13,099. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,061

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,061

('Carthage must be destroyed')

In one of those 'this is because I

say it moments,' I was a Roman

Centurian. But, a contrarian

centurion never went far in

the Roman legions, and I was

slain for my insubordination:

Leading a revolt of legion

stable-hands from the side

of the Landowne March. One

day I awoke, remembering all

that, and it took me right over

to the shell-stalls in the old

flea market stands. I knew I

was searching for something,

something internal that was

becoming pressing, but I

knew not what it was. It's

like that when one is 'driven.'

And I was driven  -  but once

that drives breaks out of its

control parameter, most of the

effort bleeds away into a sort

of no-results nothingness. in

fact, when you come right down

to it, everything is nothingness,

but the idea of the schools and

colleges is to take that sense

of nothing and at least stack

it andhone the point of it, so

as to do 'something' by which

the established societal order

bestows praise or advancement

or money or position. Which,

in all essence, is the entire point

of most people's lives. I never

had that final clink, and would

just wander away.

-

In 1972, up in Pennsylvania, each

of the people I'd meet, and farmers

and such I'd work with, were always

headfast into their tasks. As far

as occupations go, you need to

remember that 'farming' entails

the sort of year-round, 24/7 sort

of work upon which animal lives

depend,and livelihoods depend,

as well. A large farm could have

6 farmhands to assist. It didn't

happen often that there were 6,

but you'd often see farmhands'

homes, in some proximity to the

main house, or not. Sometimes

off to the side, or around the next

dirt road even. Or the obligatory

trailer, somewhere near. The

farmers had, after time, sons,

and daughters too, who, by the

time of 12 or 13 years old, were

as helpful as any other hired

farmhand. It was a hard deal.

with the main farm, or the

business of the farm, and real

estate, usually going with the

first-born son. Sometimes then,

the younger brother or brothers

became farmhands, with

shared property, or with a

home being built for them,

somewhere on the old family-land.

Often enough, some sort of a

dissension was present, by the

rank distribution of the family

possessions and land. But, it

seemed, people got over it, except

in a few more wicked cases. Those

left, the working brothers, were,

as I noted before, always very

head-into with their work and

efforts. There was't much frivolity

to the sort of constant working anf

reworking that farmwork is. Or

was  -  I don't really know what

the level of farm-toil is any longer,

with new mechanization, climate

controlled and air conditioned

tractor cabs, etc., let alone all

the newer efforts of computerization.

I'd figure now that a lot of must be

present  -  for milk and cooling

and temperatures and storage

inputs and dating, for things like

silage-aging, freshness and use.

Maybe they just sit back and press

buttons, though I doubt it.

-

Most of the time a farmer was, or

tried to be, his own blacksmith,

his own laborer, and even his

own veterinarian, to a degree. It

was economics if nothing else.

The manner by which they did it  -

I noticed  -  was merely through

observation. When something

happened, the first time (most

things repeat), the vet would be

called and the farmer would

watch carefully the process;

after which, if something of the

same recurred, he'd follow the

base procedure he'd witnessed,

trying to get it done on his own.

They all had ins and familiarities

for vet medicine and the sort of

communal help which brought it

forth. Most of the times, it worked.

A lot of it got haphazard. I can

recall one time, in Waren's barn,

doing my assigned chores and

awaiting Warren's arrival to the

barn from some sort of Sunday,

larger-family gathering they

were having, up at his house,

and I heard the beginnings of

large animal groaning and the

noises of difficulty  -  one of the

cows was birthing and the calf

was not 'exiting' correctly. It

wasn't looking good, so I took

a nearby rope length and tied

it to the portion of the calf

freshening, and just began

pulling  -  apparently easing

te process enough so that it

did eventually just plop out in

the usual crumpled and bloody

mess. The cow mother then

goes right to work licking and

cleaning the new calf, which, on

spindly, wickedly frail, looking

legs wobbles up and supports

itself to begin the process of

sway and walk, etc. But, in any

case, when Warrn did finally

show up, it all seemed just like

any other new calf birth scene.

