Monday, October 11, 2021

13,870. FIRST GARLAND-STREAM CAMPGROUND

FIRST GARLAND-STREAM CAMPGROUND
Idly watching the tent-neighbors contort
I sat by the fat guy in the hammock for
sport, and to see what the guy had to say.
I wrote on a quick note on my pad and
he asked what it was. I said I was a
reporter for the Diaghilev Times and
was seeking a story of any sort.
-
I told him I was willing to listen, if he
had anything useful to add, about himself 
or his times or his places. He said he worked
at Astronomy Acres, a space-theme-park a
few miles away. I laughed at him and asked
how it felt all day to work in a place of so
many millions of miles, and then to have
to say, to me, a 'few miles away.' Wasn't
that weird? He laughed, saying he'd
never seen it in those terms.
-
He asked was I a ballet guy or some sort
of dancer  -  I guessed he'd caught on to
my ruse. So I answered in kind, saying,
'Yes, much like you, I dance around truths.'

Sunday, October 10, 2021

13,869. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,218

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,218
(philadelphia?)  part one
What should I talk about when
I talk about Philadelphia? I
don't know. Philadelphia came
in two stages for me  -  the
first was older Philadelphia,
and the second one was that
same Philadelphia in the early
2000's. A difference of some 
30 years, and worlds apart 
too. I've said before the time
has no context; it's an empty 
idea of 'something' until WE
ourselves give it its context.
Which is why it's different
for everyone and why it goes
sometimes fast and sometimes 
slow. If I was next up at the
local Marvella's Bordello in
New Orleans, that time would
seem to go forever; while, (at
the same time!) if I was next
in line at some Taliban tribunal
to have my hand cut off, it
would seem to be racing. The
context that Philadelphia gave
to my time is extraordinary.
-
Somewhere down in 'Old City'
Philadelphia (that's what they call
the old, early 'colonial' section)
there's a place where Benjamin
Franklin's home was. The thing
about it  -  seen by me as strangely
enchanting and something I'd
never before seen  -  is that it's
some odd sort of conceptual idea
only  -  a framed out reconstruction
that amounts to but a reconstructed
outline of the house that once was 
there. Franklin's last years in the
city, until his death   -  and he is
buried nearby, at Christ Church.
The approximation of his 'house'
and grounds is, to me, startling,
in that its a tactile 'representation'
which people are happy and willing
to believe. How much of the rest
of life as that? We get presented 
with the broadest of outlines of 
a concept around which then a 
wholesome story is woven, and
we accept it all and work the rest
of our ways and operations from
it. Examples abound: The entire
Health Industry is constructed 
around that idea, as is most of
chemistry and biology. I also
should add religion and physics.
And Economics too, which is 
but an operative fiction from 
which societies are pieces together 
around a centered-core idea of 
value and  worth, and of those
who have get more and those in
need get taken from. A truly fictive 
commerce based on meaningless 
nothings.
-
How easy is it to get an entire
nation, in subservience to some
weirdly mythological underpinning
which is now abused, long-gone,
disavowed, under-assault, and long
forgotten, to believe in these forms
of conceptual image-adherence.
Like the America of today, the only
reality has become the super-skeletal
'remembrance' of some ghost image.
Mainly  -  as well  -  it's usually
manned by idiots. Historic  forms
of representation to fit ideals, not
reality (Franklin, that crazy rebel
with his loaf of bread, hitting the
streets of oldest Philadelphia, and
living just down the street from
Betsey Ross!). Just up the street
from there, also, is an entire area,
adjacent to Liberty Hall, made up
as a ghost street of old, foundations
(bricks and  stones), along the
cobble-stoned stretch, with each
spot labled and it's area delineated:
'John Stone, Baker; Henry Randolph,
Stonemason; Ezra Means, and family,
Milliners and Clothiers...." Sort of
just more of the same, a stretch of
imagined, conceptual fantasy built
around a concept with its tiny foot
in a resultant reality. In the case of
Franklin's house, previously made
mention of, there is, under thick
plexiglass, for viewing, not walking
on, a cutaway view of what is
described as Franklins cellar. You 
can figure it out with careful study 
too  -  kind of like America.
-
At least in Philadelphia all of this
is dedicated to historical space, in
a form of its own context. The only 
real 'embellishment; is in the push
and pull of what the viewer brings
to bear. That purifies and locates all
of this in the scenery provided. A
notch better? You think? Try today's
America on for size.
-
I used to return to Philadelphia just
to re-imagine and experience anew
any part of these legacy moments
that were presented to me. Not in
these silly-patterned places, set up
for goons , and followers and 
Government fellow-travelers with
woven badges on their shoulders,
but in the air and free-space provided.
Try that now, anywhere.

