13,941. SOMEONE TELL ME

SOMEONE TELL ME

Just yesterday, the whole country

was miserable. Supposed to be.

Screwed up over money, or the

Presidents, or disease, or more

commonplace errors. I give up. 

Now, everyone's happy, drooling

like dogs, rabid to fleece and be

fleeced. Christmas. Joy. 

-

How does this happen?

What's here employed, and

who is doing this to our land?

13,940. W EME TAGA IN (We Meet Again)

W EME TAGA IN 

(We Meet Again)

By the incredible happenstance of

circumstance, we meet again. And

I am here once more holding this

fork to my throat trying to eat the

fine fish that you've made. Outside

this sylvan glade, the day has now

already brought the season's first

glimmers of afternoon snow. 

You deny it, but I say so.

-

Yes flurries are nothing to get hung

about. OK. But. Still.

-

Remember where we are. I am

once more holding this fork to

my throat but it could just as well

be you. This fish ain't nothing to

write home about, and I was not

that hungry anyway.

-

Flurries are nothing to get hung

about, I heard you say. Yes. But.

OK.

-

I'm trying to think of something

to say back to you, here in this

sylvan glade, but all I can hear

is that backwards sound from

Strawberry Fields Forever. 

Let. Me. Take. You. Down.

13,939. IT'S ALWAYS SOMETHING...

IT'S ALWAYS SOMETHING

I wonder if they served

iceberg lettuce on the

Titanic? I wonder if kids

could order an ice-cream

float? Heck, I wonder if

their candy-counter sold

Life-Savers?

13,938. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,227

RUDMENTS, pt. 1,227

(Soviet Life)

It never became easy for

me to formulate any precise

measurements or 'yardsticks,'

so to speak, by which to 

measure the life around me.

I was just a kid, the same 

sort of person who would

have been me if I lived in

Nebraska or out on the plains

of anywhere. The localness

of where I was never seemed

to account for anything.

-

When I was 11, in my upstairs

room, I can remember doing a 

hugely detailed report, for

for whatever school-class it

may have been, on St. Basil's

Cathedral, in Moscow. It was

the first time I realized how

all-consuming I often made

things. (I think now that's

called obsessive?). But, in

any case, I got a subscription

as well, to a Soviet Magazine,

'Russian Life.' It was a large

magazine, in the same vein

as Life Magazine in the USA,

but it was not on glossy, slick

paper as Life Magazine used.

Rather it was a much cheaper,

grubbier, paper, more to the

'newsprint' end of things. The

photos would look rather

muddy because the cheap 

paper sopped up all the ink.

Nothing was crisp, and the

stories were all booster-type

stories extolling Soviet things;

not even 'Russian' things, since

the entire idea of 'Soviet' was

to supplant the old, Slavic and

Russian consciousness and make

only the 'NEW' man of the new

Soviet State (which of course,

and they never said, included

killing off the Kulaks, wiping

out all vestiges of the old and

parochial ways, forming a

robotic police state, and hen

shuttering churches (one thing)

and balancing that by also

shuttering all free thought). 

What in the world, then, was

I doing being consumed by

St. Basil's Cathedral  -  in the

heart of old downtown Russia,

onion-domed and colorful, with

all that weird architecture and

history from the past but with

all the patriarchs stabbed dead

in the heart?

-

Stalin was dead. Beria was dead.

Malenkov was dead. Bulganin

was dead. Names I read about, 

and there was Khrushchev. A few

years later, when I was in the

seminary, I remember coming 

out onto one of the sports fields,

at a group of guys were there

talking about the removal of

Khrushchev! Big surprise; he'd

been ousted and replaced by

Brezhnev and (at first) some

other guy, name forgotten now.

All my imagism about the

Soviet Union had coalesced

around this goofball-oddball,

orotund, grandfather the clown

type figure (Khrushchev) and

now he too was gone. By

contrast, Brezhnev seemed

funereal, dour, and morose.

Stalin's daughter lived in

Princeton! More surprise!

-

Deep in my head, with this

St. Basil's thing, the bells 

were ringing  -  art, color, 

(all those colorful spires), 

old and ancient ideas of 

worship and belief. I turned

in my report, which was 

more like a 12 page booklet

than a report, and that's the

last thing I remember about 

it. I don't remember a grade, 

any comments, or where it 

ever did end up. Yet, the 

detail-roster of all that I did 

and went through in putting 

that curious report together 

has always stayed with me.