-

My own on-the-scene dedication

and reaction,a t that moment, was

probably as unscientific as could

be. But it all worked. Like the

Roman Centurian I'd imagined,

my being, I took the scene around

me and found a control...A new

acquaintance of mine, the other

day, came over the hill to visit,

along with his dog, Cato. I asked

if the name was from the Roman

Senator of old. He said Yes. (As

it turns out, I learned from seeing,

his library and interest is History,

the Civil War, and the Punic Wars

too). What caught him, and brought

him to using that name, was Cato's

old quote: "Carthage Must Be

Destroyed!"

13,098. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,060

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,060

(a head full of rocks)

I'm pounding rocks with my skull

while eating nails for my dinner. Yep,

that's what it all feels like now. 70

years of crap filling an endless book

of adventures : Willy-Nilly musings

of a soul on fire. How far anyone

wants to go back is up to them. I

think.the taxman gives a better break,

twenty years of schooling, and they

put you on the day shift. You all know

that one. I was always present, but

always at the wrong time too. Hendrix

on 8th street; Dylan on 4th. There used

to be this tiny little place on 4th, I'm sure

it's still there in some newer iteration.

Dylan lived right across the street: a

shoeshine factory, an adult boutique,

a carpenter's shop, and a guitar store.

The tiny little place was called The

Bagel. No, it meant the food, with

coffee; not the NY character type.

-

Over at Bleecker, near LaGuardia,

there was this long-standing movie

poster and postcard store. I can't

remember the name, but it was some

fraught name, not really pretentious,

but maybe. Something about Paris

maybe? I used to muse around in

there; no one ever bothered me; there

were reams of postcards; or art, artists,

weird scenes, city shots, people, fires,

nature, animals, medieval cathedrals,

on and on. You could name your deal

and they surely had a postcard for it.

There was another postcard store,

even more astounding because it was

so small, and packed with perfectly

ordered postcards, like a library

card-catalogue. Again, any subject,

and more. Race cars. Cadavers.

Crime scenes and fires too. It was

simply called, 'Postcard.' On Spring

Street, I think it was, next to or real

close to the Spring Street Bookshop.

That was the bookstore where, one day,

I bought a copy of three Russian novels,

and the clerk, at checkout, looked at

me and said, 'Wow, welcome to a

wonderful spell of reading. Don't 

get too  happy.' I had bought  'The 

Possessed,' and 'Notes From the 

Underground,' and 'The Idiot.' 

That Dostoevsky was quite the

humorist. a good bookseller

knows.

-

There was a hotel right there too, on 

Bleecker. I once picked up two French

kids, hippie hitchhikers seeing the USA

without a Chevrolet. They were intent 

(somehow) on walking, like wondrous

Euro-vagabonds, from their landing at

Newark Airport, over the Skyway, and

on into NYC. I don't know how they'd

planned to navigate the Holland Tunnel.

No 'strollers' allowed; French or not.

They jumped into my Renault, and

spit out the name of the hotel on

Bleecker to which they wanted me

to bring them. No problem. It was fun,

the sunroof was open, the Skyway

got their attention, chattering away

in their own tongue, about the  

skyline and the streets. It was a

thrill for them and me. And she was

totally French-cute too. He seemed a

little wimpy, to me. I let them off, and

never saw them again.

-

When you're a certain age, you can't

translate excitement and happiness into

anything but more excitement and more

happiness. It's as if nothing blocks you

from forging onward. It's a real graceful

period of living; soon enough gone. I

sensed that from them; that little spark

that happens between people who are

making their grade, hitting it off, and

just right. I wonder what they think of

all that now. For me, in my glumness,

it was yet another eye-opener; to see

Euro-romantics in full-dress, out on

exploration and optimism. What silly

American would even dream of that

walk! From Newark Airport, Skyway,

and Holland Tunnel, to NYC. They'd

probably figure they were walking to

a short-cut to Holland! I was smitten

with their sense of being and adventure.

-

Now, it's all, once again, a mere 

head full of rocks.

13,097. LEGERDEMAIN

LEGERDEMAIN

Here's the man with magic, with a

moniker coming from somewhere.

