14,494. LITERALISM

LITERALISM

At times I have watched others

take things too much to heart, in

literal ways  -  defaming by that

the thing they claimed to be

following. As if they were, in

turn, eating the menu and not

the meal. Who cares how things

get done? Just get it done, no

matter the how.

-

That view needs a longer 

horizon than do following 

rules and running by dictate.

It remains a very simple matter:

Live your live well, and quietly.

-

So many ways bring us different

passages. We can waver or avoid,

try to deter, or deny. But it all comes

down to much more than sentiment

in the end. One must 'know' the

way to go, and that only can be

felt, not 'followed.' Do one thing,

and do it right and steady.

14,493. MY CHIVALRY

MY CHIVALRY

Before the canvas was even dry

I tried altering the painting to no

avail  -  each mark left a trail of

smear on the work. There was

nothing I could do.

-

 Even moreso, the light had changed

around everything, so that I could 

not rearrange the scene. Everything 

was memory.

-

I kept silent like a gentleman so

often missed : Chivalric in my

top-hat and tails, imagined. White

gloves. Polished Shoes. And oh

I so often dreamed the land around

me finished the picture.

-

Rivers had dried and trees had

fallen. Houses were new, and the

old people had died. I sensed a

completion, an ending. I put down

my paints, as cried. There was

nothing I could do.

14,492. HOW TO MAKE THE MEEK SMILE

HOW TO MAKE THE 

MEEK SMILE

Well, you really can't; or maybe

you can just try. Like Anne Heche

driving fiercely into two different

houses, setting the drunk blazes

afire, you've really got to push the

envelope so to crack the smile.

-

I laugh at others as much as I do

laugh at myself : there's no longer 

anything worth disguising. I'm a 

goof and always have been. It's 

a long tall Sally and cool drink 

of water. Defining my template

has never been easy.

-

Movie cliches, pop-talk and bubbles;

the world's a sonar blitzkrieg right

now, papering over the same and

the different, all together as one.

So, how to meek the meek smile?

Tell them a really bad joke? Bring

them some frozen dessert in a new

bucket of gold? Hail down the golf

ball soaring the air? Try anything,

once, that may work.

14,491. TRANSMISSION

TRANSMISSION

Over the distant wires the

message came loud and clear:

'We are losing everything,

there is no hope here.'

-

Fifty miles of daylight between

the plea and the help. Time

too long for waiting. Water

and mountain of hilltop and

dale; canyons and gulleys,

hardly a trail. 

-

What would I do if I had the

means? Send back a message,

 'It's not what it seems.'

14,490. PERTH AMBOY

PERTH AMBOY

The smoke at sunset drives

a red light back at the sky - 

a dust convergent, at ease,

with all things. The Spaniards

are walking the beach.

-

Men play soccer with passion

here, while the tennis courts are

empty. The Greek church, too,

sits lonely. This has become, after

all, quite a continental town.

-

The bakeries here are for real. 

Along the faint wisp of the water

rides the dim shadow of two

old bridges  -  something once

connected to a distant land.

-

The landscape is fading away.

The murmur over the land is 

now of a foreign tongue; a 

very foreign tongue indeed.

14,489. PERSONAGE

PERSONAGE

The more I learn, the

less I want to know.

These truths are all

self-evident, maimed,

broken, cantilevered,

sundered, and aglow.

-

The wooden-bridge

water-wheel shed-canoe

house-watchman tower

toll box has crumbled

away to nothing, and

everything has fallen

into the canal. 

-

A few black-men yet insist

on fishing for catfish. Late

at night there is a lantern

on in the window of the

old high-house in the field.

Mystery? No one has lived

there for years.

14,488. THE QUESTION

THE QUESTION 

I have contacted people who

think they know; reasons, 

meanings, solutions, and

answers too. Peoples' faces

around a bar, here, seem 

as visions, or as somber as

we allow. I walked in here

quite by chance. Here a 

monkey; there a charmer.

-

The slow flow of liquid moves

along, honey-like, as people

talk and digress. And then - in

an instant - all of a sudden, it's

over, like that! A cruel and nasty

thus, as someone's face gets

smashed by a rousting fist.

- 

A crack like violence hits the

floor  -  blood that trickles has

something to say. A few pass

on, others crouch to revive the

man on the floor. Life is like

that, I guess : some move on,

while others stay.

