15,619. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,299

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,299

(patron saint of nothing, pt. ONE)

I was down in the valley, of some old

dirt road, and it seemingly went nowhere.

'Cortese Road,' the sigh read. Some guy at 

the end, with a sign tacked to a tree  - It 

read 'Hounds, Good Hunters, $800'. All

pretty non-specific, I thought. Been through

that before  -  got bird chasers, bird pointers,

bird retrievers. I'd heard all about the varied

types of hounds there was, from Coonhound

to Blue Tick. Old talk, and tired.

-

The guy comes out  -  an old, grizzled

sort, on a quad no less, riding with a dog

too. He says 'Hey, what'cha doin? This

is private property, you know.' I said yeah.

I was here to see some dogs. He said 'Well,

while you're here, let's have a beer.' I said

OK. He took me up to a nice-looking shack.

The type of place that, over years, grows  -  

added on with little wings and rooms.

-

I sat down, against a wooden wall. Solid

enough, the wall, but I couldn't be sure if

it was just an 'outdoor' wall or if there was

a room inside, behind it. The outdoor walls

were dark green, with the usual hunting

photos  -  even a deer, being gutted, while

it hung dead, from a tree. I guessed the

guy in the photo was him from a younger

day. I never did get inside, but I saw

it was just him alone, I figured - no

family or group photos, no kids, no wife.

A nice gun cabinet hugged the corner.

He starts to talking again  -  about other 

houses along the road, what he called 'the 

neighbors.' Said they was a 'good enough 

bunch', but then he began picking apart 

each family as he reviewed.

-

'It's a decent enough bunch; some of the

houses need work, maybe, yeah, but it stays

pretty damp down here, and cold some too.

Hot air rises, you know, and what we get of

it just all seems to float away. No sense in

fighting it though, other than just move away.

Some do that. Can't take it, I guess. The blue

house, up yonder, see, that's Vaeth's. Nice

bunch; he's a carpenter or wood-worker,

some sort. Two wild daughters that ought'a

know better by now  -  turning into women,

you know  -  but they don't know no better.

Always carryin' on here, in the woods.

Boys and school-friends and the rest. Not

good. Seen a few outrageous things go on,

right here, from looking out that window

when I sit. The dogs too. I could write

a book, just to have it banned!'

-

I said, 'They don't much do that anymore,

banning books, leastways not over sex. 

Maybe over other things now; can't never

tell.' He laughed, and said, 'Camp Never

Tell!' - sounds like one of those wild

sleepover places they got in the woods.

The father, you know, over there in the

Vaeth place, he's been carryin' on too 

with the Marilyn girl, the wife over on 

the other side here, of that little hill.

Yep; think he'd know better, but we see

'em both, me and the dogs. Things they

do too, they'd curl your hair.' I stopped

him. 'I don't want to hear this stuff; I

don't care what people are doin'!' He

scoffed. 'I seen it! Can't ignore it. Thru

the windows or not, it's a show.' I wanted

 to get out of there, and soon. 'Sloppin'

around on each other, with their tongues

and everything! You'd'a had to see it!'

-

Just then another dog came into the area,

and damn it all, beats tarnation, if it didn't 

just set right down and start licking it's 

own balls  -  it was as if the guy and the 

dog had a perfect communication. 'That's

Henry,' the guy says. 'Right now I'm up

to H with the naming. He's the newest.

Want him?' Yep, I know you're counting

he's the #8 dog here. Got a bunch. I said

I'd have to think about taking Henry,

maybe another time. Then the guy says,

'Hounds, y'know. Hounds all. They bay,

that's the noise they make  -  a kind'a

half moan and half wail  -  at the 

moon,or at raccoons, and bears too. 

Hell, it's all good company, and I got

nothing else. You oughta come 'round 

here more. I like the company. Gets

lonesome some, and I got nobody. Right

now I'm setting in with the firewood for

the season. Gotta' keep ahead on that.'

-

I said I'd come back, but I didn't want to be

hearing no more about the carrying-ons of

his neighbors, be they salacious, serene

or obscure. He opened another beer, and

somehow I stayed there for that too.

15,618. THAT'LL HAVE TO BE ANOTHER STOPPING-OFF PLACE

THAT'LL HAVE TO BE ANOTHER STOPPING-OFF PLACE

I've got no reason to be there, actually, and right

here the fire is warm. I'm fine. Why should I

go where I don't have to go and learn nothing

new from the going? There are major these 

impediments, don't you see. Elmira, you say?

