14,021. PRAGUE : JUDGMENT

PRAGUE : JUDGMENT

Some days I wake up broken; telling 

myself that's better than not waking 

at all. I guess, but it's not my place to

make those calls or use that judgment.

In this wicked life, you do what you

do after you get what you get?

-

How'd this get started anyway? Just

before, some girl asked me if I'd ever

been to Prague. Prague? I can hardly

get to Milford. Let alone the rest of

the holy world.

-

I put my fork down and laughed. 'Oh,

sure, I've been there twice already, or

don't you remember?' I figured I'd put

the joke back on her and let her see

how that feels. It was Christmas after

all, just another snarly time for lies.

-

At midnight, I've heard, the sun is

supposed to rise, and the animals are

supposed to talk. Christmas myth,

that too?

14,020. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,239

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,239

(aligned with the stars, and answerable to none)

I used to come home from the

seminary now and then  - for 

holidays and some Summer 

days  -  and it was always like

another world. As I returned to

Avenel I was always somehow

startled and put off by what I

saw. One year, the gravelly

street we lived on, usually a 

loose, bumpy mess but one

which because of that, kept

car speeds to a minimum, 

mostly, had been slightly

widened, re-curbed, and

paved too. To my eyes, as I

walked up the late November

street, it was all new  -  wide,

flat, black-paved, and I

immediately saw too how

the passing cars (the street 

led, out in one direction, to

Route One, both north and

south) made a new haste to

get to that junction. The speeds

had obviously changed because

of the new pavement.  '25' had

easily become '45', no matter

what was posted (and nothing 

was). I figured it was only a

matter of time before some

nitwit ran somebody down, or

a resident got creamed backing

out of their driveway in the

usual slumber-pace. All those

old habits were going to have 

to change, and quickly. I was

only there a day or two, so I

never did find out any results.

-

There was some sort of bus I

used to take, from the New

Brunswick bus station and

taxi stand behind the train

depot. Usually my father or

someone else (I once or

twice went with another 

seminary friend, whose father

would pick us up or drive us

back to the station. He lived

about a mile away, thus the

reason I was 'walking' up my

newly-paved street), would

get me to the station, or from

it. It was never a big deal. I 

forget the fare and all that, but

I always enjoyed the2 hour or 

so bus ride. For me it was yet

another solitary respite, cocooned

in a half-lit bus-interior, left

alone. Outside the window,

just past the rumbling noise 

of the bus itself, ranged the 

NJ Turnpike and then the 

assemblage of all those crazy,

still country and farm, South

Jersey towns along the way

to Blackwood. I forget where

the bus dropped me, or us, but

there was a little walk involved

and it was never long or taxing.

It's funny, the things you recall.

-

Blackwood had a tiny little section

of stores along the roadway, and

one of them was a sub shop (called

'hoagies' down there, strictly). Once

or twice a year too, the seminary

would have 'Class Day' or something

like that, when Seniors or Sophomores,

whatever, would be allowed a 'day

off' and were free to walk the fields

over the hill, into Blackwood and

have like a little 'free day' of their

own. All it meant, really, was

pocket money and swarming this

dumpy little nowhere town, with

an obligatory stop at the hoagie

shop. It must have been a bonanza

for the owner, but it - just as much -

had to seem spooky for the town

to see 30 or 40, tie and dress pants,

with jackets, teen boys gawking

and sliding around their town.

I can't remember what else was

there; no stores or shops come to

mind. We only ever got as far as

Blackwood  -  which was walkable

for us  -  but there were other towns

around as well, never seen (by me).

Runnemede. Berlin, Clementon, and

Lindenwold. If you look at a map

now, there are towns showing that

didn't exist then  -  and now it's a

mass of condos, homes and highways,

as if some madman had taken over.

The seminary itself, now, is Camden

Community College; it long ago

(1968) having closed.

-

Granted, I can't remember that much

of the day-to-day incidentals of seminary

life outside of school and lessons, and

discipline and rigors; but other guys

claim it to have been lots of fun and

a real enjoyable atmosphere. Maybe

for them. To me it was more like

being sequestered in some Soviet

Gulag, having to learn by heart all

the points known about Stalin, and

having to believe them too. Religion

and Humanity don't really mix well.

Especially for adolescent boys.

