11,298. RUDIMENTS, pt 494

RUDIMENTS, pt. 494

(twin donuts)

I had 2 grandfathers, both

lost from prison. Two

different prisons too. I

never met either one,

but just got stories. That

in itself was always a bit

strange, but I lived with it.

I loved the names anyway.

Dannemora, and Sing Sing.

That one was actually in

Ossining, the town, but,

over time and slang, it just

became Sing Sing. It's up

along the Hudson; they both

are. Dannemora is way up,

near Saratoga. In fact, Sing

Sing is where the term 'going

up the river,' for going to

prison came from. It's actually

AT the river, and people

were always escaping or

trying to and dying to; swims

and skiffs and crafts. At least

these places always had

meaning to me. Still names

on a map, but places I had a

a once-living reference to.

Big deal, right. Like it was

Harvard or Princeton or

Yale or something.

-

I never cared much about

the whole 'Grandfather'

thing. People say it's

important and all that,

but I never thought so  -

just more family crap to

get bogged down in. The

only thing grandfathers

ever seem to be doing,

to me, is playing the

Grandfather role; where

they learn that stuff is

beyond me. At bottom,

all that junk is about as

useful as a third arm.

-

I guess it's just me  -

outlier, pain in the butt

to others, cantankerous

old fool. I never cared;

I'm on my own selfish

mission and I admit to

that. Can't serve two

masters, and all that.

The problem comes,

mainly, for me, in the

distraction factor  -  all

things are a distraction,

or become one after a

while. Weddings. Bars.

Funerals. Cook-outs.

You name it, they're

all there. Speaking of

which  -  and I've written

about this in some other

volume, I once really,

truly, did meet an

extra-terrestrial  -  though

you'd never know it.

That was his point too.

It was in a heavily-laden

bar over by the Chelsea

Hotel, due west, down the

end of the street. He was

just sitting there. We

happened to meet when

he called me over. Fact

is, as I also found out,

with him there was no

such thing as 'just happened'

-  all was fore-ordained

and predictable, selected

moments of manufactured

time, beforehand. And those

moments, pretty much,

belonged to him and were

the reason for his being

there, his 'appearing.' He

had me guess at his name.

I had no clue, just said, 'I'll

take a stab. Your name is

Legendary Died?' He said no.

His name was Rairlebourne

Fishbeine, Negotiator For

Extra-Terrestrials. Very odd.

I asked what in the word he

meant by 'manufactured time?'

(You may think this is all

fictitious, but it's true; and

the proximity of the Chelsea

Hotel to this story had nothing

to do with what occurred.

I don't think. It, in itself,

was always filled with what

are, perhaps, called 'Weird'

characters. By others, not

me. Everyone's got their

story; some stories are just

far better than others, that's

all). We were drinking beers.

an occasional small bourbon

too; he seemed to know the

waitress girl, or at least had

been extended some sort of

open tab. But he kept paying

(this too was weird) from

money on the table, but it

never diminished any the

entire two hours we sat. I

say two hours, but that's

a guess, in that when I'd

asked about manufactured

time he simply put a finger

to his lips, straight up, and

said 'mention it no more, this

time will not exist. It's a 

blip.' Well, what he went 

on to explain was that the

'time' effect, what we call 

it, was a flat plane of

comprehension (prideful

human thinking) into 

which he was able to cut, 

with a 'knot,' a 'blip,' a

'burr,' for the duration

of his needed purpose.

Something like a 'guardian 

angel,' was my takeaway

from it. There were many

'plants' on Earth, in earth-life,
(he meant 'people' I realized),

and they must remain secret

and unrecognized, to effect

things, but every so often

one of them 'blows cover'

in some way and by some

errant behavior, and must 

be told and disappeared.'

Which was his role. I never

knew what he meant by

'Negotiator' but that was the

word he used. Interceder?

Taker-Away?' I never knew.

-

He dismissed me as quickly

then as he had called me over.

A few little tidbits left in my

head; the money all still in

place. And then not. Nor him.

