5912. MY OCCASION

MY OCCASION

I am living in other times and places,

forgive me do. I can't sneeze without

breaking glass  -  not Harry Glass of

East Troy, Pennsylvania' not Seymour

Glass of those Glass family sagas of

J. D. Salinger himself. Just glass. The

silicate stuff. I have no other that I amass.

-

These little carriage houses behind homes

and living spaces  -  Washington Mews and

MacDougal Alley  -  these are where I began

my New York life. Not Pfaff's  -  too late for

that; too late for Marie's Crisis too.

-

Variations of the Virgin Mary still roil the

old church at Houston and Sullivan Streets.

The Shrine Church of St. Anthony of Padua  -

and isn't that such a mouthful to say? Since

1888, blowing its bellowing church-bell noise

at the seven o'clock hour. But why? What

more notice do we now need? Vendors and

their tables too exist under this most-banal,

old, genuflection.

5911. ENTRY

ENTRY

Do not perceive as you barge in that

this entry is so permitted. The dark

here is of a cavern  -  things brood

and then break away. Sit fast, turn

not. Listen hard for the tumbler's

sound. It is mostly in how people 

talk that I understand the meanings 

behind what is  -  when the man,

laughingly, says 'But it's all worth 

it!' to a dubious scholar behind his 

books. I know that a glib insincerity

has entered the room. A mind

hang-glides in the air of false 

words : not so much a devious

intent as a happenstance of

old associations.

5910. MY EPHEMERAL INDOCTRINATION

MY EPHEMERAL 

INDOCTRINATION

(1928, Nov.)

On a Monday in the late 20's, a new 

picture show : England itself, rustic.

Glory pervades. The dark is engulfing.

This is washing day, but the routine is

a'kilter for all. These mothers have taken,

instead, to the movies. This day's scattered

audience has opted for something to watch;

'replace my weary mind with something new.'

-

No road-weary American prairie, no desert dust

or tumbleweed. No motorcars yet in sight. The

mothers, whose faces were 'sheened' with toil,

had here been penned-in on their sunny afternoon.

Foul air. Dim light. No talk. They each remained

silent as their own headward stares watch human

figures in motion, in light. Figures of weariness at rest.

5909. DIACOKE

DIACOKE

I've sought new land from my leaky ship,

on which the only thing left is a camera :

My eyes are learning a new language.

5908. THE SPACIOUS WELCOME

THE SPACIOUS WELCOME

The splicing is yet unclaimed and large wires

litter the street  -  a few trucks and a cart carry

the heave of their freight. Here is a station awaiting

a stop  -  Paradise, it could be? Someplace special

like that. I've heard it said that roses poison their

own ground. When a rose bush dies, it poisons the

spot in which it had grown, and no other rose bush

cane ever be planted to grow there. I've also read of

pear trees and giraffes. Giraffes are such voracious

eaters of trees, stripping the tree of their leaves, that 

the wild trees have developed a defense. Somehow 

communicating to adjacent trees, those other trees 

emit a distasteful bitter of some sort to avoid the 

giraffe's attentions. But the giraffe's  -  no slouches

themselves  -  recognize what's occurring and begin 

skipping trees  -  going every third or fourth tree down 

the row instead. Somehow to where the foul presence 

has not (yet) been produced. So  -  you see  -   you 

may think you know the world, but you 

know very little of it at all.

5907. NATIONAL ZOO

NATIONAL ZOO

There is stuff enough for the imagination to wring :

two fisted carnivores, and antelope that sing. As if in

the halls of Congress, all these crazy things are here.

I'm walking my way through with a handful of sauce,

goose for the goose and geese for the gander, or however

that ditty goes. No one ever listens precisely to a speech.

Lethargy has me in leg-irons and chains; wake me, please, 

when all this is over. I came forth from Union Station, just

today, to walk to the Motorcycle Riders Foundation and

 I found out it was locked and shuttered as I arrived. 

Port au Prince has a better reputation now than this 

bungled-up, half-hack town. My testimony wasn't needed

anyway (they later said), as all the representatives in 

their chambers have been jailed.

