8579. ALL IT TOOK

ALL IT TOOK

I'll throw away your exploding water

the next time and the lampshade on the 

wall will be taken down : lime green like

that is a sorrowful hue and I've got to 

stand up for myself. Yesterday, I watched

a guy pick up a girl. He was riding a 

Ducati, and was telling another guy, as

they stood next to one another in a parking

lot, how the bike was 'all torque', and how

he had to be careful pulling off from lights.

Convenience store prattle, while they 

waited for other guys, who came out

soon, with cold drinks. A hefty girl came

out too, she'd gone in a few minutes before.

He eyed her then, this Ducati guy, and, on

her way out, was sure to catch her. 'What's

your name, darlin?' he said. I figured she'd

say fuck off or something like that. She smiled

and stopped, 'Jenny', she spoke. 'You taken?'

he said. 'Nope' she replied. 'Got a number?' he

asked, and 'yep' she smiled. He walked to her

car, a late model CTS Caddy. I'd forgotten

about the modern day, and figured they'd 

write something down. No, they both 

whipped out phones, and spent the next

60 seconds inputting their crap. And that,

my friend, was that.

8578. KENSON'S SHOES

KENSON'S SHOES

I work a long day at Kenson's, 

often a straight shift with Mary.

Sometimes she'll show me her 

tits, other times she becomes 

super wary. It's nothing though, 

really I do understand. Who'd

want the trouble it all would 

cause.  Some days we look 

around for things to do  -  

slow business, not much 

happening. Oh boy, 

that's not good. She

wants to go easy, I 

want to show 

wood.

8577. THROW ME

THROW ME

The Applebaum kid again,

Christopher to be sure. 'Hey,

throw me that Spaldeen again, 

up here, against this wall.'

8576. OLD TIMES

OLD TIMES

You can't scratch the surface of

another time without scratching 

the surface of now. I was up on 

Greenwood today, and remembered

my last meeting with you. The light

turned green and I was forced to go.

The present intruding once more.

(I maybe would have lingered,

if it was 1994).

8575. THOSE GUYS WITH METAL TEETH

THOSE GUYS WITH 

METAL TEETH

I could never figure that out, 

the guys with metal teeth  -  

usually black guys, boxers

or weightlifting types. The rest  

I could understand, yeah, but 

what about the metal teeth? 

Never got that at all. Seems

to really ruin a smile, and

really wreck a mouth.

8574. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #160

160. DAYS OF OLD

There was a time, I guess

I admit, (though maybe not)

when I was a little lost. Age

18, on my own, completely

new place, nothing to go on.

Some weird school to start

at, with a biography I'd nearly

made up. One looks for the

wind then, to see what it's

blowing in perhaps. I was

never one to be swayed by much,

yet I watched everything,

just trying to learn. And

survive. Strange combination,

but that's how languages

get invented. Was I going

to live up to my own made-up

biography? Was that even

valid? Or feasible? What

had I done, and to what

was allegiance owed? It

seemed, I decided, that

sometimes, after all efforts

and work, you're sometimes

left with a pile of nothing

and it's the kind of nothing

which drives you forward,

impels, pushes  -  under

the dark, black night of

the sky wherein you can

no longer see anything yet

of which you dream myriad,

countless depth-of-field

stars as thick as paste and

feathery light in the sky;

and you wake up, or think

you do, remembering, the

vivid sensation of galaxy

and stars and planets and

constellations. And that's

all anything is.

-

You see, by getting into

the Studio School, as I did,

with basically a feigned

storyline of my 'deep' study

and interest of Art and its

theories, I now had to produce

all that. It wasn't that I had

'faked' it all  -  I had the

paintings and my own

self-taught modicum of

knowledge and technique,

and, yes, a worldiew and

that went with it (you'd not

find a better example of the

'wild crazy-man outlier artist

16-year old type' anywhere),

but it was all pretty much

to no effect. I was what I

was, and in many respects

just carried the unlearned

aspects of caring about

nothing at all. I suppose a

lot of kids do this anyway,

writing those crimped and

effusive college-essays

about themselves and 

their month in Ghana 

feeding water to the poor 

and shelving food, to 

show how it's made them 

a better person and one 

more willing to learn and all

their goodwill and glorious

ideas so they can get into

Brown or Cornell, and half

of it's always bullshit anyway.

All I ever took away was

'nothing matters.' How

deep could that be?

-

Only then do you wake up

and see the real situation:

over Manhattan you're lucky

to see ten stars, more or less.

A passing gift of Moon, maybe.

