11,584. THE WOBBLIES

THE WOBBLIES

So we stayed late and mingled,

a bunch of dumb drinks way after

work. So dark and drunk got I to be.

I couldn't walk home; hell, I couldn't

even see. One thing led to another, 

and it was you and me. 

-

Talk and chatter, all that 

politics and  'opinionation'  

-  that was my new word for the 

night,  remember? Everybody all 

night had  something  to say. 

Oh man, some of that stuff

I really hate; like when that 

guy said (he was in his cups 

already), 'Opinions are like 

assholes, everybody's got one.

11,583. LEGERDEMAIN

LEGERDEMAIN

And here I always thought it had

something to do with Ferdinand 

Leger, how art makes a case for its

own tricky self  -  or something of

that nature. Now I see it's just a

card-shark's sleight-of-hand

deception : the way a liar lies;

the way a magician coaxes a

fanciful rabbit from a more

fanciful hat. And yet the 

crowd claps; what do you

think of that?

11,582. I CAN'T MAKE IT FRIDAY

I CAN'T MAKE IT FRIDAY

No matter what I do, it cannot fit;

so you go on without me. It's come

back to me now, anyway, Zaroff, that

you want to be known as the father

of the zoom lens. It can work; go and

have the title if it's good for you.

It's a close fit, but I'll never tell.

-

Maybe that's the magic of this

fabled moment : 'the King, in his

counting house, counting all his

money...' however the rest of that

yarn goes. Parlor games, charades,

and spin the bottle. Here. from the

17th floor, I see nothing is as it is.

-

I've got a special brush here now, one

I use for hats  -  I bought it a few weeks

ago, not knowing for sure what they

meant by saying that. I'm certain the

brush doesn't know what it's brushing.

11,581. HAVE A KING WITH THE RAZORBACK

HAVE A KING WITH 

THE RAZORBACK

And don't go forestalling anything; Jesus

is not the light in this crowd. The denizens

of such a darkness here never penetrate

illumination, and there are crowds of Rutgers

ignorants out walking these streets : from

Suydam to George and Franklin to French

they stumble. One bar posts another, and

they're all keen to drink alike at Old Queen's.

The point of this story was to be about the

mystery of books, and private spaces, and

frat-house punks and societies that souse.

Ladies beware I say you are not safe anywhere.

The charnel house has a bib worn openly;

and the circumspect invaders arrive on foot.

11,580. RUDIMENTS, pt. 612

RUDIMENTS, pt. 612

(lost and found landscape)

I just go on writing sometimes in

the same manner I go on thinking.

Neither of them in the long run

get me anything but the satisfaction

of knowing I've at least put some

idea of my thought processes down.

It's not like I'm weaving fiction  -

I can't just continually add to the

stories and come up with new

things whole hog. And besides,

I'm too much of the suspicious type

to not be able to garner from any

experience I've had some glimmer

of conspiracy or manipulation

by others behind most everything.
It's easy to know a lot of things;
it's more difficult to know what they

mean. All things exist; they just 

don't always have words to go

with them. And, from that, I can

always come up with a tale. Like 
William Randolph Hearst said 
to artist Frederic Remington  -  
'You furnish the pictures; 
I'll furnish the war.'

-

Like currently; this crummy

little town I now live in  -  by

whatever name you want to call

it  - it can be Woodbridge, I guess,

or it can be 'Avenel,' I suppose,

though that's really just a section,

and is spoon-fed everything

from the bandits in Woodbridge  -

they put out a notice, back in

January, (proposals due on

Feb. 4th) for a need and a call

for proposals for a 'mural'

in what they're purporting to

have as an 'Arts Center'  -  it's

really, already, just a playhouse

and kiddie romp room for the

sorts of feel-good and glitter

crap that passes now for gay,

intellectualized, social probity.

I don't care about any of that, and

I'll never see it  -  the folks around

here don't really deserve anything

better than glitter-wrapped shit

anyway; and they'll willingly

gobble this up too.

-

So, anyway, I submitted my own

proposal and rendering, and even

wrote the little synopsis they wanted

telling about the 'meaning' of my

design, how and if it connected to

the town and local concerns, etc.

Like I'm writing to idiots, you

know, so I walked carefully. I

even sent the Mayor a six-pack.

Not really, but in case they wanted

comedy I gave them that too. The

problems abounded  -  mainly in

the process and the nomenclature

they used. Art and merit and

intelligence require certain base

levels of understanding of the

idea of what you're stepping into.