They call him Fred the Magician,

when he's out on the road. He does

his gigs, town to town, in banks,

and walks away loaded.

-

I sit here crimped; writing little

messages on mountains of dead 

paper. Leaving for northwest. All

the maps tell me that. I read them

like magic too.

-

It's an acquired taste, to be sure,

being me. Candles go out as I

approach them, and every traffic

light turns to red as I near. From

30 feet, I stop

-

On the phone, some girl named

Kate is setting up my cable. Sweet

deal? Wifi in the mountains. The

Wasatch Range, or Wasabi. I

forget? Small silhouettes in the

foothills of the Alleghenies.

-

Frank, Joe, Bob, Helen, where am

I, and how'd it ever get to be this way?

I am fit to be tied. I've tried to be fit

but got tired of it. Now I'm a sudden

old man. Turned by some magic into

what I thought I'd never be?

-

Not me. I know those old people. they

stand around in dog parks, taking enemas

and pills, battling with doctors for all

their little ills. Good gracious golly

Molly, is this the bus stop still?

-

If it's not, I'm leaving, on a jet plane. 

Don't know when I'll be back again.

Oh babe, I hate to go.

13,096. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,059

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,059

(drowning in a richness : seeking dry shelter)

The meandering explorations of

a 'Me,' for example, took that me

 in many directions. I was, truly,

all over the place, but, like that

bus driver a chapter or two back,

essentially going nowhere at the

same time. Life and language are

sometimes like that: So strange.

-

"Porcupines like to live alone,

but in Winter they sometimes

hole-up in long-snouted little

gangs inside hollow trees and

logs, in cavities made by cracks

in boulders, beneath piles of brush,

or under a front porch, sneaky as

thieves. Inside, in the damp and

ratty dark, fallen-out quills carpet

the floor. In spring, female

porcupines raise their babies in

these dens. A baby porcupine is

called a porcupette. There isn't

a word for a porcupine den, but

I suggest...a quiver.".....

-

"Quivers are, generally, a mess.

Porcupines are rodents, an order

of mammals that are, as a rule,

unkempt. The celebrated insouciance

of the honey badger, a weasel, is

nothing to the equanimity of the

porcupine, which are fully armed,

near blind, and imperturbable. They

leave their scat outside their front

door, piling up. They don't care who

sniffs them out." When I lived out

in Columbia Crossroads, PA, one day

my dog Billy (Super Bill! because he

was always chasing and outrunning

road-cars), came home whimpering,

with about 12 or 15 porcupines quills

stuck in his face, head, snout, etc. It

was truly a sight, and for one such

as me! I went to my neighbor-farmer's

house, for whom I also worked, and

said that day's equivalent of WTF!

(1971 or '72). I learned that, defensively,

under assault, attack, or any perceived

danger, a porcupine, as a defensive

maneuver  -  in the same way a skunk

emits stink  -  will hunch and eject

quills, almost as quill-missiles. Those

are what had gotten into Billy's face

area. Farmers thereabouts were used

to all this; had seen it a hundred times.

I was told to secure the dog in place,

and with good pliers, or vice grips,

pluck each quill, by yanking; a firm

pull, a solid hold. The dog will flinch,

(yes), but take it, realizing what was

going on. Then it was pointed out

the danger was, if left untended,

these same quills could eventually

work their way in, and affect the

brain/skull. Billy was already pretty

crazy anyway, as dogs go, but I

wished to rick nothing. The coolest

thing I remember is how, after each

yank, and removed quill, a little bead

of blood grew out on the dog's face, at

the exit hole. Billy flinched some, but

took it fine. We had an understanding.

-

"Porcupines have few predators,

aside from the sort of dog that's too

dunderheaded to know any better."

(Hey!)..."Porcupines, in their den,

aren't really hiding; they're just

staying snug, in homes they haven't

so much built as come by, like

squatters. Lovers of the Great

Indoors."

-

I had never been an indoorsy guy.

It was usually imperative for me

to be walking, on the way somewhere,

aimless, meandering, or whatever.

