8250. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #76

76. BURN, BABY, BURN

New York was, pretty obviously,

quite tangible and real. It doesn't take

a genius to understand a taxi clonking

you on a bicycle, or a piece of metal

falling from ten stories up above and

landing quite near you. There must be,

underway at any one time, thousands of

lawsuits  -  mostly won and with nice

settlements  -  against the city of Hew

York. For something falling, hurting

someone, some unsafe item, old and

neglected, doing harm to a person,

some form of bodily, or psychic, harm.

There are, at the least, a hundred

settlements a week, and a bevy of

attitudinal lawyers whose specialty

is representing such clients. It's a

situation of constant ripe pickings.

My time there brought me more than

a few instances of hearing or seeing

people underway with this. Believe

me, in NYC no one is ever really

unemployed. The smart ones just go

work for lawyers as hand-picked,

'I wanna get rich' plaintiffs. It's a

scam. The other thing I noticed, or

one other thing anyway, was how  -

besides the financial, advertising,

entertainment and other fashion-type

industries, New York City is, and

was in 1967 too, a Socialist paradise.

Millions of people work for the city

or the city bureaucracy, at some

level. Proud of it and way enriched

from it. Law Enforcement, as just

one category for an example, was

replete and loaded with pension-rich

people, double-dipping cops and

feeders, people walking away at age

55 with millions in retirement, and

laughing all the way to the banks

over their good fortune. There's an

entire town, in the Rockaways, at

the end of the Rockaway Beach

area,  -  of Ramones' song fame  -

called 'Breezy Point', made up

of nothing but endless rows of

retirement homes,  on the waterway,

with all the Cadillacs, boats,

motorcycles and yachts and pools,

you could dream of, and all is

owned by cops, retired NYC law

personnel. I've know two cops

who've retired out in this fashion,

and quite proudly. It's a truly

amazing NYC fact. There are,

I'm told also, probably more

guns and firearms of all sorts

here than in any other place of

NYC, as well as the fairest share

of beery, bold and boisterous,

and dangerous when drunk

or angered (or suicidal), macho

cop guys who never get over

the fact that they're, for the most

part, untouchable. Oh well, just

another story of the naked city.

-

Well, anyway, I consider all that as

Socialism. Making nothing, doing

nothing, supporting the State, and,

in turn, living off of, richly, and

for all time, that same State. At

the expense of others, however,

which then technically becomes a

breach of the Socialist code. So,

what to do? Shoot 'em dead?

That's called a proletariat

r-e-v-o-l-u-t-i-o-n, and

not allowed here.

-

I guess the reason I mention

all of this is because it was

'Reality'. It was the tangible

day-to-day to which I'd attached

myself. Going into the 'big-city'

trap as a naif, as I did, one is

simply not really up to knowing

ahead of time all of the many

and varied ways that real, harsh

things await, and are out to get

you. If you don't know about it,

you don't know. Period. I had

been brought up through a series

of other environments, totally,

which  -  outside of some things

I'd read about  -  had not really

prepared me for any of this. I'd

arrived, remember, with a pocket

of change and the five dollar bill

that my sister's boyfriend had

given me on my last ride out,

as he drove me, to the Carteret,

turnpike bus-station. Abetting

and assisting an angry, fool

runaway, basically. Once I

arrived, I had to hit the ground

running, so to speak, and keep

it all going. Which is how all

those famous punk-derelicts

and beats, like Herbert Huncke,

and that bunch, did it in the

nineteen-fifties. Hit town over

and anon, well before me.

They'd head right over to the

'pokerino' arcades and ski-ball

palaces (there used to be

bunches of them), and hustle,

themselves and their bodies. I'd

remembered reading about

Huncke. He'd run away, from

his home in Chicago, at age

12, for the first time, with

'a beef against my parents',

to use his words. A hundred

miles out of town a guy gave

him ten dollars to blow him,

and he then knew what to do.

'Times Square. Every young

person ended up there, for that

was where the action was...

you could hustle from one end

of the street to the other. Horn

and Hardart Automat, a little

pot of baked beans with bacon,

for a nickel. Bickfords for

nickel coffee.' That was him,

I guess in the mid-fifties. It

wasn't me, and I was at

Tompkins Square, but the

time and prices are close.

