13,318. RUDMENTS, pt. 1,113

RUDMENTS, pt. 1,113

(to leer and lust forever)

I admit to having had plenty

of other things to do than work

in some stupid old bakery, but

there was a period of time where,

yes, I was trying to learn about

where I'd fit in. I sold magazines,

door to door, for a while, not

just 'magazines,' but rather

subscription packets of 3 or 4

magazines at a time, in some

sort of clumped-interest group,

to housewives who'd answer

the 4pm doorbell along the

lonely streets of Elizabeth,

Linden and Perth Amboy, NJ. 

I was supposed to engage the

ladies in conversation, find

out their interest, whether

gardening or cooking or

fashion, etc., and find out,

as well, if their husbands 

liked sports. From that info

I was supposed to quick-think

a grouping of, say Redbook,

Good Housekeeping, Sports

Illustrated, and Reader's Digest.

For like 14 bucks or something,

they'd get their subscriptions, 

and we'd get some 3 bucks or 

so for the deal. It was a lousy

racket, what with cooking, kids,

poverty and, lest I forget, brutal

husband, not home, more on their 

minds than magazines and shelling

out money they didn't really have.  

Some housewives talked. The ladies

were usually in fear of him, and

often used that as the excuse to

say no. We were supposed to

see that coming, and somehow

fight it off with charm. I mostly

hated the lousy cooking smells

in those apartment halls and

lobbies, or, in private homes,

the kids and crap always

floating around. The ladies

were often fine, and fun 

sometimes. Nothing ever

happened, but I could tell that

sometimes, maybe, a 16-year

old boy would have been a

new delight for them. That

little light went on.

-

Places such as Elizabeth were

horrid. I never figured out what

sort of 'identity' as a small city

that place had tried to achieve,

but apparently it was none, or

it had failed so miserably as to

never have been mentioned

again. At this time, most of the

white-flight had already occurred.

Most of my house-hits ended up

being Spanish, or Puerto Rican,

or Cuban. It was pretty limited.

The Jews had dwindled, though

one or two craggly synagogues

were still left. Italians and Poles

were dwindled to nothing  -  many

of them, in fact, having moved

ten miles or so down Rt. One

to Avenel and Woodbridge! Nay,

even to Inman Ave itself! There

might have been movement along

that corridor, but it wasn't much

of a 'move' actually, neither by

distance or economics. Same crud,

different day. Elizabeth was totally

without a theme, and certainly

without any prevailing sense of

architecture, presence, wisdom,

or knowledge either. Man, the

dregs of central Jersey ruled!

That may have been the real

beginning of something, because

now the same theft and corruption

that ran downward from Hugh

Addonizio's Newark (jailtime), 

to the same stream of operations

from Bollwegs or whatever the

name was, to Zirpolo and McCormac 

and Vas, ran right down the same 

sewer lines. They learn this stuff 

in school, these sorts.

-

You could tell, just by the air, that

so much was wrong. That people

were hurting, but no one cared;

that people were being allowed in,

the immigrants and laborers, just

to push and shove the failing

industrial product of that entire

wharfside of New Jersey, but just

as numbers and digits, not people.

No one cared for any of them;

instead, the usual icy pols would

take and steal, maneuver and

finagle, so they'd walk off shining

and the heaps of the beleaguered

would be left behind to squirm

until  -  as in Elizabethport (at the

far-eastern section at the waterfront)

would, by 1980, become a sick,

drug-infested disease hole slum

later destroyed and razed and 

now used (go see it for yourself),

as a conduit, like Avenel, for the

crooked flow of housing and 

'development' monies that

advance nothing as much as

disrespect, dishonor, lies and

cheating. And these political scums 

still go to church, with their families

and little kiddies, and still profess

to their upstanding sense of right.

-

When I was in the Biker world,

down in 'the Port,' as it was

called, the outlaw biker bar of

that day was a place called 'Ajax.'