These folks just don't have that

at all. But, I followed process

and began waiting. The initial

'announcement' date was set for

Feb. 11. That date came and

went. The intermediary for all

this was the Barron Arts Center.

(They themselves and the Cultural

and Heritage Commission, or

Arts Council, already soak up

the tax dollars they need and

are supposed to be the reckoning

place for Arts and Culture in

the town  -  in this case they're

being superseded (by further

tax-take and personnel hiring)

by this new, rogue, Avenel-based

disgust still being built.). I had

contact with them and asked why

they were letting themselves get

run over like that and how and

why they had taken on the role

of  'Intermediary' for this process.

(She claimed to be nothing more

than a message-bearer to the

decision people in town-hall

who were overseeing all this).

I also told her that I thought

it was a sham and that before

this had even begun they knew

what their decision would be.

This was just a way of lining

up the shots (not a booze joke,

Mr. Mayor). Further, there were

stipulations in the proposal

that I couldn't figure out, and

I had asked for clarification, and

got none, ever. A few things: After

they were to award the contract

on Feb 11 (never happened) they

gave about 18 days for the 'mural'

to be completed. I said that wasn't

much time, especially as they

themselves had not honored the

Feb. 11th date. I asked if and

what any pushback would be on

the date. (It's now March 3 today).

['Installation of Work : Feb 12

to March 1, 2019']. Nice work,

Picasso, if you can get it.

-

Then it states that the 'mural'

 is not to be painted on their wall,

but on some other art-surface to

be attached to the wall. 15 feet,

by 11.5 feet. It also had to be

'created from the floor level up.'

That too confused me and I asked

for clarification  -  why from the

bottom up? Can it be sectionalized

and put together, in place, there?

Other questions as well. In any

case nothing happened.

-

I see it all, already, as a disguise

for taxpayer abuse. (They also

wanted a cost-estimate for the

art. I at first put $2100, and then

mentioned the variables that would

be contingent on their answers  -

to wit, how to build and construct,

cost of wood, etc.). The town already

has a painted underpass of some

6th grade art that leads right up to

this Arts place. And there's the

train station there too, which they've

already claimed for themselves. So,

my submitted proposal-art, and as

I explained it, touched on references

subliminal to both train and rail

traffic, and the sort of floating,

ideal, bumptious art, already

present at the underpass and

fitting the thematics of the town.

The entire thing was, more or less,

like a dry-hole  -  in that the presence

for satisfaction was there, but it

would sure need help. To date,

nothing has been forthcoming.

-

Now, you may say, why are you so

foul? How can you approach this

is such a fashion? I will tell you,

dear reader, and any Avenel

Hellions who may be reading this.

I draw from a long tradition of,

in this case, activist and in your

face art, running the gamut of

20th century, let's say, art history.

Futurism, Dada, Fauve (these are

all art movements of the past);

Fantasy, play, rhetorical, color,

even, in some respect, Pop.

All of these are to meet the eye

at the eye's level of context  -

transfusing the 'moment' of being

within that 'lobby' of the Arts Center

and coming face to face with 'Art'

at some remove from what's ever

expected, or approved, or comforting.

-

This is why Municipal jackasses

should never be involved in such

endeavors, nor should tax dollars

be thrown around as relentlessly as

they are no being thrown around

at this location. This is all a travesty

and a joke, and I, in my proposal,

intended to head it off,  face-front,

and address it. Of late, there's a

billboard at Amboy Ave and High

Street, I guess it is, atop some

cabinet storefront, near where

Mauro Motors used to be, and it

advertises now the town-run 

day care services available at what

used to be the Woodbridge Sports 

Club, which the town recently 

purchased, direct from the family

that had owned it for many years, 

to run as a commercial enterprise,

this day care segment being part

of it, I guess. When a business is

run as an independent business, if

they consistently do not make 

money they close up. It occurs 

to me that here, in this case, and

in others taking root now, if these

'businesses' do not make grade, 

they'll just be kept going, as loss

and debt operations, and supported 

by tax dollars. And also represent

a great pipeline, in the meantime,

for laundering money, misusing 

costs, and handing out patronage

jobs. Who in their right mind anyway

would turn their child over to the

town to be fostered out like that?