 

13,868. I HAVE A BANNER

I HAVE A BANNER
In this rain I am alone with
nothing, now as the rain comes 
down in sheets. No umbrella, just
this banner pronouncing 'me.'
Whether good or bad, this pale 
protection need suffice to cover
me from all my ills and ails.
No other help avails, though I
see the markings in the world
around me  -  a fevered rush
to be secure and covered from
all approximations of whatever
may occur. The lion somehow
roars, while the lamb sets down
to rest, though not to mingle.
-
As distant as the stars is the 
space around me,  I am glad for 
cancellations as they come. and
welcome the stand-alone aspects
of this bitter wind and rain. 
-
'Undo your gates, ye princes of
pride, the king of bliss come
in this tide.'

Saturday, October 9, 2021

13,867. AS A MATTER OF FACT

AS A MATTER OF FACT
Having raised the subject in an
oblique way, I was duty-bound 
to listen. The old guy was bent,
three crooked fingers around some
sort of bottle. His wife's name had
been Matilda. She was killed in a
fire that took down their house :
North Jersey somewhere, Closter
or Demarest. An old stone job, 
from near 1867.When roads were
true roads, and wagons still ran.
-
The place burned, and they'd
dragged her out in a sack; already
dead. He recognized what he saw.
but they wouldn't take his word:
'Were you at home at the time
of the fire? Was your wife acting
in any way strange?' I piped up
and uttered 'Dumb-ass questions,
if you ask me.' He sputtered, and
said, 'Well, who did?' So I shut
down quickly.
-
The barmaid said her name was
Penelope, but I hardly believed
her  -  a lot of times they just 
make up names, so as to remain 
anonymous. Like a gravestone
that reads: 'Who lies here, no 
one knows. Where he is, you
too soon goes.' Not that I've ever
seen that, but it was fun.
-
I asked if he missed her; he said,
'Yeah, with a gun.' We both ordered 
another, and just sort of sat there
and straddled two seats at the bar.
Silence ensued, talk only going
so far...
-

13,866. MAGIC ELIXIR

MAGIC ELIXIR 
That grimy face again, some
Newark of old and older : I, 
want to sing of the sidepost
jeopardies where the gangsters
came by for their food. A subway
beneath a city, both so uneven
as to be dressed in fine rags. 
No one even knew it was there,
underneath all that, and by the
1970's the train cars were still
1930's  -  looking like slumbering
bullets in a tube-tunnel of old
time. The black people who
knew knew not to linger  - .
watching one eye on the
gumballs and spittle. LeRoy
and Hettie Jones? Rocky
Marciano too.

13,865. SMALL SATISFACTION

SMALL SATISFACTION
I keep waiting for the satisfaction
that's to come but it has never yet
arrived. Though time is the waiting,
I am still waiting for time. My name
is Alonzo Speedway?
-
There's nothing in the manners that
marks a marked man : I go to dinner
with outlandish people, and we sit
at tables to pay outlandish sums.
There are flowers in the salt glass,
and some stalwart woman keeps
winking at me.
-
I can't escape, in a manner of speaking,
my jailers, my kinfolk, my masters or
worse. Those who gather at the stone
gather only moss.
-
Credentials? Now you ask? Only so
late in the game? For so many years
I have bested you all, done my utmost
while nobody came. I had no assets,
nor fortune nor fame. My money was
such that a tollbooth would break me.
-
Some stupid crowd slightly murmurs,
and I catch a few words not worth
repeating or report. The chief oracle
has always been my medicine man,
reading sticks on the ground or the
bladders of ewes; always to my disdain,
He never foretold any future. I waited
archly while his tongue froze in time.
-
Ed Koch, Meyer Lansky, Alex Fortunato,
all those chumps beat me to the grave.
They can have it for now; there's but
one life to save.


Thursday, October 7, 2021

13,864. THREE TIMES AROUND THE CLOCK

THREE TIMES 
AROUND THE CLOCK
Hold the hand of the familiar man, 
the guy who brought you in. The 
room being dark means nothing,
and the this world is filled with
possibility. Enough of a breeze 
to shake the petals on the most
tiny of plants. This isn't
time; it's being.