5906. PREDOMINANT PIZAZZ (emigration)

PREDOMINANT PIZZAZZ

(emigration)

I went to Florence with a broken foot; eating snail

juice from a bear-claw mug; drinking it would be

too smooth a word. I bought a lighter just to learn

to smoke. Galouises, thicker than my arm. I hitched

my way up to Paris again, sitting back slightly in a

roadway cabin on a rickety ride  -  the driver kept up

a chatter, not a word I understood. Drinking a dark, red

wine until my sides would split, I drank a drunk's way.

Yes, way off too  -  postcards from Liberty Island, all

the hand-written notes a mother would want from a son.

5905. LOVER

LOVER

I am the mirror you eat. I am the embezzler who

has taken your heart and mind.  Look askance at

all that I do  -  my clothes, my shoes, my jacket.

-

There are three steps on the end of the porch  -

I will vault them in a most-simple leap. And

then I will take you away. Limit nothing, lover.

5904. BLUE IS THE NEW SIDEWINDER MISSILE

BLUE IS THE NEW 

SIDEWINDER MISSILE

Edward, or whatever your name really is, I am

so tired. Thanks to your lonely wife, my energy is

spent. I am a ghoul in a Brooklyn graveyard, running

through crypts to find a new black. Everywhere I go,

just a darkness I find : long ago, old tales and stories.

-

The spendthrift man in his shiny suit, he parks his

Studebaker at the curb and begins walking over : it

is 1954, and his swagger represents nothing so much

as that time  -  the tophat, the cigarette, the funny lurch

as he walks. Smoke curls, as if from the top of his head.

-

Then something gentle happens in the wind, and his new

wife comes down the steps nearby  -  I realize in an instant

what has happened : he has come back from the dead to

present her with another day and all the goodness he can

carry; from his netherworld of being, from his carriage,

from his crypt, delivered. I love these stories, always.

-

Icicles and moundmen, detectives and those instrumental 

in saving lives; firemen in suited helmets and police drinking

coffee while they stand in the park. All stories. All so real.

This life has become an illusion to me.

5903. COUNTENANCE THE DEMARCATION

COUNTENANCE 

THE DEMARCATION

Someone sweetly whistles in the dark; say 'whistling

past the graveyard', if you wish. The groundskeeper

has taken a wife. 'Separate, but equal', he seems to say.

-

The homely girl is bowling on the lawn  -  some form of

British balls, rolling along the finely-kept grass. As she

bends, I can only imagine an opening  -  but what would

I say, with all my stupid double-entendres?

5902. DELMORE

DELMORE

I am thinking the world has been reduced to

debauchery  -  piglets running freely; a fire, raging

too far past its limits to care. There is no reason left.

Men are beasts, and their snatches of care and concern 

are untrue : their maidens are harrowing shrews, their

children belong in the dumps. This is my stance, yes.

-

I'm holding a battered shovel, the one with which I

bury things  -  dug deep, this hole may have no bottom.

Without a doubt, I've already managed a merit badge

for something : hovels, prisons, dreams or death. For

each of them I've been a fine engineer. Designing all.

-

Delmore Schwartz stands outside this doorway; across

the street is old Chumley's again. We are sitting back 

to back; two mental chums thinking of nothing. He 

watches to see what we will do. I draw the money from 

my wallet to pay. I get up to leave, and put what is needed 

down on the table. To him, we spin about and wave goodbye.

5901. NO NEWS IS GOOD NEWS

NO NEWS IS GOOD NEWS

The radio has a spike to the ground, the old

television is a blasted hole. The outhouse where

the farmer sat is now a community center.

-

We built this town from the bottom up : horses

and oxen and cattle. Many fertile wives later, we

all have sons to do the tasks for us. Life gets better.

-

What law there is is situated now between the post 

and the pillar. We have a platform for hangings and

a gallows too  -  rarely some priest or a missionary.

- 

Shouldering all we must  -  every burden  -  the world

gets itself lighter with our own age. Too soon, too

soon it is over, and there is nothing left at all.

5900. HAVE TO

HAVE TO

I have to bide my time, holding needles amidst

all the scarred arms. Nodding to whatever speaks,

the impetus to respond, I fight that off. I no longer

wish to talk, have nothing but little to say, and can

not add anything to this rather modern day.

