11,290. RUDIMENTS, pt. 491

RUDIMENTS, pt. 491

(subterraneans)

As I studied literature

over my years of reading,

learning, and writing, I

often wondered if there

had been a competition

between Oscar Wilde, and

Thornton Wilder. Ha. See,

that was my joke-play with

words, which is something

I just finally ended up

doing constantly. You

get it, right? 'Wilde' and

'Wilder.' Oh well. Then I

decided I was going to

take myself, alone, and

just ride out to America's

Dairyland to just think.

Or, as I called it, to

Wisconcentrate.

-

One of the most weird

things to me, in I guess

it was Aug., 1967, was

walking up to 509 east

11th street and sauntering

in to the dingy, ground-floor

entry room, to ask for the

guy on the premises who

rents ('Superintendent,'

you idiot). I didn't even

know that much. Heck,

I'd never even been in

a place like this before :

All of it was from a

hundred years ago;

ancient, crazy lobby

tile  -  not really a lobby,

more just a spot near

a door and a room,

all adjacent to a half

wall of mailbox things

-  little metal doors with

a scrawled name papered

in. Silver-looking metal,

serrated, with lines, and

each one had a gold-colored

key-lock. It's standard stuff

now, I know, all over the

city. Yet, those remnants

of the old tenements and

apartments, as they slowly

pass from view, get

'modernized' or leveled

and rebuilt, and we lose

all that. I went into that

little room, asking for the

rental, not really knowing

what to expect. The guy

was just a regular guy.

He could have been a

brick-layer for all I knew.

Not a business type at all,

just one of the guys. He

said 'Sure, sure, 60 bucks

a month, payable the first.

It's upstairs, second-landing,

rear, let's go, I'll show you.'

That was it; he throws a

notebook down, says, 'you

can sign here when we get

back.' I entered a room the

sort of which I'd never seen

before. It was 2 rooms, and

a bathroom, alcove. The

walls on the outside faces

were the brick of the outside.

That was tastefully quaint,

yes, interior brick  -  yet so

odd too as to belie my own

confusion at what I was

seeing. The sink was the

only thing that showed me

that there was a kitchen,

of a sort anyway  -  in no

way a 'kitchen' of the type

advertised today. Whatever

stove there was, we never

used. Nor was there any

dedicated floor space to be

called 'kitchen.' I guess, in

1900, you ate where you

lived. There was just one,

general open space area,

plus the little off-room

by the 'bathroom.' That

kitchen sink, with a large

piece of plywood or plank

over most of it, was also

the bathtub. I just looked

right past all that stuff, not

knowing what was up, and

took the place; I figured I'd

worry about anything else

at some other time.

-

I paid him my 60 bucks, plus

another 60 for some future

'security' month that never

materialized (I was always

insecure), and left with 2

keys. Nasty, bare, lower

east side rooms, barren as

the Serengeti, with a noise

quotient of Spanish-tongued

kids already quite high and

the heat dangling in the air 

like torture. Next door, I soon

saw, was a Biker den of

some strange characteristics.

I suddenly realized I knew

the place  -  it was the famed,

old Beatnik 1950's harem

and hangout called 'Paradise

Alley.' It had an arched and

bricked entryway, a courtyard,

and a history worth believing

in. How had I missed that on

the way in, I wondered. Jack

Kerouac had written an entire

book that took place there,

called 'The Subterraneans.'

The funny thing was, his

Random House or whoever

editing people sent him

back to re-write before they'd

publish it. The legal department

was too skittish over the names

and places, and they had him

re-place everything into a

San Francisco setting, with

names and places sort of

cleverly disguised. In any

case, Paradise Alley it was.

I had a sort of a view out over

the courtyard and, though I

never stared, I did see a lot

of things going on. Mostly

the romantic stuff  -  no

executions or drug deaths.

It was currently, by 1967

anyway, the new headquarters

for what would become the

NY Hell's Angels, later of

3rd street. All fun, 
all the time.

