16,213. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,384

RUDIMENTS, pt 1,384

(someone is thinking of moments they've lived)

Someone is thinking of moments they've 

lived. I swore I saw Yorick today. You 

know, 'Yorick, I knew him well.' He's 

just a skull, in Hamlet, not even a full

blown character. Alas, Poor Yorick, I

knew him well. In the hospital waiting

room today, I saw him, alive and well.

His phone rang, and his ringtone was

some Allman Bothers tune, surprising

the hell out of me. He jumped to it, to

turn it off, or answer, or however phones

go. He was about 75 years old, grimy 

and tough. It was a urology ward, so I

figured it was old-man stuff too. I had

been admiring his boots. They were pretty

nice, tan, stately looking lace-ups, real

leather, and with nice heels and soles. He

killed the whole thing, the old fool, by

wearing gray sweat-pants and a tee-shirt.

I wasn't sure where he was going with 

any part of that look, but  -  even out in 

the sticks - you'd figure people knew 

better. It doesn't matter no-how, but I

figured them for a hundred and sixty

buck boots, and it all surprised me.

-

Most of the other people were apparent

down and outers, and the next waiting area

over was orthopedic stuff, or something like

that. I think maybe that's like bones and

posture and all, because a lot of those people 

were old and bent up, and old ladies too, in

their baggy clothing (what my mother used 

to call 'shifts' and 'housedresses'). I always

also notice that daughters always accompany

Mothers to these locations, but the men are

uniformly alone, and getting around solely.

Many of the women, old and bent wore

loosely fitting, baggy pants. That happens

now. Soiled and even stained. What a mess

as they shuffled in and out of range.

-

I sometimes like to do Shakespeare characters

in such places  -  finding the villain (Claudius);

there's usually one or two. Rosencrantz AND

Guildenstern are always easy  -  order-followers

and bureaucrats. Horatio can be every man's

best friend. (Apparently Shakespeare's pencils

had no erasers, and he made words up willingly

as he marchaid along the darible line!).... His work

with using women? Not freely as well done: "Alas,

she declines my privilege, and my spike into her

thigh she turns from! Oh how would I like to be

the doctor that injects her! My major chance is to

be her own physician!"

-

It's all famous; a long-dead goof on the lines of

tomorrow, then, which is a yesterday, now. Before

the days of lady doctors, and gynos, you could

get away with that. Today  -  though the fit is

bad  - they are everywhere. What sort of privilege

makes medicine a male prerogative?

-

I've always found Medicine to be like any other

propaganda. This waiting room is a certain East

Berlin, where the Stasi still wait at the tables with

their guns. The constabularies and secret agents

are the weirdly mild staff, calling people in for their

interrogations and needles. Taking blood, to then be

discussed later. All fate hangs in a balance, with the

scales never seen, and justice not just blindfolded

but red, with her eyes gouged out. The 'Doctors Only'

parking area, yes, is filled with the usual allotment

of Porsches, Land Rovers, Teslas and some also

frighteningly-fierce McLaren? I guess no one drives

Caddies anymore. Why step down, when the only

way now is up.

-

Our token moment is bereft of sense and meaning.

I'd much rather visit the mental ward waiting room

just to see if there's a difference. Things here endlessly

roll on. They should have a supermarket in place, so

one could do their orders in the newly confused space.

These phones, they keep going off. Everyone's 

listening to a different music! Is nothing

uniform any longer?

16,212. I AM ALIGNED

 I AM ALIGNED

I am aligned with righteousness and have

decided to so remain. A ledger filled with

love will not stop my flow. Goodness can

grow  -  I am convinced  -  like a perfectly

ripe tree. Nurtured by soil, water, and me.

-

Life changes in ways often enough, but only

a few folks see that  -  rampant alterations in

the fabric od a dream, things running backwards,

up cliffs and around old stagecoach roadways, 

while the old, patterned lady sits aghast and

bloviates about her past!