It's funny, the stuff we put

ourselves through in the

thinking of getting to another

place. I have an entire sort

of log-book of imagined

travels and studies I've gone

through and experienced, and

I find (somehow?) that each

of them can be erected as a

ready-kit, to be built and

experienced from the 

vantage point in actuality 

of wherever I am at that 

moment. My standings

change, (one moment the

Biker dude, another moment 

the young, religious kid,

another moment the normal,

married father, house, wife,

home and kid...etc.), but the

essences of all those places

into which I've entered still

remain, regardless of my

personal history at any 

moment. The entirety of

my own life has become a

museum and library  -  of

ever-expanding proportions

and with expandable rooms

of all sorts, that can widen

ad open out to fit the new

and add the newest!

-

By 1967, when I entered

New York City for real, it

was as if, immediately, my

museum and library needs

expanded greatly, and urgent

construction of new and wider

rooms and shelves were being

constantly called for. My own

wrecking-crew little knew that

it was about to be drafted as a

construction-crew instead.

13,937. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,226

 RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,226

(the axe always wins)

No. I never concentrated 

much on the 'normal' things 

of life. Never knowing why, 

I figured maybe it was just 

because I myself wasn't 

normal, as I figured that a

non-normal person couldn't

certainly just go around 

thinking  of normal things. 

So I never worried too 

much about that; the weird

connection I'd made always

seemed sufficient to link

my life up. Maybe now they

call that being 'in sync,' or

whatever that computer term

is when you 'sync' stuff. I

certainly still haven't figured

that out. Don't care. I'm sunk.

-

The morning of election day,

for 1976 (I guess that would

have been Nov. 1975?), I

remember it was about 12 

degrees out, in Elmira, and

I'd walked over to the 

Washington school, to vote.

It was early morning, like

7am or something, before

I made my usual, cold trek

to work, about a mile off.

Maybe it was a little longer.

Most of the time I rode my

Schwinn Suburban (a bicycle)

even in the very coldest of

mornings. But for voting,

that day, I walked. Gerald 

Ford was President. He'd

taken office in August '74, 

after Richard Nixon resigned.

The candidate running against

Ford (well, the main candidate

anyway) was Jimmy Carter.

He was from Georgia and  -

no matter the politics involved,

which I didn't care for anyway  -

I detested him. I'd never voted

before, and my personal opinions

always wavered; one day I'd

like Nixon, and then Ford, and

the next day I'd hate them. It

was like a spiritual reading; 

I'd go through interpretive 

processes of judging these 

guys in relation to whatever 

'American' spirit I thought 

they should have each held. 

It was always changing.

-

I've never voted since then, 

actually, or maybe once or 

twice, in Metuchen. I forget. 

I don't really care either.

Reason is, this country, as 

I saw it, went bad  -  and I 

mean way bad, sometime

about the Civil War, or just

before. 1850, maybe. The

voting booth today is a joke;

as is the country. We've let 

criminals and morons take

charge, one bleeping piece

of shit after the other. James

Earl Carter, to me, was among

the worse (he won, 1976), as

he represented the crass and

smiley underbelly of sleaze

marauding as religious goodness,

over-bearing self-consciousness

and pride, mixed in with lies

about humility, human nature,

lies and business, all mixed up.

The guy was, and is, last I

knew, a pitiful water balloon 

of Georgia politics, peanut

farmer sharecropping bullshit,

and smarmy business idealism.

At least Nixon was a broadly

based, citified jerk. Ford was,

all those years before being

an 'accidental' President by

appointment, a complacently

go-along House of Representatives

Michigan automaton. We went

nowhere, nor did he. But, again,

let me state, these others paled

before Carter. Obsequious;

hidebound; without an original

thought in his brain.

-

Where tht leaves us now is

beyond the pale and outside

of any Civics textbook. You

want your 'Veterans'  -  you

can have them. Just yesterday,

the current President said that

the Veterans and Military are

'the spine of our nation.' People

actually applauded and did

all that weepy crap they do

when in the presence of veterans

and 'warriors' (what they're now

called). I've got news for them

all  -  if the spine of this nation

is, or ever was, military and

soldiers, something is way

wrong in LaLa Land and the

current crop of arsonists in

Washington DC should be

ashamed. They need a term

of serious re-education. This

nation was NOT built on

military principles in any 

way, shape, or form, and if

that is the operative premise 

of today's standing government,

we are in deep trouble. Because 

the leadership, in its blindness, 

has failed. Because those in 

powers elope with our money, 

benefits, and largesse, through

their powers of taxation and 

representation, by illegally

over-populating our country

with marginal immigration,

doling out beneficial apparatus

to others while ignoring us;