See, that was reality. Cap 'R'.

-

On my flipside, in five years or

so, I'd be in a Pennsylvania wild

land that would be a complete

opposite of any of this  -  and

yet somehow equally as real, 

and maybe scarier. You could

die, just the same, but in all

different manners. I wasn't

aware of any of this, of course,

which is maybe one of life's

blessings to us, that we only do

the present, the one thing before

us, at a time. Otherwise, we'd be

swamped by trepidation, fear,

and expectation. Which we end

up being anyway. I guess perhaps

an awareness and a fear of death

takes over everything else as we

age. Don't know, maybe.

-

As I moved about New York, 

as I 'managed'  -  finding food, 

money, and, yes, stealing and 

grubbing too, I became another 

portion of myself, something 

latent, that had always been

there but which I'd never

manipulated before. The crafty

cheat within me. The one with

the angle to get by. One time I

took a quick job in a busy record

store along Eighth Street. I stole 

the guy blind on Saturdays  -  

new releases and stuff, I could 

just walk with and sell easy for

like 2 bucks on the sidewalk.

They'd be gone in three hours.

Cream; Disraeli Gears. Hendrix;

Electric Ladyland, or whatever 

it was called. Donovan had 

some faggy 2-record set titled

'Gift :From a Flower To a Garden'

meaning it was his little twerpy

song-florid crap gift (the flower)

to all the crazed, dumb hippies 

out there (the garden). What a 

bunch if shit. But a double album,

more money. There were others

too. Strawberry Alarm Clock,

'Incense and Peppermint' or 

some crap. I did this for maybe 

a month. and then just quit. I

didn't want the losses to start

showing up on his balance 

sheets at the end of the 

month. I was gone. Not 

that anyone would figure 

me, being right there around

Eighth Street and all. Most of

the other kids were suburban

hippie geeks from like Queens 

and stuff  -  they'd be way more

suspect. And they went home 

each night too. More likely to

steal, or maybe they too

were anyway.

-

Hippie days were weird 

days; anything went. St. 

Marks Place was like a 24-hour

slow-moving sea of weirdos, 

flowery bell-bottoms, incense 

sticks everywhere, freaky

glasses, rings, shoes and 

sandals and boots like from 

a clown show, bells on things, 

people smoking everything 

everywhere, kids zonked and 

zombified, passed out leaning 

against buildings, puking up 

10 cent pizza, spilling drinks. 

The greatest array of unfocused 

eyes and faces I'd ever seen.

Everybody was shit-skinny, no

fat people around at all. Bumping

into everything, falling as they 

walked. Half-naked girls managing

a belt-buckle and a necklace

probably larger than was their 

mother. And the coolest things

(my artist-eye at work here)

was all the faces  -  it was

amazing. Everyone back then

was still ethnic looking. Not like

now, or until recently anyway,

all blanded out and mixed. There

were faces with all the genetics 

of one-generation Hungarians 

and Poles, Jews and Germans.

All that stuff was still real obvious

and prevalent. Then it went away, 

all those Euro-country faces, as 

they all mixed and starting having 

their own kids. Generations diluting

down. It's kind of all starting again

now, with all the Mexicans and

South Asians and Asians and all.

Same stuff, but different.

-

A few times there were blackouts

and riots, angry people storming 

and burning up the places (and the

ghetto hovels) they lived in. Newark.

Harlem. Even the Village. Nowhere

was immune. Sometimes all you

heard was, 'Burn, baby, Burn!' as

the midnight fires raged.

8249. THE WAY I UNDERSTAND TIME

THE WAY I 

UNDERSTAND TIME

The sky is so slow, it has clouds

that barely roll by me  -  but they

do in their turn nonetheless move

along. Or disappear. That is how

I understand the moment. I too will

pass and die. My dog will die, and I.

-

There is little given to us to see, and 

certainly no alternative to any of that. 

Such an understanding  of time 

keeps me close to my own.