-

At the corners of Tioga and Main, the empty

Sears store has never become anything else.

16,211. THUNDERBOLT

THUNDERBOLT

Had a moment there, with your Mother, on

my motorbike; sorry we were in the woods 

so long. The damned BSA woudn't restart.

16,210. HAVING NEVER KNOWN THE ROTUNDITIES

HAVING NEVER KNOWN 

THE ROTUNDITIES

Having never known the Rotundities I cannot

speak for nor of them. Though I will try. The father,

I remember, was a strange guy who played lots of

golf. Bad golf, like working men do. Golf is really a

desk-guy's sport, not that of a laborer, right? I've no

idea what he did after games, or between  -  cocktails

with the high-rollers? He wouldn't have understood a

blasted thing. Pinching the waitresses, and bedding one

down. Well, maybe - but everyone tries something

like that, even the rich old crank from the local

insurance company. Then he goes home and beats

up the wife 'cause she won't beat him off.

-

They had a son in that mix too, Simon. Yep, Simon

Rotundity. He pitched cards at the local bar and

played pool to win a million. No better chance of

that than a lottery draw at a Mega Millions convention. 

He drove a '81 Monte Carlo, long and suave like he 

was dreaming of something. He might have been gay,

though he did have a girlfriend, as I recall, Sheila.

Sheila and Simon, both did the pie-man.

-

Deborah was the daughter; always reading a book or

drawing circles at the table. Art and festering poetry,

fairy tales and ancient Greek mythology. Pretty boring,

but some guys said she had her charms. I saw her just

the other days at Wegman's in Dunnellen. She's held up

pretty well, but she does look to be a bore.

16,209. BLINDNESS

BLINDNESS

Here at the edge of nothing, I am standing

five feet away from what I last remember.

I am no longer blind, though I might be. It's

an inclination to do something; either to see

or not to see. (And that too is the question)?

Seeing though is real. Not seeing is but a

memory to hold. Think of that premise.

-

Allow me to imagine something. The mark

of gold on the future of lead? 

16,208. RESTITUTION IS A MARKER

RESTITUTION IS A MARKER

I didn't know what this guy was talking about,

but he was standing by the automatic doorway

at the lousy supermarket by the river. He 

occasionally handed out papers, but, it seemed,

to selected people only. 'AOC is DOA!'

-

That was really surprising to me. At first I

thought it meant AOL, but then I remembered

that lady from New York; a bum in a fancy skirt.

Maybe it's only for the time being, but I figured

he was pretty 'free' and pretty 'bold' to be passing

out that flyer. Some idiot will probably bag him

soon  -  and, besides, AOC  -  if that's who he 

meant  -  has nothing to do with Honesdale's

lament. Everything however seems to be 

spreading fast and she seems to represent

nothing at all.

-

I guess the dismantlement of all our times

will take place in a natural way : things to

fall apart, instances and meanings to change.

I get crazed by what I see  -  no seems to know

a thing anymore. Knowledge is dead. Most 

people are local morons. The same 'Headlines' 

that scream of Ukraine and the Russians, in 

the very next breath and with somehow the

same intent to seriousness, will tell us 'Kardashian

bares her cleavage at the Emmies,' or some snide

crap about a model or a star on her 14th husband.

-

It all cannot be equivalent; but now no-one

gives a hoot.

16,207. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,383

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,383

(closing out this mess. Arthur, pt. 3)

The Devil is in the details, right? I

really want to be done with details.

While I was standing there with 

the blood streaming to the floor,

they'd wheeled Arthur away for 

some treatment or other, so that

was the end of him, for me. I hope

he makes it. He'd mentioned to me

about some 'service' in Vietnam, but,

being born in 1976 as he was, it didn't

seem right by the date. He was gone,

so I'll never know. Maybe he was all

made-up stories? Hospital roommates? 

I guess it's all and always a crapshoot. 

You never know what you get until 

you get it. Sounds like disease, right?