What's going on anyway? Now

the town quacks are dealing both

in 'Art' and 'Children' and failing

miserable at both. Sounds like

abuse to me.
-
The foundation of Governance is
supposed to be in governing. Somehow 
in this town, and in this La Brea Tar
Pit of lost dollars that it has here
created, its interests have swung
to business as venture, with no
accounting for costs of continuation,
nor any audited reporting on the
progress of its profit versus loss
potential. Something is fouly amiss,
when they can't even run a cheesy
mural project yet they make
claim for your kids, alcohol,
gay theater, and a restaurant.
For starters. And then back
that up by the installation of
mutes as yes-men behind
the scenes. (12 f'n years is
12 years enough).

11,579. CONTAGION

CONTAGION

Being stupid is so very easy :

take the assumptions you make

and double them twice. Leaves

on the trees? They'll fall in Autumn.

Nature's on automatic and nothing's

to be done about that. The snow falls

from the sky. Get rid of it quickly.

-

We broom-hide the face of Truth,

even as it stares at us, back, from

the floor we sweep. You are the 

moment you are living in, and

that's it. No more. No less.

11,578. RUDIMENTS, pt. 611

RUDIMENTS, pt. 611

(I'd rather starve)

The only diet I ever had was

poverty. It concentrates the

mind. I'm not sure what

people do any more, but

back then you'd still see a

lot, or enough, of working

people with their little brown

bags of lunch. Nowadays

I see portly construction

worker guys with wheeled

suitcases of lunch. Outside

Grace Church, on a Summer

day not so long back, there

was a long row of some 15

construction guys, mostly

all Hispanic or Mexican

these days, all gorging on

the contents of plastic take

out flip trays loaded with

tons of food. Probably an

18 dollar NYC lunch, I'd

guess. I'm still amazed

how people do it. I skip

all that and just do without

eating anything until the

usual nightfall meal, once

a day. It's so long engrained

in my system that I don't

even think about it. But,

anyway, back in the real

days of subsistence, I got

by on 25 cent corn muffns

and 10 cent coffee. A 35

cent knish was like eating

at the Ritz. There used to be

a knish place on 8th Street,

not too far from the Studio

School. And then one day

I realized they throw some

of that stuff out at night;

still usable, and good, in

my book. I beat the freshness

date by beating the freshness

date!

-

Just the same way I used to wonder

'What is hunger?' I wondered too

What is pain? And why?' Those

were some of the telegraphic

moments of life that I could

never figure out. I'd see lots of

pain on the streets  - people in

pain, grimacing, sores, twisted

legs, breathing problems, and

the associated filth and grime

that went with the habits of the

booze and cigarettes. Thunderbird

liquor; Night Train Express. And

these crazy you-know-whats would

be in suits and ties, like they had

not changed since 1948. It was

fairly incredible how I could read

the pain in their faces by the

freeze-time of their clothing.

I guess 'pain' is meant to be a

symbol of something, otherwise 

why would it have been built

into our systems? Is it to be

telling us something? Something

we don't already know? Pain

is, then, a means of bringing

an aberration to our attention?

That seems pretty odd. Like in

the Lord's Prayer, where it says

'Thy will be done.' I never got 

that  -  nor, I'm sure, would any

of those pure schmucks sucking

it up around the 12th street fire

barrel. If the idea is that 'God's

will' be done, than where's the

truthfulness to all that other

stuff that says God made us and

gave us 'Free Will' so that the

determination of our own

Salvation is up to us, or not.

There is no plan; free will is 

what makes us human. Excuse 

me? I thought someone just

asked that 'God's will be done.'

In fact, a whole sorry lot of

people, in fact, ask that, daily.

It all sure got confusing and

random for me. I couldn't hardly

take it any more. 

-

The men around the fire-barrels,

in the late chills of Autumn  -

man, they were a sorry bunch.

Half of them were dead by

Winter's end, I'm sure, and the

other half, in March, would

come stumbling out of their

shelters and Bowery homeless

hotels, blinking at the daylight

-  like a kid coming out of a

movie after three hours in

the dark. It used to be called

a stupor, but now, like so

many other things, it's a

situation and a word that's

 just fallen out of use and

no one even knows what

is meant by it. This grime

infested kingdom of snark

now is run by talented geeks :

they get around a lot of

things simply by avoidance.

-

There's a cemetery over at

1st Street, actually it's First

and 1st. The Avenue and the

street converge there. Pretty

weird. It's locked and under

key, and there's some funeral

home from the old days there

too, with its entrance on the

avenue. Some old Italian name,

from when they claimed the

area. That's all gone now.

Anyway, Allen Ginsberg used

to have an apartment there,

and it looked out over this.

The cemetery's real early-NY

old, and right at the street

entry (1st street) the a couple

of graves of the Fish family.