13,863. TRANSUBSTANTIATION

TRANSUBSTANTIATION
I'm rampant and ready to kill.
Take Five is playing : I like the
sound. Dave Brubeck, and that
guy on the drums, man he could
really rip. Broken time, a random
run on percussion's own head. To
go where you want and answer for
nothing. Translating any of that into
words here sure isn't the answer, for
music is an inside thing  -  spiritual
in its way, as much as a bread oasis,
transubstantiated, I suppose, into
priestly dreams of little-boy's
knickers. And how do you
account for that?

13,862. GESTATION PERIOD

GESTATION PERIOD
Duller than Hell but mysterious
too  -  and what do I know about
that? We wait for an egg to grow
its chicken-shell. Idle time is the
Devil's workshop? 
-
Somnambulant to a degree, I try
sleeping standing up, but all I've
ever really heard is 'I'll sleep
where I fall.' Either way it goes,
I'll have little choice in the end.
-
Who goes there? Who sleeps these
waking hours, who wanders these
corridors of dark matter : Dream,
nightmare, or sleep?

13,861. SOME STRIKEOUTS ARE BIGGER THAN OTHERS

SOME STRIKEOUTS ARE
BIGGER THAN OTHERS
Collecting all my errors in a
playbook by the side, the dugout
wall looms larger here than life.
Strategies, like double-plays, are
mostly accidental and can't really
be prepared; though it's really just
the idea that counts for most. That
baserunner on the field? Last year
he was a cripple, now he's as fleet
as a race-boat lapping the water.
-
Maybe it's fidelity that's best  -  
hanging close to something you
thought off; penciling in a batter
at the very last moment, or even
changing the pitcher at the edge
of disaster's cliff.



13,860. IN THE LAND OF BRIGHT MEADOWS

IN THE LAND OF 
BRIGHT MEADOWS
It is said that bears hide away in
Winter, in dens beneath rocks 
and all of that. I believe none
of it. The natural world's a lie.
Maude Allan danced Salome'
all over Europe. It was 1908.
-
I had a notion to slip her my 
eight but nothing ever came
of that either, and the guys
in the hostel said I exaggerated
by far. I said back : 'A man's
hopes should exceed his grasp.
Now who said that?'
-
Maud Allan was a student of 
Busoni. You getting all this stuff?
I can go on, but I'd rather not, for
the evidence is too flimsy, and it
was long ago. She toured all of
Europe, beginning in 1903, 
dancing to Chopin and Schubert
(I once thought he invented
Sherbet, but not), Mendelssohn
too. Gustave Moreau did the best
of all this - publicizing by painting,
in 1876  -  his 'Salome Dancing
Before Herod.' 
-
It was a really big deal; lots of
people back then didn't really 
get out much, and wild women
drove men crazy. God's true
order of things?
-
Decadence and careful drawing
gave way to impasto. The rest
is History. Or hers, anyway. In
the land of bright meadows,
nothing ever dies.

Wednesday, October 6, 2021

13,859. LIKE CLIMATE CONTROL

LIKE CLIMATE CONTROL
Always some fool-ass cutting wood,
lumbering trees and despoiling the
face of what goes as place. Hungry
for Montefiore, they race with their
guns and hammers and chainsaws 
a'blazing. I can't say anything back,
not knowing the language of such
cleft lips. We parade in their shadows
nonetheless  -  noise and harm gone
out of safe harbor.
-
When the mothers are at the stove,
the cats and dogs at least are safe.
Signs left about from last year's
politics now look like tampered,
wet diapers from a baby's sack-race.
All is quiet in the western front?
-
My autograph book is covered in
blood; red-ink abounds all the 
wounds now found : the passing 
acquaintance with those whom 
I've  known. A name here or there 
of  renown; now just a frown, and
even the graveyards are filled
with better than this.

13,858. 100 DISTANT LATITUDES

100 DISTANT LATITUDES
I first took a distant train to normal 
places a long, long time ago. My hands
were in my gloves and it was 10-below.
Some black boy in a Malcolm X suit
and tie was trying to sell me bottled
water and a pie. This is true. In old
Philadelphia, right outside the old 
Divine Lorraine Hotel at 699 North
Broad. I bit, and I bought.
-
Everything there was always in a
fir  -  crumbling an falling down,
so I took a chance. The MOVE
House was already long gone,
at 6221 Osage Ave. (I love such
numbers), and the only thing left
were a few crumbly walls and a 
few outrageous signs. Who knew
you could cuss the cops and life!
-
The pie was pecan. Not too big,
for 7 dollars then, but I didn't
really feel cheated. Except, I
thought, they were making a 
parody somehow of their own
Southern past. Selling a Georgia
Pecan Pie in a Malcolm X suit
and tie. Tophat too! None of
it seemed to fit, but I'm the
suspicious sort, I admit.
-
Now, things can be chortled at
and ridiculed, yes. But dead bodies
in a bombed house from the sky,
black babies too and families
blown high. I walked away
some more, and wondered 
'why?'