-

Two short and final things here, and 

then I'll drop the subject. The scene with

the nurses was very strange for me. They

were each very friendly, and talkative.

When I was first rolled up from post-op,

every nurse from the nurse-station I was

rolled past looked up, doing a cursory

glancing at the new arrival. Smiles and

nods and hellos. Then, once in the room,

they began filtering in; mainly there were

4. Judi (or Jodi, I forget), Jenna, and 

Joan, I think it was. I commented about

all the J's. Then the fourth nurse came

in and said her name was Kelly. I said,

'I think I was expecting Jelly.'

-

That was a big joke, and everyone was 

laughing. Arthur was in his spot, but

was curtained off from me, and it stayed

that way. The only two times I saw him

were the two times he was slowly walked

or rolled past me on his ways to other

places.

-

Finally, and most weirdly, three different 

people told me, three different times  -  

and I'll never know why, nor what I looked

like to cause this  -  their comments about

'What a wonderful head of hair' I had. God

only (maybe) knows what they were talking

about and why it was said. I simply smiled,

and said thanks. It was awkward and also

uncomfortable. A weird manner of being

singled out.

16,206. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,382

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,382

(hospital days with Arthur, pt. TWO)

(please read pt. ONE first for this to make any sense)

Arthur resembled an old Jewish bagel

seller or one of those tough, hard-working

short and strong sales merchants who make

a few pennies on each pound of nails they

sell and manage to sell a thousand pounds

and end up making a ton of money on that

alone. I always envied those sorts, and I 

knew  -  while in the printing business  -  

a few of them as discount paper-sellers.

They'd buy secondary stock, or off-cuts,

and always manage to turn it into profit

and resale potential. George Levine was

almost exact to Arthur. He had, along     

his wife and sone, 'Standard Paper Company'

on Hamilton Boulevard in South Plainfield.

George was a real paper go-getter, and he 

represented again an older, Jewish, mercantile

world that you just don't see anymore. His

wife, known to me only as 'Mrs. Levine',

would prince paper to me, on the phone, and

say 'We sell and buy paper just like bananas!

By the pound!' Then they'd do their 

calculations and give us a price.

-

Back in those same 1980's printing days, I

used to frequent places on the Bowery, in

NYC, and then the guy I worked for decided

to buy and open a restaurant  -  actually right

up here where I live now  -  and re-do it, and

all the fixtures and equipment, with Bowery

(known as the Restaurant Supply District back

then, when not just hosting drunks, homeless

men, and roustabouts or vile criminals), supply

houses as his budget resource. It worked! So the

Bowery suddenly became, instead of just bars

and Chinese Restaurants, for us, a street for

pots, pans, dishes, cups, ladles, and saucers,

among many other things  -  it was a real life

restaurant supply strip. Gigantic mixers, 

churners, warmers, and any and all of the 

stuff needed to get and keep a restaurant 

running and up to speed. Every merchant 

there, I would swear to, was some Jewish

finagler always making deals. They ran from

the Long Island swagger of a slick and ready

dealmaker in a Caddy, to the lowliest Old

Testament penny-grubber you could find,

selling straws and plastic cups by the zillions

if he could for a penny a dozen. All of that

I could truly see, while in my hospital bed,

as Arthur's heritage and his Grandma's days.

-

Arthur, the time I was there, was a real 

failure as an overnighter. Every two hours 

he'd begin puking again. Then he'd press

the damn nurse-call button, and start yelling

out loud, 'I'm dying! What's wrong with

me?!' One of his nurses would come in, 

tend to him, give him new puke bags, take 

the old away, and clean him up. He'd be 

extremely loud and agitated, and they'd 

sedate him; but my night was already 

ruined. I had to begin all over. By daybreak,

all would be calm again, but then the daily

hustle started and kept me awake, tired or

not. Shift-change of 7am nurses, then the

breakfast carts and food, and the 'take your

vitals' nurse patrol. Then Arthur would get

a visit from the Diabetes team, or some

doctor trying to figure out why he was

puking and rejecting food. Then the apologies

would start  -  to me, to nurses, to the walls.