14,487. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,290

 RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,290

(things to remember)

I cast my lot, a long time

back, with a scarlet cloak.

A Scarlet Letter, even. The

first few days I was placed

into the last days of what

would become my 'time'

in Woodbridge High School,

the cool kids were all doing

the same thing: Hawthorne,

Emerson, even Melville and 

the Transcendentalists. By

the most exquisite of titles,

'The Maypole of Merrymount'

too. That was pretty interesting

to a seminary transplant like 

me. The other kids, as robust

and energetic as they were,

simply seemed to blow it all

off as if it was nothing. Crazy

as it seemed, the lessons went 

from that, with only a quick

seque, to 'Lines Written Above

Tintern Abbey.' English lessons

had taken an odd precedence, and

I was shocked too by seeing the

mundane reactions they had to

such stuff. If learning couldn't

be connected to anything practical,

no one wanted it around.

-

Not only was it a quick switch

(seque), but it was sort of backwards

in time as well. I said nothing, as

being totally 'new' to this idea of

public high schooling  -  which

I found to more akin to plain 

socializing and conditioning than

learning, or education  -  I wasn't

sure if part of it also included just

making things up, switching times

and continents around. Tintern Abbey

to Walden Pond, in an easy instant?

As I said, to the other kids everything

was always warm and fluffy, gentle

and giving. I found that to be no way

to be schooled, and no way to learn

either. Akin to, maybe, studying

WWII and just dwelling on what

all those good gents did for others

during the deployments, and leaving

out the guns and the bombs, and

Hiroshima, Dresden, and Nagasaki

too. An empty drumbeat on a

hollow tube.

-

I realized right off that this would

not work. I had nowhere to meld to,

no 'niche' of students to be part of,

or even to take comfort from. I was

a nervous, off-sides, stand-offish

kid. Most of the junk they were

wrongly learning made never-no

mind to me. All it worked for was

blandness and general agreement,

which is all anyone seemed to care

about anyway. The boys were useless

to me  -  a general tribe of go-getter

wannabees already in thrall to their

plain notions of success, money, and

achievement. Maybe that was the way

it was supposed to go, but it wasn't

for me. The military side of things

too, that took precedence. It was a

point of honor, somehow, for the

school to present it's new crops of

enlistees : razor-headed guys off

to shoot and kill in Vietnam so as

to protect and buttress those ever

loving and revered Freedoms and

Rights that were always being

blabbed about. To me it was weird

too, in that it was totally secular.

As if a God didn't exist, never had,

and was owed no allegiance unless

that too was connected with the

military might and prowess of the

USA, which mostly just burned

through things without even thinking.

Its own young boys included.

-

My failures were just beginning.

They start when you're out of 

step initially, and then every skip

or double step meant to get you

back in sync just makes it all 

worse. I became, for sure, a

solitary walker, and one with

my own step. It was as if I saw

a glimpse, long ahead of time, 

a leading glimpse, of the wreckage

and ruination I'd end up with. I 

accepted that, for at least my 

fidelity to self, at that point, was

strong enough to keep me on my

own fixed path. I was no 17-year

old, to be sure. I was an ancient.

-

Like a gambler, at table and holding

a hand, I was both protective and

anxious  -  I watched my 'tells', being

sure I wasn't putting any out. My hand

ws going to be my own  -  no slinking

co-ed would have a way in to peek,

no roustabout sports guys either. The

biggest complaint I had was this Art

Teacher guy, Frank Gubernat. Instead

of an Art Teacher, he was nothing 

more than a 'Hall Nazi,' who got his 

DaVinci kicks from pulling kid like

me out of line, to report to the Office,

mostly to be sent home (again) for

the day  -  too long the hair, too grubby

the clothes, wrong kind of shoes, all

that rot. At face-down value, Art meant

nothing to him either except the same

old rules, regulation, control, and

fierce adherence to a real asshole

discipline. It was at about that point

when I really and solidly gave up on

on most things. If this 'school' system

had nothing better to do than throw

up the low-quality for this guy to

represent and speak for Art and

Creatvity, they could all go suck

pipe. Guess what? After his

death now, (long back) they've 

named and dedicated a street to 

him in nearby South Plainfield.