8248. THIS IS THE KING

THIS IS THE KING

This is the king, the one who

stepped down for having nothing 

better to do, the one who planted 

seeds all along the way, the one 

who went mad in expectation. 

He'd learned to count, yes, but 

only to zero, and he'd learned

to sing, yes, but only in silence. 

This, this is the one who stepped

down, averting violence. This is

the King. The King is dead. Long

live the King. (So it's said).

8247. THE NIGHT

THE NIGHT

I generally don't tell people

how I'm feeling, because,

generally I'm not feeling.

Anything. At. All. It's a 

pose, I suppose. Like an

Andy Warhol Chinese

general in pajamas at 

the foot of the bed.

-

Have you heard the one 

about the guy who goes to 

sleep and just refuses to wake

up because he swears he's 

dreaming life and doesn't want

it to end, just in case he's not?

-

Now there's a conundrum for you.

Like me, one time I went somewhere

and, after I got there, I went inside, for

like 40 minutes, but had forgotten to

turn off the car. This is true. I was 

looking everywhere for the keys.

Then I neared the car, to peer in

and see if I'd left them in the ignition,

and I thought to myself, feeling the

warmth of the car, 'hmmm, this car's 

throwing a lot of heat.' And then I

got alongside it, and realized it was

running. Wow, what a feeling was that.

-

You see that one above, about the 

sleeping guy? There's a trick to that

sentence I hope you got. He doesn't want

to wake, 'cause if he is then he's not.

But if he's not, then he is?

Or. Something.

Like. That.

8246. SOBRIETY TEST

SOBRIETY TEST

I lost my balance and what

about that trying to say the

alphabet yet. Backwards.

I guess I've been drinking

too much, yeah, maybe. I

live at the Late Night Hotel,

where it feels like Heaven

but is really Hell.

8245. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #75

75. 'CAT MOTHER'

I had known lots of little things,

before landing in New York City.

I had the bits of mythology, the

readings in the Gods and Divines,

histories of wars and prophecies.

All the sorts of crazy stuff which

I'd put everywhere in my head.

But nothing yet of the 'Big' ideas.

As a computer 'defragments' itself

pulling all the bits and pieces of

far-flung information together so

there's not so much the need for

scanning all over the place to get

the info's  -  which only slows things

down  -  so too was I. My exposure

time in NYC was of 'Unified Field

Theory, as it were  -  using a current

physics term. It helped with the

referential-efficiency needed for a

smoother working of 'me'. To Hell

with college and school, where the

nitwits go so as to have all of that

process 'Stopped!' so as not to any

longer interfere with career and

fortune. Too bad; a total dead-man's

waste of time, and rah-rah for the

football home team too. I'd see them,

my 'peers'  -  shuffling along in their

new experiences of city living with

textbook and umbrella, not knowing

a second of the real source of the

'Time' they were living in, a time

not even made up of seconds,

more like nano's. No one ever tells

you that so much of what flows

through you is subjective. They

instead try to school you in the

fixed and supposedly perfect

precepts of 'objectivity'  -  so that

things stop for you instead of

continuing their expansion; for

unless they 'stop', you can't take

advantage of them to lie, cheat,

steal and amass dead things from.

-

I kind of got to New York in 

a silence. I kept it that way 

and just let the place talk to 

me, or talk back to my spirit 

anyway. Can you have any 

inkling of what it was like, 

1967 version, for a dumb, 

rube, skinny, outlander with 

maybe only balls and ignorance 

on his side, to just show up like 

that unannounced and proclaim

to the largest city in the world 

that he was there to stay and 

ready for taking over? Based 

on media info and endless

readings of the Village Voice, 

I knew enough to head for 

St. Marks Place to begin my 

trek. At the very end of St.

Marks is Tompkins Square, at

which - as I've explained  -  I 

ended up, first night and many 

more. All those Spanish dudes 

playing their wild, bandshell 

music. Long, white-bright

hot afternoons. Observing 

and just trying to make sense.

I slept in the park, with 

various others who came 

and went (Summer '67 was

a sort of hippie/runaway

high-tide). I used their

facilities, and managed to

eke out some subsistence. 