'I'm sorry I made messes last night. I'm sorry

I kept you up. I'm sorry I kept puking.'

No one, including me, every claimed to

have been annoyed. He never did say

'I'm sorry about the TV.'

-

However, my last day there was just about

it for me. I awoke at about 8am, the food

cart had just come around, the little breakfast

things were out, my tray was ready. The TV

comes on. Hallmark Channel! What the hell?

I was then subjected to three and a half hours,

however many episodes that is, 4 maybe? With

a zillion asshole, fat, usually black, dancing

people celebrating their ailments, needs, wants,

and online desires in a hundred commercials! 

TV is one, large, absorbent, shit-sponge of an 

irksome oil discharging its gook. Did I say 

three and a half hours...of 'Golden Girls!!" 

That was a garish, disgusting show I recalled 

my mother watching, loving, and talking

about. What the tarnation was it doing on 

here in my presence? I wanted to kill that 

Jewboy, grandmother dearest or not.

-

People like Arthur usually get 'accepted'

just by being laughed off, cancelled by their

own being. Here he was, however, as an

active, controlling presence lording it over

me! I was furious, and determined to be OUT

of there by one PM. (That goal, thankfully, 

was met, after their announced 11am 

departure was cancelled because my own 

urine was still running red. Yes, another not 

pretty sight). But, before my release, or 

departure, or removal, or whatever hospitals 

call it, I had one last disaster to undergo. 

The nurse had cleared me, I had undergone 

my Zoom interview with the online IPAD 

lady, read all the rights and stipulations 

presented, and my new prescriptions. My 

nurse told me to close the curtain and I 

could get dressed for leaving. She had 

disconnected my IV, which ran into the 

back of my right hand, into the large

veins there, by means of a large spike

and needle fixture  -  which she neglected

to remove. Unknown to me; as I finagled

to get into my shirt, that spike caught a 

sleeve and was torn rudely from my hand.

Ripped out, I should say. There was now

suddenly a stream of red blood flashing

everywhere (I'd been given, 2 hours before,

an injection into my belly, of blood thinner),

and pooling on the floor and soaking my

pajamas, on that same floor  -  which 

pajamas just ended up being used as a

blood-mop and dumped into the Bio-Hazard

trash bin. Ha! So, there went another half

hour getting the bleeding stopped properly,

bandages installed and making sure it was

all kept with enough pressure so as not to

begin bleeding anew. 

-

Arthur was not present for any of this, having

been wheeled away himself just previous, for

some tests and evaluation. No goodbyes; I

left without being able to APOLOGIZE to him!!

16,205. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,381

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,381

(hospital days with Arthur, pt. ONE)

Of late I'm running jammers 'round

the cornerstops of Hell. I've been 4 

months now a captive : doctors and

medicines, needles and knives. I am

so tired of all of that.

-

At least being home has its privileges.

Private-type moments again, free of

intrusion. Sunlight and vapor to better

watch and to see. Noises to listen to,

casual for me. One thing I've noticed,

through all this time  -  with my many

interactions running  -  country folk

are funny. Sometimes even visually

so. But certainly in their talks and

manners. Cliche-like, they say funny

things. Can I see your 'INsurance card?'

That's one I easily recall, with the funny

emphasis on the first syllable. The same

gets done with 'veHICle'  -  which is

often just as funny. Cops (we have none

here) I can picture at the side of the road

out by Scranton, saying, 'Step out of the

veHICle please.' Another cool thing, my

food-service and meal-attendant was a

young girl, maybe 20, in a Mennonite

outfit. Each day, black, stately dress, 

and a little doily-like hat or hair covering. 

She never talked except for the cursory 

hello and you're welcome. Everyone 

else seemed to love talking. I did so

want to hear her language use, but

never did.

