11,430. NOTHING LEFT

NOTHING LEFT

Just hanging around this town 

won't do'it anymore, for I've got

nothing left : the highway is for

travelers better use your sense?

They've got crosslights now hanging

where water used to be. Cars and

Harrier jets together zooming.

This land is your land, this land

is my land. Look! Look! Askance.

Up in the sky, its a bird, it's a

place, it's Callous Guy! Man I

hate your scheming guts. Once

my friend and I got to drinking,

far out in Pennsylvania, along

some God-awful river with its

turnings of gold, in a place called

the Bucket of Blood. We looked

around us and, considering we'd

be outnumbered, left the girls

alone and remained to ourselves.

Until the local Sheriff came in,

asking about the car. 'It's mine,'

I said. 'And you are who you are?'

I said I surely didn't understand.

(I still claim that was some sort

of audacious doublespeak he was

using on me). 'Take what you have

gotten from coincidence.' I told 

him I was a gambler, instead of 

the truth, which was that I actually 

was a traveler, as was put initially. 

He took us both in for 'malicious 

wisecracking with intent to gel.'

We spent the night, paid 40 bucks

each the next day, as fines, got

a decent jail-meal for free, and

sped out of town. With glee.

11,429. RUDIMENTS, pt. 548

RUDIMENTS, pt. 548

(the whole world seemed coated in ice)

All a'thwart, and arms a'kimbo!

Whatever that was, it sure caught

my attention, or my eye, or my

interest. How do you get from

something outside to something

within? At 12 years old, I figure

most things are supposed to be

seamless, but this never was. I

got to places, but only in my

head. My own major endeavor,

at that time, proved to be fairly

useless. All the seminary stuff

was just a silly joke. Boys, and

guys after boys, hiding behind

the garb of religious while they

caterwauled with crosses. Now,

what, only 50 years later, give or

take, it's all coming home to roost

and finally a lot of those creepy

bastards, if not already dead, are

going down. Nothing out of the

ordinary for them. (That's a

double-tiered joke, because there's

a part of the catholic Mass called

the 'Ordinary,' and going down,

well that's pretty apparent.

-

The trouble I had in my life, and

it was a big error, was in just that  -

at an early age I took as authority

figures people I placed complete

faith and trust in  - for a short time

anyway  -  who turned out to be

steadfast and recalcitrant oafs. Both

together. They were men (Men?)

of their own self-presumed strict

adherence to principles that, in a

few short years, could not withstand

the onslaught of society and which

gave way  -  they left the priesthood,

brotherhood, whatever, married, and

all the rest, included same-sex stuff

too  -  which is of little consequence

here, except as yet further proof of

their breaches of confidence. I had

been misled, and pretty much my

life was ruined. Tainted and

wounded. Having no one to talk

to, really, I just stumbled along,

stunned at what I'd just gone

through. Never again in my life

would I ever believe the words of

anyone professing to me what they

were, in their own eyes and from

their own points of view. I saw

that it was all a changeable fiction.

The remainder of the world is

just lucky I didn't turn out to be

a killer. I was, however, sickened

to the very weave of my being.

-

I'll need to stop now, before I

put my fist in someone's face.

I'll need to step back, compose

myself, and get real non-committal.

-

St. Augustine (probably just another

asshole, but one here to whom I'll

give a momentary benefit of doubt),

said : "Think. What is time? If no

one asks me, I know what it is. If

I wish to explain it to him who

asks, I do not know. If Space has

three dimensions, Time has only

one  -  the moment we are in right

now. Time is a road without any

turn-offs..." I guess that's OK. I

can finish it for him  -  no turn-offs

or intersections, exits or turnarounds

or rest-areas or toll-stops. Nor does

it have any means of representation

except by its passing. Presentism

says only the present is real  -  we

can no more travel back in time

than we can travel to a place that

doesn't exist. Yet another school

says that past and future are just

as equally real; that the brain makes

its reasons in the present, and that

is all we know.

-

Solid funerals? Precipitous declines?

Is that all that's worth our knowing?

What's worth denying? Lamp paste, 

or lamb paste? Or lambaste? Hey, 

buddy, can you spare a line?