-

I am whitewashing my house with pliant effusion,

lies and demarcations that can make new borders :

divine ones that Man cannot fight over. 

5899. MOTION

MOTION

Tarmac to the runway fez, the daughter 

of Louis XIV  -  they see nothing, these 

minions, over the starry skies. In the chapel 

someone rings a bell. Every airport has one.

5898. SPECTACULAR MONARCH

SPECTACULAR MONARCH

I live in two places at once  -  as much

as you can 'live' anyway. Not lifting as

much as a leg to pee, I've got no male-dog

blues. Instead, my confluence is of rivers 

and dark, dry land and the sea. I am nothing

unknown, only a man with a factory.

5897. ALDO

ALDO

Can you grab a goatee and then keep

running? It is nineteen-fifty-seven all

over again, andI am learning a hundred 

things a minute. Aldo is shaving off his

lyrical beard. He's European-classy, and

probably gay; the futzy Americans with

whom he is staying do not much like his 

Euro-ways. Is he red before there were

Red Brigades? Is a McCarthy badge of

honor within him? I do not know if he

would name names  -  but for some fifteen

American dollars his beard is already gone.

5896. SEE I'LL HAVE NOTHING BY THEN

SEE I'LL HAVE 

NOTHING BY THEN

This is only a form of deliverance - 

I am sitting here once more in Washington

Square park, alone, and all around me the

angles are moving, with all their tie-dyed

hearts and motions. I am seeing people as

but forms. Nothing that is not alone sits

squarely on the pavement. I have not come

far for this  -  I have always wanted this;

an Oren's Daily Roast of my own too-dark

coffee. The cat is at the register and she is

fine with walking dogs. It will be like this

until we come home again.

-

There's a fragrance that smells like beauty,

and a fragrance that smells like Hell. ('How

do you know how to count to four? One. Two.

Three...'). The mother to the child speaks.

-

There's no chivalry like the time-hardened

process of pain.

5895. LIKE XERXES, THE FABRIC OF A FOOL

LIKE XERXES, THE 

FABRIC OF A FOOL

High on a lark, the butter in the tray melts on, 

the thin light from the kitchen air spills out, the 

freshening air seems everywhere. I am hiding in 

a cauldron  -  reading literature like labels on a 

can. Throw this down! I no longer wish to see!

-

The time for talk is past, and anyway, everyone

gets it wrong : story lines become exhausted over 

time. 'Oh Madame X, your backside is showing, 

Oh Mr Wilk, I can see the bulge of that gun in 

your belt. The peasants are restless again, and 

their uprising, as did the last one, will take them 

to nowhere but death. More troubles abound than 

these streets are worth. All those girls, collaborators, 

those who've slept with the enemy in comfort and

solace, their heads have already been shaved.'

-

Now, these marvelous marbles are rolling their due.

Heads will roll as they have before. The cardinal will

step down from his throne and seduce with a papal logic

the masses  -  they run in flames and fires to subdue the

godless foes! Yet, yet, that little old lady, sorrowful and

alone, remains crying in her steeple, sewing still from

her morn to her night, for the partisans in hiding.

-

High on a lark, I am reading literature, 

while hiding, myself, within a cauldron.

5894. ONE FOR THE TWIX BAR

ONE FOR THE TWIX BAR

Here they come walking with intent : fourteen

standard children and a whistle. Nothing outside

of so ordinary here; I should have listened to you.

5893. DISPOSITION

DISPOSITION

Hold the yellow curtain open, say nothing,

bring out your hands, and catch : these things

are the dreams of all my most daring moments.

5892. LEAVING HOME ANEW

LEAVING HOME ANEW

I want to be tired and unsound. I wish to be

believed but doubted, heard but misunderstood.

There is a pepper spice in the river today, and so 

many visitors have thrown their little idols into

the water  -  a chubby little elephant God who

divines creativity and fosters mirth. Everything

sinks to the bottom  -  by the weekend, the picnickers

will be back, staring out and chanting to the waters.