All gone in an instant. I go

back there, passing it now 

and then, just to see; it's

still there, as a place, but

all different, made modern,

the wood all taken away and

replaced with bright white

facings, probably plastics;

the quaint old dispensing 

window that once faced 

the street, and had a sitting

room, alcove kind of place,

the large, soft seats, all gone

Nearby too, now, is a newer

donut place and, across 

from it some multi-screen

move palace showing all the

usual crap. I guess that's

just the way things go.

-

Why I should know this 

stuff, and have been the 

one to have this information

imparted to me, getting

called over like that, I don't

know. It never really effected

anything, I don't think. It

all comes back to me, in

snatches, here and there,

sometimes, a little of this,

a little of that, but often I

swear too that it's different 

each time. Sometimes it 

seems to take a really 

long  time, with not much 

information, and other 

times it seems quite short 

but loaded to the gills with

info. Go figure.

-

I was always intrigued by

the difference, the writerly

difference, if any, by the

words 'digression' and

'discursive.' And I always

liked that too. This here

Rarleighbourne guy, he

seemed like a digression 

to me, even now, as I write

about him  - and I written

about him before, but I 

always stop because it just

begins getting too 'fantastical'

and no one will believe me,

and then you just wind up

losing your reader, and they

get angry and take affront;

so, yeah, I mostly stay away 

from it. But discursive writing

is great  -  you can just go

on and then just sail away 

with some other idea as it

arises or occurs, make a

nice digression of it all

and bring in lots of other 

stuff. Like this Fishbeine

guy (and where'd he ever

get that name from? Jewish?

German? What did he know

about any of that)  -  he was

dressed (this was about 1980)

in a tawdry fashion of, say, a

1950's business attire. But

rather ill-fitting, too loose,

and  -  in some unfathomable

way  -  just wrong or plainly

incorrect. So, who dressed him,

and from where? And why in

that manner? How'd he get

there? What did he do with

his time? Why was he in that 

ratty, old leftover tavern? (I

do have a photo of the place, 

both old, and new, from outside

somewhere; hoping to find).

And anyway, where is he now,

and who the hell did he think 

he was, pulling that stunt?

-

I think either one of my

Grandfathers would have

just killed him, then and 

there, Right outside, probably,

in front of Twin Donuts. They
were going to prison anyway.

11,297. CHRISTMAS

CHRISTMAS

You send me nutmeg and

I send you fire. You send

me sated when I wished for

desire. What kind of crummy

exchange of gifts is that?

11,296. HOW I'M JUST WAITING

HOW I'M JUST WAITING

And with a ho-hum at that. I tire,

defenseless as a rabbit that has lost

its speed. Perhaps I yawn, also, too

open-mouthed for any polite company.

How does it go that the 'man with

money' has the life? I'd never know.

-

Poverty plays tricks with density.

Making everything a solid, brick wall.

Unable to pass through, unable to enter.

-

I want to fly somewhere, far away,

but I haven't the money to bark or say,

where, when, how. I want to publish

five thousand fresh pages, bound 

and collected to make my name.

But I've got no denari to play that

game. How I'm just waiting:

-

This life is so plain.

11,295. FORTHRIGHT, HUNGRY, AND TIRED

FORTHRIGHT, HUNGRY, 

AND TIRED

The skinny man took a hiatus, as

outside the Carmen Hotel they were

fixing a light. Some car had hit the

autopole and toppled the fixture over,

as it fell on a red sedan parked close-by

the delivery entrance. Too bad all around,

but the tow was gone, the red-car had been

taken away, and the work-crew was then

replacing the fixture entire. Base, pole, 

lamps and signs. Across the street, near 

the building which house 'Valerie Lingerie' 

and 'Burnham's Old Steak House, the

apartment rooms about 'Kim Nails' were

getting re-done, and their crew in turn,

with a 1pm break or a lunch, I guessed,

was dining on sandwiches and take-out

while leaning, as they sat, with their

backs to the building. Were they farmers,

I figured, they'd be watching their cows; as

it was, they were watching the men who

were changing the lamps...and you've 

heard all that before.

11,294. HOW THIS RAINBOW HAS A GUTTER

HOW THIS RAINBOW 

HAS A GUTTER

Why are you leaving now? Your

name was just announced and all the

fools are clapping. Genuine affection

for the lamplight of a loon by a hall-full

of people who arrived too soon. I see

that every place-mat has ketchup and

pepper and salt. I guess they'll be serving 

their cheap food with the condiments again. 