All the crazed Manhattan

extremists, of course, are

running around as if they are

the world's greatest Druids

or something. They'd do better

worshiping a lightbulb. There's

no conscious reason in such a

place to even have a sky, but

for the planes in it. Having

already sundered most of the

connections with the cosmos

and having long ago agreed

to put all that aside as if it

no longer existed, part of

the bargain is to ignore it,

not elevate it. There has

been erected instead, and

in its place, a physical

constellation of cold, hard

objects and specifics, in

which the people living are

worried more about parking

than darkening, worried more

about right than light. 'There

is no sense in the senselessness

of space,' I heard it told. One 

time, some late October night,

beneath a very full moon, I

well remember a crew of 

Manhattan witches, Druids,

Satanists, Nature-Worshipers,

whatever, at their temporary 

encampment, with a few trucks

and vans, over an entire weekend,

for their 'ceremonies' : bonfires, 

chanting, music, dancing, all 

beneath midnight darkness and

light, a strange and an enticing 

scene. I watched for hours.

They allowed anyone outside 

the circle. All I saw, just 

beyond them was the shiny

night-glare of the Hudson 

River, reflecting the light 

from above  - a strange, 

celestial shining I couldn't 

place. Their bonfire, quite 

large, threw its own bizarre 

orange and red and yellow

light everywhere, elongating 

shadows cast and bringing 

them to live as people

danced around the flames. 

It could have been another

world I was in and I was 

mesmerized and so far 

away in mind; transformative 

Nature indeed. Why, I had

to wonder, were the most 

bizarre and diverse groups 

of Nature-addicts here in 

one place where Nature 

had nearly been already 

obliterated. Once or twice

before I had seen things like

this, Tompkins Square Park, 

and another, with chicken 

heads or something, a 

bunch of Dominicans in

a rocky grove up by 

Morningside Heights or 

somewhere up there. 

A friend had taken me. It 

was hard to read all this 

primitive and nature-religion 

stuff, to sense where it was 

coming from, or bound to.

But then I began saying why

not? What else is any other

religion anyway  -  primitive

stone and War-God Iron-Age

worship, no matter what. The

only thing, now, that calms it

all down and keeps it steady is

the stuff we MISTAKE for

religion : the rules and 

bureaucracies and layers of

rubric and priesthoods and the

rest. It's all just the secular crap

that we react to, and no real

smidgen of any 'religion' or

its magic is left. So I drew 

strength from that which I 

could, and moved on. 

-

Sometimes I pissed in the 

streets. Good old gold H2O,

as the bums told me. One 

guy, I called Henry Swallow, 

(no, not that, I was way too

young and naive to have 

even thought of the double 

meaning) like the bird, he 

would just run on with 

stuff  in a singsong way  

-  weird lines of anarchy 

that almost made sense.

'Curvy ants try anything 

once, don't stay too long

at the soda fountain. Find

a bus to sit in for it's all

that simple. Battered ruined

broken bare ruined choirs

where the sweet birds sang.

Count the fires, catch the 

liars. Don't fish in waters

filled with acid, fish the

golden H2O.' (Yeah, that

again). 'Nothing in the 

world changes except 

the level in the gas tank.

Fill 'er up again, be on

your way. Where did he

leave the car? Didn't Lenny

Bruce discover cancer?

Ding dong the witch is 

dead, which wicked witch 

is the witch that's dead?'

There's more, but they get

boring. A few times, other

guys told him to shut up,

but I always somehow 

enjoyed it. I used to think

about what level of misery

makes a different reaction 

for different people  -  each 

of these street vagabonds, 

as much as they were alike, 

were often quite different 

too. To some of them the

sadness and sorrow was 

right to the core, while 

others, probably in much 

the same boat, were elfishly 

funny and chattering around, 

always darting this way and

that. What cold it have been. 

I wondered? 'Been to the zoo,

been to the zoo, the Studebaker 

flies at night and the chattering

monkeys are dangling

 from their poles.'

-

So, before this one closes out,

here's this weirdly checkmated

short tale I wrote one night drunk

in the Fishburne bar and only

jut recently found again: 'THE

STONE EATER - The man who

eats fire, the mighty mother

and her son, they who bring he

Smithfield Muses to the ears

of the kings OH STRANGERS

of all the ages and the quick dance

of colors and lights and the din,

what the voracious city devours

it must eventually disgorge. Isn't

that why chemistry passes by us, 

rubbish and excrement or why'd

God give us rivers? No more, my

young man, no more  -  we are

far too many and things are 

made filthy and clogged,

but what can we do about

it anyway except to think

back to not too long ago 

when the wooden bridge

over Canal Street drew 

hundreds an hour drawing 

water for the community 

pumps there, and the men 

and the hoses would water

and stop to slumber and 

drink and snooze and 

nary an errant Injun ever

stopped who didn't recall 

those wonderful 

days of old.