Maybe it was Ajax's, or meant to

be, but it was just called to as

Ajax. Tough-ass place too, and

the club guys who hung there,

big-time Jersey swooners, could

just as soon peel your skin back,

rape your wife, and leave both

in the gutter when done. One

had to be extremely careful

about comportment in that

crowd. Been there. Done that.

(As it used to be said). I'd

sometimes be in Ajax and think

back to those old magazine selling

days, imagining any one of the

guys in there as the squirming

neighborhood kids I'd see when

they were 5 or 6 and I was selling

magazines to their mamas, and

checking them, and  her too, with

leer and lust (two buddies of

mine). Their was a brutal sense

of 'justice' in that world, bad as

it may have been; bit I often did

conclude that any number of the

political types around  -  and their

wives  -  should have faced that.

They'd learn real quick.

-

The world, yes, is now so changed

that no one would ever think of

sending some creepy teen boys

along the street knocking on doors,

engaging horny housewives, and

trying to peddle them 'magazines'

named Swindle. They'd probably

now all come to the door with

their phone, totally pre-occupied,

and with anything of their interests

already downloaded and on screen.

So much for me, and my two 

buddies, Leer and Lust.

13,317. A NEW JOKE

A NEW JOKE

Maybe under the heading 'Crass.'

I came along Provender Street, and

rounded the narrow bend. The trestle

made a tunnel here, and the tracks

curved overhead and the road

ran down below. A few men stood

around, outside Starside Tavern,

where the liquor store has its funny

doorway. I heard them talking and

the one guy, with a joke, says: 'Hey!

Three guys go up to Heaven. St. Peter 

says 'I'll let you in, but first each of 

you has to show me something and

tell me what it meant to you in your

life on earth.' (I forget how it went

and I work here from memory). It

has to be something that reminds

you of Christmas. The first man

takes out his lighter, and says it

reminds him of candles. The

second guy shakes his keys, 

saying they remind him of bells.

The third guy takes out a pair of

women's panties. St. Peter says,

'How do they remind you of

Christmas?' And he goes,

'These are Carole's.'

13,316. SO MANY PIGEONS

SO MANY PIGEONS

I've left now many things behind,

things I thought I'd once be remembered

for, but not, as it's turned out, forgotten

instead. My name is but etched on

gravestone memories of a cotton-moss.

Green, but not with envy, for sure.

-

The ground here gets covered, and I

dream of many things : doorways

and city entrances, in places

I've never been. Faces I once may

have seen, but never remembered,

yet here they turn up again. Like

a living highway headed down to 

the south, I am passing old geezers

in luxurious cars.

-

'Shhh, now; it's only a dream. They

are running down south for their

Winters. We call them Snowbirds.

You call them Pigeons, I guess :

the same scavengers who pick in

the alleys, alighting on poles and

cooing for food.'

13,315. CADETS

 CADETS ON PARADE

I guess it's not enough to be

just happy; one should also 

have a mission? My sponsor

for West Point must have been 

blind. That was 1969.

-

Point those cannons somewhere

else. Please. Thank you. Fine.

Now that it's New Year's Day

will there be fireworks on down

the river-line? We've watched the

distant craft go sailing, past the

chains and round the cove.

-

I'm tired and I'm bored, and my

'father' is coming from Cleveland,

aboard some Zephyr train to see

me again. We'll probably travel

upstate some, to see the sights

along the hills. he enjoys that,

and always has a way of finding

nice restaurants, and getting me

back on time.

13,314. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,112

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,112

(a little bit of Avenel)

There was a time  -  maybe 

a month and a half, at most  - 

when I worked a cold Jan.

and some Feb., at a place 

called 'Golden Crust Bakery.'

I can't right recall when it

was exactly, and, as a job, it

sort of fell between some

other things I was doing. 

-

Golden Crust Bakery was down

on Rahway Avenue. There's the

'new' Post  Office now, built

right across the street from it, 

and I 'seem' to, I think, remember

that being there, new, back then.