Or Ohio again? A couple of folks there I once

knew. I suppose that would be nice.

-

It's a little town, a place not like this at all.

It has curbs, and gutters, and sewers. The

roadways are paved and have lines, lights,

and signals too! A couple doctors, and a

veterinarian clinic, for animals, that takes

people too? It's all starting to sound like

Ripley's Believe It Or Not!

-

I like places with rivers. Susquehanna, the

Delaware, the Chemung and the Conestoga.

The Hudson's OK but old hat  -  too many 

people, and all the old stories of merchants

and Dutch are so gone it's now laughable.

-

There's some major scene in a movie I once

saw  -  about some northern Scottish clime  -

they send some agent out to take over a town, 

and try and convince the people that progress

would be good for them. They won't hear

none of it, of course, and the guy just about

gets hung. Then he changes his mind, and

takes their side. Calls in the big boss, who

flies out to see what's up. Conflict, yes, but

(only in the movies) he too comes around,

and somehow the old ways win!

15,617. DREARY IS AS DREARY DOES?

DREARY IS AS DREARY DOES?

Signpost. Meaning. Significance.

Three notes across the road. A man

goes by in a loud red car. Why would

he do that? Performance unexcelled

must always equal noise? It was a

nice car, I grant - the kind they don't

make anymore, and wouldn't know

how to even if they did.

-

I realize so easy how far away I am.

Turbo and straight-pipes. Metallic 

paint and fender skirts? Things like

that are pretty dated, yeah. I go into

a sulk now, about all the things I've

missed : Moonshine and tight babes;

drive-in movies and open-pit garages.

-

I used to thrive to drink and ride.

104 mph on the GSParkway was

nothing to me at all  -  screaming 

between cars at high rates of speed.

Motorcycle venom and club-guys

poised for trouble and hate. Blues.

Freddy. That Irish Brandon guy,

who used to run Third Street. They

were good fellows.

-

What's it all for? Times that passes

like lethal vapor; a sad man with too

many stupid memories. Dreary is as

dreary does?

15,616. ONE FIBER AND ONE CUT

ONE FIBER AND ONE CUT

Right now the wind is wailing and

a new season is definitely set in. The

wild trees are bent again. Even the

sky bears itself with a difference, a

form of gloom, maybe foreboding.

Things run in low as October comes.

-

Maybe those Florida dreams I hear

of make a good idea; but I'm never

sure of those things. I like the simple

ways here of solitude and forbearance.

A place for silence and a quiet tone.

-

It's like saying prayers at night when

you're a kid; comfort-zone stuff your

parents beat into your head. Better

than dread? I don't know, but I did

it  -  when I had to anyway.

-

Today the two-steps dance with nothing

at all  -  they have no basis, no reason or

role. Religion is an accident, like something 

old-fashioned they may have heard of but 

never tried : One fiber and one cut, 

now, away from center.

15,615. HARMONIOUS NOISE

HARMONIOUS NOISE

Aimless to a fault, that's me. 

I'm not doing much these days -

a daydream and a dreamcatcher, 

me, combined. Miserable feet up

on the desk.

-

I look around to see something,

anything; remembering names

and pretty girls' faces, the guys

they went out with, and who

tied their laces. 'I've got a brand

new pair of rollerskates; you've

got a brand new key'?

-

Evening always comes - like it

does, even when despised. No

more frog-croaks at the water, 

and no more turtles 'hiding so

scared in their shells.' And, yes, 

these inside jokes will kill me,

sure as Nero had a fiddle.

-

Nothing past perplexity; nothing

ever clears. Everything grows its

own dense god. The real labor 

comes in slicing through the mist.

15,614. HARRY ENNIS

HARRY ENNIS

I had a friend named Harry Ennis, with

whom I rode many a mile. He was always

jovial, and drinking, fat, and with a smile.

Hed tell me I had a new way of talking.

We'd banter back and forth, passing the

bottle as we rode. He's steal from an

Iselin liquor store right before we'd

leave. I never knew how he did it. 

-

One time, I was in a car, driving, and

waiting at a light, and suddenly, amidst

his great and Harley noise, there was

Harry again, at my driver's window.

He handed me of a new bottle of

Jack, from Flip's, and he said,

'Let's Go!'

-

There's never enough time to do it

right, but there's somehow always

enough time to do it over?