under the cover of false and 

do nothing but enact self-

serving means of preserving

their won status quo. This is,

yes, an indictment. Against

them, and their clerk and 

minions, and anyone who

dirties their won self by

working for them in whatever

capacity. America has diluted

the meaning of Revolution

down to the watery trickle of

privilege, militarization and

thievery. From the Presidents

on down, they speak only to 

each other, because they surely 

never speak to us.

-

"The executives at chemical 

manufacturers who, instead of

spending more on research

and development to identify

safer products, lobby in

Washington for deregulation?

Oil companies? Shipping

firms? The US Military, whose

greenhouse gas emissions are

greater than the total emissions

of roughly three fourths of the

world's nations?" Those are the

questions that should be asked.

Why are we not asking them?

Why are we not demanding

a fitful extrication from the 

mess we are now boxed into

by the in-place thieves and

criminals who now parade

about with their false salutes,

un-torn flags, and rabid

crowds of zombie applauders

who let this just all roll along?

13,936. DELIRIOUSLY HAPPY

DELIRIOUSLY HAPPY

The runaround is running around

while the dripping faucet drips.

Life can be so sensibly simple,

(sometimes).

13,935. THESE NEW MILESTONES

THESE NEW MILESTONES

These new milestones are around

my neck and I refuse to make a

business of them  -  they're heavy

and they're hanging me low. The

books have all been pee'd on, and

the major sanctions, though removed,

are still papal-like in their stern

enforcements. It never made sense

before, and it never can now.

-

Library shelves are bulging over

but they still have room to grow.

The manners of the elves and fairies

are as much the same as those of

the learned masters seeking new

forms of information. May I see

your shin bone please?

-

As a youngster, I huddled under

the local bridges, hiding my face

from the passing parade. I neither

wanted to be recognized nor seen;

my words back then were meant to

preceded me and never echo back.

-

I admit to being mad now, all these

years later. My late-life panorama

is so vastly different from all I'd

ever assumed before.

13,934. DELLARAMA

DELLARAMA

I wouldn't know the clothing

without the shapes they have.

It's skeletal without the science

of the osteopath.

-

I find it useless to blame the

Hebrew, or the Chinese one,

that person who makes the

gimmick and then relies on

the foolish goy who's being

ridiculed, to laugh. All they

end up saying is 'You're an

anti-Semite all the way.'

-

The Chinese jugular vein

is even worse. They make

sky that kills us now, and

we make excuses for 

them each day.

13,933. IN FORMATION

IN FORMATION

Ramrod straight, the erect soldiers 

marched by. Boys once, I figured

that had simply left their minds

behind  -  to do the dirty biddings

of other men so inclined. The brute

force of maturity, as it is framed,

will send them off: To die for all

false truths declaimed. But I say:

-

There is no Liberty but God's own

failures, realized.

13,932. MODERN MORPHOLOGY

MODERN 

MORPHOLOGY

The horse took the cake

and ran off. The fire under 

the stew pot stopped. Even 

in Algiers, it seemed, no 

one yet knew a thing. 

Disputing Augustine of

Hippo, I fight back while

the others sing.

-

The cars meld back into 

metal, their parking lot 

mysteriousness marking 

time between their lines, 

while I walk away disjointed.

-

The all-day contrivances of

this modern day annoy me

to no end : the plastic bag

that has no integrity and

cannot hold itself within its

form but rather crumples

shapeless as you let it go.

13,931. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,225

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,225

(world growing down)

I learned a lot about my

own abstraction just by

being abstract. I'd always

supposed the train wreck

did it to me; getting run

down by a locomotive

isn't an everyday occurrence,

and it certainly had to have

some effect on my cognitive

abilities. Awakening from a

coma, as well, isn't exactly

ordinary  -  especially one

produced by the crooked

mash-up of bones, skull

and metal jamming together

for some weird romp of

blending. My own reservoir

now of memory and idea

most often contains some

bits and pieces of that

cosmic realigning which

I went through. I can't say,

though I've just said it.