'Gubernat Way' - ain't that a killer.

-

I made my decision to just chuck it all;

them and their formalized strictures

could all go to Hell on the last frazzle

boat to the horizon. I cast my lot with

Plotinus, who had said to his followers

long, long ago in Rome: "The search

for truth or reality behind appearance

would lead, step by step, toward a

recognition of a Spiritual 'One' beyond

all physical things, and to communion

with that supreme force."

14,486. SO THERE!

SO THERE!

I feel broken. I feel fragmented.

Like building-blocks of a child's

play town, built up but not cemented.

Ready to tumble at the whim of a

wail. Tipsy, and yet tormented.

-

OK, wiser-folk, how's all that for

rhyming? I did it this once, rolling

cadences out of thin air, to sound

simple  -  but meaningful  -  too.

So there!

14,485. ANIMA

ANIMA

The mother of the sea is

calling me, and lifting,

lilting, leaning, I bend

to my demise and drink 

deep of her sound.

-

The awesome grand resounding

of her heartbeat pulses me. I

rise to her attention. I rouse to

her decree.

-

The neck that arched, love-struck,

 reads her name upon the Heavens

and silent shreds of evidence keep

findings of her presence.

-

The echoes call and stutter back

my soul's reluctant voice. Wandering,

slow and dazed, it gropes and fumbles,

has no choice.

-

The mother of the sea is

calling, urging, me. Lifting,

lilting, leaning, I bend to her

command and rise to be.

14,484. FATHER MARSHALL

FATHER MARSHALL

You are not speaking of

time, are you? Is it that

I hear swoosh past your

face in its angelic bliss?

Claiming, as you are, to

have it figured out, and

charmed, and solved past

all that pretension? Why 

would you bother? Don't

even mention.

-

Thank-you's are simply

not good enough for your

God, are they? He'd rather

we proved our bloodlust

by groveling or slobbering

in the filthy dirt until His

tide would lift us up. This

gets too easy too quickly.

-

Father Marshall, should I

instead congratulate the

wonderous Devil in your

name? Or lend out my

obsequies for your honor?

Having known it all, you'd

most certainly have an 

answer.

-

Father Marshall, to hear you

speak of time is such a distant

thing. I cannot grasp a whit of

what you say; nor remember how

long or how much it will bring.

-

(Five dollars would be good

enough, if you would only sing).

14,483. AVIATOR

 AVIATOR

All these young men flying

to the stars, keeping a place

captive to their attentions.

Where have they learned

all these things?

-

Weathers and formations,

cloud patterns and winds  - 

deadly or fierce or peacefully

slow  -  so many observations

need to be made. 

-

The distant velocity of travel

and speed must be what attracts

them to this game  -  to fly over

home, or to buzz the lake. A

comic's sport, I guess, if ever

there was one.

-

Their travel must make them

wiser, else why would they

undertake these tasks? It cannot

be for what they bring home  -

empty air and unbound energy.

-

Empty air, and unbound energy.

14,482. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,289

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,289

(Tiparillos and Tupemaros)

One of my first jobs was at

a legal-printing place called 

New Jersey Appellate Printing.

Initially it was at the old

granary at the bottom of Main

Street, then it moved up (we

moved most of it except the

heavy equipment), to the old

Woodbridge Savings Bank

building (still there, now a

gun shop and offices and a

hardware and auto parts

store too). I liked both

places. The old granary

was cool, for what it was.

The bank building was

even cooler. First off, it 

was air-conditioned by

these two giant Chrysler

conditioning units, of sheet

metal, grafted onto each 

of two opposite side-walls. 

We used to blast the cooling, 

and that was a lot of space, 

and high space, to cool. None

of it ever seemed to matter.

I'd never luxuriated in air

conditioning before, ever.

-

Working at a plebian job like

that in one of those old sorts of

once magnificent bank buildings,

with the balcony and marble and

granite put one inf the mind of

working in a cathedral  -  as the

cliche went  -  of  'Commerce.'

It never made no never-mind,

any of that 'exalted' stuff, to us.

My fellow worker, Bill Konwalow,

kept the Led Zepplin blasting. 

Another guy, name forgotten but

who we called 'Weirdo-Beardo,'

was some sort of Rutgers student

who nonetheless managed to work

with us probably 4 days a week.