Grad school my ass, every smitten

NYU fool I'd see, on their endless 

paths to credentials and further study

made me laugh, They were headed

straight for their own dead ends,

the cul de sac named Oblivion. I

knew that; didn't they? The next

50 years (all gone now!) were ahead

of both of us, and theirs already had

the straitjackets and the cuffs all

readied. Why?

-

Inside people's heads, I think all that

ancient stuff still rings, like a genetic

ghost-image inside of us. Still tribal?

You walk into a doctor's office or some

legal space or office, most anything,

and you're greeted by reproductions, 

photographs, of what? Redwoods, old

woodland scenes, natives and elephants

and savannahs, gorges and waterways,

mountains and valleys, huts and dugouts.

And then, of course, you get the interior

decor of 'great tribal leader' types: elk

heads, deer, beaver, bear, fish, birds, you

name it, all mounted and taxiderm'd

and on display. Oh great King of the

Serengeti, I greet you! Can you feel

my innermost DNA stirring?

-

We make houses and domestications

now filled with the modern, and filled

with the past too. It is hard, this living

with masks  -  not the Covid kind, I

mean rather those tribal totems and

tribal shaman masks mounted, on

yonder wall. Like porcupine and 

rodents, we leave our scat around, 

piled up in every ghetto doorway 

and elite mansion garage and trash 

heap. We drown in our richness, 

seeking dry shelter. 

-
[Two last, interesting thoughts on
this subject: 'The New Urbanists,'
(architects), have been engaged in 'active
design,' trying to encourage, for instance,
the use of stairs, by making stairwells
wider and more brightly lit, and 
piping music into them, while making
elevators slower.' And : 'Over several
millennia, humans have evolved from
an outdoor species into an indoor one.
We evolved in the African savannah's
wide-open expanses, intimate with
nature and seeking protection under
tree canopies. Our genetic hardwiring,
built over millennia, still craves this
connection to nature.'

13,095. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,058

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,058

(ideal time)

Did you know that Humankind

now takes having a roof over one's

head as a human right? Having

evolved from 'an outdoor species

into an indoor one, we've gone

from the African savannah's wide

open expanses, intimate with

Nature and seeking protection

under tree canopies, so that our

genetic hardwiring, built over

millennia, still craves that older

connection to nature.' Hmmm.

No wonder I scan skies and look

to the heavens to forestall a certain

sort of K-Mart innate boredom.

Even the confines of an expensive

car can't solve this new dilemma.

I go, though the way be wild?

-

That's not mine, that 'way be wild'

thing. In fact, as I recall, it's from

Linus, in an old Peanuts cartoon.

None of that sounds vital now, but

in the very late 1960's this Charles

Schulz guy had the world wrapped

with his 'Peanuts' cartoon. I was

never a fan at all, not even a follower

or a reader of the daily strip. Couldn't

have cared less. I hated the roundness

of the character's, and the even lines 

and marks of the drawings, and I 

always deemed the emotions and 

exclamations to be childish. BUT, 

I had a friend, here, in Avenel 

(dead now, both the friend, and

the place), who thought Peanuts 

was high social-science and that it

perfectly captured a form of the 

zeitgeist. He was enrapt by the

cartoon strip. I was not, and used

to tell him 'When I see Charlie

Brown in a Vietnam setting, in

jungle fatigues and a helmet,

cradling an automatic weapon,

perhaps then I believe this shit.'

I couldn't stand that Lucy and 

Linus and Pig Pen and Charlie 

crap, no way. I thought it was

oblivious to society-at-large 

and not representative of it at

all; and that its supposed nuggets

of cute wisdom were drivel. As

for the Schultz guy himself, he

and his whole story seemed bogus

to me; but at least he laid low and

unseen enough not to be a social

pain. He was to flip-side equivalent,

in a way, to Walt Disney, the person.

Disney for a while (I think he died

maybe about 1966 or '67?), was like

the John Wayne of America's social

and pleasure fabric, a complete jerk

making fantasy parks for morons and

arrested development types. He too

was one of those representative 

American characters who, in those 

days, was mucking it up for everyone.

