9130. AD MAN

AD MAN

So Mammy's sewing the holes in my socks,

darning the things that need plugging. I'm

on the porch with new blues harp, and

my harmonica plays until dark. Mugging

for the cameras is easy. They want to take

my pictures for the TV show : you know

how that goes  -  the old, lone guy on

his rickety porch just shouting his

blues away. The narrator people

will have this whole script, and I'll

have to go along  -  looking sad, 

looking blue, selling soap, for

me and you.

9129. ARTIFICIAL BACKSLIDER

ARTIFICIAL 

BACKSLIDER

Here's the moment when the sled 

slides off the edge of the world, and

 Jelly Roll Morton comes running

home. It happened in Antioch too.

There was a traffic guy pushing cars 

along. If this place wasn't, it felt 

like a Civil War town. Who would 

ever wonder about the diorama at 

the Giddens House hotel? All those 

big men, on their very tall horses.

9128. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, Pt. 313

313. STRIKE!

A long time ago 

you could drive 

through the

back fields of 

New Jersey and

still see lots of 

junk. It's no 

longer like that, 

inasmuch as 

everything 

mostly has been 

cleaned up. The 

old, leaning and 

rickety sheds are 

gone, the forgotten 

out-buildings 

that were 

remnants of farms, 

all cleaned up, 

plowed over, 

built upon, paved 

or just redone. 

The jangled heaps 

of twenty-five 

year old cars 

are mostly gone, 

as are the piles 

of lumber, steel, 

tires and the rest 

that were usually 

left around. 

Dog houses too. 

Doghouses are 

pretty much a 

thing of the past. 

I don't know 

anyone who keeps 

a dog outside now, 

but there was a 

time when they 

all had their little 

doghouse and a 

fifteen-foot length 

of rope or chain 

or whatever by 

which the dogs 

were kept in 

their circumference. 

That's the dreamy 

part of old New 

Jersey that people 

like to still throw 

up on calendars 

and such  -  to 

fool the mind 

into thinking 

something other 

than what is. 

Like 'Oak Acres', 

where there's 

nary an oak 

within two miles, 

but plenty of 

grandiose new 

homes. Or 

'Spreading Maple 

Estates'  -  same 

thing. Developers 

are swine. That's 

how things are 

different now, 

how things are 

so changed. There

was the time when

all of that really 

nasty real estate 

stuff was within

the purview of 

men. They were 

the ones who 

did all this damage, 

ruining the earth 

and despoiling

things. And 'selling' 

the real estate. Now,

there are women 

doing this at every 

turn, and they're 

equally bad or 

worse. All frilly 

and made up 

big time, like they 

were selling 

themselves and 

not the properties. 

Driving their 

faint-colored 

Lexus cars with 

dumb-ass clients 

in them, open house

this and that, 

showing the listings. 

No soul, no spirit. 

They're not even 

women anymore, 

at that point. Just 

the same dumb-ass 

vultures as the men. 

There's your equality 

for you. I've seen 

plenty of it, and 

gotten in the 

middle of it too. 

There's really little 

worse than the 

enforced babble 

of conversation 

which those sorts 

of people have to 

put forward : real 

garbage talk, just 

to be breaking the 

ice and propping 

up these false, 

social moments. 

It all sounds as 

stupid as they look.

-

No one goes out on

strike anymore. A

peculiar kind of 

comity has taken 

over all the labor 

fronts. There was 

a time that about 

ended in, say, 

1975 or so, when 

there really were 

some ruthless 

bastards who'd 

run society right 

to the brink. 

Labor negotiations, 

always down to 

the wire, with 

extensions. Government

intervention, Taft-Hartley 

Act stuff; sabotaged talks, 

and, of course, the famous

'midnight' walk-out. It 

was all tactic and 

strategy, and sometimes 

it did really hurt. 

Public-service contracts 

be damned; municipal 

workers, transit guys, 

garbage men, I can 

remember it all, 

and New York City 

was always quite 

vulnerable to that 

sort of thing. I 

can remember 

any number of 

serious NYCity 

strikes  -  garbage, 

newspapers, and 

transit, maybe 

even police, though 

I forget. Garbage 

strikes in NYCity 

are killer  -  within 

five days there are 

huge mountains 

of trash everywhere, 

plastic sacks piled 

up, squished and 

leaking, smelling, 

running off into 

gutters. The 

back-log quickly 

becomes enormous, 

and it's just never 

any good. These 

sorts of 'services' 

are taken for 

granted, until 

they're not around. 