-

It seems like I'm living my life in

reverse, now anyway. I'm about 12,

too, right now again. I think. I hope

that's right, because right now I can

do no other for there's no other to

do. Everything is calamitous. Yet,

I remember it all, and I re-enter

it all because it's all still here from

the first time around. That's why

I'm here : Avenel : again. to re-live

what no longer exists. I died from

the pneumonia I caught there in the

park. Mannerisms like this will

make a great dresser out of me.

Salvation comes with Salada Tea?

Is that what that fellow asked of me?

-

At the very calamitous bakery too

they serve crumpets of worry and

dread  -  you can order either, or

both. The Ayes have it  -  at that

same bakery they also serve boxes

of read, and the eyes have it. I

cycle along the road of cold. No

one ever sways me much, they

stand and they sit and they stand.

People give themselves away,

just in varying levels of what they

probably see as ease but which

appears to me as awkwardness.

It kills me. Me. I can pull nothing

off; here I should be interviewing

the Master chef and I'm interviewing

a busboy instead. I like to wear

my watch and just sit here alone.

No one does that anymore. Certainly

no watches, and they've all got

a phone : staring at the crinkly

screen everyone things they're

the President, getting important

President messages; but who

the hell wants to talk to one

of them?  Overhead, the

incoming jets go by, and I

can time them, 3 or 4 minutes

apart, certain times of day. They

take their patterns; all the same.

It's truly a world of one. Sliding

over to Newark, or out across

the bay, for line-up to landing,

flaps moving slowly in a three

position way. It's amazing how

the engines change their rolling

thrusts for landing and the landing

gear come down. They drop as

low as they seem, so slow. On

Christmas Day, on Christmas

Day in the morning. As the song

has it. I'd rather hear the roar

of the jets than the alto screech

of a hundred high voices all

as one sublimating their jests

to be a Christmas pest.

-

So, isn't it sinful, the things I've

learned and the things that matter

to me. Nothing crashes anymore,

nothing; it all runs on in some

stupid and perfect harmony. I

think I'll vamp, and go home.

-

Once, when I was another fellow,

I stood in the street where it had

been snowing for what seemed like

days; wasn't really but seemed so.

It was 1961. The snow on the streets

had frozen up, and stayed there. Not

like now, when a plow comes in a

day or so and the mess starts being

cleared. This just stayed there; turning

a bit mushy in the day, cars rolling

slowly over it, and then night-freezing

and staying solid as the post-snow 

temperatures sunk. I was 10. We kids

loved it. The whole world seemed

 coated in ice.

11,428. RUDIMENTS, pt. 547

RUDIMENTS, pt. 547
(haulin' and trawlin' on the wine-dark sea)
I kind of always hated the

ocean even though I went

there often enough; thanks

to my father and his incessant

need for the sea. He had an

Evinrude outboard motor,

6 or 8 horsepower, and many

were the Saturdays he'd put

it in the rear of the station 

wagon and drive, with me

along, not that often by choice,

just more like a chore, to some

'Captain Bob's 'or something

place where he'd rent a  -  

believe this  -  a rowboat for

the day and strap the motor

onto the rear. Without fail, it

was always the same; 8 hours 

out on the open water, bobbing

around with a small outboard 

and some gas, humming through 

the little waves and rises of the

sea, maybe sometimes a mile 

or two out. Many more than

once we had a coast guard ship

come out to us and someone

on  a megaphone screaming at

us to get back in towards shore;

we were too far out for the

flimsy craft and engine we had,

or we were in larger boating lanes

unsafe both for us and others. It

was crazy. My father never cared.

He's re-do the very same errant

scenario the very next time out.

Fishing? Yeah, I guess you could

call it that  -  some days we get

five or ten, blues or stripers or

fluke or flounder (which is what

we nearly always close to doing

anyway. It was a fluke we never

drowned). A lot of times the best

of the day was crabs  -  some days,

honestly, we'd get 50 or go in one

or two burlap bags, scapping them

up along the basis of the bridges

over the inlet. I hated all that  -

between flopping fish slapping

around on the bottom of the 

small boat, to bags of crabs,

equally alive and foaming,

probably as they gagged to 

death slowly in the burlap or,

if they survived  - which many

did  -  to come home with us 

and be thrown into vats of 

boiling 212-degree water to

get torched to death and then

ripped apart as food. It was all

very disgusting and hideous to me

and shouldn't have happened to

a dog (As the saying goes; though

I certainly value dogs a million

times more than these gross 

scenes). I never understood people,

just as I never understood the total

and unappended glee my father

got from these hideous and

dangerous behaviors. High-risk

boating included. Being 8 or 9

years old, or whatever it was,

you don't get much choice in the

matter. I was constantly being

drafted in as Popeye's unwilling

assistant. One time way out

we got what must have been

(one wants to say 'we caught,'