-

There were motorcycles

haphazardly parked 

everywhere, along the 

curb and in the opening

of the courtyard. Usually

there'd be someone around

watching the bikes, guarding

the domain. Years later, 

I too was a 'Biker' of those

means; at the Iron Knights

in Brooklyn there'd be

parties and confabs and, 

in much the same way,

except with a more 

trenchant approach to

keeping order, there'd be

an entire block cordoned 

off, with the Iron Knights

clubhouse in the middle

of that block. Across the

way was a weedy lot used

by some car-repair shop, 

and, looking up, you'd see

the tenement apartments

above, most often with

people in the open windows

gazing down. Security there,

all around the perimeter, and

the bandstand, was a few

strongmen thug-type bikers

with cut-off baseball bats,

made into clubs, often with

chain or something drilled

into the top, to also swing 

as useful weaponry. Any 

poor ghetto locals never had

a chance, and, fortunately,

(although I did see one or

two instances) they kept 

away and no beatings or 

apprehensions ensued. It

was probably easier living

next to the Berlin Wall.

-

All that got pretty wild,

Oscar...In both places, the

Brooklyn site as well as

Paradise Alley, anything

at any time was apt to break 

out. Mostly, law was absent.

All the 11th street Spanish

people were used to it all;

their culture and way of

living was all outside stuff

anyway, and they knew 

enough to keep wary and

away from white-guy games.

Motorcycles may entice,

but they also valued life.

-

Looking out the rear 

window of that apartment, 

all you saw really was 

another building. They

had, because the old

tenements were built 

right into one another, 

often 2-deep in small, 

cramped yards (just like, 

for the kitchen, look at 

any old photo of 1900

tenement housing and

you'll see what I mean),

there what amounted to
 'air-shafts' out a window

or two. For the most feeble

ventilation. But, at the 

same time, by habit, in 

those years it had become

customary to just heave

garbage down. So, on 

the ground, foul and

treacherous, you'd be apt

to find anything, and I

mean that word : old

clothing, food trash, 

garbage, broken things

of any description, dead

cats, tricycles, and what

else the tide washed in. 

It was pretty horrid, but

not as horrid as the idea

that, 60 plus years previous,

these had been introduced

as health measures and

positive factors. Yeah, OK.

In addition, here and there

in these tenement backyards,

the second-buildings had

crumbled, or were abandoned,

or squatted in, or used as

drug-dens, bathrooms or

morgues. Take your pick,

and in the lower east side

health measures, codes

and regulations just

didn't exist.

-

What was 509's claim to 

fame? I'll get into all that

very soon. Suffice it to

say, my onetime street

of infamy is nearly

unrecognizable now.

11,289. AS TO THE FATHERS OF A FADING NATION

AS TO THE FATHERS 

OF A FADING NATION

Indignation, actually. The Rigatoni

Brothers and Fur Elise. When you've

dedicated all the wedding rice to

nothing, you get nothing in return.

You don't need a weatherman to

see which way the blood flows.

11,288. RUDIMENTS, pt. 490

RUDIMENTS,  pt. 490

(slap-down)

There have always been

things I never understood.

None of it ever really

mattered, except for the

few times it almost caused

me trouble  -  for calling

out the truth of what I saw.

Maybe that's all prideful BS,

but whatever, and it's not.

I grew up knowing what I

wanted and how to articulate

it too. I guess the worst of

it was, running for Mayor

of Metuchen once (for about

2 days), I spoke my mind

about, finally, something

real, and was thrown off

the ticket within 2 days.

It was quick, surgical,

and ugly. But I learned

from it. (Problem was, I

had just cut off all my hair,

and my beard, for those

1998 dweebs, and they

left me high and dry and

looking like a fawn. No

thanks were ever sent).

I learned that when you

play the game of party

politics, you're already

in jail, your reasoning

is stripped from you at

the door like a new bride's

pajamas in a fancy hotel.

They no longer want you

to think; only their way,

take their orders, ride

with their team. It's all

quite masturbatory, but

it's their hand on the

'controls' so to speak.

The Onanism Party, like

we have here in Avenel.

The drunk Mayor's face

in the background of

every 'McCormac Team'

poster, and the monsterettes

chosen all smiling in the

foreground, lapping at

themselves for your

vote. And we have a

Mayor here who thinks

that 'Better Education'

consists of more parking,

improved lots, fluffy theater,

and probably a few extra

vocational courses offered,

like 'Brewery Science,'

or 'Mixology.'  On that,

along with gray money,

you build a tax-funded

career and livelihood.

Think of all that the

next time you vote, all

you dutiful, backyard,

Woodbridge Americans.