The newspaper strikes, 

I can recall them 

too  -  two or three 

times. People 

manage, but 

they hate it. This 

is before today's 

electronic 

communication 

and all those

phones and laptops 

and total availability 

of things. But there 

was a time, until 

about twenty years 

ago maybe, when 

mass-information 

and retrieval really 

was dependent 

on paper and 

newsprint. Everyone

 survived, and even 

some alternative 

papers cropped 

up, but a news 

strike was a big 

deal. One year 

I can well remember 

a crazy Irish guy, 

Micheal J. Quill  -  

hot tempered, in 

your face, thuggish 

Irish labor leader. 

I guess it was 

New Year's Eve 

for 1966, with 

John Lindsay as 

Mayor. Quill was 

tough; he'd rip 

your head off. 

(There are some 

great videos of 

him available to 

see)  -  great Irish 

brogue, he consciously 

mispronounced 

Lindsay's name 

(as a tactic)...

'If Mr, Linsley....', 

all the time. At 

the stroke of midnight 

that year, after 

weeks of threat 

and blustery 

negotiation, he 

walked out with 

his men  -  New 

York instantly 

became a nightmare. 

For something like 

two weeks (memory)  

-  no trains, no buses, 

a total mess. Taking 

mass transit away 

from NYCity is like 

taking the oxygen 

away from a guy 

in an oxygen tent, 

just pulling the 

tube  -  he's already 

gagging to death 

and then that! 

Quill didn't care. 

It just went on; he 

was intense, everyday, 

more insults and 

more threats. He 

was already an ill 

man (at age 61, I 

think it was), but 

they hauled him and 

some others off to 

jail. He fell ill, was

 taken to the 

hospital, and 

by the end of 

that month  -  

yes, after the 

strike was over 

and things were 

beginning to 

normalize, as 

I recall, he was 

dead. But what a 

story that was. 

In any case, the 

world has now 

somehow become 

(supposedly) a 

'gentler' place  - 

though sometimes 

I doubt that. I 

can remember 

walking gritty 

streets afraid of 

slander and vile 

sarcasm at every 

turn. A real 

authentic capacity 

of crowd-control

by fear; like a punch 

in the face. Now, 

it's all engrained 

and worked into 

people's heads 

to be safe and 

nice. I kind of 

miss the old. 

All that labor 

stuff was always 

such drama. You 

could watch these 

guys in action 

and sense the 

great motives. 

I never knew, 

actually, whose 

side I was on, 

I liked them both. 

The public good, 

the ease of running 

things, services, 

management and 

all. I favored that  

-  and then on 

another day I'd 

suddenly see 

the point of all 

those dumb-ass

 working-slob 

union guys, and 

think with them. 

It always went back 

and forth (like any 

good 'drama' should, 

I suppose). Yet, at 

the same time, 

there's only so 

much you can 

get or do  -  you 

can't have a twelve 

dollar subway ride 

just because your 

guys want to 

extort higher 

wages, better 

pensions (already 

heady) and extra 

days and time 

off. Pat a certain 

point, it's extortion.

-

My father was never 

a union guy, at least 

while I was young. He'd 

come home, I can 

still remember, on 

Fridays, with his 

little tan-colored, 

cash, pay envelope.  

He never knew too 

much, just went 

about his work, 

always wholeheartedly. 

A real slaver, he was.

Sometimes Saturdays, 

full 40 hour weeks, 

plus overtime 

whenever. 'Busy 

season,' he'd call it. 

$125 bucks a week; 

I guess that works 

out to maybe $4 

an hour; not sure. 

I do know that, 

(I checked) on 

March 21 of 1956, 

the minimum wage 

went up from .75 

cents to a dollar 

an hour. For 

reference. It always 

sufficed for us  - 

leastways we always 

had what we needed, 

groceries and 

whatever else. 

I don't know 

past that. I 

always remember 

hearing talk, 

too, of a 'kitty' 

they kept  -  like 

spare money, 

in a cash box, 

for extra needs 

or wants or 

something. 

Always 'going 

to the kitty' for 

this or that. I've 

never heard that 

since; maybe 

it was current 

then, maybe 

not. Remember, 

all this is before 

credit cards, 

and credit, and 

all that stuff we 

take for granted 

now. Mostly, 

people just now 

get whatever they 

want, and worry 

about it all later.

-

Every time I look at, 

and used to look 

at too, one of those 

old Currier and Ives 

Americana-style 

calendar prints, I

 always chuckle. 