Tuesday, October 5, 2021

13,857. RUDIMENTS, PT. 1,217

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,217
(josef and anni albers)
I guess that at some point, in
and through all of our lives, we
come face to face with the fact
that most of this country is made 
up of abnormal BS. I've lived in
the city, the deep country, the
plain old country, and suburbia,
and many of the viewpoints I've
amassed grow from those places
and experiences  -  which remain
as vivid to me today as ever, 
with some far outpacing others. 
For the most part I've reveled 
and advanced in this life with 
a credible content of whimsy, 
learning and joy. Mostly.
-
The content part never much 
mattered because it could be
changed at any point. Life sort 
of flavors itself all along the
way and  -  in much the same
way as a box of Good n' Plenty,
you can shake it and mix it up
but you're still dealing with the
same two, colorated, forms of 
the same old sugary crap.
In so many ways it's all just
a scenario of pick and choose
amidst the good and the plenty.
Weird how that works. We are,
at all times, and often without
even knowing it, underway with
a character-building project for
ourselves. For each of us. 
Different.
-
I try to think back to those days
of walking the NYC streets and I 
see now that in so many ways it 
was a gift; something presented 
to me as a stage-set in which I'd 
been let into the prop-room so as
 to see what was there, what 
costumes and effects were being 
presented to me. It was a darker
and 'griftier' room for sure, one 
where noir figures in half-stooped 
poses stared down at the ground; 
where a cigarette and a grubby
jackets were incidental necessities,
and one in which talk  -  glib, idle,
groundless  -  was much more
prevalent. The world was a mass
of movement; a pavement on the run. 
-
If you think of confusion, think this:
Josef Albers was a German artist  -
as was his wife Anni. They arrived
to the US about 1933, fleeing the
Nazi Germany occurrences. Josef
knew very little/none English, and
his wife Anni acted, as best she could,
as interpreter for him. He and she
were hired, immediately upon arrival,
as faculty members of the newly
formed and  'experimental' Black 
Mountain College, in North Carolina.
In spite of any language difficulties,
they prospered there, both teaching
and living. In constructing this new
'American' apparati of living. Josef
had major problems with the language.
He could never understand, for instance,
the meaning or pronunciation of almost
every word, and she too was often
enough baffled in her own way by 
the irregularity of American usage. 
So, imagine if you will, that added 
dimension of such a blank wall of
confusion in the face of a new land,
a new language, and a transplanted
German idea of 'America'  -  previously
grounded, of course, in its urban form
but now presented in a strangely hick
and rural North Carolinian form. He,
using the logic of German speaking,
for instance, could never understand
why 'future' did not mean the simple
opposite of 'pasture.' At another time,
in a local, country-fair aspect of things,
Albers was perplexed by hearing a 
man ogling the passing girls, utter 
the phrase, I'd like to 'dip my stick 
inside her.' (That being the erroneously 
heard cinammon stick/apple cider offer 
advertised on the nearby booth). These
are the effects of a plain and logical
form of Americanism-in-context, but
as you see when even ever so slightly
removed from proper context, they can
be seen otherwise as strange outcrops
of a new land and a new formation.
I wonder where we each would be,
as well, in, say, India, putting 'motor
oil' on our 'cake,' or somesuch odd
and foreign infraction. As he put it, 
at age 45, it was 'Too late to learn 
a new flexibility of the mouth.'
-
-
It was never within my means to
portray properly the influx of all this
rattling around; the noise of living
made by the huge resound of the
world around me. I regaled in silence
more than any noise, and I realized,
as well, that 'Humanity' drove itself
towards noise, plain and simple. How
does a person fit into that mix? The
din, the sound, versus the paradoxical
need for the most simple of silences
just to think. it often got treacherous.
-
I found, as I progressed, that I more
and more needed less and less with
which to go on. I somehow sensed
right off that the 'business' world
wasn't for me. Nor could I ever
understand any of the usual crap 
about 'going to college to major
in Business'  -  whatever that was
meant to get across. Diddly-squat
'Junior Colleges' - a big thing back
than on about the same par with
todays diluted versions of ersatz
community-colleges offering 
2-year degrees in what's politely 
called 'Criminal Justice' or 'Medical 
Coding'  -  all muddle-headed
versions of paying for taking up
space in exchange for a piece of
paper that says you took up space.
MBA's abound on the zig-zag ship
of dirty commerce. That was, for
sure, the far-distant polar opposite
of anything I cared about. My world
was the streets, and my business
dealings, in 1967, consisted mostly
in the 'companionship' of a trite
and erroneous drug-dealing guy
who lunged at his dealings with a
spiteful glee and then somehow
betrayed his whole scene. 
MBA indeed!
-
As Albers would put it, in his
journal, about the English language : 
"Get very mad at the English
language...so disorderly...so
illogical....'Ja, es macht wirklich 
wild-manchmal-' that's why I am 
so slow to learn.'