15,613. YOU'LL NEVER

YOU'LL NEVER

In the shade of the oasis, even the

sunlight is false? Is that how it goes?

I have a hunch it's not that way. At all.

Everything is here to stay. One large

and lethargic magnification of every 

single thought we have. You'll never

see the world disappearing as it

disappears before you.

-

Eternity is a misnomer now, for we

amidst it at all times and cannot call

it by its name : Real things glimmer

amidst the false, and I have now found

out what Hell really is. It is the moment.

It is this thing we treasure, this blue

globe is bastard space; the tramp who

knows the alley, the guide who makes

claim to know the 'place' he takes you.

-

There's no judgement like the judgement

of others  -  illicit, false, and incurious.

The man with the yellow shirt is getting

into his electric car. He says little, but in

a new form of silence, drives away. Does

he leave a void? A form? Or anything

else but that silence he drives, behind?

15,612. CABRIOLET

CABRIOLET

Riding to the sun in a top-down car:

feeling like a Hollywood superstar in

a bratwurst car. It's said that German

engineering can do great things. All 

those magnificent locks on Auschwitz

doors, while the condemned choir sings.

-

It's too simple for either life or death.

Anemia hides in the blood, somehow.

I take my leave, I'm walking out. There's

nothing for me here, and I'm leaving my

things. You may distribute them as you wish.

-

Kenneth Anger and Malcolm MacDowell.

Jean Paul Sartre and Juliette Greco.

We'll take out coffee at the dumpsters

and out lunch at Lumiere's. Madame

LaFarge may drop by. Give her

my rings and say good-bye.

15,611. TIME AS A NARROW PASSAGE

TIME AS A NARROW PASSAGE

Actually, no, I'd be crazy to even try

to attempt writing about that. Seasonal

things are just that. The seas are on

the ramp of their own angle. Let all

the rest be. An abstract mind sees

Santa in every cloud, and a turkey

at every crack in a wall. Streetlights

and spotlights, tall trees and all.

-

You know how the cities and towns

now wrap trees in those little white

lights? I hate that myself, but the

street-walking in-crowd seems to

delight. Restaurants bellow gentility;

the white lights gracing the outdoor

tables. Waiters wait with a white

napkin draped over their arm.

-

It's not for nothing that this life's

a marvel  -  ground in stone and 

etched in a ground-stone pattern.

15,610. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,298

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,298

(five million years of nothing)

'The wave, breaking against your feet?

As long as you're standing in the stream

fresh waves will always be breaking

against them.' That was Bertolt Brecht,

writing that, or saying it, I can't here

remember. Will the seasons ever be

new again? Will there always be a

draft by this window?

-

I dragged a chair across the room.

Not wishing to mar the floor, I first

put that chair on a piece of carpet.

Everything artful changed, and it all

then looked so artificial. ('The rugs,

all skewy now, looked like creatures,

a mess of dogs asleep in random

places along the floor').

-

It was some year of jubilee? I hadn't

heard, nor did I ever understand any

of that Papal stuff. Jubilee? What jubilee?

Some patron saint of nothing getting

scratched and pawed-over by pilgrims

dropping crutches? Our Lady of

Czestochowa, again? Or that pilgrim

site in Serbia. I forget that name too.

But it will come to me. God guarantees

such things for free. [Yep, there, it

just came to me, and thank you Jesus

for that  - 'Our Lady of Medjugorje.'

-

I knew a girl once who worked in a

workhouse laundry. She was Irish.

A real screamer too; small, petite, all

things so, if you know what I mean.

It was always a pleasure conjoining

the seams. She sewed! She said that,

in the workhouse, two things never

mattered : Birthdays, and 'Mortality' -

which is what they called Death.

She said that three words along were

what they called a baby - an 'Item of

Mortality.' I thought that was very

strange, and man those nuns must

have been something. 

-

I never even was sure what a workhouse

was. Poor people? And they all seemed 

to be doing laundry, for hospitals and 

such. I guessed they were doing time?

Holding babies in their arms, within

tjhis world of sorrow? Say a fond hello

to your new item of mortality?

-

She also always said 'Time heals all 

wounds.' I usually added, 'In this

world of sorrow, yes. But even a 

broken clock is right twice a day,

so watch out.' I used to think about

those children  - was being named a

proof of survival? Without a name

would something live less long? 

Was naming having to do with

survival, and were both naming

and survival both also having to 

do with time? Baffling questions,

to which I merely just ended up

making my own answers.