-

Abstraction has led me to

many odd corners. Dealing

with people has always been

strange, understanding usual

concepts of give/take or profit

and loss, gain and value. When

a person values a landscape or 

a pebble as much as others do a

Lexus or a treasured getaway, there's

not much to be accomplished

in the personal loss or gain

categories. Business and trade

have always sucked for me : I

can never tell the difference 

between giving and selling.

You may think, or say, that

your 2 plus 2 equals 4, but

there's no such thing as a 2

and there's not even a 4. These

are all assumptions and the

false conclusions of the foolish

rational. The same logic that

presents you with the 2 and

the 4, and the idea of the 0,

for that matter, is the same

logic that by the aims of Lord

Shiva can destroy your world

with fire and flame. The other

entry point for the logical aim

of numeric order is the bomb

and fire and flame. Destruction,

to be more precise, which can

end up not being destruction

at all. Listen to your logics?

Go ahead. I dare you.

-

The opposite of Shiva is Vishnu.

Yes, it's that 'three' concept again,

of Trinity, along with Brahma.

We see it repeated here in our

own western religious games 

of the Trinity, which  -  oddly 

enough  -  was  one of the names 

for the Atomic Bomb Project's

first detonation: July 16, 1945 

at 5:29am. From that point on,

all 0's surely became 1's. Now,

why did that happen? What's

actually concrete and real, and

what's abstract? My own life

has come out of a force-field

of energy which has fed me;

in a 2nd go-round, or not, I 

never have known. I look at

a coma as a pause? Isn't that

a comma, as well?

-

I've winnowed and worn down

my old and battered life by now,

so that all concepts fade. I can't

exactly grasp anything, the

concepts I once knew are 

outmoded and I reject the 

new. I suppose that's my due

and everything past this point 

is to be considered a bonus.

Well, I hope. But I've not laid

up any interest-bearing accounts

based on tht premise. A big

part of me is still inclined to

just call this life a 'Nothingness.

With an accidental purpose? Or

no purpose at all? With a design,

guide, and purpose by the Gods

or an Almighty (but one bearing

demands and needs for money

and tithes), but one as well

based on organizational and

real estate principles which 

do nothing more than advance

the status quo, rational rank

and station  -  all in service to

a 'God' that, quite frankly, most

of the time seems no more than 

a service-master for whom yet

some OTHER playwright has

simply penciled in 'Exit, stage

left.' It's all far too confusing 

for my belittled brain.

-

Like dreams, very little now

stays with me, and, like a lost

and quickly retreating dream,

I so sorely do not want to lose

it; whatever the scenario or the

adventure may have been. Again,

dreamlike, I can walk amidst

memories of my own old NYC  -

all those stately ecclesiastical

edifices with the power and

pomp of rites and rituals and,

most surprisingly, always, all

those rows of adherents; people

boldly proclaiming, attending,

giving, professing, and praying.

Did that old man really just

hang his crutch on the wall 

and walk off, unaided? 

-

I used to think what if, instead

of skyscrapers and huge, tall

buildings, the world grew 

downward and not up? What 

if all of it was some subterranean, 

unseen, world of darkness? 

Metaphorically I was not that 

far-off from the psychological 

dramas by which events and 

people proceed along their 

ways. Isn't that, really, why

people have dogs, and children,

and, in the reverse, parents?

What other basis for anything

can there be in this miserable

society where liars and cheats

and profligates rise to the top,

while the others  -  any creative

bent, any free-thinker, any

outsider of any way, shape,

or form, is heaved, belittled,

persecuted, eliminated, while

all the others willingly allow

their brains to be attacked by

pervasive societal cancers, rot,

and all those fantasies of

building 'up' and better and

higher and best.

13,930. AT BAR 55

AT BAR 55

'Well fuck me twice because 

I've already lost it.' When I

heard Shanda say that aloud,

I knew she was already drunk.

Around the corner from the

wedge-shape bar, the guy 

named Carl came rushing 

over, with one of those white 

rags that bartenders use. He

looked all of us over, and

said, 'Go on, go on, just

another mess to clean. It's

really OK.' And I knew he

meant it too.

-

There were some lilies leftover

at the other table, and I said

'What's with that?' He said

there'd been a funeral party

here earlier  -  another one

of those (I'd seen them here

before) with the bagpiper and

the crazy Irish mourners and

the firemen getting drunk.

-

Right next door too, at the

Lion's Head, it never was much

better, except that was more the

'literary' crowd. I'd seen Breslin

in there, and Norman Mailer too.

