10,863. RUDIMENTS, pt. 335

RUDIMENTS, pt. 335

Making Cars

If you got to the other side

of Manhattan Island, it was

the west side pier that greeted

you. Down towards the bottom,

the island is narrower and you

can get quicker in between

places, running if you wished,

between east and west. There

was a whole lot of difference

between the two sides and

a whole lot of history too.

In 1740, in fact, right there

at the west side area where

I mostly frequented,there

had been a meeting-place,

subversive tavern location

where the soon-to-revolt

slaves (there were about

1600 of them on an island

of, what, 30,000 people?).

Word got out, people were

followed and harassed, and

then it broke out anyway

and the entire small island

settlement of wood buildings,

homes and businesses were

mostly burned to the ground.

Hangings ensued, trials and

mis-trials and betrayals. It

wasn't the first, nor was it

the last. New York's always

been a crime-pot. That territory

and just below was eventually,

like all the rest, was developed

and all this early stuff forgotten.

By the then-modern era I'm

now writing of, 1967, etc.,

everything had been turned

over to the more utilitarian

purposes of commerce and

profit. No one else cared a

whit about the past : ships

and oats, trucks and freight,

cartons of this and that, they

all came in here, for trade

and consignment, purchase

and resale. Counting houses,

recording centers, transcribers

and stores (the original word

and definition) of the goods

for later sale, after distribution,

which necessitated better

roads, a stabilized growth

of land and place (leveling

and re-routing, and the

better movement of both

people and domiciles)  -

thus the implementation

of the grid system, after

the land was neutered and

drained, the right-angled

cross-streets, each with

their legalized spacing

and frontage and rigid

format.. Nothing eccentric

or twisted, strange or unique

(except for 'people'  -  there

were always the people,

those weird, unique, singular,

solitary types. Probably the

place's only saving grace,

when you get right down to

it. New York thrived on them

too), would be allowed in.

Commerce and the passage

of goods took importance

over everything else  -

markets and emporiums,

the start and the growth

of shops and merchandising

and palaces, shared ownership,

the possibilities of stock

and shared interest; this

all grew up around what

just used to be land,

woods, water and space.

We've long ago lost all

that. Baby, just look

at us now.

-

The west side was

lively and active with

docks, piers, trucks,

exchange. I'd sit there

for hours, or, after some

painting and Studio School

work, myself and another

would set out, bicycles

mostly  - still odd then,

not like now. She'd be

very adept, it never failed,

at swiping things we could

eat from the fruit stands

and vegetable tables as

we passed. I never tried

it. Funny, she did all the

thieving.  -  not that I

was any goody-two-shoes.

I just never stole food.

Eating things  like cauliflower,

raw, was also a new experience

for me. It was cheap and it

was easy. Now there are

entire diets that  people live

by, of raw foods. In 1967,

to me and to most of the

world, this  was still an

outlandish thing.

-

In my head, I was always 

a drifter  -  and adrift too. 

It may have been a disease 

or an illness : lack of any 

real sense of meaning or 

value to the regular parts 

of life that everyone else 

seemed always to be 

worrying over. I was intent 

to make my own way, 

internal compass, internal 

clock, all that crap, and 

never needed anyone to 

instruct or impart to me. 

Others often seemed to 

live for that; their tongues 

lolling at the thought of 

getting help and instruction. 

I was a nut case, and so were 

my street friends, and my 

regular (few) friends too. 

The hoity-toits would come 

in (Studio School) from their 

way-better lives uptown, and 

start jabbering about their 

most recent hour with the 

analyst, and the rest. I got 

about as far with any of that 

as the anal part. That was 

all I had to hear and I knew 

a real asshole had started 

talking. My little clutch of 

maniacs had convinced each 

other that analysis kills any 

driven, creative spirit that 

you possess. The entire idea 

of it is to get you to fork over 

some good dough to talk to 

some pipe-smoking smurf with 

the last name probably of this 

Berg or that Stein (ice and 

beer sufficed as prefixes for 

me in either case here. Like 

Rimbaud had put it, about 

all that derangement of the 

senses stuff, and Blake too   

-  anybody too shy to live 

their own lives and who'd 

rather talk while staring at 

some ceiling to some 

pressure cooked psychoanalyst 

had to be, well, yeah, crazy. 

Go figure.

-

It was no wonder the 

whole world was right 

then falling apart. Abandoned 

trucks all along the wharf-side 

there held homeless vagrants  

- not today's kind, I mean the 

old reedy bastards who'd kill 

and leer. Knives in their teeth, 

sharpened edges for a personality. 