-

I read the Meditations of Marcus

Aurelius three times. I read The

Consolations of Philosophy three

times also. Grateful reading for a

beleaguered soul. 'Live you life

as if you were already dead.'

-

The ghost was standing in the 

doorway. It coughed. Why would 

a ghost cough? I thought to myself.

Is there such a thing as mild ghost

phlegm? There's some folklore

about not giving the dead food. I

remembered that. No matter how

dense the Eighth Street chimeras

were, I was determined they would 

starve by me. Black ghost eyes again.

Black eyes to me. Five million years

of nothing.

-

At the tobacco shop, the silent man

was wrapping tobacco  -  Metroshian

Shag, I think the label said. For people

who rolled their own cigarettes, back

then. No one does that any longer, and

I probably have the name wrong too.

Shag was a kind of gay tobacco, nothing

a real guy smoked. I remember Warren

Gustin, the guy I farmed with in Columbia

Crossroads. he's be hand-milking a cow,

any one of 36, and with the other hand,

on his crouched knee, he'd roll a cigarette

in about 15 seconds. The guy was some

amazing maker of instant cigarettes. All

glit and glimmer, and it burned down

real smooth. 

-

The girl told me she was getting a tattoo.

Words from her favorite author, mis-spellings 

and all. Jane Austen. And damned if she

didn't  -  Pride and Prejudice. Sense and

Sensibility. Nope. Something earlier,

called 'Jack & Alice.' If you read the 

paragraph she used, the two words are

mis-spelled : 'beautiful' with two l's, and 

'friend' with the i and the e the other way

around. Here's the paragraph itself. - 

"The perfect form, the beautifull face,

& elegant manners of Lucy so won the

affections of Alice that when they parted, 

which was not till after Supper, she assured

her that except her Father, Brother, Uncles,

Aunts, Cousins & other realtions, Lady

Williams, Charles Adams & a few  dozen

dozen more of particular freinds, she loved

her better than almost any other person

in the world."

15,609. OH, AND SAFE TO SAY?

OH, AND SAFE TO SAY?

I like to think I have a fine body of

work to show for myself. Legacy

stuff, things to savor. It makes no

noise; readership quakes only now

and then. I sometimes wish I was

renowned and famous, but...my

light, under that bushel, turns out

pretty useless or only a candle

that starts secret fires?

-

I can hear the water running  -  here

the well has a pump, so it's easy to

notice. But there's no fire even there

to put out. I am quiet and dazed? I am

silent and confused? Are they both the

same? Parallel constructions of doom?

-

Why can't I wave my own flag,

somewhere to find a country of

my own making  -  where people

and things live forever? Where true

words mean exactly what they say.

Where the signs on the doors no

longer read: 'Closed, due to

personal difficulties.' 

-

I'm waiting for all this.

And soon. 

15,608. MORIBUND MATTERS

MORIBUND MATTERS

The fireplace scatters; ash and

debris. The low flame shoots nice

fingers up. I love watching my new,

kingly fire. Maybe another season

will dawn for me?

-

Is there magic to a candelabra? Like

those Jewish objects set in windows,

perhaps the recognition of magic is

all we get. The guy with the rabbit

pulls out only a scorched bunny?

-

What would that mean, on the

world's vast stage? A million more

hungry Ethiopians? Empty oatmeal

buckets in the line in some Delhi

queue? How seemingly magical are

the piles of the dead and starving?

-

I'm so deliciously tired of this old

miserable world. I want to sell my soul

to something. Is there an ebay for that?

15,607. SEALTEST

SEALTEST

That was an ice cream, way back when. 

I'm not sure if it's still around  -  one of

those wonders of memory now; and like

bleached-blond hair of old, meaning

nothing now as well.

-

The trees begin turning their leaves;

orange and yellow twists, drying up.

Another season changes, chiming

in with decibel-bells by which we

are attuned. What goes on can

never really escape us.

-

Russia? Uncaps another madman to

throw sludge our way. The American 

efforts range wide to nothing; our ways

and means seem failing. Flailing? OK,

that too. Bestial non-combatants line

up in New York City. The UN fiddles

while all Rome burns?

15,606. I AM AN AMERICAN?

I AM AN AMERICAN

Derelict in my duty, perhaps? 

But that's OK with me. The 

idea of voting is a cruel joke. 