-

Speaking of which, probably the 

coolest thing about going to 

Blackwood, Class Day, or even 

the bus rides, was 'girls.' I somehow 

always had an abiding interest in 

what was passing me by, and the

dearth of 'girls' at the seminary

was quite harsh, dubious, and, 

as well, noticeable and daunting.

The bus had girls! The stupid

town had girls! Heck, I used to

pray the local hoagie shop would

have a few! (Never happened, but

I heard stories). The silly priests 

and brothers were always going 

on to us our 'vocation'  -  the voice 

of the 'Lord' within us that had 

spoken to us and beckoned for 

us to become priests. Huh? 

They'd go on about how the

word 'seminary' was based on 

the word 'semen' (I kid you not), 

and how 'God' had planted the 

seed of a vocation within us, 

which must be given heed, and

grow and prosper. It all made

about as much sense as a donkey

with three heads. How were we

then supposed to guide individuals

and couples and families in 'family'

matters we know nothing about.

Sex notwithstanding, we never

even have a family by which to

give out any first-hand experience

or information! What kind of

slip-stirrup was on this horse I

was riding? I sure wondered.

-

Every so often, down at the little

town, or on the bus, or when families

would visit the seminary, I'd see a

girl, or someone's sister, near to my

age, and internally start swooning.

It was an uncontrollable urge to

burst free, experience the real world

and not this slimy, befallen Catholic

hovel of cowards and supposed men

hiding away. Everything began to

stink. By three years in, I knew I

was already done...aligned with

the stars, and answerable to none.

14,019. LET'S TRY THAT SONG AGAIN

LET'S TRY THAT SONG AGAIN 

1. Until that mountain rises from the sea,

most things around here will remain 

about the same: same headaches, same 

rum-raisin ice cream after dinner, same

20 books in their recurring-read pile.

-

I'd swear the doorbell rang  -  but I have

none and no one would come up the hill

either. I can see the cars below me, as

they do pass by here : home repair guys,

the logger truck, some pick-up guys in

their wild array, working out the day.

-

It has no other tang to it: no church bells,

or school bells, or any of that stuff they

have in 'towns' where people live. The

rows of things, historic districts, town

hall, and the hospital near the old hotel.

-

I was reading today about Elizabeth

Hardwick  -  some of the things she

wrote about the people she saw, outside

her, in NYC. Interesting, for sure, how

her idea of 'concepts stayed the same:

'Displaced things and old people, rigid,

with their tired veins and clogged arteries,

with their bunions and aching arches,

their sparse hair and wavering thoughts,

over the Carpathian Mountains, out of

the bayous  -  that is what it is like here

in that holy city.'

-

Though I too used to feel that way,

today I'd disagree. It is, after all, a long

and giant step from 1946.  Grime speaks

no louder in its ways than ignorance does,

about a place that no longer really exists

at all: 'Many are flung down carelessly at

birth and they experience diminishment of

their random misplacement. For me the

highway, the asphalt paths, the thieves,

contaminated skies like a suffocating

cloak of mangy fur, the millions in

their boroughs  -  that is truly home.'

-----

I'd guess that anyplace I was ever at was

home enough for me. A section of years

in placard-placed book? A diary of both

memories and jeers? Someplace from

where I was from, to be redundant? I

think I mostly took my joy from bringing

certain joys to others. Showing friends

what Red Hook, Brooklyn was like. Or

driving up to Zelda's Nuthouse (what I

called the sanitorium in Beacon NY,

where Zelda Fitzgerald put up for a

while). One thing I've not yet done is

bring my friend to the Old Nothern

Dispensary. Worth a look, for sure.

-

One need not fear the marginal people.

They always get by. Take heed, and

Absorb: 'A midtown, fleabag hotel filled

with down-at-heel itinerants - people living

as if in a house recently burglarized, wires

cut, their world vandalized, their memory

a lament to peculiar losses. They were

lifted by insolence against their forgotten

loans, their surly arrears, their misspent

matrimonies, their many debts which

seemed to fall with relief into those

wastebaskets where they would be

picked up by the night men.....Most of

them were failures but lived elated by

unreal hopes. They drank. They fought,

They fornicated. They ran up bills. They

were not poverty-stricken, just always a

little 'behind.' And all this happened just

steps from The Harvard Club, The New

York Time, the old Hotel Astor, the

Algonquin.'

-

A brilliant light outside in New York City.

It is Saturday and people with debts are

going to restaurants, jumping in taxicabs,

careening from east to west by way of

the underpass through the Park. What 

difference does it make to be here alone?