(The bakery building is still there,

and still a 'bakery' of sorts, though

now it is run by Brooklyn Hasids,

and they make Jewish pastries,

with the wafting smell of chocolate

often in the air). The current name

is Pollak's Bakery, and they have

a few panel trucks with which

they run their products out, I guess

back to Jewish neighborhood

pastry shops. There is NO walk-in

or retail business done at the Rahway

Ave. location; if you see any activity,

what you see is Hasidics loading

the trucks. (I like to think that the

Hasids, if they were nice, country

fellas out in the sticks, would call

themselves Hayseeds, and make

cornpone and down-home muffins.

-

Anyway, way back when I was there,

it was about as dismal a job as could

be found. I was, however, a young

guy with a head full of ideas, an

old, beat-up Jaguar car, and a hope

to do nothing but Art for the rest

of my days. (That hope eventually

fizzled). I used to walk Avenel

Street, under the underpass each

day, down to Rahway Ave., and

turn left to get to the bakery. There

used to be a hardware store there,

a few houses (all now gone), and

a gasoline station, also now gone.

Two, in fact. One was at the corner,

closed up, of Avenel Street and

Rahway Ave; that was Rhodes'

Esso. Ira Rhodes was the old man

who was mostly responsible  -  I

was told  -  for the underpass

being dug out for the trains, kind

of ruining the entire town. He had

lost a son there, in the 1940's or 

something who'd gotten creamed

by a train, at grade level; so they

dug it out, and sunk the roadway,

destroying all the little business

that had once been there at town

center. You can see old town

photos of it as it was  -  candy stores,

grocers, barber shops, a deli, and

a haberdasher or two, plus a nifty

train station and waiting room,

in which was the town's library too.

All gone, as I said, Now a lumber

yard (for the time being anyway).

I've been told the lumber yard is

moving out too, as well as the schools

that are nearby, as  -  in the very

fraught (translates as 'crooked')

wisdom of the town fathers, (barf),

they can reap better returns (in

their pockets once again, probably)

by finagling the necessary deals for

hidden management corporations

and ownerships to reap the profits

of further development, subsidized 

housing, health centers, new slums,

and new parking lots too.

-

But, I digress. One thing I enjoyed

was the way in which, on those walks

to Rahway Avenue, if I walked on the

east side of Avenel Street (I think that

was east)  -  the same side as the

First Aid Squad Building  -  I'd get to

see the pointed top of all the duplexes

running down Avenel Street looking,

in their rows, like a small, Dutch

village. Like something out of 

Breughel or one of those continental

painters of the early, old world. Of

course neither Avenel nor the scene,

had any connection nor any reality

bearing on that, but to my artist-mind

it meant a lot to be able to make that

connection. Believe me, this was

fantasy  -  Avenel Street bears no

connection, by romance, art, or any

other 'feature,' with any of this more

broadly cultural stuff, and no one 

there anyway would ever have the  

connection. More likely, First 

National Bank of Bribery. 

McCormac Branch now.

-

Once I'd get to the bakery, all that 

was over. There were a couple guys

in there who ran the ovens, packed

the stuff, and drove the truck. A large,

square, panel truck, with bread shelves

and trays everywhere. We made sub

rolls, dinner rolls, small bread loaves, 

etc. I was the flour and prep guy  -  

lugging the 50-lb bags of flour, as

they were needed, over to the mixers,

pulling the drawstring closures to open

the bags, and dumping the flour into

the large, automated mixer vats. Adding

water, etc.; and the large mixing arm

would slowly, over time, mix it all

together to form a big, gummy, wad

of new dough. Then I'd have to take 

the big wad and make smaller wads, 

and we'd all begin breaking up the

dough, for sub rolls, dinner rolls,

or whatever. The small lumps, once

in the ovens, would rise and bake,

as they took their appointed shape.

I forget, but I seem to remember

brushing oil or butter on each

little lump, before they went in

the ovens, and  -  what I liked the

most  -  I'd have a cool, little dough

blade and had to make a quick slit

in the top of each dough lump. Once

it was baked, that slit would bake 

out, puff up a little, and allow for the

expansion of the loaf while baking.

For a dumb kid, like me, at this job,

baking bread, handling dough, and

even putting that slit in each loaf,

represented  - finally  -  something

really tangible for me, a job with

a meaning. Bread. 