Some of the other trucks had 

dingy, filthy mattresses in them, 

to be used by the night-girls 

who'd work the area. In the 

midst of all this  -  hot dog 

vendors, stevedores, even the

supposed 'night-watchman'  -  

which is all they really did, 

watch all that stuff going on 

all night long  -  came truckloads 

of vegetables and meats, all 

the time. Somehow, within 

a few, five, blocks, it all 

became soon enough, by 

dawn, a market  -  tables, 

separated displays, piles 

of this or that, commerce 

at the call, at the drop, of 

a greasy hat. Even filthy 

old sludge-hole New York 

had to eat. Besides with 

some 2000 restaurants on, 

all the time, somebody had 

to get them all that produce.

10,661. STUDEBAKER HAREM

STUDEBAKER HAREM

It used to be, when the cookie

factory was really rolling, the 

smell wafted all over town. If

you really liked chocolate, your

nose had it made. It was weird,

living in a place so jaded that no

one ever mentioned the aroma 

in the air. Just down from that  -

a junkyard and scrap-metal place

now  -  was the old factory that 

had once made Studebaker cars.

-

That typical 1924 look of industrial

factory architecture, the bank-wall

of windows separated by a metal

grid, the buff-colored brickwork,

replacing the red  -  that gave it

all away; there was no denying the

general use, and with the railroad

siding there, serving both the local

businesses, there were workers always

around  - loading finished product or

bringing in supplies from far-flung

places. I was maybe 10, but I'd be 

lost forever, staring and watching

at the world I'd see.

-

And only then would I realize it

was all imagined : They'd both

closed years ago, and I was

just living in my head.

10,860. RUDIMENTS, pt. 334

RUDIMENTS, pt. 334

Making Cars

It was a hard deal, all this

getting around, the back and

forth and the give and take.

I had stepped into this as into

a firestorm, remember, in July

of 1967, not caring one way

or the other about much of

anything but escape. I had

already blueprinted my own

life, had those plans checked

over and approved (by me)

and was ready  -  under every

hellacious obstacle thrown up -

to begin implementing my

experiment in being. I was at

the point, as well, where any

other category, title, or meaning

given to life did not fit me.

Existentialism, Pragmatism,

Altruism, Stoicism, you name

it. I called it  'experiment in

living' and the rest be damned.

There was a crossroads I'd passed,

a point in my life when simple

prognostications and forecasts

meant no longer anything at

all. I guess you could say I

was zealous, and religious too.

I'd basically come to the

conclusion that all aspects

of life were built upon a lie.

But I won't get into that here,

right now. Suffice it to say,

it was my conclusion that

unless one lived every

moment of every day in

the presence of God, all

else was useless. I'd had

religious training, and it

was bullshit. Packed in lines

and stuffed in categories and

programs ruled and reigned

over by ecclesiastical levels.

A completely artificial kingdom

of bogus fools, mostly perverted

and repressed too. There certainly

was no 'Life' there. I don't care

here, either, to speak for this,

that, or any other religion, or

belief. You can have whatever

you wish  -  the Entangled Oasis

God of Blue Cheese, for all I care.

But if you're not there, with it

and it within you, every moment

of every day, you're a fool and

a lying sack too. That's really

all there is and that's really

your only way out. Any hope

relies on the creative manifestation

of concurrent and far greater,

universal and cosmic powers

which present to us the

appearance and the glimmer

of a world we see, or seem

to think we see.  The rest is

contingency and manipulation.

This sort of universalism has

only two switches: on, or off.

There's no middle ground,

and it demands a total fealty

You wish to die forever then,

go ahead. It's your falsehood.

And your body aint'a gonna'

rise again.

-

Most all of these Biker guys

along the way, none of them

knew anything at all about this

religion stuff, and considered

it quite foreign to their style of

fashioning rebelliousness by

steel and oil and gas. They

were so hedonistic that they

might as well have hailed

from Hedonia. And even

the Jesus Biker clubs  -  and

they were a dime a dozen for

a while  -  were all screwed up.

They'd throw you down on your

knees, by request, baptize and

preach over you, and then gloss

it all over with the high-school

sheen of biker ethos and service

to others. Personal salvation?

I'm not so sure they covered that.

It just never fit, any of it  -  the

beer, the riding, the drink, the

babes. Half of them ended up

anyway as some sort of

one-hundred-and-seventy-five

dollar Ministers, so they could

perform highly stylish Biker

Weddings. By code, or by

distress. Give or take; I'll

take the give.

