Wednesday, January 29, 2020

12,512. DULCE ET DECORUM EST

DULCE ET DECORUM EST
Well, Hell, we can argue, who
knows what. You can die for
your cause as I can die for mine.
It's the grafted middle that counts:
All those silent assumptions and
passable lies. We fiddle while
this Rome burns.
-
Long ago they put a fenceline up;
between farms, farmer's wives,
wayward kids, and mixed-breed
felons. We only keep out what
we don't want in.

12,511. SCROUNGING

SCROUNGING
Another large morning
in a small-scale world.

12,510. RUDIMENTS, pt. 946

RUDIMENTS, pt. 946
(it's done differently now)
Well, I suppose the nicest
thing that can be said about
me, or these works here
anyway, would be for me
to be told they read as
'accomplished.' That's
really all I'd ask. A means
of equating that with some
sense of accomplishment
resulting from all the years
of crap and bedevilment
I had to put up with. For
me, the situational abyss
was always pretty wide,
and most of the time it was
fairly obvious Take, as an
example, Princeton. For
some nine years I went there
every day, by any passing
assemblage of means by
which I chose to arrive. There
were times when I'd drive each
day for four or five months,
and then go back to the train;
a daily double-take that was,
mostly fun only because it was
interesting. But it was social.
I don't care what anyone says,
I'll take the solitude of one's
own vehicle any day. I met a
lot of people through train
travel. They each eventually
wore me out. Shared concerns,
talk, impositions, social customs.
None to my liking. I was living
in Metuchen in those years, and,
to beat the masses of idiots, I'd
take a 5am train, to get to
Princeton around six. But
no one to deal with, none
bothering me. It was a much
nicer trip in solitary. I did, in
fact, get to know the two female
conductors on those last few
cars, daily, where I sat. We
quickly became friendly, and
after about two weeks neither
of them ever wanted to see my
ticket again; so I rode for free.
Every so often I'd bring them
something selected from
Entenmann's Discount Store
as a thank you. They always
loved it. Donuts, chocolate
this or that, crumpets, etc. It
was fun, until one day some
black worker-guy who commuted
in daily too, plasterer or construction
guy, and he said, in their presence,
'Why you do that, make them so
fat!' (They were b-i-g girls, and
he rode for free too). They giggled
upon hearing it, but I felt stupid,
even though I did keep doing
it. A free ride is a free ride.
-
Depending upon the season, I'd
arrive in Princeton just as it was
getting light, or just before, and
I'd walk around, campus, getting
to learn all the seasonal spots for
the changing views of sunrise, etc.
I had places where I'd go, sit,
after getting a coffee, or staying
there, once they opened at 6:30,
sitting outside somewhere, Prospect
House was a good Spring spot,
Summer too. Mostly in the cold
and Winter I'd just get into the
coffee shop and sit there. It
was a grand little spot morning
regulars rolled in, but it all could
be ignored, or not. The staff
was great, and changeable too
with new folk. And I almost fell
in new love a hundred times. Well,
three or four anyway  -  there
were so many new and fresh faces.
My saddest moment was when
a very charming girl left. She'd
taken another job, (unknown to me,
totally) at a coffee place in NYC,
named 'Joe' right in Grand Central
Station, at the Vanderbilt Avenue
entry side, When I, quite by chance,
saw her there one day, probably a
year later, I was flabbergasted.
After that, a few more times, she'd
be there as I passed around. Always
great and happy. And then.
-
She killed herself. The void
was vast. Hurt lingers. When
I saw that In Memoriam sign
for her, at the walkway, I
could have died myself.
-
Anyway, the subject was Princeton.
I used to often sit, at Prospect House,
warm weather sun-ups. It had once
been the residence of Woodrow 
Wilson, President first of the
University, and then later of the
country. His wife had set up the
garden I sat overlooking. I'd 
imagine myself, often enough,
as a Lenape warrior, gazing
out over the long, distant,
dawn fields  -  once countryside
and farms, and before that, the
raw woods of what became Jersey.
Indians long gone. It was a thrilling
feeling, each time I did that, and
successfully. It became a means,
for me, to transcend the place
and time I was in  -  all without
any meaning whatsoever in these
contexts. Facing east, watching
a sun-rise, seeing the far, barren 
lands. I could hear, and I could
see too, as a Native would. The
crispy-crack of the mornings
only added to it. Beyond speech
and words. I seldom wished to 
move, as behind me, slowly, the
normal acclamations of Nassau
Street slowly arose and set about
their tasks.
-
What was I to do? I asked myself
a hundred times, a thousand times,
in those 9 or 10 years. I found no
meaning anywhere. Nothing was
really transcendent except for what
I gave to it as transcendence. The
world was brick and solid, faux
university-Gothic style rants, filled
with weird brats on the loose. Soon
enough, back then, to be wired
brats on the (same) loose.
-
What was all that stuff, I wondered.
Buildings, dedicate to a higher purpose?
Put in place, with their false style,
to 'signify' some higher purpose of
learning? It sure seemed a failure
to me; like going through the
motions of something, just to get
the idea across. 'We are monastics.'
In actuality, it all came off as sham,
to me, once I began seeing the
kids in action - 'no learning, just
the idea of learning.' These
buildings were just for effect,
as if some Disney-castle was
kicking back. The were not for
shelter or trade. Not utility.
Outside of this context, in fact,
they would only have theme-park
status. University-World!
Gothic is fake. It leads nowhere.
Fake Gothic is far worse. The
'buildings were a bow  to the
contemplative life by a nation
addicted more than any other
to the active life. The nation's
impulse is toward the future,
and tradition seems more of a
shackle to it than an inspiration.'
-
Princeton didn't really wake up
except very slowly. The really
early-morning hours were
reserved for the serving class  -
mostly Hondurans and Mexicans,
kitchen staff, cleaners, servers,
housemaids, etc. They'd pile off
the immigrant buses (I called them)
that rolled in from Trenton and New
Brunswick starting about 6am. Some
had bicycles too, on the front of
the bus. Delivery bikes, etc. They
probably had four hours work
ahead of then before the usual
10am openings of these ridiculous
Princeton-level eateries, lunchspots,
dinner-places, and hatcheries. Food
delivery trucks unloading everything.
Little Hispanic heads in basement-
opening holes, throwing down their
bags of flower, and sacks of rice.
Pallets of soft-drinks, carts of
vegetables, trays of baked goods.
A crafty vagrant with some small
talent could grow fat just on stealing
morning-delivery foods. America 
still has slaves : It's just done
differently now, by the rich.