-
It wasn't that 'Royalty' or
whatever that's called in 
America, held me in thrall, 
but I was fascinated by old
New York, that list of the 100
most elite families, etc., the 
Social Register types, those who
got all the right invitations and the
proper social connections which
opened doors for them. It was
both disgusting and fascinating
to think of such people. I recall
reading of that 'certain type' of
New Yorker who, whenever a
new book about this or that of
New York society would be
published, bought one and went
right to the index in the rear pages
to see if their names or any of
their family names, were in it.
The sort of growing up I had,
such a thought would never even 
cross my mind  -  we were often
enough humiliated by the Sunday
church bulletin which  -  also
disgustingly  -  played on pride
(one of the Seven Deadly Sins,
I'd thought) by printing, each
Sunday, for all to see, the list of
parishioners from the previous 
week, and how much they had
given in their collection envelopes.
It was broken down, first, into 
the dollar groupings ($50, $40, 
$25, etc.) right down to like 10
cents (kids, one hoped), and the
family names in that category
were listed alphabetically. I
always thought that to be the
cheapest, most foul trick.
We were usually in the 
dollar aisle there too.
-
When I was a kid watching

all that politics stuff, the

word was never let out

that JFK was banging

every Mary Jane, Linda,

and Betty that he could.

The weird  thing about

America has always

been that the subtext of

everything has always

been sex. The fashion

industry, entertainment,

even advertising and

automobile and airline

industry stuff pushed

sexuality, innuendo,

illicit contact, and the

proverbial wink about

every other adjunct

of same. That's where
the cheesy big money
was. They mix it, and

everything else, up now

too  -  most of those

people rounded up

and fired and put away,

Harvey Weinstein et al,

are Jewish, as are their

industries. It's OK to bag

them now for what they

(operating under the

prevailing national

zeitgeist of the time)

have done  -  that same

zeitgeist has turned  -

but, at the same time,

if you make one verbal

move in that other

direction, you're

immediately called out

as anti-Semitic. No

matter what, as my

friend Alex used to

say, 'Call a spade a

spade, except in

Harlem.' Fun stuff,

huh. Speaking of

odd phrases, there

was this teacher in

one of the schools

I went to who, when

he meant to get serious,

always said, 'OK now,

let's talk turkey.'

-

When you're a kid, all

these things come across

as mysterious  -  like

when the adults move

off into another room

to talk about sex or

trade dirty jokes. It's

lingo and an insider's

language and know-how

that you're not yet privy

to. 'Forget the birds and

the bees, Dad, (I can get

that stuff on my phone);

why don't you tell me

what's really going on.'

-

It' a far cry from fairness

to have to grow up this 

way; even today, WITH 

the products of our local

education systems shaming

us at each step of the way

('by their fruits ye shall

know them') you have to 

ask why we're wasting 

so much and getting back

so little. Just look. Any

adult (and we supposedly 

have plenty of them on the

payroll) who only think in

physical and materialistic

ways is already dead; why

then should such an 'adult'

be given oversight and rule

over our children? I ask.

I also ask why here is

absolutely NO quality

in anything of greater 

Woodbridge? Is the 

answer not perhaps in 

the twelve years plus of 

having idiots and drunks

at the helm? In 1959 or

whatever it was exactly,

when Mr. Cigatura retired

from being the custodian

and general grandfather

at Schools 4&5, the kids

were able to present him,

(really, it was touching)

a near-year's collection

of pennies that they'd 

amassed for him. There

used to be an incinerator, 

of brick, at the rear of

the school, near the old

cut-through path from 

Inman Avenue, and 

 everyone assembled 

out there, for the day's

presentation. He must

have received ten thousand

pennies. It was amazing :

now kids can't even step

outside, the gravel and the

incinerator are long gone,

the school has a cop car

posted there daily, and the

lids are locked in. At the

end of the day's session,

cars, and others, and out 

of work fathers, pick up 

their kids as if the outside

air was toxic and lethal

and dangerous  -  and

God forbid a kid should

be outside, to walk home

and see something of the

real world. That's what

today's patty-cake world

gives us  -  and we're

supposed to applaud it.

The little-boy adults who 

act as council-people go 

about 'serving' their

constituents : Eight-year

olds; because these are 

the only ones who any 

longer who will believe 

(or is that 'fall for?') their

rank drivel as they continue

to set about destroying

the place they live.

-

I forget when I stopped

believing in Santa Claus,

but I know it wasn't 

yesterday. Yet, if I met old 

Santa tomorrow, and

was asked what I wanted

for Christmas, I'd have a 

ready answer: 'I want to be 

able to give these people a 

slap-down,  and a damned 

good one at that.'