-

Little ever was any of this

owned up to  -  I stayed mostly

mum on those counts. Befuddled,

and probably numb as well. I knew

it wasn't going to be my final path

and none of it really mattered.

Down towards the bottom of John

Street, on the way to the East River,

was an old, black (slave) church.

Underground Railroad stop, a

few historic markers, etc.; all

the usual panoply of notice for

history that the usual spitheads

can put up   -  just enough to slide

by and make it look like they

care while they run through

and loot everything else they

can. The Hell's Angels kept

a bar down by there at which

they'd hold their gatherings.

Usually late-night stuff, almost

a club-scene kind of pounding

music (they were big on heavy

metal), some food, naked babes,

big-deal dudes and tattoos and

colors coming and going. Guards

out on John Street  -  everything

kept perfectly and sternly ordered.

'Step outta' line, the man come

and take you away.' Those nights

at the John Street Bar were certainly

something else. I'd stand outside

and gaze over towards the 1820's

staring me right back in my face,

and wonder. Looking back, seemingly,

into the mists of time and seeing

all those old moments and people

still slowly moving about in that

molasses-like atmosphere that

time keeps its remnants in. To

Hell with whatever was going on

inside the bar, their haunts and

holies, babes and booze. I wanted

to be right where I was and no more

than that  -  and I wished as much

to be able to just leave, through

some hole in the mist and fog,

that beckoned me into its

other time and place.

-

The way I began seeing it was that

at its core the only real thing bikers

were after was being 'seen.' It was

a sort of proto-revolt in the most

visual sense  -  the Tomcat image,

the guy with the thick cigar and

muscles, the tattoos and leathers

(or rags), the stepping back to

look at the next bike over, the

chrome, the modifications, the

rear tire, the paint. It was all a

stall-tactic, to keep going where

you're going without going.

To stop time by making it all

visual. Why else for anything?

The most stylish way of drinking

beer I ever knew. Costly too.

-

I first met a guy later named as

Indian Larry, in about 1989

at a biker club, Angels-affiliated,

in Brooklyn somewhere, named

the Iron Knights. Went there

any number of times : the place

was in the middle of a basic,

poor, rundown, Brooklyn ghetto

area. It had once been a garage

or two, maybe stables once.

The  Iron Knights ran it as

a clubhouse in usual fashion,

bikes strewn about, a makeshift

bar, a sitting area, etc. Card

tables, TV, tools, and a half

idea kitchen area. On these

evenings and late nights, they'd

simply commandeer the street,

decide the perimeter, keep locals

our, drive in their bandstand,

and then patrol the place with

billy-clubs and bats. No one

ever dared break through,

in fact it was as if, stunned,

the locals remained oblivious

to any of it. Up high, above,

you'd often see them out their

windows, just watching down.

It was always long, loud, and

late into the wee morning hours.

Don't know how the locals

survived it all.

-

Anyway, one day I rode in there,

way early, like 1pm, early afternoon

of a late-night happening. A couple

of guys sitting around, beer and

small-talk (it was a fund-raising

party, in fact, for an imprisoned

'brother' named 'Animal.' Stupid

me, I'd asked, what's he in for?'

The answer came back  -  'Killin'

a cop'). Soft-spoken, real nice guy

was right there, next to me. 'Hi,

I'm Larry.' The other guy says,

'Indian, they call him Indian Larry;

he ain't, but he fixes Indians.'

Meaning Larry was not himself

an 'Indian' in the American Native

sense, but the he repaired and

worked on Indian Motorcycles,

an old American marque, out

of Springfield, Massachusetts.

He was the plainest, most soft

spoken guy I'd met in a while,

certainly in a place like this. The

funny thing  -  within five years

he was tattoo-covered, a marked-

by-media motorcycle daredevil

star, famed, probably rich, and

within ten years, dead. Doing

one of his stand-on-the-seat 

stunts, while motoring along,

some went wrong, he slipped

off and smashed his head, and 

died. Even after he was rich 

and famous, and a name-branded

icon, I'd see him and he was, to

talk with and hang with, one of

the nicest guys around. He just

got the hard deal too  -  but a

little too much. I lost a set of

ears, that day; someone who

heard me.

10,859. BUT WHAT IF THE DEVIL DOESN'T EVEN CARE?

BUT WHAT IF THE

DEVIL DOESN'T 

EVEN CARE?

I asked that once of Father St. Clair,

meaning what if Evil is exactly that,

a state of 'I don't care.' He didn't take 

kindly to my question - and gave me that

stare. I guess you'd know what I mean

if him you had ever seen. I love the

people who do that  -  perplexity 

and a certain form of callousness : 

this cannot be, or don't you see? 