Tuesday, January 28, 2020

12,509. ROADIE, HAVING A HEADACHE

ROADIE, HAVING A HEADACHE
The department store was out of
departments and they sent me instead
to the third level of Hell. Seemed like
everything was there, in abundance.
So I stood in line at the first one I saw,
never knowing where to or what for.
Everyone else was holding tickets for
something other. I told the wise-guy
I was 'here to buy a car.'
-
I started making offers. He kept
stepping off the see his 'Manager.'
I said I didn't want to be treated
like this no more.

12,508. THINGS THAT ROLL OFF THE ROOF

THINGS THAT ROLL 
OFF THE ROOF
Now isn't the time for recollecting
the oasis, fat pants, in front of the
quite visceral TV. The shroud of
doom is on everyone's lips, but
only because of a helicopter blip; 
TV time and lemonade rhyme,
the football millions chime.
-
I opened a book today, and a note
fell out; one I'd written to myself
in 1973. It was about directions to
Ithaca and an artist guy named
Vito Acconci. I barely remembered
him, and then I did. I'm not sure
if he's still alive or not.
-
It was all about that time and place.
NYC, Sonnabend gallery, as I also
remember, he built a platform you
walked over while he masturbated
underneath. Yeah, that was Art, if
you can believe it. Like Patti Smith
rolling on about her job in that early
recording 'Piss Factory.' What in
the world was anyone thinking.

12,507. HASTEN

HASTEN
Well, damn, it's Wintertime
again and that old fold with the
ice on the surface, that lake of the
delicate fronds, that Summer-class
paradise of proms and swans, it's
there like dead meat just waiting
out the thaw.

