10,574.. LAZARUS

LAZARUS

Lazarus is polishing shoes.

He doesn't wear any himself;

just leaves rags and pieces of

his cloth, everywhere.

10,573. THE TRUTH IS GOOD FOR YOU

THE TRUTH IS 

GOOD FOR YOU

I won't lie, sometimes it is.

Like at the Legion Barbecue,

when you're standing around 

guzzling beer and your smoldering

pants then burst into a little flame

from a barbecue ember that's fallen.

I wouldn't lie to you, or even avoid

the issue. Sometimes the truth is

good for you : 'Hank! Hank!

Your trousers are a'flame

10,572. YOU NEVER HEAR Of FIRE TRUCKS GETTING WATER DAMAGE

YOU NEVER HEAR OF 

FIRE TRUCKS GETTING 

WATER DAMAGE

And. They.

Sometimes ( - )

Sit out there.

All. Day.

10,571. A THEORY OF RICE

A THEORY OF RICE

You may have held this, once;

and you have a delectable mien.

In your shoulder-closet, I can

detect an already well-worn fabric.

I want to sense the color of rice,

feel the texture of uncooked kernals.

It's a theory I have : that if a man

can withstand a diet of rice, he can

withstand most anything. I try it.

I do. With maybe some sea salt.

Or sea-weed, on the side. With a

slight sprinkle of fermented soy.

Sesame oil. There are variations.

-

It affords an amazing distancing 

from the world  -  faraway spaces 

and places, hearts of gold, not just 

lettuce. I was reading, just recently,

 of a plane load of people, flying

from San Francisco to Hawaii when,

with a very loud bang, the metal

sheathing broke away from one engine

and metal and bolts and chunks were

seen, by the passengers, falling into the

sea. Panic and screaming broke out.

-

They safely got to Hawaii for a very

careful landing. Everyone was shaken.

But, I contend, had they been eating

my version of rice, within the theory

I've presented, they'd not have been

bothered in the least bit at all.

10,570. RUDIMENTS, pt. 237

RUDIMENTS, pt. 237

Making Cars

In 1964 it was Merrill, Lynch,

Pierce, Fenner & Smith. That

was pretty much one of the

big names I learned right off  -

New York City finance had

gotten into my blood a little.

White, Weld & Co., was

another one. I guess I just

liked the names and all that

mystique which went, for me,

with that world in high finance,

deals and brokerages. A few

houses up from mine, across

the street, as I was growing up,

were two bothers, Michael and

Raymond. Michael was your

average thug  -  brash and loud

and unsaintly. He was a year or

two older than me. He had an

older brother, Raymond, who

was probably five or six years

older, a complete other generation

almost, and he'd gotten a job on

Wall Street. I guess that was

where I first heard of it all, but

I was fascinated. I also guess I

was, maybe 10 or 11, then. He'd

come home all chipper, with tips

for his father on 'new issues,' and

what money to lay down on this

or that perhaps. There was a small

chart they kept on a kitchen bulletin

board too, the charted ups and downs

of certain prized issues. I guess

they had stock; didn't know. Nor

did I know if all that was considered

insider trading, as I'd think now.

no matter. Small time crime on

Inman Avenue was pretty cool.

Raymond had a car, but I don't

think he drove to downtown NYC

each day, but don't know that either.

Maybe it was just a train-station ride.

Raymond was an all-right guy, but

he never really paid me much care,

it was just that I knew him. His

brother Michael, on the other

hand was fairly pesky. Italian stuff.

'Orlando' was the last name. His

mother was the local dentist's

secretary and office-keeper, so

everyone knew her. Rose. She was

small, maybe five feet, with red hair.

loud and brassy too. She drove a new

1959 Ford Galaxie; some crazy

rose color too. Go figure. The father,

Al, was a wounded WWII veteran,

disabled with shrapnel and who

never much left the porch or the

house, all day, all the time. The

upstairs of the house was cool too,

because Michael had wired radios

up so that, going upstairs to the

bedrooms of the boys, whatever

light-switch you turned on also

brought to life the upstairs multi-radio

sound system of like four or five

radios tuned to WMCA  - you'd get

this cacophony of doo-wop or early

rock music, or some blaring DJ

patter. It was pretty weird. Michael

also had a habit of bringing a record

player to the front doorway, setting

it up two high-volume amplifiers, and

playing 45rpm records at top volume

out the front doorway so that entire

end of the street would get assaulted

with the sounds. No one ever

complained, I never saw neighbors

having a problem, but how the

parents ever did put up with the

radio AND the amplified record-

playing was beyond me.