-

You get on any of those larger roads 

that criss-cross through Scranton (you 

can even 'bypass' the place if you want)

on the big roads,  and the roadways get 

more common, and large  -  Rts. 81, 80,

any of those crazy big routes. There are

some cops, and State Police, zooming

around, and plunges at guardrails and the

occasional wreck on the ground. People

drive like their butt is on fire...or their

house anyway. There are those ubiquitous

roadside crosses and markers and shrines

for the dead. 'Robert Quinn, 1964 - 2017'.

Sad markers certainly for the places where

death occurred. When I was younger, reading

illustrated travel-books or whatever, such

death-scene shrines were often catalogued

and collected in these books, along with the

oddly-actual religious shrines and statues  -

not marking any accident in particular, but

more just acting as places to pull over and

pray or worship -  at the edge of a cliff or

some treacherous turn in the Andes somewhere

which needed divine intervention to pass.

Amen to that! When I was at Princeton there

was even a band with an album out called

'Roadside Shrines.' The band was 'Racket.'

-

There's somehow a distinctly different

feel between a private-room Cardiac section 

stay and a 2-man regular-section stay; at

least where I just was anyway. I was locked

in for the last 3 days with a true nut-case, 

one probably worthy of a mental-ward, 

(where he'd most recently been, in Montrose, 

PA. Man, what a time that was, sharing 

a room with him  -  beside his constant 

bullshit television and movie-watching, 

albeit thankfully at low-volume, which he 

was nice about  -  he went often enough on 

and on with his thorough knowledge of 

movies and actors and bios. All endlessly 

fascinating, I guess, if you're an idiot.

(It's a difficult scene, always, I've always

held it against actors (whom I really

dislike) for taking on roles and faking 

their insincerity as sincerity, and their 

way through stupid scenarios, and 

mistaking the real place of their lives 

and minds for the inauthentic sham of

the suspension of disbelief so that you

cab believe this asshole in jodhpurs in

Henry the VIII. How they can get away

with this in their own minds is always

beyond me, and if they can manage to

eke out another real/fake life all while

play-portrait lives are dangling before

them, I so pity their fabric.

-

So, back to my 'roomie' : He had a claim

to be, I think, 46, with a birthdate of

March 26, 1977. Close enough to April

6th that I thought it warranted a Happy

Birthday anyway. He said thanks. He was

in for numerous, serious, failings. Pancreas

problems, kidney problems, digestive woes,

a festering abscess on his back-right side,

above the waist. He couldn't poop (6 days),

was on laxatives, had a catheter bag, and

was otherwise amidst a menu of ailments 

and treatments. Just the guy I wanted to

spend my free time with, right? His name

was/is Arthur, with a long, consonant-heavy

German/Jewish last name Wenkenberger

or something. He said he was a farm-boy

from up north Pennsylvania (New Milford,

NOT Milford that makes the Jersey/PA border

well south of there). He knew Yiddish, and

English, and had a heavy influence living

through him of his Grandmother's life and

influence. New Milford is up at the NE corner

of PA, more near Starrucca, with the railroad

trestle of note. She had taught him the Yiddish,

and of course we began fooling around with

words and making Yiddishisms and accented

comments. He also liked cars, and we ran

through an entire litany of 1950's car, names,

models, engines, and designations. So, between

movies, ailments, cars, and languages, we stayed

fairly busy at times. Usually some nurse would

come in for to 'take your vitals' - his or mine  -

and that would end it until we began again.

-

There's something cool about old-world Jewishness;

different for sure from that which surfaced basely

in this country and it has, by now, all died out,

leaving only the slick new. Concoctions, old 

remedies, strong attitudes and opinions. In so

many ways it's a throwback society; to a time

when people called things as they were  -  'You

schmuck, asshole, Schmiel, whatever. The sayings

and retorts were pithy and direct, often touching

onto the very edges of divinity references. That 

was kind of what Arthur meant by his very light 

Jewishness; more was in the attitude and the 

language tendencies than anything to do 

with 'religion' per se. Arthur referred to his

non-pooping and a real 'need to 'shite''.