14,018. IN THE HASHEMITE KINGDOM'S NADIR

IN THE HASHEMITE 

KINGDOM'S NADIR

So, Hell, it's Christmas in the western world,

and all those gongs are gonging. Me? I'm tired

of all that crap already : adults pronging like

twisted children, subscribing to thoughts not

worth a penny, and mouthing many a stunning

line. Kids don't care; they're always idiots and

get away with it. Whoever said 'Suffer the little

children.....' never met me.

-

Big Dads and half-drunk Moms; that's the

way it ought to be. 'I don't know, last I knew

she was standing near that window, and now

she's gone?' Drivel in a manger; turkey in

the straw.

14,017. LITTLE LANDING AT LUMMOX CORNER

LITTLE LANDING AT 

LUMMOX CORNER 

I wanted to watch the wildlife but 

had missed the boat taking people 

there? Somehow that made little 

sense; were the wildlife, then, 

prepared?

-

There was a bus to Purple Point, 

but it seemed to be filled with 

rainbow people; the last thing I'd 

wish to be near at that moment. 

Give me a baked Alaska lassie 

please; some sweetheart from

another domain.

-

I'd teach her how to cook. I'd

teach her how to pray; anything

she wanted : I'm easy like that,

in most every way.

14,016. FRONTIER JUSTICE

FRONTIER JUSTICE 

Was that a lynch mob out in

front of your house, with two

torches burning and a noise so

loud? What in the world did you

do to deserve that? (In law school

they teach that a trial lawyer should

never ask a question for which he 

or she does not already know the 

answer, so, my bad I guess).

- 

Anyway, such a crowd is very

uncomfortable, no? More than

likely to burn or house down if

you look away, and be done with

it  -  of course, after they ring your

neck with that happy rope they're

twirling.

-

Bummer, all this. I see they've dug

a hole (for you?) already up on the

Boot Hill slope. Are you figuring to be

comfortable there? And permanent?

Not much to be done, I suppose, but

I start wondering who in the world

was this guy named Lynch, and how

did his name get attached?

-

Was he good for something else 

other than this? Did he have a bunch 

of happy kids, and a wife or two?

Did he have friends who'd say:

'I'd depend on that Lynch guy in

any sort of pinch? It's a cinch

he'd pull me through.'

14,015. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,238

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,238

(ill-used, in unison)

It was August, 1967  -  maybe 

the first or second of that month  -

when I got to NYC. Like a bum,

or an untuned kid, with nothing. 

I wasn't even sure what I was

stepping into, but I was sure of

the one thing I knew, and that

was to beat a path out of Avenel.

My sister's boyfriend (later her

1st husband, RIP, Bill Yorke),

with whom I'd never been close 

nor even had any dealings, had

somehow gotten wind of what

I was about to do, and out of

the blue he came up to me and

offered me a ride to the bus 

station at the Carteret Turnpike

Exchange, for like the 6pm bus.

Accepted! So, instead of walking

to that location (maybe 5 miles,

just guessing), I got a lift. I had

a small bag of items I took with

me, and the clothes on my back.

When we got there, he gave me

5 bucks too! No, doesn't seem

like much now, but back that

that was probably the equivalent

of 30, maybe 40. It was a Godsend,

and I wasn't sure how this otherwise

regular guy in his '66 Chevelle 

had gotten to the emotional level 

of deeding a momentary (and

monetary) part of himself over

to me, but man I sure did

appreciate it.

-

This was the time when the

first use of the word 'freaks'

was getting put into play, for

the outlandish and hippie sorts

who were just then starting

to rip at and break down the

norms of regular, staid, society.

(These days, freaks are more in 

honor than normal people  -  all 

the slobbering fools going on 

about their own bored selves.

One more Stallone interview  -

about his paintings, no less  -  

and I'll bring myself right to 

some hobby counter at a 

Woolworth's along the way. 

The painter Bob Dylan? The

artist among many you never 

knew), but back then it was

a term of approbation and not

much good was ever meant by

it... 'Scuse me, Ma'am and wasn't 

your daughter ever so nice.'

The more things change, etc.?

-

Boredom, of course, carries its 

own swagger stick  -  and there's 

something to be said about people

'outside' of their definitions. Yet, 

at the same time, it's pretty dull 

to have to keep reading of 

millionaires and more, 'outside' 

of their space, barging in on

others after doing nothing of

substance  -  except the name 

recognition that comes with the

fame. Then again, I've never

heard Michelangelo singing

'Like a Rolling Stone.' Were

that to happen, it could maybe

be about the same equivalency.