-

That all began about 7:30am,

and by like 4pm the trucks would be

loaded for the next day's or that

night's deliveries, to restaurants,

sub shops, etc. There was no

wrapping or packaging, just either

on trays, or in these cool bakery

bags, for the long loaves. I don't 

know what it all was. Not like today.

No one ever 'spoke' as 'French' loaf,

or 'Italian', and certainly never

'Baquette,' like any of today's 

fancy-schmancy food-maven stuff.

This bakery had a little retail counter

out front too; people came in to

buy bread, or donuts and stuff too,

which we didn't bake but which I

think were brought in from 

somewhere else. We never dealt

with sweets or pastries.

-

It was an OK deal, but the lady there

behind the counter, known to me as

Mrs. Cummings (Marian), really

disliked me. She thought I was a

brash, snide, no-goodnik, and she

made that clear. I didn't much care,

as she was everything I disliked too.

Trouble was, in the back, her husband,

some big, rollicking, round guy, drove

the delivery truck. So he was always

around, helping us preparing the bread,

unloading the empty truck trays, and/or

refilling the truck. While the ovens

were baking, there'd be a lot of downtime.

I'd do clean-up, sweep or mop the area,

of all the flours and cut-offs, etc., and

I had to gather and trash-up all the

empty, daily, flour bags. I was young,

and these three other guys were maybe

40, or 45. They never bothered me,

but I could always tell a distance, and

it often felt I was being scrutinized. And,

the husband guy, whenever his wife

came into the back, went through his

sudden hard-ass routine with me, usually

over something or other that never made

a hill's worth of difference any other

time. I didn't care, and as far as I did

care they could have each other,

at my expense or not. Nitwits.

-

Two other things really drove me nuts.

There was constant cigarette smoking;

all the time they sat around, it was with

cigarettes and cigarette smoke everywhere.

And making it worse was that, everyday,

they listened, on the radio, to the broadcast

of the Arthur Godfrey Show. You might

not know him, but he played a sort of

folksy, talk-show, guy with special

guests each day  -  show-biz type people,

inside gossip and such, a few reviews

of plays and shows. The fake folksiness

was enough to drive me crazy (like the

'Hayseeds' I mentioned at the start), but

what really drove it home was that

Arthur Godfrey's signature schtick was

that he played a ukulele (rare at that

time, or little-heard anyway). At all

times, even while he talked, he'd be 

strumming or monkeying with the

ukulele, and he'd sometimes sing too.

It was terrible, day after day, and it

had the worst radio-commercials too,

stupid jingles and ads and all.

I finally just gave up the job. One 

cold morning the walk down Avenel

Street just hit me the wrong way; I

turned around, went back home,

called Marian up, and said I was

'done,' and had 'personal business'

to take care of. She went ballistic

on me. I never went back. Never

even picked up my 'dough!' for

that week.

13,313. PRAIRIE LEAGUE

PRAIRIE LEAGUE

Forceful smidgeon, the push

of desire, the sabre toothed tiger

down in L.A. : Each of those things

are mentioned in magazines and

books, shows and communications,

all taken for granted. No one any

longer even whistles the same tune,

and I no longer sense what I should

do  -  which was something that

once came natural to me.

-

I used to walk out of Penn Station:

assaulted by poverty, dead in my

face; the black guys with hands out,

mumbling; the catty black mamas

and white grandfather losers pushing

free copies of AM New York in my

face. Muttering good mornings to

each passing person; hoping for

dimes or a quarter.

-

It got so that I could measure the

rage within people's eyes just by a 

glance. Most of these people were

nuts, and it showed  -  they'd lost

bearings, destroyed all sense, were

at sea in their rickety craft. They

maybe got four dollars a day for

pestering people with their free

newspaper trash.

-

Drugs have a bottom-feeder toll

that keeps demanding payment. One

look at greasy clothing can tell the

story : eyes glazed, a riveted glare,

a way of swallowing tongue while

quick words are spoken. Even I

little cared for good sense; let

alone caring for them.

