14,444. MY DREAMS

MY DREAMS 

The disheveled field before

me makes me thing of futures.

Untold, yet strangely present,

as in a mist, before things have

formed. My dreams have become

insensate, whatever insensate

means. The cloud that fades to

froth, smoking away its rolling

form  -  one thing, then another.

Like a child I watch, imaging a

bear, then a train, then a cavern.

-

If I could just walk into the

Heavens  -  unguided and with

no assistance, I'd probably agree

to that. How different could it be?

Holding hands with nothingess,

stepping aside for obstacles that

only then turn out to have been

imagined anyway.

14,443. COMING TO HARBOR

COMING TO HARBOR

Coming to harbor like this I'm

ashamed to be seen : the boat

leaks; the boat lists too. The

anchor's gone, and we mostly

drift. It didn't have to be like

this  -  they tell me all along 

the coast  -  but landlubbers

only know what it's like on

shore. My drifts have been

joyous and raucous and fun.

If I come in now, it's merely

'cause I'm done?

14,442. DRIVEN LIKE THE WIND

DRIVEN LIKE THE WIND

Driven like the wind, and the

pantry holds no summit  -  all

things haphazard, as if blown

about. Cheesy ricecakes and

Rice Chex too; a jar of maple

syrup from Vermont, sugar now

coming through. We crystallize

like dreams as well, I'd 'hazard'

my guess. Beans galore, those

glazed and syrupy kinds, with

southern molasses drawn into

a broth that's as thick as a tar.

-

Rice in a bag; Basmati, that is.

Peanuts in a shell; Rickenhoffen

Chocolate, from Austria? How'd

that get in there...and - yes - from

a bag my sister gave us, Pocasville

peeled and organic and roasted

chestnuts still! There they all

are. Together as one.

14,441. I HAVE SEEN

I HAVE SEEN

Certain forms of dumbness about:

I have seen and heard them entered.

The kid who thinks there's an 'exercise

tax' when he mishears 'excise' tax, not

knowing what it is. The manner in the

way the 11th grade girl mishears that

the 'prosperous' are 'preposterous.'

-

Slim and slime, all the same, and I

guess that's just the way things go.

Simply put, no one listens any longer,

and to learn one must certainly listen.

14,440. IN A QUIET MOMENT

IN A QUIET MOMENT 

In a quiet moment like this I

can muse. I can stretch bounds

and think past common endings.

All over the place I roam. I can

only go slow now, and must be

deliberate; my days of froth and

fury are retired. One thing finely

noted: I don't need to have opinion

now, about anything at all.

-

The milkman, and the breadman,

they no longer come around or

call. Such unheard of things no

longer fit the bill today presents

for living. Now no one drinks 

milk anyway. It's an outmoded

thought from little-kid days. 

Now it's all almond or oat or

soy milk instead? Is that not

what they said?

-

In such a quiet moment I get

sad, over and over again. The

wife and I, both now ailing,

move on our steady ways, with

hope, as best we can. Right now,

she's in her book, identifying

bugs ('it's probably a 'swamp

darning dragonfly...') and I'm 

down here, just looking up,

and asking why. 

-

Another night portends; another

dark'ning sky.

14,439. A MILLION SORTIES UNDONE

A MILLION SORTIES UNDONE 

Word is you want to say 'stories,'

but it's sorties  -  like the bombing

runs of old. Smithereens and many

blisterings. I'd like stories instead,

but who am I to say?

14,438. THE OLD BEATS

THE OLD BEATS WERE THE

BEST BEATS AND THE

MODERNS MUCKED IT ALL UP.

I walk around now with a shadow; it

grabs me by the arms and shoulders

as often as it can. I stay deliberate

and careful  -  one thing at a time.

-

A thoroughly modern morning has 

dawned once again : the sky grows

light blue and it's 6am. I can take it

without much bother now. I am a bird,

and I am soil too.

-

Time has overlapped, and it has

overlapped again  -   so much that

all things are now so different that -

in thinking between now and then  -

even I end up confused. Can it now

really be this way? Communication

breakdown, but with everyone talking 

away, and to just 'say' what they say?

-

No intensity, no meaning. All froth and

misleading  -  words shattered like ice

when thrown to the ground. Hundreds

of particle-slivers, but, truly, no sound.

-

To make a dare, for what it's worth,

I ground down, I'm bitter, I'm beat.

I'll admit to death and failure, when

on the other side we all meet.

14,437. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,285

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,285

(an 'auto-biography?')

Let's go back to that Jaguar:

it was quite British in all its

attributes. Lucas electrics, and

that mostly meant 'haphazard'

and yellow (lights, etc.). The

'recommended' oil change

process was 16 quartz, to be

changed every 1,000 miles. I

had to double check all that

be sure they didn't mean litres

and all that, but the equivalencies

were listed too, and that was

American capacities. OK, so

far. I kept to all that as best

I could. The trouble was in

getting 1,000 trouble-free

miles to reach the needed oil

changing. (Ha!) Something 

was always going wrong, and,

from a glance at the vehicle

you'd never expect that. It 

looked weirdly smart. The 

left rear 'fender skirt' (driver's 

side), had a tendency to drop 

down, or off. I finally came 

up with a means of wiring it

into place. The two fog lamps

were also quite troublesome,

but only at NJ Inspection. They

violated some dumb rule about

(I forget), NOT coming on

independent of the headlamps,

or by BEING ABLE to be

switched on independently.