-

I am never callous and I feel for every thing. I hurt

when others do so, and I most often am just as confused

as they may be too : idols thrown in the Raritan? No, no,

my friends this here is not the Ganges, nor is this heart

the heart of a God, a God to watch, and pray to, and see.

5891. JUST LIKE THIS : ART MAN

JUST LIKE THIS : ART MAN

Just like the ages that brought us here, 

we weave the story by hearing the voice.

It's not an easy task, once we know of it  -  

but it happens nonetheless and even if we

stop trying. That's naive man working.

-

Once the acknowledgement occurs, then

all things change  -  that's 'Art Man' at work.

Heeding, pulling, lifting, listening, in spite of

any devilment (the world, the world, so vast

arrayed against our possibilities). We go

on, and stronger for it too.

-

Just like this it goes. And you have no choice.

(Lift on your weary burden, Art Man, and trudge).

5890. LIVING IN INFAMY

LIVING IN INFAMY

Like so many others, this morning will

just set its pace, remaining. I wish to enter

the cage, though without setting off any 

of the birds. They are often so excitable :

hysterical creatures, every little thing gets

them going. Yet I can only speak those

things I do not hear and cannot say.

How ever-present is this? A yes,

a sham, and as always.

5889. FITZGERALD AND JOHN

FITZGERALD AND JOHN

These guys are movie-makers. Eighth Ave.,

over by 23rd  -  art gallery slaloms and the

striving trollers, they're running the street

now with cameras  -  things all strapped 

to brackets and arms. A few useless

construction workers are watching  -

they do nothing but sit to talk about the

'old lady's pajamas' or who they'd like

to fuck. Every day, mind you, every

day of cigarettes and bananas. I watch;

the signals go on and off. The red light

is off, everyone can now relax. We

move to Bryant Park, slowly, like a

working swarm of extras  -  the scene

will change. Over there, by the curtain,

a starlet stands about  -  as sleek and

well-oiled as a God's machine for

the waxy and elixer'd sky. The very

park itself tries bowing down

to fame and glory.

5888. AT THE STATION

AT THE STATION

Darkness rules this edge of town :

where a few large strangers sit in wait

at five A.M. Sometimes, like me, 

they've been here for an hour

already by this time.

5887. WORLD WAR I

WORLD WAR I
(lying, one-sided man)

One hundred years of age  -  now past yet

almost to the day  -  men were up and fighting,

and not for the world and not (quite) over

nothing at all. It was, surely, a different time,

when different things mattered. For one :

there was no crescent and the only moon

was in the sky. That sky, the one coming in

over battlefield trenches to gift wrap the carnage

and screaming. Horses and men alike, wailimg.

The forceps of this operation were always unclean -

yet the doctors still cut away; muscle and limb,

flesh and bone, mo matter.

-

I have not now shoulders to carry this weight  -

no knowledge on my own of cannon or armament,

of the recoil or the trudge, nor the tug of the

fiery bit grabbed tight in a horse's mouth by fear,

which I am sure they experienced as well.

-

Not ever want to walk the European woods where

so many thousands died, nor even those well-trod

paths of Gettysburg or Spotsylvania here : another

place, another war, the same intention that I abhor.

Stateside places where the like took place. ("I'm

carrying these dead from place to place. I must

leave now, without a trace.")

-

John Brown, Nat Turner, Mary Chestnut, Isaac 

Rosenberg, Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon, 
Rupert Brooke, Erich Maria Remarque; 
take your pick, you lying, one-sided man.

5886. ONE MILLION SLIPSTREAM THINGS

ONE MILLION 

SLIPSTREAM THINGS 

Mind your manners you upstart you spray-dog thingie

wandering the stars at daybreak head down arms on

your hands wagering the weather to stay just the way

it is : that's the weather report that should always be :

'just the way it is right now'. And more. Some tie-dyed,

pink-shirted rabble-rousing fey steed on camera can tell

me no more. Just the way it is, one million slipstream

things the entire world advancing before you just the

way it is. Accept, my fine and dandy friend accept and

then step back. Detach and then observe. Trust the

moment moving just for you.