Theme parks and pleasure castles,

all chaste and fake. I used to wish to

tie his Snow White to a bedpost and

have a rip at her just to shut her face

up. Little was lost when we lost

those two.

-

My same friend who liked Peanuts

and Charles Schulz, as it turned out,

was a closeted gay fellow, a serial

romancer of either sex, a jumbled

moire-pattern of twisted ideals and

fractured fairy tales, who did later

take his own life. Oh well. Lucy never

pulled that football away at the last

moment, I guess. He used to walk

the streets with a small, hand-held,

transistor radio tuned to the daily

Dr. Joyce Brothers show. Yep,

another very strange 1960's radio

broadcast wrangler. Like the Jean

Shepherd of self-help talk and social

commentary. She was a weak-voice,

wan and willowy lady who purported

at social science, radio interviews

and the dispensing of advice to others.

Sort of like the Self-Help section of

any Barnes & Noble, or Borders,

bookstore, some years later when

enlightenment and self-improvement

became a working tenet of probably

those same people who used their

yoga mats and Lulemon tights for

self-mastery. I used to think it was

awkward, or perverse, to see a guy

walking the streets with a transistor

radio held to his ear. Very bizarre,

and to listening to Joyce Brothers?

The Bess Meyerson of camp? It

certainly just set me more adrift.

I'd walk through the Broadway/w80's

area, and all the Spanish guys would

be out there, vending and hopping

around, and they too had transistor

radio blaring  -  even sometimes

'boom boxes'  -  but at least they were

usually tuned to Yankee games, or

playoff games, or the world series.

This was all different.

-

Distinctions I could never get over:

Peanuts, Charles Schulz, Walt Disney,

Joyce Brothers, Vietnam, napalm,

burning flesh, torched hamlets and

villages, B-52's flaring high in the

sky, remaining death and destruction

to thatched huts, blinded and maimed

prisoners with hands tied behind their

backs, the machine gunning of villages

and their inhabitants, suspected rice

field guerrilla-fighters, political types

on the USA radio and TV proclaiming

their right-causes and excuses for war,

fomenting ire and confusion by twisting

stories and images, conjuring facts up

out of thin air so as to justify the death,

maiming and murder of  -  besides the 

58,000 American soldiers churned 

through  -  countless cadavers of the

Vietnamese, Laotian, and Cambodian

dead souls that Peanuts and Lucy and

Charles Schulz or Joyce Brothers, or

Jean Shepherd, for that matter. had 

ever reached for. It seemed as if

'American' social science only saw 

things one way, and demanded that 

one way alone : a pleasure principle, 

a self-esteemed and sacrosanct sense 

of superiority, and a righteousness about

national entitlement and statist-self

that saw a jungle and a people and

any indigenous trifle as something

in the way, to be bombed, torched,

or murdered at will. Time? For

America, 1960's time was an ideal,

opaque, but gossamer, whose luck

and timing just, eventually,ran out

and died. This was the start of it all.

13,094. THE NATURALIST

THE NATURALIST

Along the river, the eaglets

circle. They narrow their arc

around Narrowsburg; dark as

it is, by night. Yet, no matter.

The true thousands of stars

hold time with Nature, while

the bats come out of the rock

crevices on Perkins Pond Road.

They skim the wide window,

scaring even me, in this light.

No matter their declension, 

they turn off, always, veering at

the last moment, by whatever

means to use, to avoid the

window's glass. Behind 

that, by which I sit.

13,093. A PRACTICED, WELL-DONE, NOISE

A PRACTICED, 
WELL-DONE, NOISE

Having out away my tracer-gun, 

I turned my face to you. Imploring 

some notice, I watched your chest 

heave. Out behind you, some horizon 

stretched, and you remained upon 

your back until I was satisfied.

13,092. MY FLIGHT MEDALLIONS

MY FLIGHT MEDALLIONS

Grown yellow now with time, they

seem of another world: star ace, fighter

pilot, high-scorer of too many hits.

Dogfights of the sullen heart.

-

What was I doing there anyway?