The Peace Eye Bookstore

was right nearby. Ed Sanders

and Allen Ginsberg. Yes, 

those guys. Gregory Corso.

Peter Orlovsky. An entire

raft of deep, intellectual 

crazies who just happened 

to be making history too.

It was all fun, and good.

-

The big thing that Summer, 

I guess, was peasant tops on

girls with no bras. It was a

hippie thing, and it was OK 

with me. For guys, it was an

option  -  like maybe jeans 

that had been worn for 90 days

straight, or peasant tops and beads,

not so different from the girls. 

It was pretty weird. There was 

always something very androgynous 

anyway about boy hippies. I think,

that now, much later, today these

types just come out as gay guys

and no one really cares anymore.

Back then, I guess the crossover

was different, and any factors

of gayness had to be hid or

subsumed into other things :

fine tastes, music or art. 

Like Donovan Leitch or like

Bob Dylan. Even funnier was 

the current of homo-eroticism I 

could detect in the hard-ass 

Biker crowd. Leathers, chains, 

camaraderie, closeness, hugs

and brotherhood stuff. It was 

but a few years later, as it turned 

out, that Robert Mapplethorpe 

started coming out with all his 

photo stuff, nearly instantly 

proving my case. Look at 

any Danny Lyons photos

of the era, 'Bikers'.

-

At the corner of Avenue A and

10th, in the 1980's, there was a

guy who ran a bicycle-repair 

thing, right out there on the 

curb across from the park. I

was long gone by then but 

whenever I passed I was 

intrigued. There was a period

of time through the 1980's,

after all the dismal dereliction

and death of the 1970's was 

over and gone, when art 

galleries and a certain louche 

class of hipness moved in to

the area. It was a brief, three-year

or so mini-renaissance, and

then it too was over, Anyway,

this guy held business-court

outside, without any overhead 

at all. People would bring him 

their bicycles  -  and he usually 

had probably five or six to 

work on  -  for various repairs, 

bearing changes, chains, 

lubrications, new pedals, 

any and all of that stuff, 

and come whenever later 

or a day or two, pay and 

pick up. The guy worked

up on milk-crates, as seats 

and as bicycle stands  -  he 

had his entire array of tools 

and pumps and things and

it was all kept right there, 

outside. Radio blaring. 90

degree heat, or not. I never

knew how he did his 'cash' 

business  -  for tax purposes

or even to cover costs. No 

idea. I guess he'd buy 

whatever he needed, parts

and all, for one price, and 

mark it up a bit, and charge

the 'customer' that price,

plus labor. Just like a

businessman. He must have

paid someone something to

keep the spot; no one ever

bothered him. I'd love to find

and meet that guy today  - 

not knowing whatever 

happened to him. In my

time there, '67 era, he was

probably a baby. That spot

then was the spot of that

Polish guy's strange little

diner I've written of, and the

offices and 'distribution' center

for the East Village Other (EVO)

which came to be and was given

out as a sort of 'hippie' alternative

newspaper all over the area. It

was meant as a challenge back to

the 'Village Voice', which by 

then had become a bit staid and 

stodgy. By comparison, EVO

was a fiery comic strip. Incendiary

information, reviews, photos and

opinions. Guys in a band called

'Cat Mother and the All Night

Newsboys' had a nice, white van,

for their gigs, equipment and all,

and I'd ride with them, through

the night, on distribution nights

sometimes, a few bucks here and 

there, flinging string-bundles of 

the new issue out the door, to 

newsstands and delis and 

all-night places all over the 

city. It was fun and, by-Jesus,

the things I'd see.

8244. PROVE IT TO ME

PROVE IT TO ME

If you're not convinced,

then don't come back.

Pretty simple, right?

8243. HIGH TIMES MR. ALVIN

HIGH TIMES MR. ALVIN

I was in Bayonne, standing near the

EastSiders' Clubhouse, a bunch of

motorcycle guys trying to find their

beer. Some said 'Let's go to North

Bergen.' I didn't wish to cross the 

line. Somewhere behind us, an

Allman Brothers song was playing;

the one without words, about some 

dead-girl's gravestone. Then some

new girl came in, with another guy

I only barely knew; they were from

Minnesota, and this was going to get

interesting. I knew enough to watch.