Watch out for for the pickle tray; they're sour,

not dill. Polish brine, in deep barrels of swill.

11,293. RUDIMENTS, pt. 493

RUDIMENTS, pt. 493

Envelope Fish

The belly of the beast,

the dark side, the doors

of Hell, any or all of those

hackneyed phrases could

have fit my time. I don't

remember sleeping,

though I remember

stumbling up  - those

half-lights of morning

when you try to revitalize

your previous state and

get something going.

It's said that New York

City never sleeps  -  it

does, but it does so in

such a topsy-turvy manner

that at any time there are

probably, and always, more

people awake and active

than sleeping and quiet.

Americana? Not there.

Think of a Norman

Rockwell painting in

reverse  -  no one sitting

still, the kid in the barber

chair blurred and squirming

while the barber is searching

for the kid's Adam's Apple

with a  blunted razor, so as
to make it hurt even more.

Everything's a blur.

-

I invented 'envelope fish'

one day in a half-dream.

One of those long drawn-out

moments in the pebbly fog

between waking and sleep,

when you maybe think you're

up but aren't; when the small

merged roads in your brain

haven't yet separated again

to make the differences

needed for real life,

awake and more precise;

when pieces and fragments

of dream still roil the fog

of reality you're trying to

stumble through to get back

in, or out, of whatever this

clammy world is. A shoelace

or a faucet is never a shoelace

or a faucet until it suddenly

reminds you of the shoelace

or faucet you may have just

been dreaming about, where

the shoe was a boat on the

river to Hades, and the faucet

dripped little people who

each knew your name and

were looking for Larry who

just happened to also be you,

but you were tied by that

shoelace to the boat which

was really just a snail clinging

to the side of a bottle from

which you couldn't see out.

-

That's 'envelope fish' for

you : one thing within

another within another;

something like those old

Russian boxes but better

because of the reality of

each fish that you pull up

containing another squirming

fish which contains another,

endlessly and perfectly

sleeved within each. Packed

within each, like something

in an envelope. That's the

sort of stuff, I realized too, 

that artists and writers, and, 

yes, movies and junk, have 

always been trading on. An

alternate reality of things, so 

to speak. You pull up that 

one, uncertain and fighting, 

line, and one reality at a 

time you soon have an 

entire other menagerie 

of universes to deal with,

each somehow containing

another, also endlessly, and

and yet each apart as well. 

Back in 1967, the 'uni' of the

the word 'universe' perplexed

me. Now, physicists say

'multiverses' and that all

makes more sense. Or, as

the phone company used

to say, 'We're all connected?'

I wonder what they were

onto, or on.

-

Back in the seminary days,

they kept having sing-alongs 

and white-boy hootenanies. 

They were held outdoors, on

the Spring-evening quadrant

lawn. No one knew a damned

thing about what they were

singing of  -  old slave and

Negro field songs, spirituals

and chants of the oppressed.

The miseries of a whole other

race, and here were 300 white

boy privileged fools, chasing

for the Lord, thinking they

were doing something good 

by sing-along goofs with

guitars and shout-and- 

response-choruses. In 1964,

believe me, it was the craziest 

thing you'd ever see, but, in 

their earnestness, each of these

bejeweled guys were intent

on 'fishing'   -   throwing

their lines out to 'somewhere'

they didn't even know, and 

pulling it back in with a 

hundred other ideas and 

references to follow up on.
('Throw down your nets and
follow me; I will make you
you fishers of men...').

Nearly four years later, the

end of 1967, there was I,

throwing again another line

out  - into the mysterious

inner darkness of an immigrant

island I'd only (maybe) 

imagined, or visualized.

There weren't even any of

my own words to interject,

except for maybe an 

occasional exclamation 

of whatever raw verbal

persuasion filtered up. 

All things were an equal 

in wonder and awe. I used

to take Eighth Street, almost

religiously, from the Studio 

School east, to cross Fifth

and then Broadway, and then,

passing the old District 65

Headquarters building : burly,

gruff truckers and freight

handlers, heaving and hauling,

with a union hall ethos upstairs

at all times. Sometimes I'd

just stop in place and watch.