but of course that's senseless) 40

blowfish  -  a stupid, tasteless

species of nothing, but a fish

which, in peril, puffs itself up,

thus 'blowfish' from looking

like a regular fish to, instead,

resembling a large, spiky,

softball. Of course that also 

increases their size, and their

roll castor, around the small

deck and underfoot area of a 

'God-damned' rowboat. We 

were soon enough unable to 

even move about, in the midst

of, as we were, 40 kickball size,

terrified fish. As I recall, maybe

that horror was my last time out.

I was so done, and furious too!

From then on, I'd do whatever

it took to stay away  -  'No, can't

go, have to go Barbie-Doll clothes

shopping today, Dad, with the 

guys, and then get our nails done.' 

I mean, WHATEVER it took.

-

Yeah the maritime life just wasn't

for me  -  all that sand and gentle 

surf, all those lovers out together 

with basket beach-lunches; all those

wave swimmers and Dangling-Dons

riding their boards and skies. I'd

rather chew leather. My father

persisted in all this, long after me,

and did eventually find other kids,

neighborhood and more, to do all

this with. Fishing poles, swim suits,

sandy bags of crabs and writhing

fish. Have you ever watched a

real sea-fish die? It's pure terror

in their silent eyes  -  a minute 

before, they were dawdling in the

ocean, in love with the watery

cosmos, the deep, and then some

jerk shafts them with a trickery

hook through the lips and hauls 

them violently in, and then proceeds

to rip that same hook, barb and all,

out the lips and throw you down

on the slimy deck to gasp and gag,

flip and flop, in wide-eyed, waterless

terror until you suffocate slowly.

-

Oh, did I mention how then they rip

you apart with knifes, scrap off your

scales, tear open your gills, probably

chop your head off, and then thinly

fillet you, all so they can fry and

eat you while declaiming the good

and fresh delicacy of taste and aroma

you represent? Life's a real joy.

-

I go to the ocean now, and still hate

it. People fight wars and die over shit

like this  -  watery quadrants, unseen

and invisible, claimed by one or the

other side of which band of miscreants

owns the present coastline. Guns and

gunboats, the entire range of weaponry

and death, afloat on the same wine-sea

as the one that trip up Odysseus. Why?

-

I was never the kind to be easily

entertained. I never went to concerts

or crowd venues and the three times,

honestly, that I have, it's been miserable.

I've always been ore than happy to

drive people to their concert destinations

and find something to do for four hours

or whatever  -  Beacon Theater, Count

Basie, Holmdel, Madison Square

Garden even, whatever, but no

thanks for the rest. If I'm going to

partake of something, it's pretty much

going to be mine. Not much else will

do, and I certainly don't need or seek

to be entertained. That's for mob

monkeys, in my mind. I'm a reader.

The solitary sort. And I don't know

what any of this fishing and boating

crap was called, but I hated that too.

Keep it far away from me.

-

My feelings about fish and maritime

things are about the same as my 

feelings about meat : nasty, cruel, 

not needed, and horrid. Everybody 

thinks a fish  is a cinch to kill and 

eat, because they're stupid, slimy 

blobs. I don't buy that theory. I 

know we've all gotta' eat something, 

but my choices, I hope, stay mostly 

to grains and seeds, as much as 

I can anyway. The simple, quiet life,

that's me. One of my friends never ate

chicken, just that alone, and his

reasoning went : 'I never eat 

anything that has its pecker on 

its face.' I always thought that

was pretty funny, and good too.

If you're a chicken.

-

I don't know what 'Eden' was like.

If it was by the coast, or if there 

was water, fish, and all that. (It

never seems so, in the stories). 

But whatever food choices there 

may have been present, I'd bet 

they were pretty circumspect  

-  even with all that 'take 

dominion over the animals 

on land, fish in the sea, and 

birds in the sky,' or whatever 

the quote was  supposed to be. 

I never believed it for a minute.

,

11,427. THE SOMMELIER DOESN'T HEAR ME

THE SOMMELIER 

DOESN'T HEAR ME

Maybe he's deaf, or perhaps it's a case

of one of this Wines For Dummies things.