The Fish name was a big deal

in the early days of NYC, and

even late into the 1970's there

was, and maybe still is, some

Hamilton Fish, Jr. guy in local

metropolitan politics. Anyway,

the big entryway memorial grave

and stone, like the first thing you

see, is of a guy named 'Preserved'

Fish. (That's pronounced old-style, 
with the heavy emphasis on the
ED; in a sort of old Englush 
fashion). That name cracks me

up each time I see it; such an

intriguing name (and I guess,

yeah, he's embalmed?).

-

A lot of funny things have

happened to me over the

course of a life. They were

always unique  -  some were

simple, and some complex;

not that I ever judged or made

any approach to them in that

manner. I just usually went

along and let things run their

course  -  maybe a lazy man's

way of doing things, but then,

if so, that's what I was. And,

heck, besides, I never really

cared. One time, back abut 1990

maybe, I got a phone call at

work, from a guy I knew at

Edison Harley Davidson, back

when it was still on Route One

down towards the New Brunswick

bridge. He asked if I wanted to

come next Weds. to the New

Brunswick Hilton to see Sean

Landeta? I said sure. It got me

a big, free lunch and some drinks,

and it was all on someone else.

The problem was, who the hell

is Sean Landeta? I just pretended

I'd known, figuring, from a

motorcycle perspective that

he was probably some racer or

motorcycle designer I'd know

about eventually. So I took the

time off from work, and went.

I get there, to a room full of

Dads and young sons, all

active and happy. There was

food everywhere, tables of it  -

I learned the Hilton doesn't

scrimp on such things  -  little

sandwiches, dips, soups, cakes,

all sorts of things. And drinks

too. I wondered, hmmm, who

is this guy? Turned out, he was

a football player, a field goal

kicker, of some note, for the

New York Giants. That explained

immediately the Dads and kids

with shirts and Jerseys, and

helmets, to be signed. I should

have known; two hours of a

football jock going onto a bunch

of kids about his career and

youth and childhood and habits.

Football! Arghh! But, I stayed.

(I asked later what was the deal,

and the guy who called me, and

attended by the way, told me they

get comp'd tickets all the time for

things like this, at the dealership,

and, no matter what, they were

always good for food and beer

anyway). I told him next the

time Victoria's Secret called,

ring me up for that instead.
Joking, of course. 

-

This football guy, whatever his

merits may have been, was a

big bore  -  but at least he could

talk OK and hold a crowd. You 

know how it is with kids  -  really

dumb, easy questions just already

begging for obvious answers, and

the large kid-smile then that the

questioner puts on his face. The

answers were fairly pathetic.

This guy was telling the kids

then (talk about simple!) how

he'd mostly spent his entire

life  -  each day, after school,

all Summer, blah, blah (with

of course a plug thrown in for

staying in school, doing all your

lessons and homework first,

etc.), kicking a football in

simulated field-goal situations,

over and over, ten or twelve

footballs at a time, in a row,

and then traipsing across the

field to kick them all back 

again to the other end. I got

tired, and bored, just listening.

I was thinking, Jeepers, tell the

kids to read the Odyssey, or,

heck, anything, get out of that

rut, find a girlfriend, beat up

your neighbor's dog...anything!

Yes, and now I know you're

probably sitting there saying,

'Hey, he got the 2.8 million

a year for kicking a football

maybe 15 minutes week in

game time, while you're writing

here about being hungry. Idiot.'

And, yeah, I accept, and probably

understand too. But still, I

think I'd rather starve.

-

I have found that there are 

a great number of great men, 

and they all amount to nothing 

at all. The rafters are piled high

with reputations. Some are

'reputed' to have a reputation.

Others are mere repudiation.

-

I have a taste for the discursive,

which means I run on. It's not

directionless, though it may 

seem so, some. It's more 

indirect, a passage through 

some hazardous strait before 

the ship finally comes in.

Pretty simple, I'd say. Not

complicated at all.

11,577. DESTINY AND FATE ENTWINED

DESTINY AND FAITH ENTWINED

And what shall I do about any

of that? Cry on again? How did

I get stuck in such a miserable

suit, I want to know? Who was

this tailor, who fitted me so

poorly, who stitched in error 

all these lousy alterations? I

stood still before the mirror,

though the mirror kept me

moving around while the man

with the chalk was just slashing

at will  -  marks here, and other

marks there. My best approach,

I figured then, was silence? Oh

but only now, I want to scream!