12,506. RUDIMENTS, pt. 945

RUDIMENTS, pt. 945
(intimations of immortality)
I used to find myself
saying things like, 'I'm tired
of this, I've had it with that,
I'm changing this, it's the
last time this will happen...'
I don't say that stuff any longer,
being beyond in years now; I
end up saying. 'I'll take it. I'll
deal with it as is. Hell, I'll
accept everything, anything,
now.' Just an aside that a bit
funny. Go ahead. Laugh. You'll
be here someday too.
-
Over my unheralded NYCity
years, a lot hung. Allen Ginsberg.
Ed Sanders. Peace Eye. Fugs.
Cat Mother. Diggers. Angels.
Mad  Hatters. Cops and criminals
too. I survived. I dug my rants
at the Psychedelicatessant, still
being unsure of how they spelled
that crappy name. William Burroughs
too; and W. H. Auden, when he
lived on St. Mark's. I really
tried staying with it, but a lot of
it just came off wrong to me. Like
Ginsberg; as much as I really did
like the directional energy of his
work, some, or even most, of the
poetry just seemed way off to me.
One thing that really annoyed me,
and he seemed to have promulgated
it for everyone else, was how he'd
write without articles. I found that
really annoying; as if, instead of
calmly and reasonable poetically,
saying, 'the cold car was running
like ice on a small town lake,' he'd
have it as, 'cold car runs, ice-town
sits cold like angel-ice rabid.' I
admit, he actually said neither of
those; I did. But I'm making the
point of his rather truncated and
telegraphic manner. Which to me
grated. But, apparently, that was
the direction these guys were
going. 1950's - 1960's Bop prosody.
'All arbitrary discriminations
hereby abolished. Russia America  -
the Robin, he just jumped into my
tree in the raindrops.'
-
It was a funny time to live through.
My favorites were the Digger girls.
They ran a free store on 10th, they
lived down on like 3rd or 6th, I
forget. Avenue A area. The Free Store
was cool, inside it was a neat jumble,
with a little stink to it, to everything,
but down where the girls lived (there
were maybe 5 or 6 of them, usually)
they lived naked. Or at least they
were unclothed the times I went there.
I forget what it was all about but I
sometimes would be asked, instead
of picking through junk or arranging
piles, to go take this or that down
to the girls, whoever it was by
name. What can I say? I never
refused the assignment. I Always
felt, in the same way as Ginsberg
slipped articles, so too did they,
except theirs were articles of clothing,
which they were otherwise, right up
the street, giving away for free. Go
figure. Fraught with temptation.
-
Now it's 55 years later somehow,
and I look back over wreckage.
A good wreckage because all that
once held vibrancy still has it but
only for a very small contingent of
participants. I can recall most every
dot and iota of  -  not so much what
exactly occurred, but more of what
exactly, I was thinking as it all went on.
'America with your atom bomb and
flagrant misdirection boxcar cables
heavy on the filthy Passaic. Falls
over top time moans long God
wheezes once more over dirty,
befouled land. Go back America,
take steps over, turn inward again
oh sunflower lord sutra of turnkey
go-out open door : land of pharoahs
and fakers queers Jesus and holy
roller minstrel Presidents. Never
come back again!'
-
That one was for LBJ Nixon
McNamara Bundy.  I
made it up.
-
As it stands now, I dodder; all
my teeth hurt and ache. My eyes
fail, my fingers cramp. I live 
with it. Slower times and more 
complicated moments that should
have rolled away to nothing already.
By now. But I linger about, traipsing
lightly my old dirty streets and my
old dirty moments. I look like a bum,
walking wayward across time. The
top of my head, I swear, feels at
moments bad, as if it was going to
blow. Pop. You'd hear it. I'd tell
you my lessons but either I'd fall
asleep telling them or you'd fall
asleep having to listen. I love a
million things. 'After that age we
get another type. In Cleveland. The
guys who stay around, already
fitted with a set of false teeth; he
who puffs and pants and insists on
wearing a belt though he should
be wearing a truss.' I'll need to 
ask Henry Miller what he was
thinking. I can see this back in 
1945, but did he ever think it
would make it to 2020 and no
one would have a clue about a
'truss?' For this is now a world
suited for monomaniacs obsessed
with the idea of 'progress,' what
they call it anyway. But a false
progress, a progress which stinks.
I wouldn't want to have to live
in it, but I will. Me and the Digger
girls. Baby, let me take you over
to South Plainfield. There's a 
place called 'Get Snatched.' They
tell me those policewomen you
gals got clean up pretty good.
(See, 70 years ago I could never
say that). Me and Milton Berle.
Sounds like the end of Beaver
to me.  Somehow, by 1968, we'd
gone from Beaver Cleaver (what
kind of name was that, TV guys?)
to Eldridge Cleaver. 
-
As John Marin said once, in a
letter to Alfred Steiglitz, "Some
men's singing time is when they
are gashing themselves; some
when they are gashing others.'