They hire cheap these days, all trying to

save. Just before, he told me the fragrance

was axle-grease, with a fruity hint of

raspberries and a touch of almond too.

'What the heck?', I said. That's when he

didn't hear me. Maybe he's deaf, or

perhaps it's a case of one of those 

Wines For Dummies things. Or

did I say that already?

11,426. ERRATA

ERRATA

So now the nurse comes, when they've

already cut off my arms and strung up

my neck. What good is this now, I want

to know? I hate losing people. They just

disappear. Got names and got tangles, and

then I never hear. There's a lonesome sparrow

in that nearby tree, one of those Winter singers,

I'm really not sure which. But it does go on.

-

If I wanted to live at the water's edge, this 

would be a very good spot. But I'm done

with all that. Did it once already. Lived

like that in Waverly, NY, right where the

waters ran  -  small fossils could be found

in the stream. We'd walk it all the way up

to the highlands above, just to see what 

we could find.

-

My favorite thing became the ice on the

water and over the rocks  -  a peculiar sort

of surface ice, beneath which the gurgling

water still ran. The ice itself was thing and

clear, like rippled glass. I figured, if it could,

it must have froze in motion. That's what it

seemed like, though it's a difficult concept.

But what's not, in this stupid life.

-

We take the consequences of what we can.

The rest, we just make things up about, and

go on. Well,anyway, OK. Tell the nurse I'm

done. I'm probably bleeding to death anyway,

the pain has become excruciating, I'm probably

talking to much, and this knotted rope around

me neck is now just too much. Kick the chair

out from beneath me. Please, go ahead.

11,425. RUDIMENTS, pt. 546

RUDIMENTS, pt. 546

(aw, go on, who cares about you?)
Sometimes I go off the deep

end, over things  -  like hats.

I like wearing a hat and I often

switch things around; different

sorts, etc. Some men, I've noticed,

seem to wear hats because of

baldness or losing hair or, perhaps

some form of self-consciousness

about either of them. I don't (yet)

have that problem, though at my

rapidly advancing age it's probably

beginning. Nonetheless, I wear a

hat, most of the time. I consider

myself fortunate, in that regard, in

the same way, say, James Taylor,

the singer, was unfortunate to

have hit fame with a wonderful,

strong head of hair and be fully

publicized in that look, and then

by age 28 have it all gone. It put

him in cowboy hats for the rest

of his days. For me, not much

caring, I guess I jumped the gun

and put a hat on my mane, while

it's yet there. Go figure.

-

Unlike, say, land-line telephones,

hats sort of come in and out of

style. The telephone, of that nature,

once gone, is gone. I don't foresee

a resurgence of retro-phone landline

aficionados on the horizon. The

hat is another matter  -  like all

those fake blues-guys who append

a 'Slim' to their name and think

that does it, their hipness can be

re-determined at most any date,

and come back into hip-fashion.

Take that, Harpo-Slim, Texas-Slim,

Bayonne-Slim, Hurtin'-Slim, and,

probably, Baldy-Slim too. I'm

waiting for some huge, obese guy

to take the stage as Fatty-Slim.

(Actually, I do seem to remember

there being a Fat-Boy Slim already,

back in the nineties maybe).

-

When I was little, in Avenel, most

things stayed pretty stable. Or at

least, overlooked. The sound and

the timbre of those days was slow

and easy  -  it hadn't yet gotten 

jazzed up to the staccato-level

of what was soon to come. It may,

of course, have just been my age.

Any of those 17 year old guys with

cars and girlfriends might have

been feeling an entirely different

current, and, as well, any of our

parents and grandparents, in

the same way, were still living 

other lives with their own 

rhythms and patterns. There

was no way of (me) knowing. A

lot of it defied my understanding.

There was this one guy, name

doesn't matter, who accused me,

out of the blue, of stealing his

'Baby Moon' hubcaps, from off

his Chevy. Down at the Rt. One

end of Inman, where the road 

curves and goes under the bridge,

there used to  be a flat, level,

playing field (it's gone now,

since they widened Rt. One

the bridge overpass, moving

the abutments over onto what 

once was our football field).

Anyway, The Loop Inn now

sits where there used to be a

gravel lot where guys parked

and worked on their cars, and

beyond that there was an old

auto-body shop. He had his

Chevy parked there, and came

back to find the hubcaps gone.