For all that we 

had and all that's 

been lost. But 

I only remember

the good stuff, 

selectively. My 

grandma used 

to remind me 

always how 

crummy it really 

was. All that stuff 

is so long gone 

now, so far off 

and forgotten. 

Even Michael J. 

Quill would have 

lost his bluster 

now. Sure can't 

ever picture him 

with a snow-blower 

and a laptop, worrying 

about his diet and 

health either. Mr. 

Linsley; well,that's 

another story.

9127. MY NEW HEBRIDES OVERTURE

MY NEW HEBRIDES 

OVERTURE

Once I got it, I felt I didn't care

about it at all : skylight and the

fading evening of, perhaps,

a mid-Winter's gloom. Though

on the count I am not sure.

Perhaps there are huge snows

yet to come. Arrive not

quickly, you throckmorton 

bums. Listen to that quite

perfect sound.

9126. DUNPHIEL AND PEORIA

DUNPHIEL 

AND PEORIA

But never to Heaven 'til 

there's a Seven-Eleven.

9125. SEASONS

SEASONS

If April is a harbringer of May

and May can only bring Spring,

then where we are already never

matters  -  all that counts is where

we're headed. May is already too 

late and Springtime starts in 

March, in fact.

9124. WHY POETRY GETS DESTRUCTIVE

WHY POETRY GETS 

DESTRUCTIVE

Your bicycle is not a cabriolet,

and this steam-sickle blowing smoke

comes up from beneath the street.

Listen up, philosopher-king, any

of it can still scald. Be careful

where you ride.

-

This guy named Axel Rose was a

friend of mine, but boy was he

a jerk. Every time he came around

it was raining cats and dogs.

We'd sit there, in my shed, and

talk about motorcycles and

women.Weird. Nothing

ever really happened.

-

There's no longer a dog in the

doghouse. No one keeps them

outside any more.

9123. BETTER THAN OTHERS

BETTER THAN OTHERS

One million interruptions make

for this daylight time : I've got

allegiance to tricks and gravy, 

the spread of malcontent, and 

a swarm of red bandannas. But 

that's all. To show for a dead-worn 

life, that's not a lot. Just outside 

Grand Central this morning, I met

a whore who was looking at me.

I told her I was headed for the

clam bar. She invited me in for

some tasty red snapper. Oh boy, 

I told her I did like fish, but I

didn't like it that much.

-

There was a time when my wallet

was green with envy; now it's 

empty, with nothing at all. I

guess some things are just

better than others.

9122. DIRTY DOZEN

DIRTY DOZEN

Juanita is too shrill, and I've

got nothing to show for it. Upon

awakening today, let's put that

integrated chair out in the big

room, where sunlight can hit it.

It's large, but I'm sure it will fit

through the doorway no mind.

That small, metal flask. I forget

where you hid it. Oh then, no

matter; there are always just

too many things to keep sure

of. And also  -  have you ever

noticed   -  that metal vent on

your rooftop looks just 

like a pen-tip.

9122. VISITING MURPHYSVILLE

VISITING MURPHYSVILLE 

I forget, here, if they bring

the soap to the water, or the 

water to the soap. People

in this town are really strange.

The side of a hill like this, and

they insist on angle parking.

No one's done that since 1958.

The stores here have their own

weird sales days : 'Open Stock

Wednesdays', when they allow

people to just enter the storerooms

at will and select what they like,

for 25 percent off. They say it's

cheaper because there's no cost

involved for stocking and arranging

the shelves on the salesroom floor.

Well, I guess. Gloom goes out the

window on days like that.

9121. THESE DOUBTS AND THESE CONTINGENCIES

THESE DOUBTS AND 

THESE CONTINGENCIES

So much appalls : the character 

of this manliness-snout cannot 

wince. Will not suffer madness 

more. I have my hand upon the

ladle, hoping for success.

-

For there's a carbine in the 

corner, and a set of Sufi knives 

right where I left them, there. 

Nothing much moves, or 

changes places, in oblivion.

9120. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, Pt. 312

312. ILLUSION, 

APPEARANCE, WORDS

Parts and points of

my life have always

kept me enthralled

-  that's probably

pretty ordinary and

I guess I never met

anyone who wasn't,

at some level,

enthralled with

their own life.

Except for a few

suicides. I've known

those too. A weird

thing once was,

upon the suicide

of an acquaintance

common to each

of us, this friend

of mine turns to

me and says,

bafflingly, to me,

'I always thought

it would be you,

first.' How do you

respond to something

like that? I said

something back like,

'No, I want to see

how this thing ends

up.' I've read, and

heard, others say

there's nothing

more vain and

egotistical than

taking your own

life. I suppose I

could argue with

that, I mean for

the sake of argument,

as a debating point,

but perhaps it is

true. But it is our

life, after all.