8573. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #159

159. FIRST AND FIRST?

There really was a place

named 'Alice's Polish

Restaurant.' It was  -  I

don't think it's still there,

but who knows  -  at

Avenue A and 1st

Street  -  just an odd

sit-down restaurant like

there used to be. You

could get these huge

slabs of waffles or

pancakes, piled high,

for cheap, and worth

eating. For a while there

was a motor-scooter club

that used to meet there,

on Sunday mornings. A

real goofy bunch, on

little putt-putt scooter

things, like old British

types, Vespas and Wasps,

and hipster kids, girls in

pink helmets and jackets.

Really, there wasn't anything

hard-core about them, just

scooter riders and a little

self-conscious fashion wear

too. 8 or 10 of them on a

good day  -  they'd all

slobber over and go in

and eat, and then I guess

they'd run off on their

scooters and terrorize

pre-schoolers, or something

Alice's was a funny place,

and that whole few blocks

right there, they were funny

too. This was all poor people

stuff, when I knew it  - I used

to clean some apartment

building hallway and stairs

and such over there, for some

15 bucks a week, if I ever got

paid, for some lazy guy at

the Studio School who was

actually also the Super of

that building and its 7 or 8

apartments. He never wanted

to clean, so he'd hire me to

go do it for him  -  I never.

minded, and I did get paid.

His top-floor apartment too

was really spacious and nice.

On those days I'd be there,

he'd let me have the run of

his place  -  lots of books and

current magazines and things.

I always enjoyed an hour or

two  -  plus he had a really

nice bathroom and shower

and all. I'd throw down that

waxy red stuff, like a dust

powder, oily, that you'd sweep

the floor with, and I'd clean

the stairwells and the front

stoop, check the maintenance

room and the trash stuff.

Nothing horrid or hard to

do. It was a bunch of Puerto

Rican families; they just

stared, never spoke much

anything, and the hallways

always smelled of their

cooking. Out front there was

usually and clutch of young

children, 5, 6, 7, years old,

I'd guess. They were always

leaping around, or throwing

balls and things  -  just city,

tenement kid stuff. They too

mostly just ignored me. I was

the type to bend down for

every found penny, the one

elated at nickels and divine

with found dimes and

quarters. Nobody else cared.

Most people anyway they

just throw their spittle and

coins into the pot without

caring  - losing loose change

seems to mean nothing to

them. I'm still the same way,

going off-course to retrieve

a penny or two. I don't know

what that phrase 'penny wise

and pound foolish' actually

meant, but I always figured

it was either how I was or

how I wasn't, except I never

knew. There were guys

down that way -  I used to

see them  -  who'd sleep

on gratings. Piles of blankets,

and some wooden pallets.

Their idea was to catch

the underground warmth

from whatever some-sort

of steam thing that was

there pumping up heat.

That's the main thing,

by the way, outside of

food and bathroom stuff,

which are no minor matters,

about being homeless. The

change of seasons, the roiling

October winds let you know

it's happening  -   cold weather.

Once that sets in, you're

stuck, and had better be

prepared. Steam-exhaust

and leak-out spots were as

good as any. And God be

with 'ya. These were good

examples of all that, and

the men were  setting up

early. LaGuardia Houses.

-

Nowadays there are vans

driving around and homeless

coalition people and such, on

top of all this  - almost forcibly

taking people in to shelters or

medical stuff, dentists. They

get better care than I do. All

that's fine  -  what irks is all

the flimsy psychological crap

that now goes with it  -  profiles

and interviews and assessments.

It's a wonder everyone isn't sent

to the nuthouse on those terms,

like there was some magical

clipboard 'normal' that would

keep people from bad conditions.

Everything that's free never turns

out to be that way at all. The

little thought-police end up

taking you over and watching

everything. Back then, there

was nothing like that  -  you

could die on the sidewalk

and someone would just

push your lifeless hulk

hulk aside or sit on that

sleeping/lifeless hump.

-

In their own way, these

guys were rulers of the world.

At least it was their world :

quite balmy  -  not the 'crazy'

meaning, I mean rather the

meaning of being 'warm'

enough from the free heat.

Really, who wouldn't ever

like free heat? They reclined

on their blankets and paper

boxes, purloined chairs and

stools, comfortable right

there. Yes, as they would

put it  -  if you could get

them to even talk about

it, or themselves, or

anything  -  the rulers of

this world were they to

be, would by no other

than 'they them very selves.'

I don't know if that's 'pigeon

English' (I never really knew

what that was), but it might as

well have been, because the

pigeons were there right

with them.