13,312. MAN GOES BY MANY NAMES

MAN GOES BY MANY NAMES 

The wife just today said, 'I have to

do more wash. I can't live like a

caveman.' I stumbled to laugh, and

said, 'Oh, sure you can'. Then I took

my club down from the wall. On the

nail I keep it hanging from. There

was no one else around, and she

looked scared enough.

-

Of course, nothing happened and I

made that up, but it set me thinking.

Chores like that, washing and drying,

Steering little matters all along the

way. Why, why, why, don't things

just leave us be?

-

Out in the distant yard, I decided

to walk through the woods. Years

ago someone had cut some trees,

and a few old stumps are still there.

Cherry-wood, that he had 'sold' for

timber; the previous owner here.

-

What a mess. Selling trees as if

you owned them, for the crass

implementation of a few passing

bucks. That's not a deer joke, mind

you, but maybe it could be.

13,311. EXECUTION

EXECUTION

Someone's got their head in the

oven again. Sylvia darling, this

can't be left to stand. Let's have

at it with our commanding logic:

Why is man to live if just to die?

How much allowance is granted,

say, to accelerate the process? The

oven door is open again.

-

I put my books down and decided

to skip all endings. I don't care

about anything. Biographies of

butterflies, on the backs of 

cornflakes boxes, even those

won't be enough to stay my

execution.

13,310. BREAKING TRADITION

BREAKING TRADITION

It's so weird here, how on

somedays I hear a noise and

it can't be traced, yet three days

later I find the cause. Something

so simple as to be a laugh. But

who laughs at their own self?

-

In a world where everything is

rational, the rational man counts

for something more than he is 

worth. And I shall not be judged

a rational man.

13,309. MAKE IT A TRENCH

 MAKE IT A TRENCH

For a normal minute, the man

was talking about his father.

Back when. A crane operator

who had worked at the quarry.

After the war; I guessed he

meant II. The crane he was

operating toppled over, and 

his father was pinned. Lost 

an arm to nothing. Now, the

guy says, a lot of those rocks

and cut stones are the fronts

of the very houses you see.

Can't just wait for WWIII.

-

Any of those wars, the same:

First, Second...Third.

I imagined how those old 

stories went: 'He survived 

Verdun, but not Mt. Gunn.' 

Or, 'He threw grenades like 

a practiced pro. Then he lost 

his arm in the quarry; how 

things go?' On D-Day, in

that morning, I wonder

what he was thinking

about. 

-

Einstein was it, who

said: "I do not know with

what weapons World War III

will be fought, but World War

IV will be fought with sticks

and stones.' Correct; and all

those Dad and Grandad stories

just roll on.....

13,308. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,111

 RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,111

(I left just leaving a message)

I always figured if a person

wasn't 'learning' at all times,

there was little use to anything.

I know that all of my workings 

always went towards those ends.

They used to talk about all the

'Mosaic' stuff, about America 

being a tiled combination of

all different sorts  -  patterns

and colors and all  -  even though

I knew it was a bunch if crap and

only one of those public-relations

bullshit gimmicks to push some

wan political point along. Criminals

talk like that, and each time I ever

heard that concept, it was from the

mouth of a criminal. Anyway, you

never heard of anyone talking about

America being a center of learning

or a wellspring of information.

Everything was, by contrast, always

being dragged down or ironically 

belittled, or abused or made fun

off; with a sort of smug-superiority

of the dumb taking precedence.

When Melville wrote Moby Dick, 

(a New Yorker by birth, Herman

had been born in 1819 at 6 Pearl

Street, of a mix of British, Dutch,

an French nationalities. A fairly

common NY mix, back then),

the reception wasn't quite as

expected (it bombed). The

literati responded with mixed, 

lukewarm reviews. Exhausted

at bringing out that 'wild Everest

of art,' bitterly disillusioned at

the reception, Melville poured

out his fevered emotions in

'Pierre' (in typical NY fashion). 