Sunday, October 3, 2021

13,856. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,216

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,216
(cap and gown to frap and frown)
Old-style life can get pretty weird, 
and old-style life is all I really care
about. The rest can go straight to 
Hell. I live by tenets of stone and
wood, not plastic and vapor. And,
representing their own frizzed-up
present day, each and any of the
lunkheads who now parade about
as the elders of wisdom and the
masters of scorn can drown in
own spittle. I'm long already tired
of ads and commercials, crusades
and marches that sustain themselves
on the false blood of others: Equality,
fairness, balance, goodwill, etc;
those have all become agenda'ized
ooze-bubbles of rank malice. This
stupid country now claims to have
solved its 'race' problem by putting
the day's leading sub-group in the
forefront of commercials. How dumb
can one be? So, they too get headaches,
fat-bloat, hemorrhoids, adult-leaks,
diabetes, memory-loss and anxiety?
They too can eat like fool-pigs and
act like idiot-clowns who life in
over-packed palaces of distractions,
games, toys, foods, and big-assed
sexuality. They too have barbecues,
pools, foolish kids and offspring
who gush at the normal ideas of
new cars, cheesy travel, electronic
games and horrors, and, as well,
dawdling, alzheimer-confused
by both banks and security parents, 
oldsters, and stumbling incontinents
who've fallen and can't get up.
-
That's today's leveled playing field 
and all other race-problems have
been solved? And such is the current
viewpoint of the moronic zombies
who hold power. Money-power,
medical power, psychological power,
political power, societal and media
power. Over us. They should die first
by their own swords, and then by ours.
A second shot of glory never hurts.
The turn-wheel always goes around,
and soon enough I hold fond hopes
of it landing on their spots and tokens,
so that the red River of Comeuppance
can run freely. In all of my days  -  from
NYCity to Columbia Crossroads and
back  -  Elmira, Ithaca, and the bunghole
of NJ  -  I have seen such a debacle as
that which  presents itself to me as the
present day: scabrous overweights, tons 
of blabbering fool idiots, morons of a 
virtual world, and preoccupied fools
and ignoramuses attempting to now
re-write their own ignorance of both
History and Ethics into a new grail
of a scrawny holy writ. I won't bite,
and I'll go done first fighting. 'He 
killed the bastards but died doing 
so' would my tombstone read.
-
There have been so many paradoxes
and quandaries in my life that, now,
after all this time, I can only realize
that most of it was words  -  and those
who rule, who are in control, are
the same ones who 'control' the words.
The 'concepts' by which we live; we 
adhere to; we make 'Society' by. It's
all theirs, none of it is ours, nor has
it ever been. That's the creative glory
of Art and Writing. It's all like a big
Fuck-You, a Banksy on the wall of
the world. All the limits are down when
writing; I can remake my world and
my reality  -  and what's unbelievable
about that is 'How different is any of
that from the virtual world crated by
the punk neuromancers of 
Silicon Valley? 
-
My Mother always used to sort of
grit her teeth and utter 'God give me
the strength.' It was her response to 
a hardship or an endurance she was 
facing. I used to want to say to her
back something like - 'You've already
been given all the strength you're
going to have. There's no re-load; 
and all that you came in with is all 
that you've been supplied, and it's 
all there already. You HAVE it!'
In any case, she always kept her
own view of this active God who
would dip back down and enter  -
for her benefit  -  a few more of 
the needed refinements to get her 
through the moment. Strange was it,
but it was even stranger as I thought
about it. My young years got all
mottled up with these oddly changing
motifs and references, though I never
saw anything actually 'happening'
because of them. The world was a
captive (already, then) to those forms
of control and formation precipitated
by others. we were ALL slaves.
-
The concepts and the presuppositions
I'm writing about are all still present,
and still prevalent too, although the
dress and the make-up is now all 
different. It's insidious too, for as 
you are exposed to it the presupposition
is already made that you share it. That
sliding scale of the 'Normal' is now
the severe cliff off of which people
like me would supposedly be thrown
when 'their' stupid round-up comes. 
A rendering of deceit, and conceit 
too - something named Pelosi-itis,
or Bidentia. I wonder if they'll make,
and peddle, medicines to sure that.
-
I end up viewing the world in my own
peculiar way, and I'm quite proud of it.
But, as I said in the beginning here, I
live and come out of a different world,
and one in which I decidedly choose to
stay. Where things are 'things', and rank
stupidity and bullshit do nor rule. My
conclusive thinking now runs to the idea
of the characters and traits of the truly
stupid  -  those we see, everywhere, who
accept and buy all this crud. The entire,
creative, God-given world is all around
them, yet they ignore it, do nothing with
it, and function with blinders in a world
given to them by foul others. They remind
me of nothing more than a person, in an
aquarium store, who goes there to buy a
few more, small, fish and is given them
to take home in a small, plastic sack, with
water, in which they had been placed.
By today's standards of intelligence and
knowledge, these people would  -  instead
of pouring the new fish out of their carry
sack, into the larger aquarium water -
simply drop that new sack, unopened,
into the aquarium water, and say they
have added new fish.