Never figured that out. I can

well remember getting paid on

Fridays, cash, in a little, brown

pay envelope with hours and

rates written on it. One day I

can recall me elation, at like

20 bucks a day, realizing I'd

actually made a hundred dollars

that week! I used to infuriate

my mother by just leaving all 

the cash boggled up in my sock

drawer. Another guy, Dick

Martin, was a typesetter, in

the old newspaper-type fashion

of hot lead and metal typography.

I often helped him, when not

binding or collating. He had

this weird penchant of devouring

every new issue of TV Guide,

which he'd buy next-door at a

small news and magazine store.

His favorite thing  -  he was

crazy over Marlo Thomas  - 

was a show called 'That Girl.'

I never saw it, but I always

saw him going crazy-nuts

over her. And yet another

guy, Milt Goldberg, was also

a character of note. Firstly, he

was traditionally Jewish, and

the first guy like that I'd ever

worked with (these were NY

Guild printer kinds of guys,

used to serious labor strictures

and production quotas). I

learned a lot just by watching.

Milt smoked a pipe, and even

gave me one. Having that

pipe, of course, led me to Joe

Kump, a cool guy over by 

Leesville Ave., in Avenel.

Joe Kump was an older guy,

maybe 60 or so, then, who 

had a very small, boxy 

building in which he sold 

and manufactured smoker's

pipes. He was a fine old gent,

willing to talk about all the

varied sorts of cherry woods

and Meershaums and all that

which went into good pipe-wood

selection and cutting. He also

explained the finer points of

hot-spots, lighting and packing

the pipe, cleaning and 'draining

it too. Pipes often accumulated

a killer liquid residue, which

bit and which you get in the

next lit-bowl if you didn't use

a pipe cleaner and things to

drain and dry and properly

'season' the pipe along through

its lifespan. Sometime in the

late '70's (I was gone again),

Joe Kump and his pipe shop

disappeared, replaced by 

endless garden apartments.

-

This printing place, at that time,

was by no means a union-shop.

It only became one after I was

gone and it had moved to a new

building in South Plainfield, in

some industrial part type place.

Pretty nice, though it didn't last;

in a few years it was gone. The

infiltration of these union guys

had been to plan, I guess. The

last straw was a guy named

Jim Ratigan, who lived in Fords

and has a little typographer shop

in some old firehouse. When he

bought into Appellate, I was

chosen to help him, alone, with

the manual moving of all his

typecases and machinery; 

no small task, into the Main

Street bank building. It was a

sizzling hot month, with plenty

of sweat on my part schlepping

all that nearly endless crap back

and forth in some sort of ratty

station-wagon Chevy they'd

purchased for the move. Jim

used to talk in exalted terms

about a printer  -  'You're a

member now, remember, of 

the Fourth Estate.' (That was 

something about politics and 

opinion molding, I think). 

And he always talked of,

as a union member, having

the 'church key'  -  I never

did get what that was, but I

think it had to do with union

halls and meetings and all.

I liked Jim. He was about 

45, with a small family. He

was a brawler, and a Weds.

night bowler at come bowling

lanes under Rt. 9 in Woodbridge.

He often came in on Thursdays

bruised and battered from yet

another fight, and often sort of

dazed and hungover too; and

he always smoked those Tiparillo

little cigars, the kind with the

wooden mouthpiece. Always

had one going. The weirdest

thing? Jim and his family went

on vacation, a trip to the beaches

of Peru  -  which was pretty odd

and unheard of itself, as a vacation

spot  -  and he never came back.

He was 'killed' it was said, the

story we got, by a poison dart

that had been propelled his way

from some reeds along the shore.

Blowgun, or something; not

ballistic or a rifle. There was

some political crap going on in

Peru, causing a lot of turmoil

about foreigners and all, and I

think these rebels were called 

'Tupemaros' - except actually

they originated in Uruguay, but

what did I care; I liked the

connection between Tiparillos

and Tupemaros. That was all

I ever heard of Jim; gone then

like the wind.

14,481. THE HOSPITAL CENTER

THE HOSPITAL CENTER

Wizened to a meticulous trait, all

these elderly folk walk gently

together. Clem with the cane has

his arm through Eileen's; the two

have battered their highland scenes.