It was all awesome to me; no

real connection except from 

the heart. I loved watching

these truck-terminal workers;

noting their attire, how they

stood, how they reacted to

each other, the people passing

by (it was a real crossroads).

East to Astor Place, Cooper 

Union, past the Colonnades. 

All I could ever do was 

visualize the theater riots 

that had taken place there, 

because of some British

actor, not an American,

headlining some Shakespeare

play at Astor; the Draft Riots,

people being burned out, killed,

lynched, the storm and volatility

of an entire other time in our

national life, now so blandly,

distantly forgotten about.

'People were truly idiots,'

I'd think to myself, crossing

over onto St. Marks Place.
Along with seminary Latin,
from Ovid : 'Bene vixit qui
bene latuit.' He lived well
who hid well.
-

('Oh to be, on Sugar Mountain....

with the barkers and the
colored balloons.')...

11,292. FUENTES POT

FUENTES POT

I give my dog most anything:

probably more than I do for humans.

She takes whichever room she wants,

flop down, roll over, beg. Two legs

left standing, four while she sleeps,

a run outside, barking at peeps.

11,291. RUDIMENTS, pt. 492

RUDIMENTS, pt. 492
(nightwood)
You know how, sooner or

later, people fit the space you

have made for them? It's sort

of a personal, mental image

thing and you make it as they

fit it. It's all quite creative and

bears little relationship to

reality, yet that's how life

ends up getting lived. In

this manner, I could probably

sit here and tell you about

someone for a long time, and

by the end of that my image

produced, of whomever that

person is, could have absolutely

no resemblance to the version

of that person you know. Or

think to know. Life is like

that, and it allows us to be as

creative as we choose with

our versions of others  -

which is how we all get

by. It's like voting, sort of.

You vote for the 'image' of

that person you're voting

for (your image of them),

and you really know little

else about them. Faith?

Hope? Forget Charity.

-

509 e. 11th, from the

previous chapter  -  now

THAT was a mental

image. Once the initial

reverb wore off, of me

having a place, the 'renter's

remorse' set in : What the

heck did I do that for? Why

there? How's it all going to

work. Remember, I had, for

more than a month, been

living either in Tompkins

Square Park  - with about

100 other out-of-time hippies

in training, sleeping on

the bare grass with only my

bongo drums to be claimed

were I to die, or, if not there,

atop the marquee of the 2nd

Avenue Theater  -  the old

Jewish Vaudeville palace  -

from Andy Bonomo's 2nd

floor window, which leveled

out to the top of the marque

as a sort of sunning porch.

(Andy's not around, so I can

tell you it was useful for other

things too. Marquee Moon,

blah, blah, love in the open

air). There were seriously

detrimental people all around

me  -  Spanish and Black

mostly. I remained wary of

just about everything. Even

the errant, 'come-on-over-here'

girls spelled trouble and not

much else, because there'd

always be some idiot around

working with her to conk

you on the noggin' (Before

you were done) and run

off with whatever you may

have 'claimed' to have had.

Life was tough, and so too

could hunger be. Whoever

said 'when you ain't got

nothin', you got nothing to

lose,' had not a clue what

was talking about, No-bell

Prize or not; there's always

plenty to lose, jerk.

-

I lived a slow and normal

existence there; for about

four minutes. The rest of it

all was pure anarchy dripping

from ceilings and faucets.

Above me, upstairs (I've

already written about them

way back) lived Billie Joe

and Holly, as spectacularly

vivid and visual hippies

from, somewhere. Maybe

it was Texas, maybe it was

just all play-act. A lot of it

was; over-all. Holly was a

beauty, off-limits to me, but

man could I lust. Billie Joe

skimmed the county limits

of wise-ass, but he was

manageable. Potheads

both, through and through.

Back when that meant

something dark and evil.

Now, you can drive right

up to the place in Avenel,

on Route One, and, with

any decent excuse and

some faux paperwork,

they'll dispense it to you,

and say thanks too! Who

says the hippie years

changed nothing? Like

the firehouse says, 

'Buy Local.'