-

The coolest thing about Arthur, and easily 

shared, as he spoke, was his fear of things. 

It was a paradox, because the things he did 

because of fear were worse than the fear he 

was experiencing. Here's a for-instance; 

pretty amazing, yes, BUT, remember too

that it is based only on what HE told ME. 

If he was truly a trickster Jew, it could all 

be BS also. His fear of dentistry and dentists, 

he said, was overwhelming. He claimed to 

have had 3 teeth that needed extraction. 

Three in a row to each other. They were 

loose, and they were painful if  chomped

on. So, he says he, self-made an old-world  

Grandma-concoction  -  a paste composed of 

some name of a toothpaste, and (I think he said) 

codeine, and a third ingredient I can't actually 

recall but it was common and simple. He rubbed

that paste into the base of the teeth and the gum,

at each of the three trouble-spots, for three days.

After which time, numbed up as they were, he

pulled the three teeth out with pliers. Just like

that! He said it worked and it was simple. I

figured that would be worth something, if it

could get approved! I hesitated to tell him

that the Dental lobby would probably oppose

that and pay to have it rejected, and they were

probably all Jewish guys too, but not his

Grandma's kind.

16,204. HELL IS NOT A WAY-STATION ON THE WAY TO SOMEWHERE ELSE

HELL IS NOT A WAY-STATION ON THE WAY TO SOMEWHERE ELSE

It's a strong face that makes decisions,

while the meek face just follows? Good

Lord, if so, that's a terrible equation, and

one we're given little choice in. All those

little slave types, hauling bricks to build

their pyramids, and being used by other men

to do it. That's called 'Business'  -  with and

capital B. I've known more than a few 

like that. Businessmen have always 

besmirched me, and I hope they all go 

straight to their moneyless Hell! Money

grubbing bastards striving for their lucre.

16,203. MADAM I'M ADAM, AGAIN

MADAM I'M ADAM, AGAIN

Not that magic has much to do with

this new world we're all living in, but

I'd feel firmer-buttressed by knowing

trust is better put in the hands of the

holder than in the hands of the tricksters 

who rule just to try to confuse us and

win. A lackluster service in the search 

for a truth? Who really knows?

-

The promise of life goes right down

the drain when we realize we get no

firm answers to anything. Troubled or

happy, dismayed or keen, we'll still

spin around in a cosmic go-round 'til

something runs down to decrease us.

Enjoy you, those later years!

16,202. THIS IS THE TIME I DISLIKE THE MOST

THIS IS THE TIME I 

DISLIKE THE MOST 

As for being someone else's captive, it's not a

subject for merriment at all, and the medical

profession is a very poor keeper. However, I

must add, there are necessitated needs for one

to keep alive; BUT what happens after that

is never thrilling. Twice now, it's happened

to me  -  after the interruption of a hospital 

stay is the need, in writing and play, to get

started again. It's difficult, like/as now, in 

getting that thread back and finding that 

flow again where the words and thoughts 

find their place and their moment; the mind

yet reels, still dizzy from its distraction.

-

There is nothing to do but slog through the

morass of interdictions which have thrown 

me off. Maybe find something silly to write

about, pick a point on which to bicker. It sure

is a long, slow trek from the hitching post to

the road again.

16, 201. PURELY FUMIGATED

PURELY FUMIGATED

I grew up as a Katzenjammer Kid, and

then became my own Jack the Ripper.

Never knowing how I managed that, I

had to fumigate my tent. There was a

little Shirley-Girly in there with me,

who had to leave before I could start.

Love pangs are forever hurtful.

-

When I was a child, it was all so easy.

Then everything got busted up and I went

lame. Nothing like a lame male should

be, it was me nonetheless. 

Very good,Eddie.