That's usually all it takes to get guys

all flustered up, these sorts anyway.

Everyone starts going on, to get a

'piece' of the action. Like a new

toy is some crappy playpen.

8242. THE SOMNABULANT SORT

THE 

SOMNABULANT 

SORT

I hear of you walking alone, and want

to be there. These are simple things,

but I guess, too, not to be. Assignations.

Meetings. And secret trysts. You know

how all that goes. 'People' will talk.

(Were we to walk).

-

And still I wonder; why do we make

all these categories, splitting a mankind

hunch into do's and don't's and things

to do or not. Oh, a burden like a

heavy coat when the weather

finally gets warm.

8241. KAPASUKI, YOUR NAMESAKE

KAPASUKI, YOUR NAMESAKE

You say you were born in Oklahoma.

But I cannot for a moment believe that.

It is far too warm for your cold, unsettled

type. And besides, tornadoes make you

angry, and I can hear you gripe. Or make

imagination tell me I am hearing such.

-

One time, here, when I was doing something

and looked up, I saw a man on fire, running

to the sea. Just today, in that same location,

I was sitting, with my dog, looking out to

the harbor before me, and a woman came

over to speak. She was old, some bit older

than me. She pointed to a distant, rusting

tower, in an abandoned old lot a ways off.

She said, 'That was the Pan Am Seaplane

landing strip, in the 1940's, did you know?

I worked for them until 1974.'

-

I figured her for 80. 'I had no idea of that,'

I replied. She then went on, in a strange and

rambling fashion, how, 'One time, in NYC,

I was involved, in my office at Pan Am  - 

they were the greatest airline, you know,

absolutely magnificent  -  with the very

first plane hijacking ever. I took the call

from Charles Lindbergh himself, asking me

to find the President of the company, Mr.

Juan Trippe, in the building somewhere,

and put him on so they could talk a strategy

for this hijacking and the media. I simply

did as I was told.' I had to think  -  when did

Lindbergh die, was she saying something

truthful, was she mad? I stayed polite, but

kind of realized already I was done and

hoped she'd go.

-

She got in her car, and left. And then she

turned around, and drove right back, up

to me, and rolled down her window. 'If

you go over there,' pointing to the airstrip

area, 'and if the same guy owns it, ask him

to show you the two photo books they have

of pictures of all those days . When things

like that were good. Now, now all we get

are tragedies like Lockerbie.'

8240. YOUR FATTED SHIRT, THE EEL

YOUR FITTED

SHIRT, THE EEL

I have some preposterous notions :

one being that I was brought here live.

Most people must gestate, but I did not.

It was all a dream anyway, and now

I am running away again. The last

light is in the canyon, and I must

now be on my way.

8239. THINGS ARE WAY TOO LATE

THINGS ARE

WAY TOO LATE

I can't go anywhere Sunday, and

you are making my skin crawl like

looseleaf butter. I've read about

Demian, and he seems better by

far. I am not engaged by your

warmth or happy ways : figments

of imagination all. Something

makes me sad. But it's you not me

that nettles. I dislike now your silly

ways, all those fake-ass trips to

Europe and back, jaunts that have

changed you not a wit. How can

that be? Sometimes circumstances

change, and you must change along

with them. Things are way too late,

and I've grown tired of this talk.

8238. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #74

74. PARADISE ALLEY

When I moved to 509 e11th,

right next door to it  -  and

completely unknown to me at

this time  -  was a pretty fetching

looking iron-gate courtyard and

entryway to a series of neighboring

apartments. Over the archway, in

iron letter-work, were the words

'Paradise Alley'. All well and good,

I enjoyed being there and adjoining

the presence. (Anyone, by the way,

with the inclination or interest to

do so, can look this up, and see

photos, by typing in : 'Paradise Alley

Was the Beat Generation's Oasis

In the Middle of Chaos.' In addition

to text, it has two photos  -  the one

on the right is the present day, new

building there, in place  -  an elder

residence, actually; the photo on

the left is it, and the lower buildings,

next to Paradise Alley, the first of

them was 509, where I lived). At

the time of my getting there, the

courtyard and residences at Paradise

Alley, 501, were mostly Hell's Angels

motorcycle people  -  lots of Harleys,

panheads and knuckles (engine types),

and plenty of tough people, and women.