Monday, January 27, 2020

12,505. HAVERSTRAW MUMBLETY-PEG

HAVERSTRAW 
MUMBLETY-PEG
To many hatbands, not enough hats
and all these people talking at once. 
I just want quiet. Please. Shut-up.
There's no news from the front. I'd
probably say no new news from the
front but how redundant is that?
-
Here, as it is, we're better of anyway,
and safer. The lighthouse guides the 
harbor down. There are a few lovely
ladies to serve us. We have provisions.
The bathroom is working. How much
better off can we be?

Sunday, January 26, 2020

12,504. RUDIMENTS, pt. 944

RUDIMENTS, pt. 944
(dead, stuck, and anchored)
How does one get serendipitous?
Do the new arrivals in Heaven
know immediately where to go?
I always thought yellow journalism
wasn't 'journalism' at all. It was
just people too chicken to point
specific things out  -  thus, 'yellow.'
Heck, think of where all that would
get us. We'd still be getting ptomaine
from bad industrial food-canning.
Those business types will do anything
they can do cut corners and make a
few more pennies.Which brings me
to my next point  -  an issue with me
my entire life, and I've actually even
worked for a guy whose other line
was a restaurant out in the boonies.
Why would anyone pay to eat out?
To eat food prepared by others?
In the first place, if it's a corporate
restaurant, one of those ass-happy
places with booze and eating, loud
noise and music, it's corporate. The
frozen foods and entrees are probably
40 days old already, nutritionally
inert, tasteless and gummy too, and
carried in by weekly truckings. If
it's a local person's restaurant, it
may be a little different in that regard,
but still, in either situation, the profit
motive rules. They'll open the place
up with some fanfare and a showcase
menu, and then, three months later,
everything begins getting fine-tuned.
They'll find out it's cheaper to buy
160 frozen entrees to microwave
up then it is to get 30 a week; so
their hunt for 'economies of scale take
over  -  your food is 40 days frozen.
They notice what sells, what doesn't;
they review costs and feasibility for
this or that. Then they begin, in the
name of sustaining a profit, to cut
what they may  -  inferior ingredients,
fewer or different seasonings, faster
prep, shortcut here, shortcut there.
They may be feeding you, yes,
but they're also gauging your party
for table-time, what you buy, what
they begin omitting, what you'd
not notice. The predominant issue
is profit and bottom line, not your
food and dining. Why bother?
-
Well, anyway, that's just me, and
the real reason I would never dine
out is because of price, mainly;
but I also have a real aversion to
eating publicly. It seems a gross
thing to do, and the presence of others
holds out no joy for me. I'm a light
and delicate eater, hate leaks and
slop, the sounds of chewing and all
that, watching people's plates and
the guzzling and muck that goes on.
We should all be so private. Maybe
it's all (once again) because of that
damned seminary stuff  -  enforced
group dining, three times daily, with
a mass of idiotic male teens. You
never outgrow your need for...yuck?
-
I guess serendipitous stuff is just
another version of that whole 'timing'
thing. That Chasen's drugstore or
Schwab's kind of episode all over
again. People turning a corner or
entering a store and, wham! they
get discovered. Most of those
stories probably should be taken
with a grain of salt (whatever
that actually means), but maybe
some of the essence is true. It goes
back a lot, in part, to that numbers
thing I mentioned in an earlier
chapter one - one two back - about
certain agglomerations and tallies
of numbers. When they happen,
or some version of them, you enter
another spot entirely, the skies
open for you  -  as it were, you're
stepping into destiny, or fate.
That all works fine, as a working,
numbers, tally, but once the final
numbers roll in, you're done. It
happens to all. 'In that you are 
not so unique.'
-
Tires are round  -  they aren't really,
that's just what we call it. The
peculiar essence of 'roundness' does
not exist except for 'words'. In the
same way as the perfect cylinder
of a six-gun seems eminently right
for the perfection of that circularity
and 'six,' a 'seven-gun' somehow
just wouldn't work or be the same. 
It's just the things we adapt to.
I used to think of that when helping