For whatever reason, I was the

culprit, in his mind. It brought

in cops and interrogation and

paper reports and all. Nothing

ever came of it, and I certainly

hadn't stolen his Baby Moons

nor did I have any use for them.

The whole scene was a quizzical

thing for me  -  how randomly

things can go down.  It got me

to start noticing about people,

how anybody can be what they

are but along the way they really

do pick up traits of others. By

adulthood, no one is really pure 

anymore  -  there are influences

of this or that, person or habit,

that get adopted as personalities

grow and change, absorbing the

influences of others. The sneaked

smoke, the person who never

cursed, beginning to sneak one

or two in, changes in attitude 

and slight variations in poise 

and demeanor. I got to be like

a chemical-detective on that

stuff. It's all unspoken. Yeah  - 

you can't just go around saying,

'Freddie, what the Hell's gotten

into you?' Maybe I myself did

appear as a likely car-thief

to this guy. Funny.

-

I used to just go about my own

stuff  -  mostly by bicycle  -  

while my mad father was always

hard at work, pounding away

at something  -  building that

major picket fence thing I've

written off before, as if his 

60x100 foot lot was a major

Texas ranch he had to claim 

and corral; digging out by 

hand that cellar entrance, 

cinder-blocking it, building 

the stairs and fitting in the

metal swing doors and all; and

then, on his own, extending 

the house  -  building the base

blocks, cement and flooring,

and then stud work and all 

the rest (I helped as I could,

between Little League stints 

and the rest of my open time).

I was just a jerk kid with nothing

but time, while he worked 5,

sometimes 6, days a week, and

still fit all this crap in. A true

project-maven he was. Oh, I forgot,

has also made 4 rooms and a bath

out of the upstairs attic space.Then

he always had a painting-the-house

project going on  - a rotational 

basis of upkeep that he kept well

scheduled. Often seen way up,

on a ladder. Until one day it

was all chucked for aluminum 

siding. Like most everyone else.

-

Somehow I'd gotten born into that

mix, but I have to admit, to this

day, little of that blood was ever

in my veins. I had none of that

project or physical drive. Mine 

was all elsewhere   -  air-clouds,

imaginings, and dreams. How I

survived, I don't know. 'A' seemed

always followed by 'B'  - until it

was followed by 'C,' because I

said so. That's how it all seemed

to me, and all the rest was bullshit,

scrimmage, false play with enormous,

dumb, and mute, football pylons. No

one ever really 'stopped' me, but at

the same time, I was never anyone's

dream of the perfect son. I still

harbor a lot of that within me  -  

probably composed of guilt, anxiety,

anger and regret. Horrible ball of

wax that all is, Sisyphus, but I still

need to push it up the hill and have

 it roll down and begin all over. Just

to prove a point. What the hell kind

of life has this been anyway?
-
Sometimes I figure what can be
said will be said but what has to
be said never gets said. And therein
lies the problem of this life : passing
strange  -  like mimes, we run about
each other in some pantomime of
distraction. A distraction that we keep
producing in the hopes that it will
continue to deter each of us from the
real matters at hand. If life then isn't
absurd, we make it so by overlooking
the answers. I'd say. What if I told you
that on the branches of every tree
resided angels watching over us and
helping us produce this Life. You'd laugh.
Of course; but you go ahead believing
angels announced your Savior's conception
and birth? That they heralded his death
and resurrection? That the numerous
and momentous moments of all
conscious civilization have, in turn, 
 been heralded by such? And you'll 
even stand around like idiots
singing 'Hark, the Herald Angels
Sing....' Yeah. OK. If you don't believe
in these things, why do you do them?
You think you can get by with just
faking a Life? For yourself and others?
Imparting that fakery into your own
children friends and family? All
things are good, in the same way
that all things are bad.
-
What if I told you that these
things on trees are NOT angels 
but coils and helixes instead, and 
that they are the very same shapes 
of the determinants of Life that you
so revere and scientifically respect
(until you kill it) as RNA and DNA 
helixes? What if I brought you to a
oneness, a momentary 'now' process of
being? Would you believe in that and
get off your butts and do something
about your world? Build that strong
fence around your imaginary ranch,
and keep out, or slay, the enemy?
Put your hat on : and walk away.