They had just gotten established there,

from someplace else, and did eventually

move to their current, long-standing

clubhouse on 3rd street. I knew only

a few, to nod to, nothing more, and in

fact I had absolutely no idea, in Summer

'67, that I'd have motorcycles  -  and

them  -  in my future in 22 years. It

sure is the craziest world you can

imagine. Since it was Summer, most

all of the activity here was outside.

The courtyard was always humming

with people, drinking beer, sitting

around, working on motorcycles

(they were all parked everywhere). I

took an interest in this only for the

visuals and the interesting people  -

greasers and tough-guys, some old

veterans too. The girls were all

pretty cool, but tough  -  like West

Side Story tough, or something like

that. You still knew they were girls,

women, and desirable and all that,

yet they had this really strange aura

about them; Devil-may-care attitudes,

none of that 'feminine, stuff. Like,

girls in rolled-up flannel shirts, open

a few too many buttons, with lots of

breast stuff sprawling out too. Jeans

with rolled cuffs. Hard to explain.

Did just pop my old eyeballs out

a few times, I admit. Within five

years after I left, all of Paradise

Alley was taken down and for

years it just remained an empty lot.

Right now, it a new, maybe 6 or 10

year old Senior Citizen housing tower.

Imagine that. The memories.

-

If you look back, read or research, old

1940's, 1950's, Beatnik stuff, Paradise

Alley was like the hub of Beat activity.

Guys wrote about it, it's in stories, hidden

by other names in books, and people too.

How I, by chance, ended up right next

to it, is beyond me. In my mind, there's

always a spiritual sense to things that

I bring forth  - sounds stupid, yes, but

true. In actualizing an intention, the

selfness of a person has the power to

attract, to bring forth   -  instead of

conflicts and angst  -  harmonies and

the intuitive synergies to produce like

minded realities. The attraction, I guess,

was mutual  -  like the sudden rush of

love and connection, the emotion of

meeting a complete new and surprising

person. It just works.

-

The differences here were stark  -  let

me try to explain. This was one of new

York City's oldest and most legacy-laden

areas, the two blocks around Tompkins

Square Park  -  the old communal hub

of a part of the lower east side, before

this time (1967) that was almost European.

Emigres, refugees, Jewish camp survivors,

socialists, communists, Trotskyites, spies,

writers, outcasts, Yiddish theater types,

people who had lost everything, and

people who were shambling and mad.

It was old Germantown, before the

big German community transplant

up to Yorkville in the east 90's. Once

the General Slocum disaster (a family

outing steamship line, one of which

caught fire and burned, in full view

of everyone, right there at the water,

killing many) took place, right out

there at the waterfront, and all those

family people died, the German

community, in shock and grief,

never fully recovered, and simply

transplanted itself in sadness.

-

The void of the Germans leaving

was quickly filled by others  -  Poles,

East Europeans Jews, Slavs, and more.

By the 1960's (my time there) Puerto

Ricans and Hispanics had taken over.

Any 'vibrancy' there, was theirs  -  music,

shouting, laughter, sex. They represented

mirth. The Bikers filing in represented

darkness. The same darkness that the

Beatniks had previously represented,

right there. But with a different spin.

In fact, there were so many different

undercurrents in one place that it was

quite weird. It's difficult to describe

how vivid and fresh yet was the presence

of World War II right there, even still

in 1967. Survivors, as I said, still sulked.

