out, for everything.

-

Elmira did that to me too. I actually knew

nothing about the place when I first arrived 

there : no knowledge of its industrial and

rail past. Although I soon learned lots and 

lots about the place, and it began to seem

endless and surprising too. But, not being

mainstream, I liked all that. I liked the 

chances if afforded for me to go and find

more out; research; dig; all in a screamy

silence of my own. 

-

Like this: Andersonville, Georgia. About 

two years into the Civil War, the Johhny

Rebs made a Prison Camp at Andersonville.

What's important here are three or four things.

This was NOT an any way 2023. People at

that wartime did nor care much about other

people feelings, about sympathy, or about

being 'nice' to others. Men were often foul. 

Life was, to paraphrase a slogan of ta recent 

era, nasty, brutish, and short.' [Thomas Hobbes,

'Leviathan', 1651]. No one cared for 'genteel'

feelings or manners, People made their own

life-decisions, and went down with the ship,

or not. Luck was the draw; to mangle a phrase

too. Mothers often had 13 kids, one every 13th

month, so that maybe four could survive to 

adulthood. Plaques and diseases lurked and  -

in these parts  -  most every 'boundary' was

fought over or contested. Indians. Settlers,

and, most oddly, the Euro-stupid religions

grappled over every dotted 'i', mote and spec

in their silly scripture, and warred on and

killed too, for their God(s')! There wasn't

any sense; and in the 1860's a war raged,

mostly over the subservience of others.

'Soulless blacks', supposedly, were 

rounded up from interior West Africa, 

by other blacks, mind you, acting as 

slave-mercenaries in the employ of 

any employer they could find at the

slave-docks along the coast. From

Dahomey they all became 'da homies.'

-

I'll get back to this. One time, in NYC,

about 1988 maybe, I was in a bar, with

a friend, and my wife. Kathy is a very 

'sociable'  -  she doesn't drink anymore,

it all had to stop with her illness. I forget 

the name of the bar, but it was like maybe

Ninth Ave and 50th street? Rudy's. It had 

a stand-up pig statue out front, with an 

apron on, and that pig held the menu 

board and drink specials and all that 

stupid crap that bars do. We'd been there

probably two hours, getting stupid-slosh

drunk (a little) and talking to all sorts of

strange people coming in and going out.

These three Jewish guys come in, they're 

in their late thirties, maybe, serious dudes,

wearing too their Jewish black jackets and

headgear and all that. I had NO idea why

they'd even enter a bar with a porker out

front, but whatever; I was past caring.

I didn't even know that 'afternoon' Jews

casually drank. All new to me. Surprise

Yes, my overly sociable wife eventually

makes her way over to them, [I could see

this one coming] and for some reason she

begins telling them that her husband  -  

pointing at me  -  had recently begun

studying Jewish Kaballah and Mysticism.

That was true, so I couldn't deny it or

say she was lying, although it quite

low-key and was not one of those

Yeshiva-school type things. Anyhow,

I'd wished she hadn't made mention. 

No one likes to talk about that stuff; 

Jews are both scared by it and quite 

protective of it. They were a bit 

askance, but stayed nice to her. 

-

Kaballah is many factors  - mystical, 

cosmic, and even weirdly magical.

It's essentially a system of and numbers 

tied to those words, each containing its 

own systematic symbols and meanings. 

By these the world is made up. I wasn't

sure what to expect, but these three guys

came over to, saying back to me what

my wife had told them. They weren't 

real happy  -  evidently my choice of 

NUN and #24 was bad news to them. 

Representing a real bad omen of a

darker power. Honestly, they quickly

finished their glasses, and headed out 

that bar as if their butts were afire! I

never got to the bottom of it, but the

moral I took for myself was 'don't get

involved in things you don't know of,'

and  -  for my wife  -  don't tell strangers

at a bar what your husband's up to.

-

OK, back to Andersonville. You can

see I'm having untold trouble with this,

because I keep finding things to move

me off the subject. The Confederates

built a huge prison camp, rustic and as

raw as could be. Pallets for the men to 

sleep on, amidst muck, sewage and its

seepage, swamp and moisture. A few very

basic lean-to's, where they'd gotten built.

The captured Union soldiers  -  young men

and boys, and some elders, in every sort

of injury. Open, festering wounds, limbs

missing, bones and scalp shot off. All these 

guys were just brought to that location,

thrown on the field with very little care or

hygiene, or proper and steady food for that

matter. Men screaming and delirious and

in all sorts of pain and anguish. And, of

course, the constancy of Death littering

that same field. Burial was a heap, and

later just piles of bones with scraps of

clothing. That was Andersonville, GA.

What did Elmira do? Truly amazing, as 

I found it all out and as I visited whatever 

remnants and the large graveyard there

was. At least Elmira had gravestones, 

names, regiments, dates, and hometowns 

on each. But it was far worse than that  -  

Andersonville was a temperate climate 

by comparison. Elmira could be a numbing,

killing 12 below, for days in a row. Again

nothing but lean-to's and pallets with

some tents. Same condition of men. The

Johnny Rebs, blasted and wounded, cut-up

and comatose. Dying by the dozens each

half-day. Elmira had taken over a prison

and transformed that hilltop into an almost

concentration-camp like heap. They'd throw

the men into rail cars, no matter how cold,

and make the three or four-day trip up to

Elmira to the camp. Anyone dead along the

way never finished the journey, and those

who made it to Elmira faced 2 or 3 years 

yet of brutal col and medical emergencies,

and diseases and gross malaise. It's all

still there for anyone interested to go 

look at. Nothing's left of the wooden camp

itself but many photos and diagrams. You 

can see it all for yourself, and visit the 

peculiarly engrossing graveyard.