Should we not

have the final say

over our own

destiny? That's

the trouble

with 'argument.'

I could probably,

and dumbly enough,

argue for either side.

-

Around abut 1957,

in my own family,

and in my own

sphere of interest

and experience,

(this is all going

to be pretty

difficult to

expound or get

down correctly

here  -  mainly

because it's not

'about' anything

or any person or

something that

occurred. It's

more just an

example of a

crazy kid's head

and the kind of

ringing thoughts

that have always

run around in it) -

The subject is

'space,' I guess,

not like moon-shot

space and the stars

and all  - although

that's in it too  -

but the physical

thing we as humans

call 'space'. That

'things' are in,

what they take

up. Well, I'll try.

-

OK, starters, (or,

as they say in

some Greek

mythology to

a roomful of

lecherous beings,

'OK, satyrs') go

like this : I used

to stand at the

top of my driveway,

in the dark of night.

I could look up

(there were still

a decent enough

amount of night-sky

stars then) and

see the two dippers,

big and little.

Each night they

were pretty much

aligned together,

much the same

positioning, etc.

I would just stare,

looking up, and

wonder. They were

the only thing in

the sky I recognized

-  all those other

figures and shapes

and forms I'd 'see'

diagrammed, from

the ancients, never

made any sense

to me. Some

sixty years later

now, at least,

I can position

myself here,

now, in the

same orientation

and surprise

myself by seeing,

in fact, almost the

same thing. Fewer

overall stars, but

the same positioning.

My mind said 'that'

was one kind of

'space.' Two towns

over, abut 8 miles

away, my aunt

and uncle had just

bought a house;

larger than ours,

10 years more

advanced in style

and layout. I used

to go there, spend

the day. The visit,

and the house

would baffle me;

the concept behind

it would baffle me;

the way in which

'Man the Builder'

had begun to think

about 'space' and

things, would

baffle me. It

was called,

then, a 'split level.'

They used to build

them by the ton

back then; now

that style is quite

passe, doesn't age

well, comes off

bulky and boxy,

plain and boring.

Over in Colonia,

along Starlight

Drive and all

those other

streets, there

must be four

hundred of these,

taking up 12 or

so winding blocks.

It all looks crummy

now, really so.

Some of them

have really fallen

off, aged and

weathered, badly.

A few others,

having been

'modernized' have

done away with

the original look

totally. Whatever.

The idea was  -  and

what used to baffle

me so  -  almost

cerebral in its

wanton achievement

of created 'space'.

What the builders

had done, quite

literally, was 'split'

the levels of the

house. It was an

illusion, but a

reality too at the

same time. It used

to amaze me. I

found no words

for it and as a

young kid hadn't

been aware that

men were actually

working on things

in this manner. It

seemed quite

revolutionary

to me. Yet, no

one mentioned a

thing, You'd enter

the house, ground

floor, entry doorway.

There'd be a flat

floor, a room off

to the left, and

a small guest

or visitor bathroom

to the right, and

then, through,

if you did, was

another large

rear room, the

steps to the

'basement' were

on the right

(but only maybe

six steps, it not

going deep down

at all), and, way

off to the left,

the doorway

that went into

the car-garage.

Back at the front

doorway, by that

bathroom, at

the right was

a set of steps,

maybe six,

which went up

to what amounted

to a 'half' (split)

level  -  which

held the 'main'

sitting room

(more formal

than below)

another social

room, and a

kitchen and

dining area. It

was not a 'floor'

by itself, only,

instead, a half

floor, of these

rooms. Spinning

around, another

six steps up

(another 'half-floor'

riser) brought

you up, another

half-floor, to a

few bedrooms,

a partial connecting

hallway, and

another bathroom,

large, with tub

and shower and

all that, with

space. So what

had been done,

breaking the

volumes up,

messing with the

space, by hanging

'half' of it right,

and left, was

essentially three

levels in the space

of two. In no way,

shape, or form

were these three-story

homes; they defied

those sorts of

categories. They

were, as was said,

'split-levels.' They

were 'making' space

where none had

existed, by suspending

a fiction, though real

of 'space' between

two others. Suspended

space between two

others to make a

third. (The key was

the short-steps, 5 or

6 each, that brought

you to the half-level).

It was all the 'level of

of concept, and it was,

or seemed almost

meticulously miraculous.

I could not grasp it.