I don't know how such a society

as ours, well-vaunted or not, 

and puffed up by its own steam 

or not, could have reached the 

point where only notorious people 

or superstars get, and apparently 

are felt to deserve, all the accolades 

and attention. When I see some of

their crud, and then learn what's 

behind it all, I want to barf. I had

a friend, Aleck, (died last year),

with whom I spent a lot of time

while growing up. He used to say

that an 'artist' should be like the

Beatles  -  getting all the dumb 

and stupid and popular stuff out 

of the way early on, then rolling 

in all that dough, and then turning 

tail and repudiating all that cruddy

stuff and going real creative and

cutting edge.' No one would touch

them at that point, and they'd have

a complete freedom of operation.

-

I used to think about that, but it 

never made more than a surface 

sense to me. Too many other things

were involved  -  the corporate and

record-company whirligig that would

only demand more of the same, more

Hitsville, USA crap. Aleck was always

unashamedly filled with big ideas, but

none of them ever went anywhere.

It was all tedious, soon enough, but,

being easy to listen to, I never got

involved repudiating any of them

(the ideas), and just let him roll

his fantasies and ideas along. The

few times I did go back at him

turned into disasters anyway. He

was v-e-r-y touchy. I used to be

glad he was a continent away, on

the west coast, for the few times

he made claim to be aggressive

I'd figure him as a candidate for

showing up on my lawn. With a 

gun, or acting the madman. (Of 

course, if he did, in his version the 

'gun' would have had to be a very 

collectible, special and treasured,

an antique gun of the highest

caliber and provenance, probably

bought expensively at auction and 

once owned by Billy the Kid. Nothing 

with him could ever be simple or 

straightforward, and no 'ordinary'

gun would ever be his claim. I never 

knew what finger he claimed to

have on the pulse of that music

industry stuff, but he stayed on

the subject. What always bugged

me was how  -  and it's like that

everywhere today too  -  any

person, from outside the realm

of what they were talking about, 

could be so adamant about the

claims they were talking about.

It was all very oddly crazy, but

somehow it suited us both to a

tee, and we carried forth this

bi-coastal, internet-contentious

sparring for like 11 years. He was

always bragging about 'cent an' 

(something his 99-year old

grandmother used to go on 

about, regarding living to 100.

She died at 99). He  -  picture

of health that he never was, in

spite of his claims  -  walked

out to the sidewalk one day, at 

71, and dropped dead right there.

Poor bastard  -  I still miss him.

-

The trouble with life, in the long

run, is the shortness of that run.

There's nothing much anyone 

can do about it, but I've read 

10 million tomes about eternal

life, extending life, surpassing

life and elevating life, and none 

of them amounted to anything.

Not even the good ones: none

of the religious, Zen, eastern

orientalism, Vedic, Buddhist,

psychedelic, or bullshit New

Age stuff, ever gets to the

bottom of things. 

-

I always thought the bottom 

of things was Consciousness, 

pure and simple. Consciousness

is what grows around us and folds

us in as we establish all the means

of the rest of the world. Vedanta,

say, holds that the non-duality

of the Godhead seeks an intensive

focus by 'us' of the unity of all

things; the divinity of the soul,

and the harmony of all religions.

It teaches that there is only one 

God and that God is present in

all things. The names and the

distinctions  that human beings

apply to the things around them

are illusion. 'These distinction do

not exist, because all is God.'

-

Yes, surely it had to be so, especially

in the dumps where I found myself

soon after. No lines to recite, and the

play itself was just a mad jumble of

words, like on of those cartoon games

in the Sunday Star-Ledger my father

was always looking at. Never doing,

just looking. In Vedanta, I also was

about to learn, (deep study, pal; and

all those missions and free-food 

craniums I was always getting stuffed 

into), that 'Each soul is holy because

it is part of God, and the body is

merely shell. One needs get past the

shell and see God, become one with

God, perceiving the holiness within.

You've got to look beyond the shell and

all its false concepts of differences.'

-

And yes, right, I was instructed to

chuck all those distinctions and

differences and get along with my

own game, to be dedicated to only

that. About as useful as one of those

spoons with design holes in it, while

trying to have a bowl of soup. Soap

that slips between the fingers? All 

is illusion? All is ill used, in unison?