A trickle-down infusions of a less

than steady hand : ping, the controls,

slip, the sight-glass hazy, a lunge

for nothing, but an unsteady start?

13,091. RUDIMENTS, pt.1,157

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,157

'somnabulance'

The sleepwalker's a pretty good guy:

he wears a mellow yellow, and strikes

the band on high, running between

the ancient aces and figurines on the

bottom of the sea. Sometimes I think

the only person I'm at war with is

myself: juggling anima-diversions,

or wiggling this way or that. Over

along the ittle highway some crazy

guy has a cactus stand. Selling them

potted. Stupid-looking little things

too. Maybe a foot high, for the

less-pricey ones. I used to have

interest in such items, 'succulents'

and jade plants. I grew 40 of them,

over time, and each time they'd

send out the air-roots, a clipping

was in order and I had twice as

many. 'Two became four and then

four became eight.' That's called

'exponential' growth, for those

of who out there who've studied

economics. It's always been the

bane, in population terms, of

people who disliked immigrants.

The hordes coming in, having

eight kids. In 15 years, those

same eight kids have 8 more,

and so on, and the next thing you

know, in 30 years there's 64!

-

Well, on paper anyway. And that's

only assuming one-kid offsprings.

If those original 8 kids, following

parental example, breed up, then

have 5 or 6 each, then it's a high

number, and a real mess. All those

kids then needing housing, assistance,

and all the rest of the lower-class

crud that happens. But, that's

America? Home of the brave and

land of the 'freely taking all they

can get?' Sure. Give me your tired, 

your poor, your huddled masses 

yearning to breathe free; The

wretched refuse of your teeming 

shore.' That Emma Lazarus was

a real wipeout!

-

Yeah, you're probably wondering

how or why I got onto that subject.

It happens. My mind rages. I get

around. I used to think about all

that while walking    in fear for

my life  -  in any of the worst

ghetto areas in the worst of

NYC's nightmare years. 'Oh,

him? Yeah, he got stabbed to

death by a wretched refuse.

What was he doing up here

anyway? He shoulda' stayed

downtown. 

-

I always disliked math, but

the idea of 'exponential' came

the 'exponent' in a fraction.

Right, I know, that tells you a

lot. it never told me anything

either. Like the 'Miracle of

compound interest,' at banks,

I never got that either, but now

they've taken even that away.

Sucker-bums can have some

pennies, to buy candy.

-

You never see a poor person, or

a ghetto urbanite, scurrying

around  -  with their yoga mats

and those yoga pants and things.

They should have, actually,

Yogamats, like there used to be

Automats: you plunk down your

money in the bin, and a little

window opens and you can grab

your main course  -  enlightenment;

or charity; or general well being!

Hey? Wasn't he in the Civil War?

Anyway, the poor have little need

for such tantric tactics; it's rather

the fool's stuff of the texture-culture

of big city or effete sophisticates.

See-through Lulemon leggings

and all that. That's the idle-beam

transparency of stupid minds, if

you ask me. I never got the gist

of all that until I started seeing

all those 6am Princeton lasses

scurrying sround at daybreak,

with teir rolled mats and silly

pants and tightly-earnest and

determined looks. Paradoxically,

all keyed up to go relax. it got to

be a pretty bad joke. The yog

studios had 6am hidden back

doors (the one by D'Angelo's

did anyhow), and in the early

morning what usually looked

like a crummy freight entrance

doorway was a'buzz with young

ladies, mothers, students, and

newly marrieds intent on finding

that inner peace that only a

directed yoga, a freight entrance,

and the ultra-hip and only very

right clothing can bring forth.

-

I wondered the incentive: what

the heck was Princeton about

anyway? Was it a place, one of

normal protocol? No, it most

certainly was not. It bore the

unmistakable imprint of class,

and it's underling class had been

relegated to the old backwater

streets down the bottom of

Witherspoon. You could bet

your culottes there were no

yoga babes prancing in from

there; they were too busy

cleaning tables and getting 

the day set up at Theresa's

or Olive's. Prime-time

eateries, both. I can only

wonder what's going on now,

but I don't really even have

the interest enough to generate

interest in finding out.