Wounded and hurt people, the sorts of

displaced people who too 12 years to

end up somewhere else, still unsettled,

but at least they were in NYC, with a

group of their own. Previous to the

Hell's Angels, the beatniks represented

yet another kind of darkness  -  replete

with Euro-Existential angst, the nervous

 jazz-fest camaraderie of talk, and chatter,

speed and nonsense, all mixed up. They

were a stream of consciousness bunch

with, at least, some learning and

referential tradition behind them.

Their darkness had a sensical and

understandable logic. The hippies,

on the other hand, as I watched them

roll in, they just spattered themselves

over everything, without regard. Just

froth. Just stupid nothing. A

communitarian aspect of some

twisted Utopian bullshit creed.

To me it was all like fingernails

down a blackboard. Screech and

ouch combined. I really disliked

what they represented; it was like

a blow-back overflow of all

American sham culture, with

these spoiled little punk kids,

wishing to get high and stay

happy, just running on overload

to loaf around and live loosely.

It was sort of that, somehow, I

got mixed up with that, in people's

heads, so they thought I too was a

'hippie'. It was so untrue as to be

laughable. And sad. The other

cultural input here, all pretty much

within three blocks, was the mad,

crazy, loud and romantic fires of

the Puerto Ricans. The Hell's

Angels seemed to completely

ignore them, and vice versa.

They were so very different

as to be two planets apart. The

Spanish lived on the street and

on stoops and porches  -  loud,

crazed, hot-weather people,

always going at it about

something. Husbands and

wives shouting back and forth

at each other, anger, ire,

frustration. Kids screaming

and jumping through the street.

Spanish girls in temptress clothes

not yet even aware of what they

were doing or what message they

were sending. I used to wonder 

how that happens, and how, 

culturally, a young girl grows 

into the awareness of her overt 

sexuality unwittingly being too

 much on display. So things get

explained to her, to stop it. Does

her family take her aside? What is,

culturally in that milieu, the right 

way? I never knew.

-

So, what I'm trying say, (I think) is

that the overlay of the modern day

was in a conflict here, with everything 

around it. There was violence and

Bikers outlaws, criminals and drugs,

happy idiots and Hispanic maniacs,

all banging up against tired and sad

old people, ancient cultures and rites

wherein ancient people still lived by

their ancient traditions. I'd gotten 

thrown somehow right into the mix 

of it all, and I have a thousand tales

to tell from it. I guess I'll be bouncing

back and forth between it 

and Pennsylvania.

8237. WARD 6B

WARD 6B

They build half-worlds from the

rubble of memories crushed in

one instant of impact as their

spinal cords snapped.

-

They awake each grisly-taloned

dawn  -  verterans' veterans  -  

only to slip away again, 

somehow fed and sedated, into 

their deep and perpetual silence.

-

Their eyes are long corridors down 

which an intern runs with bloody 

hands and sweaty skin. A man weeps.

-

He lies locked in a frame, while,

overhead, a TV hums...a man in a

Campbell Soup hat has just won a cow.

-

Some shout, some stare, some weep:

a revolt to preserve the last shards of self.

(But at night, their dreams amble about

the yellow darkness, between the

breathing and the cries).

8236. NATIONAL BOX COMPANY

8236. NATIONAL 

BOX COMPANY

Someone with a lisp was trying to

speak, and two other men held their

work-tools together. Yes, box-cutters.

-

It looked for sure like a scary and a

dangerous moment, but it wasn't, not

at all. The guy with the lisp, he wasn't

scared, but it sounded that way.

-

The two guys with the knives were

his workers, and he was explaining

to them what to start doing.

8235. UP-STUTTER NOT AGAIN

UP-STUTTER NOT AGAIN

Winston Churchill and Karl Marx.

Are they not just each cigars? No.

Methinks you mean Groucho here

 too. And, oh, I do.

-

Along 57th Street I am looking 

for you. Waltz-style, like the Art 

Student's League. I've been there 

ten times if a hundred, and they're 

always messing some kind of bread. 

All that yellow and red. Now Lee's 

Art Supplies, right across the street 

is gone. Agoraphobia now for sure.

-

Kettle drum, kettle drum, where'd you

get that noise. 'I heard that  -  back

when you were a Communist  -  you

shaved with your tongue?

Is this, can it be, true?'