181,000 illegals apprehended 

at the southern  borders in the

month of August. That being

ONLY the number caught; and

mostly let in anyway. You can

read a reputable newspaper if

you wish learning more. (There's

only one left, but, whatever).

-

The Martha's Vineyard Gazette

might also have a column, but

I said 'reputable'  -  not the whiney

fruits of some rich-bitch ranter.

So, here I stand, atop a mountain

slant, wanting nothing but a more

deft life and longer health for me

and the wife. That threshold does

lessen daily, and for both of us.

-

One day the sun won't rise.

Won't you be surprised!

-

Look at the huge shipping, trying to

park : it's loaded with our necessities,

and the sort of things you vote for at

Walmart. Cellphones and microwaves,

teddy bears and video games, consoles

and lawn chairs tents and cheap shoes.

It's all for you! Vote what you choose!

-

One day the sun won't rise.

Won't you be surprised!

I am an American; my hand

is on the lever. I am fooled

enough into thinking that 

what I choose matters.

15,605. SEA OF STAGNATION

SEA OF STAGNATION

So, the Bitcoin crowd sits on

nothing, and a red fire truck

rolls on by. There's a man on 

the lake in a silver craft  - he

sits alone, fishing for something.

-

Something to nothing, it seems

it always goes. We here are 

waiting for Autumn  -  another

of Life's goals? The stock market

closed up ever so slightly? Today

marks the beginning of what  -  the

burst, the explosion, of new money's

recovery? We should all be so well

advanced, not mere trolls.

-

To dig for dead money in pockets

on fire  -  (that red truck is still

rolling by). It seems the man in

the boat has dived in to drown.

I'll just let him be, with not

even a frown. Life gets

lethargic sometimes.

15,604. THE BUYERS OF JEWISH FOODS

THE BUYERS OF JEWISH FOODS

From East Broadway and Clinton and 

Delancey Streets, they lined up in a

row; hundreds of small heads mingling.

Delicate items, pastries and pickles.

Hamantaschen, was it, I forget?

-

I never saw a determined crowd that

wasn't on its mission to somewhere,

and this one was to God. Promises

of ancient vintage made to be kept.

15,603. I HAVEN'T A REAL CAMEL

I HAVEN'T A REAL CAMEL

Though that may be, I've covered

a few humps along the road in my

day. And now. And now. I say.

-

Bring me the chisel and hammer.

There is a hole I need to cut in this

floor  -  to allow in some heat to the

down-below space. Where my feet

stay so cold and cold air hits my face.

-

What else is there for me to do but

now chime in, for a verse or two?

15,602. TO QUESTION THE QUEUE FOR THE QUEEN

TO QUESTION THE QUEUE 

FOR THE QUEEN

I relish the reverential moments, whenever

and wherever they happen :  thousands in

line, waiting  -  to validify their own fair

sense. It's a wonderful thing, underscoring

support for the moment-majestic.

-

I envy good feelings. I envy the

strength of convictions and faith.

15,601. HOLD DOWN THAT MONK

HOLD DOWN THAT MONK

Hold down that monk, with his

head in the toilet. Let forth the

wild horses roam! There is not

a moment to lose; we are getting

too close to home. Get out your

lesson-books, Jack, and start the

walking to school. Sit at your

piano, Thelonious, and begin

with the noise you make; your

cabaret card is in the mail.

-

The creeps who run NYCity

don't really know a thing : 

They'll stab you and probe

you, and make dictates of

their onerous conclusions.

I want no part of that.

-

In the dimly-lit jazz-club room,

Myrtle removes her garter to sing.

Peppo the Creep says 'I have a 

garter snake she's welcome to use.'

He wants to be a lewd comedian, 

but I tell him there's  no future 

in that. 'Shut up, sit down, and 

listen to the music, you idiot. 

This isn't 1955, and Lenny Bruce 

has come and gone.'

15,600. FIGMENTS OF THIS IMAGINATION

FIGMENTS OF THIS IMAGINATION

Every time I go somewhere, I fight

the fancies of my imagination  -  all

those roundabout things spinning by.

The car-park where the two guys are

talking...and 20 minutes later are still

talking on, The slope of the land, where

the ski lifts sit silent and the lone deer

munches on grass by the First-Aid lodge.

The large pool for Summer, with the

water-slide, chaise-lounges, and chairs.

-

I imagine another life, one of leisure 

and money; all things I never had and 

only learned about from TV, the most

stupid place in the world : Patty Duke

and Bette Davis? John Wayne and 

Lionel Barrymore, and that guy who

played Tarzan or Robin Hood.