Saturday, October 2, 2021

13,855. MANAGEMENT

MANAGEMENT
"For the inclined passenger to
lie down flat is a difficult feat
to achieve while moving. You
will note this train achieves a
speed past 80mph, ground miles,
and the force of the uncertain
momentum of curves and hills
and inclines can be discncerting.
Do not make any sudden moves
unless first certain that you are
secure, and remain away from
doors and windows in periods
of such uncertainty." Thank you,
Management.

13,854. HOLSTER

 HOLSTER
Derelict animals make me look for
something, maybe over the windows
or under chairs. I can't stop spinning
this clock I'm winding; and I thought
it was done before. One crazy-man
melody rounding the bend. I talk to
St. Christopher, 'Please get me home.'
-
Spelunkers are lining the cave with
insurance. They say it's better even
than insulation ever could be. The
man on the side of the road disagrees,
and says 'They should leave things
alone and move on.'
-
I have a leftover tomorrow that's 
still in my pocket (I guess that's 
better than moving around?)  -  
just one more thing I never 
properly used, but what can be 
done with yesterday's dream?

Friday, October 1, 2021

13,853. JUGGLING THIS PATRINOMY

JUGGLING THIS PATRINOMY
The car keys on the wall tell me
nothing : Except that someone
hung them there, and on their
proper clip. Going nowhere is
still going fast?
-
Look back if you wish over the
14 ages of man: Count this one
as most costly, with fossil fuels
and trips to the moon and Mars
rovers-landers, and reports of
new doom. Sailboats are etched
in pottery now, like old explorers
on a patch of bare ocean.
-
I'm humbled by nothing except
humiliation; the dry-heaves in
a new sink of time. The old house
crumbles, and the new one whines.
I still read the Bible but skip lots
of pages; some of it now is so old -
I hate. Abraham, Esther, Enoch,
and all that.
-
Carvel once colored the ice-cream
flats, but now floaties and lattes
take care of all that. The whiz-bang
kids line up at Taco Bell but order
from Wendy's. Oh Hell, so what,
it's just across the way.

13,852. FRUITBOUND FRISSION

FRUITBOUND FRISSION
Walking the low horizon, just
watching the sunlight run. I'm
reading Thoreau as though on
the go. Lazy man blues.
-
He portrays man as the animal
that ought to walk four hours a
day. Easy for him to say. The
now-backbone of our once
necessary play has been long
diminished by the manic push
of industry's immense energies.
-
And even that's all gone now.
In fact, someone contact him to
tell him, OK, that this place he
once knew is now worse than
a zoo : In which all work has
been turned into play.

13,851. A' CAPELLA

 A'CAPELLA
Off the top of his head?
No, just off with his head.
Damn the torpedoes and
full speed ahead.
-
I've got a light-bar now
shining to Heaven, and 
a Linda Blair doll on my 
dashboard too. Roll with
the steamer, go with the 
flow, full speed ahead
and look out below.