-

I always opposed authority;

if that was good or if that

was bad, it never mattered;

it was just, in whatever

guise. I questioned it,

in some very theatrical

ways, so as to confuse it.

Authority gets confused

very easily, if you can

get it off-track. It's pretty

simple to just talk direct

and fast right back to its

face and win any argument,

unless of course, and as

usually happens, they have

the 'power'  -  guns or force,

or whatever. That's what

makes then authority after

all, and that too is why

they must be opposed.  It's

a fairly simple circle. Once

it's closed, you're mostly

stuck inside of it. It' really

difficult to wiggle out of,

without ending up like

one of these guys.

-

'Freedom' sometimes just

got to be a concept anyway,

nothing more than political

or intellectual prattle, done

over-heavy and turned unreal

and useless except as an

'intellectual' currency. One

time, in one of those halls

at NYU (I went there once,

another time, to a talk given

by Viveca Lindfors, some

Swedish actress I wasn't

really sure of, but just wanted

to see and hear. Funny thing

was, some time after that she

got slashed in the face, needing

25 stitches or so, by some

marauding Greenwich Village

gang; her and some other

guy too. Random violence

is just that, I guess, no matter

how else you're situated). This

lecture, the political one, was

some crazy socialist group, a

guy spouting off endlessly, and

 a room of about 30 like-minded

people, Trotskyites for all I

knew, and bound for political

oblivion  -  like Trotsky, with

a knife or hatchet or whatever

it was (ice pick) in the head.

'We have reached the point

that the idea of liberty, an

idea relatively recent and

new is already in the process

of fading from our consciences

and our standards off morality

the point that neoliberal

globalization is in the process

of assuming its opposite  -

that of a global police state

of a terror of security and

deregulation and has ended

up in a maximum security

in a level of restriction and

constraint equivalent to that

found in fundamentalist

societies.' They were clapping

and cheering their brains out.

Can you imagine that stuff?

A roomful of it? I figured to

myself, what the hell was

going on there, what the hell

anyway did he just say? I

wasn't too sure even what

it was supposed to mean or

even it was something you

were supposed to follow

but it was considered quite

profound and all those

scientific and artsy political

minds really ate it up. They

used to be plodding along

the streets  - notebooks and

pens and all  -  all the hot-wires

running back and forth and

going on about this or that

with each other as if it

mattered.  It was a lot like

all the chess-clubs on Sullivan

Street  -  no one else cared,

but the people playing were

quite transfixed. Of course,

none of it really does matter,

because all you've got to do

is find yourself, the one

remove, the iconic distance,

to see any of it for what it

is. Posturing. The only 

answer is to laugh back

and laugh heartily in a

Tristram Shandy Jonathan

Swift sort of way because

there is nothing else but 

raw, funny power attached

to over-learned, fat scholars

bamboozling their own 

spittle as it rolls down 

cheek and collar into

believing it is truly good,

ponderous stuff and then,

in any other language

manage to say 'excuse me

I'm late for my flight' -

yeah it sure makes me 

laugh  -  and the oddball

diarist sitting at the 

counter - the brown one

with the eastern eyes in

Alice's for the morning,

just sitting, I notice he's

reading interminable 

newspapers and adding

to his scribble while he awaits

more food and coffee - huge

slabs of challah French toast,

I mean huge slabs, for $4.99

a real steal: proving he's smart

as a whiz and sharp as a tack

and the guy and the girl behind

the counter are talking a hearty

Polish back and forth while, for

my part, I guess I'm looking her

over, yes, and thinking what 

brain could possibly be better 

than that  -  if only I could tell

her I was a descendant maybe

of Count Vistula the Warrior

Prince from Poland's 17th

century deep woods, or what

became that now, she'd be sure

to run off with me and talk the

tongue into my ear as we fled

through the Dneiper Woods on

my horse and she'd be hanging

onto every inch of me while we

raced through, away from the

troops in pursuit, coming to kill

me and ravage her for all she

was worth but here instead 

she's her and I'm me and she's 

tending the huge piles of 

toast and pouring coffee.

And me, I'm sitting in place

wondering about paying while

the guy with the eastern eyes 

next over is reading and writing

all about the terror state we 

live in but over there and

above our heads yet another

TV screen is pushing some

Winter sport and outside in 

the half cold some five other

guys are starting their scooters,

revving their little engines and

strapping on helmets, and I

hear them and their engines

howling and think how such

high revs certainly do lessen

the life of the power-plant 

much like my heart again.

Little Eva the Polish 

power-plant watching me 

to watch her watching the

toast, oh boy, my God, this

is for sure what a life and

I'm so glad I could puke!