16,200. HERE'S THE VERTICAL OMFOSQUIE

HERE'S THE VERTICAL OMFOSQUIE

It's French, the word for where the cellar

meets the entryway. Usually meant, back

then, for colliers and kitchen staff. Servants

too, but no one talks of that any longer.

Maria cum servant ambulat. That's from

my first Latin primer, in 1963. Maria walks

with the servant. It just 'the'  -  no mention

if the servant was hers or nor.

-

I never grasped the point of that first Latin

textbook, and I still have it, the entire set, and

the Punic Wars and all that crazy stuff we used

to have to read. I only know Latin now for its

references. Those crazy legal terms that always 

need translation, like habeus corpus, and 

nolo contendere too. Of course, there's 

always the colloquial 'cum'   -  which once 

meant 'with' but now

means 'come.'

16,199. THE LAST TIME I SAW PARIS

THE LAST TIME I SAW PARIS

In maybe 1964, with the tremble of

an odor of time, I may have, but that

doesn't seem right either because I was

somewhere else. DeGaulle and Belmondo, 

they both seemed together in the Elysee

Palace, but really only one of them

was there. Breathless? Oh, maybe.

-

There were other things too  -  nothing I

much noticed, but nice anyway. Brigitte 

Bardot, John Paul Sartre, and Simon

 de Beauvoir too! Where else would

I go?

-

The Pope was underneath his mantle of

crust; still trying to change the world.

16,198. IN MY ONLY ITCH

IN MY ONLY ITCH

In my only itch I've got the

Fireman's blues; things burning

all around me, though not in my

shoes. Cannot get better than that.

I've walked to the alley with my

axe and my mask; oxygen freely

to gulp. The stairs try to beckon,

but I don't take the dare. I'm now

walking backwards to remove

me from flames and take another

gulp. There's nothing I'd like more

now than a respite from fire.

16,197. YOU SHOULD SEE

YOU SHOULD SEE

I read the NYTimes again today, sitting

back in a hospital chair. In a waiting room

like this one, there isn't much 'd rather

read  -  some Bloomsbury book, perhaps

or some Pre-Raphaelite blather. At least

when my some needs pumping from bile,

I'd already be where I needed to be.

-

Those are goals along my road to infamy. 

Calumny? Perfidy? Audacity? I don't know,

and who the hell cares? To the side of this

room, another hungry guy is ripping at the

vending machine. They do this, these fine

medical folk. I often get here at, it seems,

their lunch or break times. Also nearby is

a Tom Collichio cafeteria. Pretty fancy for

a Scranton locale.

-

Cat-scratch Fever? Do they still treat that 

here? And need I be wary of that? Now some

old guy comes over and sits by me. This is true.

He's been waiting an hour and is a tad pissed

off. "I don't even know why I'm here today. I

get here an hour early too, Been sitting here

since 10, when they wanted me here for 11;

now is running past noon. God-damn them all.

I'm only here for a kidney check, and they just

did that last month too!"

-

I said maybe he should go to the window and

let them know again he's here. He said "Nah, 

I did that already, but all they said was 'Dr.

Kendall was running behind. Is that yours too?'

I said no, my doctor was Kapp. He said Oh.

-

Then it got funny. He started telling me about

his old age woes, and he said, 'You're still a

young man...you'll see. What are you, in your 

early 60's yet? I said I was 73. He looked funny,

saying, Really? You look like a young man yet.

I said, 'You should see.'

16,196. WITHOUT NERVES

WITHOUT NERVES

I've got none left, I'm swarth and I'm

shadow. My words, they fall flat. My

innermost heart is another wreck.

-

How can I count anything that I don't

look forward to? Loud-stream and a

railroad-hiss, it all cuts me all right

through. I'm looking forward now

to nothing left at all.

16,195. MANOMUR AND THEODOSIUS

MANOMUR AND THEODOSIUS

Five saints have lived and died here,

each from far-flung places. Amidst 

these trees and ringing bells, the white

garlands and bricked lanes held them.