Big-mouths playing cards, and

a few fights, right through to the

finish; who was gonna' win, you

never really knew. Keen men

would put bets on the ultimate

ending.

-

I'd once asked a bagpiper how

much he got for a funeral. He

said 'Eighty bucks. But it never

goes long. They say four hours

but in 30 minutes these bust-up

guys get so wasted they forget

all about me. And I get to drink

and eat. For free.'

13,929. ALTERED STATES

ALTERED STATES

Hand me that booklet, let

me read that again: Warmer

Fall Leads To Altered States.''

-

All I want to know is where 

do they get this information? 

There hasn't been an altered 

state in this world since Adam 

first kissed Eve.

-

Scold me for being stupid. but

those were the given names?

This universe expanding is an

egregious misrepresentation.

It's Consciousness doing all

the work, and we just follow

along, like the tail on the

donkey at the end of 

the song.

13,928. EVEN NOW

EVEN NOW

The diamond-seller's place

was on 47th and I took a

necklace there that I had 

found, and a high school

ring from some guy I used 

to know  -  both being

useless to me, I got about

700 bucks, yes, but the

diamond-merchants said

I was lucky they were in

a generous mood and that

the necklace (from Martin

Lawrence Jewelers, with

its box and original sale 

receipt for 1600 bucks 

some) wasn't worth that

much at all and whoever

had paid that for it 15 years

back had been foolish. I

said I didn't care, both of 

these people were dead 

now and I was cashing in.

Which wasn't exactly true

but wasn't false either. So

I took their money and left.

They were 2 very different

people; the first guy, the 

salesman at the counter, 

was all sharp and fancy,

but the guy who apparently

made the money decisions

was a short, wide, squat 

Jewish guy of about maybe

70 who wore the yarmulke

funny-like on his bushy gray

hair and a eye-piece jeweler's

magnifier thing around his

head. He pulled it down over

an eye when examining carats

for quality and the rest. He 

made decisions quickly, 

blurting out rudely, things 

like 'Nothing here,' or 'junk, 

worth but little.' I guessed it 

was all part of their game and 

simply had not the energy to 

fight or squabble over money  

-  which apparently meant 

more to them that it ever

would to me. So I took

what they gave, 

and left.

13,927. SING THE ANCIENTS

SING THE ANCIENTS

Long and far back in time, the

metaphysics of daring were

not that different from what

goes down today. In crossing

the stream, even Little John

and Friar Tuck winced.

-

Thus would that bridge hold?

Dare I dare to make the pass?

Has there been a moment

like this before?

13,926. COMB

COMB

Rooster. Headful.

Scrape. Barrier.

Coxcomb. Newsman.

Cartoon. Camera.

Guitar. Banjo.

Ukelele

13,925. I NEED SOME RELIEF

I NEED SOME RELIEF

The hole I've dug goes pretty

deep. It's down before it starts

again. I'm tired. I'm beat.

-

This turmoil runs inside me,

always, and without surcease.

13,924. EQUATION

EQUATION

(constant soul)

Outside of the Shandu Moss, I 

often think life is nothing at all.

Left to its own devices, even the

most reticent wallflower fades.

Here is the magician, with his

watering can of exterior ferns

and roses, walking the lanes of

expectation. Everyone seeks

the rabbit from the hat, but he

knows better about all that.

-

Mysterious mathematics with

an algebraic twist: the outside

dimensions match nothing of

this; inside the hat's spaces.

that rabbit must first exist.

13,923. WHAT KIND OF A MESS...

WHAT KIND OF A 

MESS IS ALL THIS?

Amidst the normal warmth of things

the blanket casts its spell, sending

warm elation out into the world

around. Here, the applause is

loudest. Just before it fades those

few reluctant souls immune to

stopping just keep clapping on.

Such a type of tidal deafness 

makes another sound. Indeed.

-

Commanders come and go, but

far beneath them the enlisted

fools remain. Just waiting for

orders, or waiting for death.

I can't abide either, so - breaking

ranks and darting off - I am

caught across the field and

rudely dragged back. By the

very same men who merely

follow orders. Indeed...

Must I yield?

13,922. STAKE-FALL

STAKE-FALL

I can't call about the ending,

because it hasn't happened

yet. The new people have

already left.

-

They came in with a 4-poster

bed, moved in by a crew of

brawny men. Parked wrongly

at the curb, their truck soon

got a ticket.

-

Mark my mention, I won't 

be here again, and table any

suggestions I may have made.