-

You see, if you work at

it long enough and steadily,

you can do anything, Good,

or bad, and that's the problem.

Exposure means nothing,

because 'you' are already

in people's brains. Whether

you're a manageable drunk,

('Hey, John, how are you?')

or a raging fool (oh, forget

it) everything is ineffectual

past a certain point. You're

living on gas; the gas of what

you are, and most people,

when you come right down

to it, are nothing at all  -

or at least in an inverse

proportion to what they

may think of themselves.

That goes for me too, but

at least I'll admit it. These

little creeps who walk about

in their suits and uniforms

think nothing of debasing

others. And I don't mean

in 'words,' I mean in the

dumb-ass ways that politics

and 'culture' (no such thing,

it's all tribal totemics) screw

everything up for everyone

else.

-

Just about the time I was

(those four minutes), giving 

up, thinking maybe I was

better off back atop that 

marquee, Andy was, in

turn thinking of giving up

that marquee. He asked

if I'd have any qualms 

about letting him in, and 

he'd take care of the rent.

I said sure  -  since I really

wasn't there that much, the

Studio School being but

a few blocks away, taking

most of my time, and the 

rest of the city being my open

search area and laboratory.

He wanted to take care of

it all, and I was thus relieved

of that entire money burden

aspect of rent, etc. Cool,

both the good and the bad 

of it were OK with me. I 

knew the good. The bad 

came soon after. Andy's

little drug empire was a bit

larger than I'd expected, a

veritable Rite-Aid before

it's time; or Drug-Fair

even moreso. In quick

time his center of 

operations had shifted. 

509 at your service. I put

up with most all of it,

sleeping where I could;

I seem to remember a

flat-old mattress next to 

a badly lit, green wall, on

which location the word

'window' had never been 

pronounced. The 'bathroom'

was 12 feet off, and often

kept busy by any of

Andy's amorous helpers.

It all got really stupid

sometimes; stumbling

over one or another naked

body, usually female, in

a rug or deep under a 

blanket (Winter. I'm not 

sure the words 'any real

heat in here?' had ever

been uttered; but, more

savings. Iceboxes were

expensive). It all went on;

at first.

-

Hippies, as I saw it, never

had any attraction to alcohol.

Whatever they did, they did

with their own materials and

achieved mostly that same, 

zoned-eye, dazed, look by that.

Drinkers, (at least in 1967), 

were mostly surly blacks guys

in the park, or Puerto Rican

locals from like 6th Street

and Ave. B and C, who 

were so down on things 

that they'd cut you for 

their own form of drunk 

fun, however it was said in

Spanish, back then, I forget.

You had to be on your guard.

Skinny hippie kids, guys,

were fair game. Back dudes,

benched over, distended and

drunk, would suddenly awaken

from a stupor at the scent of

a female strolling by, usually,

that park Summer, with

some part of the anatomy

hanging out or trying to.

Lots of things caused instant

trouble, drunk conflict, and

even the airiest of hippies

  -  of which there were 

curiously leveled varieties

and intensities; some turned

out to be just covers for the

usual debauched thug  -  

who would then fight back,

making it all worse. Cops never

did anything; most of these

girls anyway were probably

their runaway daughters.

There was a racial torrent

too, beneath everything. Old 

white men were the most lost

and often most cantankerous.

There's really nothing more

stupid or annoying then some

garbled old geezer, stinking

of something, sloppy in clothes

and habit, demanding then

that you listen to his drivel,

life story, ideas, or personal

history. Space-eyes, rubber

neck, and no piss control

at all.

-

These things don't just come

to be  -  they're all part of the

life-patterns that people have

made. Like a crazy politican,

on the final day before the

election, thinking he can sway

the whole thing with one, last

final, campaign appearance,

somewhere  -  never realizing

that he can only BE in one 

place, and that the rest of 

what he is has already been 

disseminated, before him, 

and around, everywhere

else where he is NOT. 

'Your die is cast, Carlos.

You ain't gonna' change

a thing' : you're the reason

for everything, but the

cause of nothing? You

are the few that the many

have lied about?