When those qualities are combined 

you get some really sublime - The

person who supposedly 'has' all 

the answers in line.

10,858. MAGNIFICATION IS ITSELF A DETAIL

MAGNIFICATION IS 

ITSELF A DETAIL

This universe (I've seen from afar) :

Bears a harmless edge of 

disappearance.

Items and rules fade :

(every 'distance is not real')? 

Is itself but a detail. The table

rocks the floor it sets upon.

10,857. IT'S ALL GREEK, TOMMY

IT'S ALL GREEK, TOMMY

I guess Ulysses started out on

the high seas for a reason, though

it never was clear to me. Transporting

figs, I guess, those Greek bananas.

Troy and Carthage and all Thrace

is lost too. I threw that in for

good measure. One has a white

horse and another has a dark

horse. It's all so mentally tasking

that I can't understand what they're

asking. Oh people, this quest, it

is lost. Has been squandered on

these wine-dark seas.

-

Now, for the Odyssey and Homer,

that makes a bit more sense. Battles

and forgings and desire's recompense.

10,856. THAT SAME INDETERMINATE PRECISION

THAT SAME 

INDETERMINATE 

PRECISION

Being always the same, many things

just bore me : the apple always starts

out as a floral bloom.

10,855. RUDIMENTS, pt. 333

RUDIMENTS, pt. 333

Making Cars

I won't belabor all this

because the aspects of my

life that impinged on the

motorcycle scene were

mine and mine alone, but

the latter-day reflections

on it still startle. Mostly

I don't know how I did it

and survived. Breakneck

speed, idiot antics, and my

sidekick Al. (Cohol). Now

it's all just an afterlife and

I feel like one of Custer's

men who somehow got

away. Or even Custer

himself, though I never

had red hair. Whatever it

was, through me, it was all

vivid and and real. Authentic.

-

See, that's a laugh line.

Custer used to always line

his men up and lead them

in formation to battle, etc.,

and even in battle, while

having the trumpeter and

whatever band-thing they

may have had along play

'Garry Owen,' an old 

Scottish drinking song,

actually, which he'd adopted

as his regimental marching 

tune. I could never understand

any of that in old musical

terms  -  fife and drums,

maybe a trumpet. Acoustic

guitar? I'm not sure they

did those things?

-

Back in the early 1960's, 

as all that folk music stuff 

was coming through those

Greenwich Village pass-the-hat

places, the Gaslight, the Kettle

o' Fish, Cafe Wha and the rest,

a lot of the same poeple we'd

hear of later were together then,

as nobodies, all doing the same

junk  -  Dave Van Ronk, John

Sebastian, Hugh Romney (as

'Wavey Gravey'), Bill Cosby,

Tiny Tim, Bob Dylan, Tim

Hardin, Harry Belafonte, 

Richie Havens, Phil Ochs,

the eventual Peter, Paul, and 

Mary people, etc., etc. Most 

of them had their concocted 

street stories, their new or 

falsified names, their little 

schtiks, their own repertoires, 

etc. Most of all them, in 

one degree or another, by 

1966 had made it. One of 

those guys (the subject here

of this little tale) was Fred Neil.

He was a busy guy, almost as
straight as they come, and did 
eventually cash in a little when 
his 'song' became the theme song
 for 'Midnight Cowboy,' the film.
(Everybody's talkin' at me, I don't 
hear a word they're saying...').
He sang folk songs, like the  
rest, yes, - and they  all shared

the same song-chest of old

tunes they'd draw from, adding

a claim of their own authenticity

to the hard-scrabble misery songs

of the old, black bluesman and

spiritual and slave songs. It

was always striking me as

pretty funny when I'd hear one

of these guys with an otherwise

fairly impeccable, white-boy

lineage, maybe even Jewish,

rolling over to one of those

old black-talk, garbled tongue

accents for their authenticity in

pulling over a 'borrowed' song.

Yeah, sure. The only one, really,

who never did this was Dave

Van Ronk  -  at least he had

some principles. Just sit and 

listen, for instance, to Fred Neil

singing 'Walk Me Out In the

Morning Dew, My Honey....'