-

It was Michael too who, one time,

decided to enlighten us younger kids

on sex. This happened (unfortunately)

in two different ways. The first was,

upstairs in his room, having to watch

him, I won't mention it, but as  'pleasure

himself'. A real eye-opener. And the

other was, a verbal lesson, by asking

us if our 'parents had ever gone out

for an evening and left you with a

baby-sitter. Well, yes. You see those

are the nights when they come home

and have sex later. After the baby sitter

has gone, your father kisses your

mother's nipples, that opens a hole

for him down below, and he sticks

his thing in.' Yep, he sure had that

one down pat. Glad I learned so much.

-

So, do you see how weird everything is?

I swear they invented suburbs as safety

valves for weirdos to blow off steam. Or

at least I thought  -  until I myself got

to the city, where I found most people

mainlined bawdiness, sex, and bad

taste probably equal to or five times

worse. Not the rich people, mind you,

I don't know what they did. But the

sluggos down at my level. Everyone

was always talking about someone's

'tits' or 'ass'. or wanting to 'stick a pipe

in her like a rat-hole;' whatever all that

was to mean, man it was all new to

me. Talk about learning on one's

feet. (There's a joke in there

somewhere). Guys would go

uptown, to 42nd street, just to

watch the sexcapades and whores

and hookers throwing their stuff

around, and then they'd come

back with bonafide stories of

things  -  surely most of them made

up  -  of what they seen or heard. I

went sometimes, and to accompany,

them, but once there I always got

more interested immediately by the

Black Muslim guys hawking copies

of 'Muhammed Speaks,' - their

newspaper, filled with anti-white

rant cool for the times. Those guys

used to scare the hell out of me,

intense, stern black dudes with a

glare, but always dressed like strange

Harlem businessmen or something

of that nature. Very strange. There

was also a Ski-Ball palace, or some

sort of game-room thing, all lit up

and always noisy. I'd watch in there.

And then, of course, the coup de grace

for me, 'Romeo's Pizza and Spaghetti

palace, where I'd get maybe a 25 cent

slice, maybe it was less, I forget, and

get mesmerized watching the crazy

busboy they had. He'd be endlessly

pushing a cart around, filled with the

dirtied dishes and forks and knives of

the tables. Dressed in dirty whites, with

an apron, he had like  pop-eyes, and

his mouth never closed. He was always

gaping, and some sort of weird hum

came from him constantly  -  maybe it

was a tune he was humming, or perhaps

just an automatic noise. But it was

there. He'd see me, but just stare,

like he did to everyone else too  - a

zombie, some sort of marginally

retarded but able to work guy. I never

knew, but never got through to him

either. There were never any race

wars or problems around there, just

a sort of tension always. I never knew

what the black guys really wanted.

-

A few years later, I'd be exposed to

the same stuff in Newark, when I

worked for NJ Appellate Printing.

The same sorts were on the streets

there too, but meaner, angry. They

hawked and yelled and harangued.

You almost just gave them fifty

cents to get them out of your face.

By then I knew their gripe; the city

had been half burned down by

riots and National Guard and

militants and tanks and guns and

police. Arson, looting, fires in the

streets. Dead people. I suddenly

began to understand.

-

I also had to begin thinking about

the allure of a big city for me. What 

was that all about? Merrill Lynch

and Raymond Orlando being one 

thing, learning my lugs from his

little brother being another, but

after all, six or seven years later

it was me, myself, and I, alone 

those same wicked streets. When

Adam got kicked out of Eden, 

could it have been any different?

I'm standing next to guys who'd

been in trouble with the law, here,

there, and everywhere. I'm trying

to understand the intentions and 

the reasonings of a guy peddling 

drugs to anyone he could. I'm

establishing the parameters of

what things I should and should

not believe from what I hear 

coming out of people's mouths.

It was a very difficult time, made

no less difficult by all that loud

music blasting out from everywhere.

Sometimes I would simply think,

'I wasn't ready for this stuff,'

maybe I was immature by contrast;

but then I willingly accepted all

the things I myself had begun. 

I had no one else to blame, and 

I was ready (and the baby-sitter

had already gone home).

10,569. NORMALLY I'D WALK RIGHT BY

NORMALLY I'D 
WALK RIGHT BY

Nothing escapes mention. The pink flower

on the window-sill looked fake, and the

bumper sticker on the car, sure, that was

just offensive. 'And I don't care of your

opinion anyway.' I spray painted that on

the car's windshield in the middle of the

night. Well, didn't really, but who's to

know. Maybe I live in a make-believe

world after all.

10,568. ANIMATED RAY

ANIMATED RAY

In this ancient world here are 

some of things I've been wishing 

for, Mr. Aminated Ray : the corpuscle 

and the crepuscular together, and the 

long and winding road; my free,

guided tour of Mt. Everest, and a

one-way ticket to Clyde Beatty's

Barnum & Bailey Circus. This is

the door to the outer dimension;

and I'll take that too.