- 

The cattle in the monks' fields groaned

and moaned their noises, stepping up

the clatter only as the needs arose. The

gracefully-topped barns stood steady:

storms and greats winds ripping the

landscape but damaging nothing.

-

Iconoclasts were disallowed. The years

passed, quietly and steady; like the

strumming of some Greek guitar.

16,194. EURASIAN DEVILS

EURASIAN DEVILS

When they come here it will be on ships

with cargo holds loaded with people : 

Walmart toys and other joys, cascading 

columns of ripple. There's too much

now to wash away. Eurasian Devils 

like flies swarm.

-

The city streets will be lined with new

fears  -  news of the day will not matter,

but the zippers on high will still light

up the sky with events and locations

and patter. No one looks up from their

screens, so no notifications are needed.

-

The oldsters will talk of the days long

behind them, when all things were 

different and this was the land of the 

free. 'It don't matter now', the old geezer 

cracked, 'we've let in our own enemy!'

16,193. HOW TO TELL WHEN YOU'RE MAKING A MISTAKE

HOW TO TELL WHEN 

YOU'RE MAKING A MISTAKE

If the screen door stops swinging, I'd

certainly think twice. Take that as an

omen of something. Good or bad, that's

the problem; you can't hardly tell.

-

If your headlights stop working, I'd say

get out of your car. Surmise the situation,

or go ahead, and just start walking.

16,192. THE BUGLER'S OASIS

THE BUGLER'S OASIS

The dance school insisted on

teaching the Lindy Hop. I said

'What?' and then I said 'Why?'

Mr. Sparklay said 'It was a craze

dance in the 1920's, after the

Charles Lindbergh air flights.

Short hops, to here and there,

in a plane; which was all new

back then. Some people like

things like that, so we offer it,

but there's no one here left now

who ever actually 'danced' it.

They've all died off, and what's 

left are others teaching what

they 'learned' as it. So, who

knows now?'

16,191. CANDOR IS THE MOST FUN

CANDOR IS THE MOST FUN

Tell me what you're thinking, just

this once : libel laws around here

cannot be broken; it's a wild, open

country. 'I'd like to take you down

this wooded lane, just you and me.'

How was that; in all candor, did it

make you blush?

-

When I first came here, by myself,

I couldn't figure this area out. I knew

where I was, map-wise, but then every

place led to somewhere else and no place

was quite where it said. Lots of broken

houses, and plenty of derelict things:

cars, trucks, buses and tractors too;

stuff lining the sides like this was

a zoo.

-

Tell me what you think of that.

I'll show you what I can do.

16,190. FANTASTIC FOUR

FANTASTIC FOUR

Camping out in some sort of disorder,

marching through Tupelo like a general's

daughter, and parking at will where you 

may. I can offer you all that for your time.

Pleasure comes where pleasure may?

-

Here's is the 'Fiddlesticks Project' - or that's

what they call it down here. Fifteen new 

ladies from somewhere in a booth they 

dedicate to next year's parade. Three

dollars a 'kiss' is the going rate, but

you 'make offers' for other stuff, and

see what they'll take.

16,189. REVERSE ORDER

REVERSE ORDER

It's all different now, this paddling boat I inhabit

tends to list and take on water. I've mostly got

nothing left, being up that 'creek' without a

paddle. 'Paddlin' Madeline Home' no longer

does anything for me. Loneliness now is an

empty bottle. (I think I wrote bottle. I could

have 'wrote' battle.

---------------

There, you're gonn'a earn one, boy,' - the man

who said that was talking something about 

'points.' Like a credit card gives out to 'reward' 

you for spending so much that you owe them 

more. Man, that's a backwards battle if ever 

I heard. 'The more you dig your hole, the more 

we'll thrown you back.' Makes me want to 

throw onE back myself, but where'd I put that 

bottle? (I might'a wrote 'bottle,' but I could

have 'wrote' battle').