15,599. NOT MUCH LEFT OF ME

NOT MUCH LEFT OF ME

I'm a little shaken and there's 

not much left. I'm scared of 

my right, and I'm scared of 

my left, and where do I go

from here?

15,598. I NEVER HELD THE SCEPTRE

I NEVER HELD THE SCEPTRE

Now that the old Queen is dead, I

wonder for the morrow  -  ought

I move the chess pieces along the

board, or just wait? What has this

left us? Another void and a paralyzed

board with no moves left? I certainly

cannot now move the Queen, who

once protected the King? What sort

of mad game is that, that I never

held the sceptre, nor ever chased

a pawn, nor knocked off a rook

or a knight? Only the Bishop 

knows, and he's gone. Even

the Devil may place this game,

but He doesn't mess around.

15,597. HERE IT COMES

HERE IT COMES

Get ready for something, for here

it comes : made of glory but with

a bad reputation. And then what 

arrives is but a sprinkle of light

and I am too soon gone again.

- 

Samson Agonistes. If you try

reading that you will break

your composure  -  while some

will be lucky, and others unlucky,

there is a divide between the two.

Those who survive will roll on.

-

It's a tart world which leaves a 

tang on the tongue. Sorrow.

Laughter. Forgetting.

Here they all come.

15,596. HOW SOMETIMES WIRES RUIN THE PICTURE

HOW SOMETIMES WIRES 

RUIN THE PICTURE

In a manner of speaking, there's

not much to be done. The modern 

world, entrenched as it is, has its

rules and habits in place. Things

we no longer even tend to see.

Wires and fence lines, OK. The

eye just absorbs its own sense

of today, while we take it all in.

15,595. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,297

RUDIMENTS, PT. 1,297

(the wreck of the edmund fitzgerald)

Music has its ways of cutting

into a soul and spirit, moving

in, as it were, to stay. Specific

habits of space and time get

locked. I can recall, whatever

it was, January, Winter, 1972,

I think, learning on my feet

all the new things that living

in Columbia Crossroads was

presenting to me. Day after

day, by myself. Bitter cold,

an endless, white wind, which

seemingly always carried snow,

and the traversing of strange,

dirt roads leading often to

places I didn't yet know. I

was alone, in a freezing-cold

house with but paltry heat. The

thermostat didn't function, the

heating unit was a joke, and all

the windows leaked air (though

fortunately not moisture). I

 was inhabiting a 12 room, old,

monstrosity  -  to be tackled and

beat down, before it killed. My

wife and infant child had not

yet arrived, and it would be

weeks before they did. The

house was spooky and dark,

chilled and windy too. I sensed

there'd be a real need for some

heavy work soon  -  the kitchen

floor had a hole, and the stove

needed replacing. No gas, all

electric; some sort of modern

idea. Each morning I had to

set out, in an equally shabby

and cold VW, to Elmira, NY, 

just over the border, perhaps 

20 miles away. (I seemed to

have a thing about straddling 

borders, then, and now). That

daily drive was nothing really,

just a straight scat up a paved

'Route 14,' as it was named.

When, weeks later, my father-

in-law finally arrived, with his

daughter (my wife) and our

6-month old kid, I could read

the venom in his eyes as he

left them behind, to be taken

in by such a heap of trouble

as me, and that house.

-

Yet, my only companion on

that daily work-ride being

morning radio, I latched onto

certain songs that seemed to

shudder my soul and catch me

looking; encapsulating my mind.

At that particular time of life (I was

early 20's), I was still open to new

impressions. (Well, I suppose.

The more granular notion of

things which I now inhabit, 

perhaps no longer reflects that).

-

A little later, maybe three years on,

one song I can still recall, seemed to

have come out of the blue, turning

over tin cups and rattling pots and

pans. It was called 'The Wreck Of

the Edmund Fitzgerald,' and was

sung (and written) by Gordon

Lightfoot. He had been a sort of

folkie, from the Toronto, Canada,

area of cafes and folk-singer haunts.

Maybe NYC too; I knew I'd heard

of him and seen his albums. In

any case, this song, in and of

itself, bored into me  -  a strange

and distant iron-sound, as if the

voice I was listening to was at

rest, stationery after death, trying

to relate a tale. It retold the story

of a Great Lakes shipwreck, and

I was engrossed, had never heard

turns like that  -  the song seemed

driven and determined to go on,

without ending. It caught me

unawares, at first, and I couldn't

hear it enough. It told of another

place. (This one radio station 

seemed to just keep playing it, 

often and steady. Perhaps an

early pressing, or demo).