Slowly, they walk, as if they could

be one, really. The world just grows

into uncertainty after a while. This

long, or that long, it hardly matters.

14,480. THE DRUDGE

THE DRUDGE 

From miles high off a clear-blue

sky, the intended message was

being delivered : cars went by

on Mulberry Street. A few kids

were out. There was a college

nearby. So many hills in this

one small town, what got

confused were the ups and

the downs.

-

A skateboard kid had his leg

wrapped in bandages; white

gauze and some plastic type

cast. He was sitting outside

the convenience store with

a sour face for sure. There is

no joy in Mudville, mighty

Casey has struck out?

14,479. THE COAL FIELDS OF RAZZ-MA-TAZZ

THE COAL FIELDS OF 

RAZZ-MA-TAZZ

I was driving past the coal fields of

Razz-Ma-Tazz today, with Scranton

on my right, and I couldn't think of

anything new to say. Neither could 

I believe I was on my way to another

doctor. Too many incredible things.

-

The new medical facility (its 3rd day 

open) was in Pittston. In an abandoned 

Walmart; not abandoned per se, just

that Walmart had moved to a larger

on just down the road. Off Rt. 81.

We entered Pittston with an hour

to spare.

-

We went down to the Susquehanna

River, but the bridge was out. Couldn't

walk it. No one there either, 'cept two

loiterer types, and a cop sitting in a

car at the Rite-Aid Plaza. I kindly

asked a lady for the time; she said

'Twenty after One.'

14,478. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,288

RUDIMENTS, PT. 1,288

('introibo ad altare dei...')

I always figured my first

language was silence, and

I was pretty good at it. I

never really said a sensible

thing until a number of 

years in. It seemed as if

each time I began to talk,

a thought got in the way,

and since no one ever really

wanted to hear anything but

the most glib pleasantries

and fluff, I always tucked

away any serious words. I

just figured it was all better

left unsaid. If I began, even

at like age 11, to start to say

something heavier or more

ponderous than 'good morning'

or 'nice car,' I'd get flamed

down and called off.

-

Hard to believe, in those years,

I was an 'altar boy' too  -  in the

local Avenel church, St. Andrew's.

Over time, that dumb church got

all entangled in my life and doings,

and I still to this day understand 

neither what happened nor if I , 

should have been thankful for it.

Probably a little of both, if that

means anything sensible. The

mark of my life has mostly been

if infractions or over-steps; I was

never one of those rule-following

kids who stayed in line. For all

it ended up getting me, I probably

should have been one of them;

the rest of me just became a

squandered mess.

-

Suburban, 1950's living wasn't

all it's been cracked up to be. Sure,

big deal, we had toasters and paved

driveways; transistor radios and

music to listen to 'outside'. The

telephones, at one point, in my

house anyway, got to have like

30 feet cords, so a person on the

phone could 'roam' inside the 

small house. Some days my

Mother would be yapping two

rooms away  -  nothing real or

special, just neighbor-lady

prattle  -  and it took some

gymnastics getting past or

around that stretched chord.

She'd be cooking and taking,

or ironing and talking (while

Dick Clark blazed away on the

black and white TV  -  some

proto-music music and dance

teen-type show, broadcast from

Philadelphia, mid-day daily. 

Goofy kids would dance to

acts like Dion and the Belmonts,

who'd lip-sync their own

prattle to a three-chord dizzy

to which teeny-bopper virginals

danced and pretended. It was

all too much for me, and too 

soon too. I wanted to swat that

Dick Clark guy  - slick and

smooth and false and shiny too.

That's how we measured out time

and days in the good old 'USA!'

-

So, back to this old church thing:

Difficult to maybe believe, but at

age 11 my two biggest interests,

outside of the tiny little shoulder-pad

of a library we had in Avenel, where

Mrs. Muccilli would put aside books

for me, things she though I'd like, 

no question asked. Cool things,

like those odd-sized poetry books

that used to come out about 1960;

Robert Lowell, John Ashbery, Frank

O'Hara, Berryman, Ferlinghetti. It

was a long list. I studied those crazy

books and all their tracked trails

of words. None of this was the

sort of stuff an 11-year old would

be expected to be reading, but I

did it. Mrs. Muccilli had two sons,

and one of them, Philip, followed

me closely through most of my

elementary grades; then I think

they moved away. There was a

younger son too. That family, as

well, was involved in the same

church stuff. Funny how all that

goes  -  you pass like ships, dissolve,

and fade away. I now often wonder

what she'd have been thinking;

maybe she could even have gotten

in trouble for sequestering books

like that  -  sort of the opposite of

a censorious outlook; but I liked

her the more for doing that.