It's hilarious, and if it never

occurred to him that it was

ridiculous when he sang it,

(he's dead now, poor old Fred),

it's even funnier. His version is 

pretty pathetic  -  listen to it as

he verbally dots every 'i' and

pronounces every final syllable

and clicks the proper 't' off each

time. Just like any old black guy

would have down back in Turkey

Holler, Georgia or wherever,

picking and strutting while 

sitting on old Hiram's porch. (It's
funny too, because in the Midnight
Cowboy song, he clearly dropped
the 't'). The chumps in the Grateful 

Dead, on their earliest album, 

1966 or whatever, they tried 

their hand at it too  -  believe 

me, it's much better. At least 

it's got life and some jammin'  

-  instead of Fred Neil's

schoolboy properness. And

they weren't no Southern blues

cats either; they were the

'house band' for the 'Frisco

Hells Angels, and before 

that they were 'The Warlocks!'

Go figure authenticity and

then come and tell me 

about it. Like with the 

Angels at Altamont, in 

service somehow to the 

Rolling Stones, in the middle

of some fag song a dude gets

killed. Yeah; that's authentic.

-

I was never one much for 

putting things on, and I think 

that had a lot to do with how 

and why I got muddled into 

these hardcore biker-boy days. 

Short of the Marines or somesuch, 

these guys had the grit and the 

determination at least to

screw things up  -  themselves

and the world around them  -  

just as they damn-well saw to

and pleased. I respected that; 

respected it the way I'd respect 

a voter who back then would 

have gone into a voting booth, 

pulled the curtain shut (the 

old kind of voting booth,

before the electronic BS they 

have today  -  with the old

levers and cranks and all)

  - whipped it out and pissed 

on old Johnson's or Nixon's 

name instead of voting for it. 

Any of those people, right up

to the present day; I'm not just 

picking on those two retarded 

political examples.

-

There were other bars too,

numerous. In NYCity most any

bar will wlelcome motorcycle 

guys  -  because they're usually

dumb and foolish enough to drop

a ton of change for a continued

service of some lousy beer. It's easy:

You just continue to flatter them, 

once they're in place, play up to

their 'manliness,' show certain

scriptural advances to your own

female body as the word slowly

made flesh, and, Hell! these guys

are set for the day and I'll have

another. Did you ever wonder

why someone otherwise bored

with life, these days, will drop 

down 23 grand and then probably

soon another 3 or 4 for 'imporvements'

and hop-ups, and then buy 'gear'

like they too were girls going out

of style? So can they race from

bar to bar on their old, clunker,

agriculturally-based pushrod

engine? I did, and I soon realized

you could walk to any bar you

wanted and sit there all day for

a lot cheaper than all that glory

and glamour had just cost you.

Of course, I'm a slob and have

always been  -  old boots and

second-hand clothes suit me 

fine. The first people I ever saw

with cell phones were 'Bikers.'

The first people, before that, that

I ever saw with 'Beepers' were 

'Bikers!' I never had neither and

never had anything special that

anyone needed to tell me that 

badly. If they did, they'd write

it on a board and throw it 

through my window. Biker

bars were mostly nothing
(biker bras were mostly nothing
too, but they were on girls),

but trouble because there was

always some sort of posturing

going on  -  if not about bikes

and riding, then about clothing 

or girlfriends. Let's call them

that anyway. Face it, most every

girl was a wandering event

waiting to happen  -  the biker

ethos attracted them like flies

to the Pope's crap. It was as

predictable as the second 

coming (no pun). So that bit 

of tension was always in the 

air, and if club matters or other 

competitions were added in 

and then the icing of alcohol

was poured on, well....goodbye

nurse and that's all he wrote.

Believe me, I've seen it most

all. I saw, one night in Hoboken,

a drunk asshole get the shit

beat out of him so badly that

people didn't know whether

to call an ambulance or the

morque. This was at the old

Cadillac Bar, next to the (also)

old Clam Broth House. 10 or

15 motorcycles out front,

piled and parked wherever.

It's about 114 degrees outside,

the place inside is noisy and

packed, filled with drunks, 

losers, losers' girlfriends, and

us. Way too long there; it's never 

good to stay in one place, with

the conditions I just described,

for more than maybe an hour 

and a half without again hitting

the road. (No, in motorcycle terms

I don't mean crashing, I mean

moving on to the next place).

You just keep moving on; we

used to call it 'recreational

drunk driving.' [riding]. Anyway,

we're standing outside with beers,

(you could still get away with that

then), guys are smoking and 

standing around, ogling or just

talking, and this poor schmuck,

and I mean that in every aspect

of the word, comes stumbling out,

almost drooling drunk, hardly

knowing what he was even doing,

and proceeds to, let's say, publicly

urinate  -  emergency conditions,

line inside, etc. He's so piteously

over the line that all he's doing

with his stumble and hose is

pissing on motorcycles. Just

pissing away. Here's a hint:

Don't ever do that.