-

Other songs had maybe possessed

that quality, but never to the full

extent of this one, nor with the

same intensity. This song had fire

and froth, and fateful distilling of

a particular episode in hazy time  -  

as if that voice was calling back

from somewhere else. I didn't know

much, at that point, about the Great

Lakes, mis-reading of course the

word 'Lakes'  -  which word does

not get across the strength and

drive of those huge bodies of

inland water which act, and are

treated more as oceans than lakes.

Commerce. Scuttle, Traffic. Oil,

Grime. It's a shame sometimes 

how words actually mis-represent

the realities around us, as if there

weren't yet enough words to cover

all the peculiarities of our world.

-

This song caught it all  -  a glimpse

of a water-world working, the tragic

dimensions of loss and disaster, the

small comments of shoreline watchers,

waiting for something that never arrives.

If Gordon Lightfoot wrote that song,

I wished to know what he meant and

how he did it. It seemed perfect, like

the snow and hail I was driving

through.

-

Plenty of songs that try the same thing

just end up being stupid : I can recall

'It Never Rains In Southern California,'

as a for-instance. Froth. 'All The Young

Dudes,' an attempt at very little, yet

captivating because of its pace and

tempo and voice. But this song was a

home run, breaking all the lights and

knocking down the bleacher walls.

It just had to be heard. If there was an

outer limit of a song's reach, past which

only a few ever went, this one was

long in the lead. Like fire. Like ice.

15,594. IT'S ALL ATTITUDE

 IT'S ALL ATTITUDE

Once I walked the streets of Newark.

They were a useless, unbusy hulk.

Everything had to be referenced 

backwards, for there was almost

no present there. Ramble-shops

of sneaker bargains and African

hair - wigs and weaves and extensions.

The sneaker-shops blared hip-hop

into the ragged streets. All the past

was forgotten, as if a new ship

had berthed at the pier, letting

off its brand-new hordes.

15,593. FIVE HOURS AGO

FIVE HOURS AGO

It seems as if nothing ever

changes, while change is

underway all around us. An

unsettled mark of spacious 

time? Or do not they not

even go together? 

-

The old house, knee deep in

its weeds, came down like a

tumble with a crane and some

mallets. These demolition guys

really know their stuff.

-

What they don't understand is

the place they are killing : no

thought  -  not even idle  -  is

given. Leaving a void, where

history's rush escapes; families

and people and adventures of

another day.

15,592. KEPT RUNNING

KEPT RUNNING

I guess I wanted too much from

this one life and thereby never got 

on. Didn't say I never GOT it on,

OK, but really nothing ever soared.

To Hell with all that. I moved my

chessmen only where they wanted

to go, first having a talk with them

and then thinking to give them their

way. What did it get me? Forty traffic

tickets over time, a few penalty fees,

and a robust round of attitudes and

troubles always stalking. I managed 

lying low as good as any President

could manage a war: Men falling 

all around me, and blood running

in the streets. Someone was always

talking at me about The Promised

Land or Hell or Salvation too. I

wanted them all  -  a contradiction

that has turned quite fatal.

-

Having parked my car along the

cliff, yes, it eventually fell over the

edge and tumbled  -  a wreck in the

valley below. People tried to tell me,

and I loved them all for that. But I

ran and always kept running...so,

don't forget my last few marbles,

they're still working pretty well -

as round as glory, and as shined

as my soul. How I never attained

anything? A story to be told.

-

I did the Beatles and the Kinks,

Bob Dylan and the Stones. I walked

past barricades when the guns were

shooting past me. I cursed out cops

and belittled teachers and priests

and parents. It was all in code.

The key was in my heart, an old

Rosetta Stone of good intentions

read-out poorly as an evil intent.

No one ever got my translation.

15,591. INTERDICTION

INTERDICTION

Stop ye the running of the tramps;

cease now the kindling of new flame.

This world is over quickly, and the

lions were never tamed.

-

We burned the gorges and set fire

to the hills; the valleys flooded and

all mankind perished once again.

-

On tablets are etched the works of

men : toil, labor, destruction, and

then  -  warfare, kind and gentle,

as over as quickly as begun.