-

She was a Goddess compared to

that baked weasel of a nun they

used to send our way. For weekly

Catechism. 'Sister Josephus,' she

called herself. I found out once that

her real, pre-nun name had been

Madeline Furie. That seemed fitting.

She was obscene, and a total freak.

Totalitarian in every aspect, a real

Nazi-toter, spouting venom at every

turn. She'd holler, click her little

click to get kids in line, and then

furiously stab and prod and twist

ears on anyone for whom he could

frame an infraction. She was the

most deviously engaged with Jesus

person I'd ever seen, and it was 

all a repressed and perverted 

claptrap. She was real tramp of

a nun and I was glad when I got

out of that one too. 

-

My best moments used to come

at 6:30 in the morning, whichever

Summer that was; I guess 1960,

maybe '61. I got hooked up that 

entire Summer 'serving' at the

7am morning mass. The guy who

did th Mass was the Pastor, Father

John J. Egan; a crazy Irish kind

of priest fellow. He was like on

speed; rattling through the Latin

words of the Mass ('Introibo ad

altare Dei....') in about 16 minutes

flat. Everyday, fastest path to

Salvation ever  -  The fleet-footed

redemption Mass,' I called.

Every weekday morning, and

Saturdays too; usually the same

7 or 8 elderly ladies, and an old 

man or two. It always struck me

as a little sad, as a kid, to see those

poor, beleaguered folk, probably

facing the ends of their lives and

taking a refuge in a daily church

mass and appearance, just in case.

Like having an insurance policy

against bad fortune. Inevitable,

but bad. Boy, now, looking back, 

don't I wish. The entire back story

of 'old' Avenel, all the names and

occurrences and changes that 'we'

as newcomers did with all the

new houses and schools (and

churches too), could be read in

the faces of these older folk. But,

no matter what, we held the floor,

they didn't. The physical church

may have changed (this was a

new one, around the corner 

from the old Avenel Street 

St. Andrew's church, which was 

then eventually demolished. The

new one, pretentiously, was on

'Madison' Avenue; part of the

same gunrack of 100 lookalike

homes in rows that my own

'new' house was part of. No

one ever sped through a mass

for that  -  'I go up to the

altar of God...'

14,477. FOILED BY ENDINGS

FOILED BY ENDINGS

Those white'd animals I see in my

sleep, they now scare me half to 

death. The other half is my own

doing, I guess : mis-steps and a

gerrymandered oasis of dream.

I stood once as high as I could, atop

my knoll of expectations; one that 

came down with a clouded nudge.

That noise now defines  me, and 

there's nothing else to be said.

14,476. HAPPENSTANCE

HAPPENSTANCE

It all takes place at the county

fair; the massive headache of 

time is there, with its rides and 

tunnels. Cotton candy and people 

screaming, the mad laughter of 

the shooting gallery and that 

sledge-hammer ring-the-bell 

thing the big guys are so fond 

of. Musculature is like armor, 

except you can't take it off,

 and it droops.

-

Surly girls and cigarette hillbillies.

Old men in top-hatted murk, and

their farm ladies in cotton and

gingham. Take a break from all

of this. Let's have a seven-dollar

lemonade? Fresh-squeezed? Is

that what you paid!

14,475. ROAD MAP

ROAD MAP

I lit out to Paris.

Texas, that is. It

was a no-place-

special. But. As if

I'd been there before,

I knew every nook

and cranny. 

-

Now it's 6am again on

a day I can't shake. I'm 

thinking bad thoughts

all together. About endings. 

They have this carry-law 

there. I already carry too 

much, so it's of no use

to me.

-

There's a little guy in a

boat outside  -  down the

hill and on the water. In?

I don't know how one calls

that  -  either way, there he

is. And here am I. If life is

but a roadmap, it's upside

down to me.