I found that sometimes, in spite of

everything, holy men act, and that

act  -  when it comes  -  can come out

of the most ordinary of men and, for

that moment, turn all illusion holy

too. Even in a Chevelle.

14,014. PANORAMAVILLE

PANORAMAVILLE

It's a town, just past Nowhere's Mettle,

Oklahoma. Used to be an Indian Reservation

too. Now it's not. There's a candy factory

instead, where they make chocolate cakes

and Little Debbie streamers. The parking

lot is filled with old Pontiacs though. 

Seems everyone drives an old Chieftan, 

from 1955. Gotta' love that stuff, even 

almost a sense of humor in a tragic land.

(Watch that roving Indian band).

14,013. THE RELUCTANT SUN

THE RELUCTANT SUN

I'm glad I live on a variable Earth:

the way California people say 'I

miss the four seasons' makes me

gather the changing moments.

Today the reluctant sun drags

itself reluctantly across the tired

landscape. Its tired feet drag

furrows along the ground :

almost sad, but the shortest day

moves quickly anyway.

-

Not that it much matters. Face it,

we're stalled here, in this land,

until late January now, when most

things do effect a noticeable change.

Even that, reluctantly, takes time.

-

The same sad sun seeks solace, some.

14,012. A LITTLE BIT OF THIS, A LITTLE BIT OF THAT...

 A LITTLE BIT OF THIS, 

A LITTLE BIT OF THAT...

Ay! Rub it in then, Matey, scratch it

till the ground gives out! There's nothing

worth saving, what ain't worth slaving....

over. Long, pause in between there, to

make the rolling rhythm right.

-

I came in with Celeste but I don't

think we'll be leaving together. It's

nothing to do with anything specific,

she's just acting the drunk special

and playing out all those cards. I

can't be bothered picking her up

should she fall (and surely she will). 

-

Just look at the pictures; that's all.

14,011. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,237

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,237

(cap'n crunch, I'm glad I met 'ya)

I guess you can see  -  anyone can  -  

that I was never really a 'happy'

camper. It always seemed that no

matter what I did I stayed at one

remove from making peace with

the living. I always figured it came

from too much of that church and

propriety stuff too early. Maybe it

had to do with Italian-sentimental

upbringing, maybe not, but it sure 

was flooded with loud emotion, 

swooning over this or that, and  -  

mostly, people way over-the-top

about stupid, ordinary, stuff.

-

I never knew how others lived  -

I mean, I had friends whose parents,

at home, only spoke Albanian. The

two sons and the daughter, I knew,

were a tad strange and a little slow

on the up-tick, but, except for a

mannered aspect of  meanness 

and a tendency for cruelty to

animals and such, they were very

much recessive and reticent kids.

Silent. In the background. Maybe,

in their homes, the streak of

'emotive' display was much less.

I couldn't ever tell. Other kids, 

though, always did seem to come

from closer homes and families

than mine. I never knew why, but

a lot of the moments I'd see them 

having, with parents, etc., were of

the sort that I never experienced.

Or maybe I just never noticed?

-

I guess it would be fair to say that

I spent half my life fighting with

myself  -  deciding what to keep

and what to throw out, of the

particular ways and habits of my

existence. It was never easy, and

it was often harrowing and tedious

too. The thing about girls, too,

didn't help. They were always 

lurking about, whether friends

of my sister or just girls of the

neighborhood. I always 'knew'

what was going on, but was never

really comfortable with it  - those

strange grumblings of early 

adolescence, when girls' sweaters 

suddenly began having bumps and

boys  -  all boys  -  adapted some

pose of swagger. I remember one

of my friends, while we were out

at the schoolyard on an off-day, 

sneaking some smokes from a

purloined pack of Kents that I'd

taken from my aunt's house, going

up to a local Inman Ave. girl who

was cutting though the schoolyard

along the worn path leading to the

'portables' and saying, 'Hey, where

do you buy those sweaters with the

bumps in them? I like it.'

-

I mean, how stupid was any of that.

1960? Space shots, Sputnik, dogs

and John Glenn (separately) getting

heaved off into space to see what

happened....and, by contrast, the

ancient and age-old ritual of sex 

and maturation being danced out

on schoolyard gravel. Punky kids,

baseball gloves, and probably

'nocturnal emissions' too. It was

all I could ever do to find a place

to turn, or hide. Man, I hated

everything!