My form of thinking

did not encompass

these aspects of the

technical reality

by which these

nearly illusionary

tricks were played

-  and though they

were acceptable,

none of them fit

within my box

of thinking. I

didn't want it

to, and it never

did. I fought it

all my life. You

cannot make

physical 'space'

between space.

If you could,

then anything

was possible.

Perhaps that

was to be considered

to the good. The

funniest thing is,

as an artist, I

'make' space,

now, wherever

I please, and

would never have

thought I'd be in

the same sort

of situation.

-

Compounding matters 

further, not so long 

after, in learning-time 

anyway, perhaps a 

year or a little more, 

I found out some 

information about 

Thomas Edison 

that also twisted 

my mind. Routine 

stuff, just reading 

things about him. 

They always tried 

to make a normal 

guy out of Edison, 

but he was a bit 

of a whack. (There 

will be more on this 

upcoming; his rants 

with Tesla, and all 

that competition). 

But for now, this story

stays here. It always 

started with that 

sentimental tale of 

the 18-year old 

Edison saving a 

little deaf boy 

who didn't hear 

the train coming, 

along some rugged 

Ohio prairie or 

something, and 

yanked him heroically 

from the tracks, just 

in time. I always 

found that odd, in

 that the idea of 

'deafness' was aptly 

worked into the story 

about Edison, who'd 

invented 'sound' 

devices, phonographs 

and talking dolls and 

all that. It sounded 

like a plant, an 

insertion to make 

the Edison story 

work  -  in the same 

way that the story 

of Jesus, the kid, 

teaching the synagogue

elders who were 'amazed,' 

also always sounded 

to me. Part of his 

crazy plan, about 

1889, was to have 

the Statue of Liberty 

'talk' to the incoming 

harbor ship, 'welcoming' 

them in. Bizarre. 

Anyway, at that time 

Western Union had 

hit it big, there were 

telegraph lines 

everywhere, and 

the stereotypical 

telegraph guy (always 

men, at first) was 

a surly, tobacco-chewing, 

curse-prone character, 

(for business purposes, 

Western Union later 

changed all that, 

and brought in 

women too  -  a la 

'telephone operators 

and switchboard girls' 

which would also 

come to be in a 

few year's time). 

Western Union, getting 

wind of what things 

Edison was up to, 

gave him a big, 

steady contract, 

lots of money (thus, 

Menlo Park, his research 

village, etc), to do 

whatever he chose, 

and keep doing it, 

inventing  -  for 

them. Stock ticker-tape 

machine improvements, 

sound (audio) devices 

(as building rose higher 

in the cities, the need 

for messengers and 

elevators constantly 

running up and 

down with new info 

had become a nuisance. 

Eventually, communication 

lines were installed, 

and no more such 

messengers needed), 

the replacement of 

dangerous arc-lighting 

with 'cleaner' electric 

lights, etc.  Lots of 

things. What bugged 

Edison was that, at 

first, only one 

message at a time 

could be sent on a 

telegraph wire. 

(That's basic, makes 

sense to me). He 

wanted a way where 

two messages could 

be going, concurrently, 

and then, it went to 

four, back and forth, 

etc.  -  and he 

developed all that 

(somehow) expanded 

electric impulse stuff, 

within telegraph 

wires, to the 

point where lots 

of messages were 

always flowing. 

That's where I stopped 

dead. That word 

again BAFFLED! 

Just as split-level 

homes had messed 

with my concepts 

of space and presence 

and location, so too 

this entire wire and 

multi-message thing. 

I could not conceive 

of the idea, still don't. 

I simply cannot think 

in those criteria, or 

terms, of what's 

sent down. 

New York City 

was the capital of 

all this stuff  -  

buildings, words, 

letters, money, info, 

flying around 

everywhere. I'd 

walk in  a daze,

through this crazy,

sideways, Tower of

Babel.

-

I sometimes felt 

like Lenny Bruce, 

who was a 1950's 

and 60's comedian 

who was always in 

trouble, for obscenity, 

foul routines, taking 

on revered characters, 

etc. Arrested, jailed, 

etc., numerous times. 

New York, San 

Francisco, and 

more. By the end 

he had become a 

one-note comedian, 

using his legal troubles, 

on stage, as his material, 

for drug and alcohol-fueled 

rants and routines that 

were no longer much 

funny and that people

didn't want to much 

hear of. I felt like that  

-  couldn't get off 

the subject of this 

stuff, it was withering. 

And here I am going 

on about it again : 

space; illusion; 

appearances; 

words.