5885. NEW TEXTURES

NEW TEXTURES

The wall is of a carbine-space, something spackled

and mounted with guns in  a case. Rifle-rack, a truly

rural decoration, and those men know their means 

and ways. 'This one is for gophers and squirrels, this 

I use for deer, and that once, that's a bear rifle really;

Hell 'round here, along these upper Delaware ridges,

you really just never know. He means the river, not

that state. That mix-up used to always tease me in

the brain, until I learned the river. The Delaware is

a fulsome thing  -  running along, separeting places, 

running high and sometimes nasty flooding. A picture

of a miniature 'Life On the Mississippi', just like a

Mark Twain epic, so sweet. I love the mud of all

this crud, packed tight along my feet.

5884. 'NEXT STOP, WILLOUGHBY'

'NEXT STOP, WILLOUGHBY'

Just an old, silly  broadcast, probably played now

countless times on those endless loops of holiday

marathons and open re-runs    -   Twilight Zone

veracity. It's all of space : an open whole in Time,

through which I too have now already fallen. There's

not much in words for me to say : sensation does it

better, and I love so many things. A giant oak,  standing

just outside my doorway; it's been there for years and

has grown as I have grown along. Magic potion, other

world. I know, sadly, now, like all oaks it will wither.

-

'Next stop, Willoughby,' perhaps someone will say to me.

The big moon is in the sky, the birds are in the tree.

5883. DAYBREAK

DAYBREAK

I realize now it's difficult to imagine I really

know nothing at all : a very thin fabric is all

that keeps me separate from fantasy in toto.

Looking down at a grave, in fact, 'Toto' is

what it has for a name. Guardian spirits, please

loop around once for me, I have a tendency

to walk alone at daybreak.

-

The muffin girl with the morning ovens is just 

about now turning them on : I have another, a

friend here, I am walking with  -  those graves

in the Princeton courtyard are spaced before

us like blocks and chutes : Godel, Escher,

and Bach, as it were, reunited.

-

Someone drives this purple car to their own, other,

land of chariots and carts. I can't share what I'd 

never dare, and I'd rather walk there, or anywhere. 

Guardian spirits, please loop around once for me.

5882. ABBREVIATION #122

ABBREVIATION #122 [1955]

In the small Museum of Time, there was a set-up

of 'Pushcart Man', circa 1974. I lingered there and

just stared for hours. So much to be had : I bought a

Coca-Cola from the vendor, I had a bag of fries from

the China Stove. Sitting down on a bench, I daydreamed

too much. Am old face, in the candle wax, was burning up.

-

This is nothing like the time to be squeamish or sad.

I ran the bicycle race with my own two hands and ran off

screaming for John Ashbery donations. I'd hit the clock

and it was running. I could not decide between Blake

or Ginsberg or Crane. I went to the clothing store at

40 Nassau Street just to see what was there then: they'd

all buried the ashes of Langrock's Clothiers at the bottom

of Canterbury Hill by the Cloaca Maxima when it was there.

-

Kathy DeStefanno and Judith Bettina. I know them both.

I watch them sing. I hear them play. I went to the memorial

concert for Milton Babbit, just to hear them say : 'Abbreviation

#122 means the singing of time is in its infancy now.'

5881. THE MAN WHO DROVE HIS BENTLEY TO THE ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCH

THE MAN WHO DROVE 

HIS BENTLEY TO

THE ROMAN 

CATHOLIC 

CHURCH

Well, it was a Sunday  -  a nice cool morning, crisp with

a new Fall. Maybe that was the connection he sought?

He'd parked, right out front, all his riches and gold.

Not quite a Popemobile, but close enough to darning

on a new pair of socks. 'What was your reason?' I asked

as I passed. I was walking along, not part of that mass.

-

He stumbled, his face a bit wan. I continued, 'Isn't there

something about Pride in that mess of a missal you're

bearing, also nicely leather-sheathed, I notice?' His

response was startling and spoken with class : 'I wish

to pass no judgement on others, such as it is, those 

who have not, or those who have not this, yet strive.

I wish to show my thankfulness to God, for this 

success and for keeping me alive.'

-

I faltered, and gave it up. I accepted his new claims and

kept counsel with my own  -  knowing I'd not understand 

these things or these people, as far as I may roam.