-

I once held Betty Boop in my arms,

until Natty Bumpo showed his face

and she ran off then with him. Damn

but those American heroes are all

the same and you just can't cut

through the noise and the clutter.

-

They hold these truths to be

self-decadent that all men have 

a sequel and there are no second

acts in American lives. Meanwhile,

back at the three-ring circus, all

the lions are let loose and they rip

into all the loose people until 

not much is left  -  at all.

10,567. RUDIMENTS, pt. 236

RUDIMENTS, pt. 236

Making Cars

Sometimes it all just felt to me

that I was off by a beat. A lot of

life depends on timing  -  if you

somehow can get that right, lots

of good happens. Mostly, when it's

way off, you have a problem. I

always felt to be off just a bit. That

made for 'a bit' of a problem though

mostly I got the gist of things. It's

my contention that we each, individually,

have no power over this, be it instead

Fate, or Destiny. There are a million

stories of the waitress in some dumb

Los Angeles truck stop or diner who

just happens to be on duty when in

strolls Darryl Zanuck, or whomever,

and discovers her, and the next thing

she knows she's a big star with an entire

made-up story line describing her

life and new name. That's timing.

Or being in the right place when

something momentous occurs and

your own eyewitness account of

whatever becomes the book and story

line for the world's publicity. Or the

letter that falls out of a book and lands

in your lap, and is a note worth

a hundred and seventy thousand

dollars, with a signature by Vladimir

Lenin, or John Lennon for that matter,

at the bottom. It's like getting picked

out of a hat. There's a difference,

in the books, between fate and

destiny, though I can't always make

the distinction. Destiny, I think, is

what you're born to ('He was destined

to be King'), and fate is to where

your selected path brings you.

Not that the distinction ever really

mattered  -  as I began to say  -

because for me anything that ever

happened I either 'just missed' or

was 'just too early' and it occurs

when I'm done. No breaks and

no big shakes.

-

Some people are born to big things.

That never was, for me. Instead,

most of my life was like some

old Russian novel about the guy

within an internal exile in a deep

society that abhors what he

represents and that he, in turn,

wants nothing to do with. Maybe

the bad-timing part of it all stems

from that lack of a real concern

for the where or what of that which

occurred around me. Seldom

could I understand the sign

language or the semiotics of the

world. Back then there was an

entirely different meaning to

the word 'drone.' Drone's were

'automatonic' working stiffs who

just went about their dull tasks. In

my family and neighborhood that's

mostly what people were, fathers

anyway. That was never anything

I had any interest in becoming

(though for many years I ended

up in that condition anyway).

The workfield state of being that

I was always trying to escape

from was just that. It became my

reason for most all I did  -  getting

away from it and avoiding the trap :

seminary, NYC, faraway Pennsylvania,

and all the other places. Always on

the run. But, even while running,

I never hit the moment of

good timing.

-

I've probably mentioned this

before, but when I hit NYC, the

cloak of invisibility instantly

available to me was one of the

biggest draws. I didn't have to

'be' somebody, or anyone in

particular. I could drop my

old identity, even, had I chosen,

lost my name (think of how many

others have done this),  and by

calling myself whatever I chose,

create a new identity. I didn't of

course, but think of it. There's

a total power in naming things  - 

a mastery. Even in the Bible,

'Man's' first ascension-to-place

was given with the command

to give names to the animals.

In its own way, naming is owning.

One of the first things a parent

does is name the child. Sometimes

one of the first things the adult

child does is to seek to drop the

name. I guess if you have to

own something, it might

as well be yourself.

-

Just like timing can be off, there's

also the consciousness of Time

itself. Unless one learns how to

deal with that, life's a waste.

Most people don't understand

the difference, but the passing

of time can be quite ordinary,

brutally so, say, as in a 'drone'

situation. You can spend your

entire life sorting potatoes or

moving 20 pound bags of sugar,

and be none the better for it.

Unless a sense of 'Quality' is

introduced into a person's life

and line, the remainder of

time can be a real drone.

'Quality' is slow. It can't be

rushed. It's quiet, and deliberate.

Speaks softly. People have lost the

sense of quality. The most ordinary

things can be quality items, showing

the difference in thought and craft.

A simple chain, for instance  -  being

well-crafted, of solid fit and good

manufacture, nicely lubed, and

with good finish. That can be of

real quality-value. As can a basket,

something woven, a board of lumber,

the finish on a car, a painting, the

rungs of a ladder, a good weld, a

nicely machined hammer. The list

is endless, and the idea of 'Quality'

in turn extends to thought, action,

philosophy, reflection, and the

consideration of all those things.

We've mass-marketed and mass-

produced ourselves now to death.

A million cheap copies of everything

can be had. Plastics, modeled, poorly

stitched, cheaply done and cheaply

finished. Gigantic stores and bargain

offerings never make the distinction

that what they're selling is tawdry. 