-

Still none of it was anything that

could be avoided. Like hair on

one's balls, it was just something

that happened. Weird was how, for

that clutch of local boys I grew up

with, it all started about the same

time too  -  since we were all of

the same ages, pretty much  -  so

like some rabid mob of hounds,

we all became pack-animals

howling, as if one and the same.

Every form of diversion was 

offered to us, from bowling 

leagues to little leagues, baseball, 

football, Boy Scouts and summer 

camps, but nothing ever  drove 

away what it was we were

going through, and it probably

made it all worse too, because it

packed us all together, which is

when the worst of it all happened.

Boys sort of fed on each other 

with their behavioral tendencies 

and dares. Yes, there was a huge

State Prison near us, and the

field of the prison farm that all

went with it, but none of us were

criminals. Yet. 

-

Except maybe in our own boastings.

Every so often someone would get

into deep trouble. 'He did WHAT

to her! She didn't say anything?' -

A parent, or a juvenile-squad cop

would get involved. There'd be

talk of Yardville or one of the

other 'reform' schools. (A weird

concept that  -  'reform school'  -

and one which, I guess has long 

ago disappeared. Now, probably,

you'd just be applauded, and it 

would be viewable on You-Tube,

and with 70,000 viewers too).

Probably all this was crap anyway,

and it got exaggerated in the round

of constant telling and re-telling,

but who knew, and those curious

sweaters always beckoned.

- 

The point was  -  for me anyway  -

the loud and the raucous natures of

the emotions. At home, with parents

swelling with outrage, having to

hear, 'Don't you ever! I better not

hear you're mixed up with that 

crowd, there'll be hell to pay!' The

constant accusations and blame. It

was enough to drive one crazy, and

anyway, and by age 12/13, it had done

so for me. Yes. I took refuge  -  either

by some form of true and personal

radicalism, or an overt sense of

young conservatism  -  in cloistering

myself (seminary) away from the

roaming crowd of miscreants and

into, instead, an equally and often

just as bizarrely preoccupied, and

often perverse, closed society of

men and boys. Go figure the nature

of that 'attempted' transformation

and then wonder why I wasn't

totally screwed up, and forever.

To this day, I still sometimes

can't understand what happened.

-

I guess, before they had clinical

things like PTSD and the usual

ideas of shell-shock, trauma, and

complete withdrawal, people like

me were simply tolerated by their

excused absences from the normal

run of things. I was, truly, a walking

wounded, a victim of shock and

trauma, a train-wreck survivor, a

twaddling version of arrested

development; a sniper; a clown

in my own circus; a tramp, and

a cloistered, emotionless, loser

as well. Cap'n Crunch, I'm

glad I met ya'! (Or was that

Mr. Magoo?)

14,010. COCKERELS AND CHRISTMAS BELLS

COCKERELS AND 

CHRISTMAS BELLS

Meditation? No. I'm too tired of the same

old slime masquerading as cheer. Images

of fake happiness. The lantern and the

sleigh-bells, maybe those I can take. They're

without emotion and sentiment-less blanks.

It's all the rest of the homiletic conventions

that slay me.

-

The Santa with the funny hat? Looking for

dollars and all of that. What if he fell down

on the job, with no pick-me-up in sight?

Would anyone stop without thinking, or

just keep waiting for the change of the

light. I'm of two minds, myself  -  my

own, and Santa's.

14,009. HOW SUDDENLY I BECAME SUBVERSIVE

HOW SUDDENLY I 

BECAME SUBVERSIVE

Using my magic stilts, I was high

above the crowd. All I saw were 

little faces. Screaming. Loud.

Each like a pilaster of granite 

shouting from some personal 

anguish. Perceived as such,

anyway  -  in whichever manner

 a person's sole honor is breached.

-

It reminded me of 1978; back in the

days of China Books, when that

little bookstore for Commies was

at ground level of the Flatiron

Building. I bought my Chinese

Mao Red Star and book there.

-

All these college types, the nervous

guys and their neurotic girlfriend;

scheming, talking, nodding. They

stayed in knots in that tiny, little

store, discussing ramifications of

killing girl infants, or the 1-kid

limit, or the Great Leap Forward,

or 300,000 dead from that Cultural

Revolution.

-

I pinned that star on my beret and

kept it there two years; looking like

a geek from a Mandarin potty. It's

lucky I wasn't killed.