13,921. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,224

 RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,224

(gone gold, the gold is gone)

A pattern develops: these little,

nowhere towns seem to pile up,

one upon another, all the way 

along the occasional rural-highway

outpass. Once past the constricting

coastal confines of those endless

east-coast disaster towns, exiting

the foolish confines of all those 

New Jersey gold-plated towers

with their fluted faux-columns

and extensively networked

suburban pretentions, lawns,

'facsimiles' of' this or that mad

throwback to some more classic

norm now shoveled shoveled

into the same manure pack as 

a hundred swimming pools,

fences, SUV's on parade, lots,

acres, and shopping plazas for

parking and 'people,' one enters

- at a more stately pace perhaps,

but not always  -  the dotted

mishaps of rural places where

most often the older 'town' and

'village' uses are long gone - the

tanneries, small factories, lumber

and grain mills, grange halls,

and other practical use places.

One is left now with the ghosts

of old America. Maybe a village

square, a band-shell, a few old 

churches white with steeple. But

for the most part that past is dead,

and what lingers outside of memory

and the local graveyards are the

thoughts of all the squirming 

which once went into 'progress' 

and 'growth' and in whatever way 

that once went. All those bankers

and barkers are dead now. The

towns themselves, processed,

grown out, and deadened, are 

ringed instead by convenience

stores, soda and beer retailers, 

box stores, and, again, the 

trebled inconvenience of more

convenience stores for those

always in need : breadcigarettes

candycupcakesbatteriesmilk,

all at extended and almost lethal, 

prices. Gone gold, the gold is gone.

-

I've been to small places, and I've

been to large. I've been to faint and

rural outposts of neglect and ruin, 

and I've seen all the grubby and

fatuous in-betweens of town and

suburb and community in which 

the rabble tend to themselves

between their bouts of work, toil,

and tending to the concerns of those

above them. Midland industrialists.

Stupid businesspeople. Clerks and

counters. Repairmen and pale

doctors. It's all the same, and it's

all different too  -  from Roanoke

to Castle Hill to Port Jervis to

Castelton, Augusta, San Francisco

and San Juan too. 

-

So, what was this 'Troy' Pennsylvania

I write of? Merely an example of

what was, in 1972, simply another

wayward town on the way to the

next, along fabled old Route 6, in

Bradford County. Farmlands, old

farms and barns, rural roads and

pathways, small bridges over 

streams and gullies, with culverts

and sidings. Agway and other

sorts of farm stores, equipment

places, and the usual assortment

too of 'recreational' equipment

adjacent to tractor and implement

dealers : Case, Ford, Oliver, 

Massey-Fergusen, and of course,

Allis Chalmers and John Deere.

(I fully expected to see Jack

Daniels!). Those are old names,

old American, industrial names.

Only today do we see Kubota

and other Chinese and Korean

implement names. That hadn't

really started yet, back in the 

1970's). A funny thing, too,

was, back then Ford made a

smaller-size tractor, good and

useful too, and worthy of the

big-boys as well, named

'Fordson'. Old Henry Ford

had named the agricultural

brand, at that level, after his

son, though not expressly by

birth name. Shades of the old

car he also produced, called

the 'Henry J'. [NO! Not really.

The Henry J was made by the

Kaiser company, and named

after himself, by Henry J.

Kaiser in person!]...

-

Troy PA held its own. I've

already described the bank,

the nervous, skinny lawyer 

guy, the Ben Franklin store,

and the Troy Hotel. There 

was also a small, open at 

9am, hospital there, next 

to the police station. Nothing

much ever happened, I guess.

I went there once and had to 

wait nearly three hours for

them to open before I could

get three or four stitches in

my head from an injury

sustained at the Troy Hotel

at one of those Hunter's Only

nights. I walked around with

a shirt wrapped around my

head until they opened. 

Also, back when I drove

the school-bus route, the

poverty in those parts was

so bad that, at the Troy Hotel,

I occasionally had a high 

school senior  -  a beautiful,

blond girl  -  who, during 

certain times of the year

and during hunting seasons  -

would let on to me that she

was going to stay on the bus

to the end of the route and,

at the Troy Hotel, get out.

As she explained, certain

times arose which necessitated

her making some extra money

for their support. I never 

winced, and I never said no.

I'd simply stop near the stop

sign at the corner, and she'd

get out. Never quite understood,

as I said previously, that 'No

Women' sign.