11,287. KAFKA OF THE POOL HALLS

KAFKA OF THE POOL HALLS

The pockets are filled with bumpers

and the corners are squares on edge;

the balls travel in circumlinear paths,

like orbs out chasing heads. This is

the Mystery Pallet Pool Hall, and

you are probably dead. The Magistrate

has no more robes; he's given them all

away. The execution chamber is closed

right now but reopens on Saturday. Two

times ten, the odds are given, marble

ice in the bourbon glasses. The man

comes around to collect these things

and write each name on passes : those

pockets, once filled with bumpers,

recall, are now empty voids of space

into which strange things fall. Your

life-energy may be coming back, but

hey, not in the life again soon. The

castle doors are closing. They're

shutting off the moon.

11,286. IT'S OK

IT'S OK

Sometimes an ant will

crawl on the surface of 

living, just as if to say:

'I am here, it's all OK.'

11,285. I WANT TO BE ON MY WAY

I WANT TO BE ON MY WAY

I'm on my way to your toga party

wearing only a plastic sack and

falling asleep already as I try to

act. No good. Everything hazy.

-

No more memories at all.

Goad me to surrender; yes,

I can give it up. Why elicit

surprise when there's now

no surprise to be had. The

land is tired and beaten, and

I am supine upon the ground.

11, 284. TO CUT A LIGHTBULB IN HALF

TO CUT A 

LIGHTBULB IN HALF

A soft incision across a

lifetime of light? Are we

already in place for these

matters to have their effect?

Unblemished. Things perfect.

-

No enormous amount of time. 

At 7:00am I watch the now.

An orange sky awakens to

renewal. Why? Like a jewel?

Oh must we be leaving so soon?

-

How can I follow your soul to a

memory : A wild conflagration

where the new day's morning

sun ignites a bare horizon?

11,283. OVER

OVER

I heard today that

baseball is officially

over. I guess it is, then,

but who cares, and 

so what?

11,282. RUDIMENTS, pt. 489

RUDIMENTS, pt. 489

(dave van ronk)

Everything diminishes.

I guess that's true. Degrades.

Atrophies. (No trophies

for that). When I was back

in seminary school, and

Jean Paul Sartre refused

his Nobel Prize, I thought

that was one of the most

ennobling things I'd ever

seen. A stupid motion like

that ended up affecting me

greatly. Whatever year that

may have been  -  and it

totally escapes me now  -

things that had meaning

really had 'meaning.' The

world was still high and

tight with its pitches  -

structured well, disciplined.

Now they just throw at

your head and call it

inadvertent  - they can't 

even own up to the crap

they do. I never thought

I'd end up here and now,

saying this, but if one

thinks about it there's

not really much difference

between the travesty of,

say, the 2016 Nobel Prize

for Literature, (Literature,

mind you!), going to Bob

Dylan, and the US Presidency

going to Donald Trump  -

even in light of his twisted,

bastardized and sequestered

opponent. It's all the same

pattern of a junk-weave,

to me, and it's as if they

had, in 1964, given the

prizes to, first, Elvis, and

then, who, Mayor Daley,

in Chicago? Jimmy Hoffa?

That would have never stood.

Now, they can do anything

and no one cares anyway.

I find it all to be an equal

travesty  -  Trump, Dylan,

and the rest. Poor Philip

Roth, dead. Dylan got it

from him. Damn.  I remember

back when, Dave Van Ronk

bitching out Bob Dylan,

number one for stealing

things; number two for

taking whatever he could get

from people in his starting-out

Greenwich Village days,

everything from lodgings,

food, records and books,

including a Van Ronk song

or two, and then turning on

everyone anyway. (Read

'Chronicles.' He even lies

about how he came up

with that title). Anyway,

Van Ronk's biggest beef

(and best comment) was

about how Dylan had

whittled everything

down, watered the

running content of all

things mostly down

to very deliberate,

predictable rhymes,

couplets, junk words,

and the like, AND had

then put it into the

heads of a million kids

with a guitar that they

could do the same thing,

thus dribbling it all down

to random crap. His quote

was, 'Bobby's got a lot

to answer for.' Quite

rightly, son. (To steal

from Donovan).

-

Along Inman Avenue,

when I first received

an Emerson 8 or 12

transistor radio (I forget),

about 1961 maybe, I

remember going outside

with it and listening to

songs, or whatever

they were then, they'd

I'd seldom heard before

-  Sam Cooke, Ben E.