It was a book that would

irretrievably damage his

literary reputation, dealing 

as it did with incest,  Oedipus,

and the mysteries of the

unconscious, and is about 

a young man who comes to

New York and tries to earn

his living as a writer in the

'shivering cold of a third-story

room.' Like Moby Dick,

'Pierre' was ungratefully

received and rudely

condemned. Pierre contains

many autobiographical

strands, and the third-story

room is based on the one

in which Melville finished

Moby Dick.

-

As far as I ever traced it 

back, that room was at what

was then called 'Dutch Street

(gone now), behind the

courtyard of the old 'Church

Of the Apostles' in the book

(in reality the South Baptist

Church, at 82 Nassau Street).

-

So, I'm probably going on too

much about nothing, but, back in

old NYC, as I first landed there

and started my stretch, all these

far-more-young things then

mattered so much; like my

own 'hazing' period as a new

arrival. Over the last 6 years 

or so, any trace of that stuff

is all gone. I left NYC in an

embittered funk over the

manner it which it has (had)

been destroyed, run over, 

enfeebled by capital and greed,

plaza'd and stupid-built to death

and, now, populated by weasels.

Along the way in this life, you

lose some things, and pick up 

others. Why in the world do

people worship money, and

seek and stab to scratch it

out? That's all I'm left with.

-

I'm as strange and as wrecked

by things as Melville ever was;

I'd bet. Like 'My Satchel Paige

to your Bartleby the Scrivener.'

That's the faint equivalency of 

today, and it's little offered. 

When I first found myself in

my post-NYCity life, in 

Columbia Crossroads, PA, 

one of the first things I took 

up with was reading Thorstein 

Veblen. Amazing and cantankerous, 

useless and insipid too; many 

fine books to his name; he'd

pegged perfectly the insane

vacuity that was America then.

The WWI era was a perfect 

calling. The Norwegian element

of his harshness was perfect.

I got to Ithaca, and, entering

the gated realms of Cornell

was like re-living some small

part of his crazy biography.

He'd been there. Actually, 

he'd been everywhere, 

though I had not. I jotted

something down, and I

guess I left just leaving

a message.

-

When I finally got some 

dog-assed job there, at

'Columbia Crossroads,' it

was taking care of, heating,

by two huge coal furnaces,

24-damned hours a Winter's 

days and nights, the 20 area

classroom local schoolhouse.

(It's now gone, and the building

itself is the indoor parts-storage

facility for the auto salvage yard

which now rings it all  -  which

seems about right to me as a

reflection of the American 

school system, so no difference

there). Anyway, wrapped high

and heavy, back then, in my

mantle of Thorstein Veblen,

the most amazing thing 

happened. Right across the

way, one dirt path over, in

a large, old farmhouse, lived

a Norwegian family; and their

last name was Thorstein! They

had this amazing 14-year old

daughter, named Sharon. She

was the coolest thing in the world

there; rambled-up, countryfied,

friendly, happy, smart, talkative,

and wise too. We became talk

friends, and she often hung

around that stupid pre-junkyard

school just for something to do.

Nothing to do with Thorstein

Veblen, of course, but all those

crazy coincidences just wiped

me, somehow, out. Norwegian.

Thorstein  -  as first or last name

I didn't care. Talky. Sassy. Cool.

That's a pretty dumb story, gut

there it is. Don't know whatever

happened to Sharon; and I wonder

if she knows about Thorstein?

13,307. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,110

 RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,110

(a cry for certainty)

I almost hesitate to follow up

the previous chapter by calling

this Part Two, as if, within a

context, I don't mean 2x2 to

the growth/infinite, 2-deep

over 2 transformed and but

one of two-infinitesimal.

Know what I mean?

-

Some portion of all this has 

to do with speed. I think as 

appearances slow down, life

begins to appear more solid.

It's difficult to tell someone

that it's all illusionary, and that  

as they 'stand still' they are actually

on a 'globe' that is both spinning

and free-falling through space,

but within  a 'bubble' of context

in which they and their effects

notice none of that and are not

in any form reminded or made

cognizant of those actions and in

which everything else is doing the

same thing.  Ongoing. Concurrent 

(Those two words again!).