those wagon and cart guys along the
west side  -  17th, 15th sts., etc. and
their horses. Each of them and their
horseshoes. What is a horseshoe?
It's a very indeterminate word, I 
guess describing something, a 
thing-that-is, in this case self-defining.
We seem to know exactly what is
meant, but what is it we are saying?
The description? Or the thing? And
of either, which is more 'correct'?
These are human terms and human
things, and the world is made up of
them, but if a person is not careful
they can lose all of that and just be
absorbed, with the meaningless, by
the saying of whatever they're saying.
A person MUST, then, remain
conscious of everything.
-
You see, the problem is if you go
around with stuff like this coming
out of your mouth your 'timing' is
going to be so far off even the
Battery-To-Times Square bus won't
hit you. You'll be one-step ahead
of the impact, or just off. You get
all those sky-watching Mt. Palomar
type telescope guys, digging way
out to deep space, and they walk
off to take a whiz, and, boom!,
they come back having missed the
stellar explosion they've been 
waiting on for 31 years. They
come back to peaked, waning
blackness, 6 minutes off! And
that's on light that had been
traveling for 4.33 light years
to show itself.
-
It always seemed  -  odd as it was  -
that everyone somehow agreed
on what, say, 'Yellow' was, or the
'roundness of that tire and wheel.
Yet, 'Democracy' or whatever
operative phrase one pushed, tended
to say 'every person for their self'
as far as deciding goes  -  what's
false, good, or bad, or true. There
are dangerous threads of anarchy
woven into all that, yes, but men
and women most generally do agree
on round, and yellow, and, yes,
horseshoe. It's a stable (no pun)
shortcut we take to keep the world
in one piece. But it doesn't need
to be, it's not in our make-up. Or 
is it? How far did the Tower of
Babel concept go? Using one's
own faculties to determine for
oneself isn't that great an idea.
I remember some old ad from
the 1970's, about car loans. 'We
loan for any make,' etc. The image
with the ad was always a vehicle
made up of parts, fenders, lights
and the rest from a grab-bag of
all different cars : Buick, Ford,
Chevy, Pontiac, Valiant, etc.
The idea got across. The ad 
worked, but it was the most 
simple of concepts. The 'other' 
idea of 'Concepts,' it would 
not work for: The American 
philosophical method was
weird  - old things were all
supposed to have died away
and we were to be grounded, 
if at all, on our own new concepts.
No longer bound by the tradition
or ritual of old. Prejudices of
religion, class, and family : 
Gone!
-
It never quite worked that way, 
at all. From the very beginning, 
each person took claim to their
thought, their own stance, as 
being the predominant stance : 
churchman had their divine 
standards or revelation, 
aristocrats for their reverences 
towards antiquity, fathers for 
ancestral integrity, and such.
'Even if men seek authority,
they cannot find it where they
used to find it in other regimes.'
That made things tough. It was
thought 'Men' were on their own,
well, maybe, but, not. Yellow
remained yellow and round 
remained round, thankfully.
-
The problem, as it arose, was
that the 'common' beliefs of
ordinary people are what took
over. And those common beliefs
become what was determined as
proper judgment  -  and of course,
that was what I'd been fleeing
from. It hit me. It hit me like a
round, yellow, horseshoe, and
one as yet without a name. If,
thereby' all men were thinking
alike, for convenience's sake, 
was it not, in a sense, viral, and
spreading. Common thought,
taking no chances, no depth
of field, just a really dull
snapshot of a supposed place
and time. How quirky! And
that's exactly what we have 
now  -  the dullest of the dull,
always doing the most dull things.
I'd left all that, long ago and
with a very grand thankfulness,
but it still comes back to haunt,
and every so often, bite. The
common bite, like a lowly
mosquito. In the absence of
anything else, the most common
of beliefs will take over, and
the most common of men will
let it go that way, and remain,
stupidly, satisfied. My own
way-station was constantly
moving. It seemed everyone
else's was determined to remain,
in place, dead, stuck, and fully
anchored in all the old things.