It's all about volume and sales. A

person has to find what 'Quality' is,

or what it represents, to them.

Maybe that's a key to happiness;

reaching a state of 'Quality'  -  

self-ordained. I would wish to

live a quality life, regardless of

its timing  -  and the few famous

people I've ever known, in spite

of their fortunate station and

timing, often seemed to wince at

having IT, rather than just another

set of problems of poor quality to

deal with  -  travel, travel arrangements,

being always on the move, no longer

being anonymous, etc. So  -  at some

weird crossroads, timing and travel

intersect, and cancel each other out?

At the end of my days, that was

something I'd not yet figured out.

-

And also, comically, this led me to

understand the deeper level meaning

of when people say, 'Uhm, a, a,

whatdyacallit, you know...?'

10,566. AND I'D LIKE TO ADD THIS

AND I'D LIKE TO ADD THIS

I don't have a place in my heart

for leftover sentiments. For haters

or creeps. For those who bend logical

steel in their rugged bare hands. 

Like any Alphonse of old, I stood one

day at the Paterson Falls and cried

for the country we'd lost and sold

-

I wanted to say, as well  -  of the

locomotives and the submarines now

gone from this once-sainted city and

place, from the factory of guns they

once made of for police. The motorcars

grinding and the silk mills on edge.

-

The power of all the churning of the

water-  wheels now running loose but 

on steel rails  -  of only dream and 

remembrance and recollection. Of the

immigrants then and the immigrants

now, who sorted and sort between the

fabrics of desire and the clothes of want.

10,565. DON'T BE MAD JUST GET MAD

DON'T BE MAD 

JUST GET MAD

There are probably germs, right now, 

crawling all over your hands, and eyelids 

and arms and legs. And you don't know

a thing. Can't even feel the touch. The

saliva that you're jawing with, whew!

a chemical bath of nasties I'm sure.

Don't be mad, just get mad.

10,564. WEDNESDAYS WITH MORONS

WEDNESDAYS WITH MORONS

'I love the good things in life; cheap whiskey,

cheap wines, two-dollar burgers, black-cap

mushroom pizza pies. What bothers me the

most is the parking. Bruno Marc and Unke,

together. What's that, and who wears it? 

Shoes like that are only fit for kids.

-

'When I was on the high seas, we could

only wear sea-leather boots. They had to

have cladding, to hold us along the deck.

Otherwise maybe, 'Bye, bye, Mrs. Bligh,

and he went over the side.' Frightful and

deadly stuff. We lost a man once, long

ago, who always had his head in a book.

-

'Reading me Shakespeare,' he'd say, 'in

case we run into a Tempest.' Then one day 

he was swept over the side and never found 

again. 'To the memory of...Barnacle Bill

the Sailor',' I put on his bunk.'

10,563. WHEN JACK KERUOAC WAS THE BURGLAR

WHEN JACK KEROUAC 

WAS THE BURGLAR

Who's got the rocks and the Roxmander 

Reason? I want to go home with Kerouac's 

wife. I held her hand once, on 12th Street

when he was still alive, They were long

distant, and apart. He was a miserable

cuss and she was just what I'd wanted.

He looked around for the party line.

Really was drunk, and thought there'd

be one. I was amazed that anyone with

the smarts of him could fall for that 

drunken ploy again. Such a stupid gag.

-

Twelve men in a twelve man minute.

That's what they tried calling this ersatz

band. Jazz and toiletries was all it ever

sounded to me. I told them that, and

Mrs. Jack laughed. Then, like a fool,

I stood up and said  -  'Anyway, you

assholes, the name you really want is

'This Ersatz Band,' or forget the this

if you wish. Ersatz Band alone would 

do. Part Klezmer, part blues; some jazz

like the Jews like to play on 52nd Street

when they've got nothing else to do.'

-

'Except for choosing sides, ha ha, like

they said God did and picked them.' By

this time I was rollicking drunk and Mrs.

Jack was only getting loose. I turned and

said, (like Jerry Lewis), 'Hey Lady!' (in

that voice), 'Hey lady, where's your sainted

husband do you think he's wearing drawers?

Or, or, snakeskin epaulets?'

-

It was the sixties, a certain period of

time when everyone knew what epaulets

were. Or I think she did, because she

muttered something about, 'That 

god-damn Canuck he's always spouting

French at me too, now shut-up you, and 

come here. I did, and she hugged me

down, right to where we fell.

-

It was only later that I realized what had

happened. She'd fallen asleep, tipsy-wise,

and so had I. I didn't want nobody to see

me no more. So I stood straight up and

looked at my shirt. Allover it, either her

or me. Vomit, baby, free. 'Hey Lady!'

I wanted to yell, 'Hey Lady! Look

what you've done to me.'