Can I get me an 'amen' to that?

5880. MY SINGLE SHOES

MY SINGLE SHOES

My single shoes go nowhere, take me to nothing;

I have a hat and story to talk about, but I can never

move. There is only a sad solace to the making of

these never-ending tales. I was there before breakfast

and left before noon. That's all I can say.

-

The scribe who came from Neverland was sure to be 

writing in heavy, green boots. Kafka called it, once,

referencing 'book' as a concept  -  'an ice-ax to break

the sea frozen within us.' I sort of got that immediately.

Once I absorbed that essential tale, I knew where I was

heading  -  grant and pail, line and paper.

-

So, here I sit, my single shoes set in a concrete of words.

I am tethered and tortured to a desk with no wheels.

Never leaving, going nowhere, I suppose I'll just

sit here forever and work.

5879. THIS DRIVER WEARS A KNIFE

THIS DRIVER WEARS A KNIFE

The habit of wasting effort dies hard : the baseball shortstop

with those two extra steps and the glove dragging low on the

pick-up, it's killing his defense yet he won't give it up. Yes.

Easily fixed. Routine repetition, the practice of craft.

-

That bus driver, who slumbers in his seat, hunched like a

champ in his corner. You can't be awaiting the bell all

the time  -  sometimes you've got to be in the ring, fighting.

-

I was born in a place called Bayonne, beneath, in fact, the

Bayonne Bridge. Not too far from the Maidenform factory,

where my grandmother worked and where, a few years

before, they'd halted production and been shut down so

as to house German prisoners of war during those years.

Across the way, on the water, was the Hellman's Mayonnaise

plant. The story in my family circles was that  -  inside there  -

every egg for the product was broken, one at a time, on the

thighs of any of the Spanish girls who worked there. I always

did wish to see if that was true.

-

Life was different then, all of it. You wouldn't understand

what I'm meaning, yet, if only I try to tell, I feel better.

5878. COME KNOCKING SOUNDLY

COME KNOCKING SOUNDLY

Come knocking soundly, daughter of love, and rattle again

my brain. Give me those nervous shakes that the corner 

bum partakes around the barrel fire  -  Thunderbird and 

Night Train Express deep within the broken heart's salvage.

You know the meaning of the meaning of my feeling : I've

played cards with the Devil and lost. 

5877. NORTH COUNTER FALLS

NORTH COUNTER FALLS

I went to Watkins Glen to sit on the edge of the lake.

There, I saw a few boats parked, and a lake-party

boat as well. People about, some delicate creatures

sunning, and a captain pushing through some spindly

 men. He said 'ten minutes' and I bet he meant it then.

-

My wanderlust is a trusting thing : wherever I go I 

need to listen to the words of others telling me things.

It's all trust and circumstance. Looking over the rock

cliff, if the park ranger said jump probably half these

fools would. Rank and file have privilege to the weary.

-

'Here, here, look up : these rocks in this gorge are 9 billion

years and from these ledges once cave men threw their fires

down to catch both enemies and tigers too.' Those rangers

can say anything they want  -  that 9-year old, in fact, is

taking notes. Too bad.

-

It must be a cruel thing for naivete to need be broken;

like riding a bronco in the rainy air, everything slips

through and slides. "I need to 'believe' this? Is this

really true?" How many questions like that

go unanswered. I wonder. 

-

Alas, I'm getting wet from the spray.

5876. THE MEMORIES OF ISOLATION

THE MEMORIES OF ISOLATION

Here in this room : window'd glass on the

padded blue doors which swing to and fro with

nurses carrying trays, nurses pushing carts. What's

it all for, I still wonder.  To and from, this way and

that, every day is the same blue morning. I stir a bit,

alone, but muse on  about my station and my place.

-

I've got nothing to atone for : in this contraption, whether 

they call it a powered bed or a rolling chair, who knows, 

I can do no evil. I read and swivel these aching hips. I fill 

out, miraculously, a food chart, day by day  -  what I select,

I suppose, they bring. Who knows and I never check.

-

Visitors are like people looking into a tomb : perhaps

they see me, but I 'pretend' not to see back. At this degree

of circumstance I'd rather play dead, have no truck with their

business, return the mail that fools send. I know there are no

lights here, but please turn them out.