King  -  that Rose In

Spanish Harlem thing.

A lot of that was pretty

mind-boggling : that

In the Jungle, the Mighty

Jungle. In 10 or 12 years

it somehow went from

that (sort of exalted)

version of a conscious

reality, to the ironic and

slap-happy Nobel Prize

demeanor of, instead, the

Mighty Quinn. Forget the

jungle. When Quinn the

Eskimo gets here, all the

jungle gonn'a run to him.

Yeah, now we all say we

live on Exaltation Boulevard

(until they fully legalize

marijuana, when everyone

will then want to be living

on Inhalation Boulevard.

You think times are tough

now, out on the roads, with

phones? Try making a right

onto High Street). 'I found

my thrill, on Blueberry Hill.'

-

One time I met a guy who

told me I should begin,

immediately, writing

everything down  -  dreams,

comments, details and all

the things I notice about

ordinary life. This was no

one special, mind you, no

one who had made any big

deal out of himself. It was

very quizzical, and looking

back on it all now I can

only wonder, for goodness

sake what I must have

looked like to this guy. I

was 15 or 16, a complete

shambles in most aspects.

This guy was a much

different sort of individual,

big job, big house built in

the woods, in Mahwah or

somewhere. He was the

Personnel Manager for

some company; what we

now call, I guess, H. R.

(Human Resources). He

interviewed, hired, did

the follow-ups, and fired

to. He used to tell me

what they looked for in

an applicant that made

him or her worth hiring

to them. Attitudes,

outlook, education,

responses. And, of

course, looks  -  which,

without saying was, I

think, his real message

to me. 'Straighten it all

up, or get off the ship.'

I quickly got off. The

Disembarkation wasn't

so bad. Around him I

always felt so different;

there really was just a

difference of aims and

outlook, but he'd never

fathom the 'other' sort 

of quest I was on  -  

meaningless in the 

Human Resources

run of things. Anyway, 

he had two kids, Drexel 

Univ., the son, as a 

Pharmacist. Etc. All 

those things worked

out. What was weird 

for me, and this will be 

weird, I'd bet, just reading, 

is that he had been my 

mother's beau before

the entry of my father 

onto the scene. Very

strange juxtaposition of

fault lines, and probably

so much hinged on that.

Another time, amidst all

my family people, when 

my mother was in the 

hospital and everyone 

was visiting it seemed 

at once  -  (let me say

here, ahead of time, that

what you're about to hear,

as odd as it may be, is 

perfectly normal for my

family, back then) - an

old girlfriend of sorts

walked in, to visit her 

own mother, upstairs.

All the jibber-jabber 

talk ran to the usual, 

'Hi, how are you, what's 

new, what's up, etc.). 

One of my sisters pipes 

up, turning to my son,

and says, 'Just think, 

Jaime, that could have 

been your mother.' I

guess the assumption 

was, 'yeah, if only...' 

but the end result of 

the bizarre context, 

logic, and conclusion

was akin to running a 

fast automobile into a 

brick wall at 200 mph.

I think, for comedy, had

they a Nobel Prize, that 

would have been worthy.
-
One last, funny but not so
funny thing : at my father's
burial, in the harsh, cold,
December rain, we had to 
slog through a lot of mud 
and nasty muck to get to the 
grave. Raw, wet ground, 
dug-up and rutted. This
personnel director guy ('just
think, he could have been
my dad') was there too. He
fell or stumbled, with the
mud, twisted himself up,
hurt his back to a near
immobility  -  from which 
he never recovered  -  the
entire ordeal  -  and died, not
that long after that, himself.

11,281. WHY IS THERE NOTHING AT ALL

WHY IS THERE 

NOTHING AT ALL

This long bridge, I suppose, arches

the air; graceful gazelle of stepping

to there. We gaze, almost listless,

into that walking distance.

11,280. AS FAR AS ALL THIS GOES

AS FAR AS ALL THIS GOES

(outside the new quick-chek store)

I cannot enter many places. I seem

a stranger now everywhere  -  hard

to look, and hard to see. Either way

it goes, the pestilential aggrandizement

flows. Any odd-man angles are just

harbingers of a seed-time harvest.

-

Here's the major domo, right where

he lives : still buying those scratch-off

tickets and scratching like mad. I'm

wondering if he's using his last penny,

or dime. And where's all that waxy

grime go; in his car, where he sits

hardly trying?

-

The best thing for both him and me,

today, is that the coffee is free. Ole!