-

There's a message on my board

here that tells me today is an

invite to some round-table 

discussion with a Congressman,

presented by and sponsored

with the Ethical Culture Society

or somesuch. Sorry, folks, but

in my spinning speed-factory of

illusion I'll be skipping that event,

and who in the world does such

a slime-ball character as that

Congressman think he is? People

become so dead and concrete like

that and they thereby make a dead

and concrete world which, to their

own advantage, they pretend to

propagate onto others : conclusions,

assumptions, memory references,

etc. My own conclusion is that

everyone is so pathetic. How would

I address him on that count? I

couldn't tear through the tinfoil in

which he is ensconced.

-

There's a spot in my heart for most

anything, and I dreamed last night

that I witnessed a repo-man go

by a crowd listening to a comedian

who was going on about a skit with

a horn in it and which had been

referenced by George Harrison in

a song. Huh? The repo man, who

was slowly trolling the street, was

driving a 1953 Dodge tow truck,

the old kind like you no longer see,

with the chain and hook hanging

from the hoist-lift on the rear. It

was pretty amazing. I wasn't even

sure what time I was really in, nor

if he'd already taken my own car

the day before, which in this dream

was still missing. 

-

Isn't it funny, as well, to see a name

out of context? One that has lost all

real meaning except to those of a

certain time period, after which, to 

others, it reverts to being just merely

another name: George Harrison. It

could be anyone, after all.

-

Life curls over on itself and engulfs

its own momentary meaning  -  things

we maybe delineate by years and dates

and eras, but which, to time and within

time, have no real meaning except for

that given context. It's quite terrifying 

actually, how things are always in

turmoil and embroiled into their own

feverish mass of heated, molecular

activity. Which we 'call' it. Which

is, after all, only within a tiny band 

of that which we call 'temperature' 

and to which we amend the word

'Heated.'

-

When we are 'born' to these illusions,

we are already demanding certainty.

The infant's cry is a cry for certainty.

The answer for which? There is none.

13,306. GOLDEN BELLS

GOLDEN BELLS

The conservatory pattern of the

willing life is by now gone far

amiss. Buds bloom on glimmer

trees, but droop on the azaelea's 

kiss. Everything now runs by

different patterns as the world

falls into its own new darkness.

-

The golden bell of devotion,

I'd suppose, is still present on 

the mountains and hills. A small

village in a hollow is like a new

Eden on the run!

13,305. GYPSY ARRESTED FOR TELLING THE TRUTH

GYPSY ARRESTED FOR 

TELLING THE TRUTH

Sometimes I tell myself stories, and

it can get like that. The cool, beige air,

I can recall, over 1970's Pennsylvania

hills, and the numerous, two-level

chicken-coops I always be seeing.

White and wavy, no longer straight,

as the land beneath them, over the

years, had slowly shifted. But the

wood held firm and then it took for

itself the shape of the groundswell.

The same wave and twist. It's still

like that today, on those I see.

-

Like fingernails on a finger's tip,

some of them are yet around, clinging

in a quiet desperation to the slowly

changing ground. No more local

chickens though  -  except for those

with the driveway or barnyard sales.

The large-volume egg coops are now

all quiet and gone.

-

Candling is an art long gone : it was

a means of checking a chicken egg. I

never understood it much, even as it

was done. Just another tom-fool item

on some checklist and inventory: hen

and egg, numbers of chickens, now

many to hatch? The process seemed

always to reach its own ends : like

a gypsy, arrested for telling

the truth.

13,304. HUMMINGBIRD

HUMMINGIRD

What I meant to say was something

like 'necktie to nectar.' A full circle

diatribe as I shout out to the world.

-

Hangmen, of course, just call the knot

a necktie, and they are  -  more or less  -

right. Even the shoemaker examines

the soles of the shoes on the man

left dangling in air.

-

Now, like most of nothing, there's

a tiny bird spinning wings in that

air. Holding in place. Aloft. Ten tons

of energy, in a quarter-ounce bag.