5875. THE SECRET

THE SECRET

I have a secret to tell, my friends. I am memorizing a

book. Every word and each page in sequence. It's not

going that well, but it's only been a year and I wonder

how often it's been done. I've got about 30 pages in my 

head to date. It's not easy  -  I can close my eyes and

visualize each page, with blocks of text and message and

where they go. Strange, and a wee bit odd. My voice wants 

to talk, but I won't let it.

-

I remember, a long time ago, reading 'The Memory Palace

of Matteo Ricci'. That's what got me started and got me thinking

of this. How all those ancient people used to memorize the

layouts, sort of visually, of every place they'd be : associating 

this or that with something sound or visual, to recall the 

instance and the place. This is different, yes, I agree. They

had nothing else to go with, then  -  no photos, no writing,

not even a diagram except in the dirt, perhaps. vastly different,

a scrap-heap world compared to ours. Yet, I want to memorize

my life and ties, and this is certainly a start.

-

My book for this task is called 'Nine Gates'. Nothing special about

that, but what makes it noteworthy internally for me is that  -  within

this book  -  are accumulated many other references being used  -  bits

of this and lines of that. These were all a series of nine lectures, once

spoken aloud, about 1996 or so. Now, they're mine : to mouth, to 

say, to live and respire with. Ah, yes, I am working hard.

5874. CARNIVAL TIME AT MORNAY

CARNIVAL TIME AT MORNAY

Thirty feet around, the Ferris arm was made of steel and they

raised it like nothing at all. High, and tight it stayed. The team 

from the power company were looking up - 'Sure hope that's

fully powered now,' the tall one said. In the last year, the grass

had grown back, with only a trace left of the path. Hundreds of

feet an hour would pass, nay hundreds of feet every fifteen minutes.

Some rapscalion came running by, throwing water on a girl.

5873. HERE'S THE MOMENT

HERE'S THE MOMENT

Flatfish, flatfeet, riding the rails; the sweat was

pouring off bodies on the platform. Railmen working

were standing around  -  awaiting the one-twenty to pass.

Out there, on the platform, two cops apprehended a girl  -  

some crazy wench screaming on about getting home to

New Brunswick. They swore they'd lock her up if she didn't

pipe down  -  'causing a disturbance', 'public nuiscance', they

went on. Her boyfriend, as crazy as she, yelled back at her 

while she yelled at them. Fun in the sun for everyone. The train 

came and we were whisked away, leaving an open-ended story.

5872. THE MOST LOVELY CRAZY MAN BLUES

THE MOST LOVELY 

CRAZY MAN BLUES

Yes, that is. They've got chains around my tongue and candles 

in my eye sockets now. Trying to quiet a crowd. I forge ahead

and keep talking, determined to make legions of people say

yes. On my left, in a bundle, is my dog, asleep like a cow and

curled like a donut. As soon as I'm free I'll get me to the river.

Get me to the doctor, find a nunnery. Paradoxical Brother Winsome 

I shall be. My monkish predilections shall result in painted

walls the color of love and faith. I guess it's some sort of blue,

or maybe a purple. Who the hell knows? This is the alarm in

my palm; I had it implanted three years ago and now it goes

off randomly whenever it wants to and all I can do is slam

my hand down to get it to stop. Wreaks havoc on  a bus ride.

I told the candle lady to remember when I last was here. She

said she didn't remember me at all. Like saying time stops for

no man, until you break your  -  most-expensive  -  watch.

5871. SAATCHI & SAATCHI

SAATCHI & SAATCHI

Screw them all. Advertisers make me sick.

In-flight magazines all hailing from Praque filled

with ads for heirlooms and diamonds the girl in blue

brings around a food cart  -  nothing but a jumble of

rat-infested avocado cookies. 'Best flight in the sky.'

I don't care about the 'best flight' part, OK; just concentrate

your best efforts on that 'in the sky' part instead. Keep

it going that way  -  Lucy LaMond said she was my

seat-mate-to-be all the way to Constantinople. Oh, man.

Pass me that magazine juice and put some more vodka in it.