Some chicken-shit law that

the torpid jerks in the Rahway 

inspection station bagged me 

on. I finally just gave up and

went to the older, crummier

Perth Amboy station, when it

was there (gone about 1973

when they blasted a new road

through there (Rt. 440 or such).

Oddly, those guys cared little

about anything and were quite

liberal in what they passed or

allowed or ignored. (My case,

they ignored).

-

I found that the trouble with

check-list people, the authority

turfdom types who regale

themselves with images of

cheap and false power over

others, is that they do so both

cavalierly and randomly too,

based on subjective qualities.

Outside, of course, of just taking

the 15 dollars (then) offered as

a bribe to look the other way.

Today, that same bribe probably

costs 500, for starters.

-

The car was a huge in-line six

cylinder, with three Weber dashpot

carburetors. They needed tending

and they too had each a small oil

oil reservoir of their own. The

brakes were paltry (vacuum-assist

was an excuse for power-breaking

that hardly was effective). Push

button starter, walnut-burled

dashboard and interior wood, two

pull-down 'executive' writing

tables in the rear, each with its

own lamp. It was somehow called,

as well, an 'Executive-Limo). It

was fierce and strong, but huge

and heavy as well. It had, inside,

a massive radio system. AM, not

FM, as I recall then. BUT, the

bonus was that it had a short-wave

frequency too. We'd get Radio

Havana up often, on drive nights.

We could listen to all the evil

tales of 'America' to the north. The

riots in Newark and Jersey City,

I remember, were reported on and

portrayed with glee and as an

apocalyptical rendering and the

downfall of the USA. It was of a

serious intent, this reporting, but

way over the top. And, for us foul

Americans driving around, quite

funny as well.

-

I used to get it 'repaired' either at

Fox's Garage  -  though Freddie 

then all of a sudden claimed no 

knowledge of British cars  - or 

a place called Bristol Motors, 

out on Rt. 22, which specialized 

in British vehicles, and Jaguars 

and sports cars, etc. They were

also very good at taking money.

I spent inordinate amounts of

scarce payroll dollars dribbling

that car through it needs. Just

having them touch a screwdriver,

back then, was an instant 99 bucks.

-

What cared I for anything? I was

a nutcase, running between places,

NYC, Avenel, Jersey Shore, work, 

up and down to Philly and Newark

and Trenton, for work. I'd occasionally

see one of these cars parked and

abandoned off-side of peoples' yards

or junkyards, and I'd stop to salvage

what I could Not much. Everything

was huge and heavy. It got so that

I began stopping at green lights

knowing that they'd turn red soon 

enough  -  that's how poor the

brakes were. I was probably a

maniac, and quite suicidal, in 

automotive terms.

-

My father and my Uncle Ray

took to calling it my 'Bonnie

and Clyde' car, which it didn't

really resemble at all. I guess,

in their minds maybe, WE did,

not so much the car. I did sell

it, eventually, to some local

Woodbridge High School girl

of money, who deliriously 

wanted it. I was worn out by

the car and the budget outlay,

and ready to move on to the 

next (a 1962 Wolfsburg-badge

Volkswagen). I tried explaining

to this girl why it was she really

shouldn't own this car, all the

needs it had, etc., etc. BUT,

she insisted, and we made 

the deal. Something like maybe

850 dollars, I forget. Her problem,

not mine. The deal got done.

Three days later her father is

at my front door saying he'd

sue me for selling his daughter

a death-trap. Can you believe it?

He was on a rant, and all I could

do was tell him how I'd told here

everything, explained the car, went

over all the details, and SHE, not

I, had willingly bought the car.

See ya!

 

14,436. ANTHONY BLUEGRASS AT THE CIRCUS OF DREAMS

ANTHONY BLUEGRASS AT 

THE CIRCUS OF DREAMS

That family was parking their car: a 1978

Tentabar Panama, one of which I'd never

heard before. Spanish car. The guy said

he won it in a raffle, before it was even

made. Nothing like good pre-planning.

-

His daughter exited the back door; looking

all fine and dandy, though bored. She said,

"My father's taking us to dinner, and in a

really nice place too, and he brings this

heap!' I daresay she was an unhappy lass.

-

I, in turn, said, "Isn't so bad. Looks a bit

like that car in The Godfather, where

Michael Corleone's girlfriend gets blown

up in the field. I always liked that scene.'

She laughed, but went on her way.

14,435. KENNY NORTON JUNGLES JOHN

KENNY NORTON JUNGLES JOHN

I've gone pretty far afield, but I don't

care, and I'd rather write in pencil

anyway. All this computer and

keyboard gibberish drives me

insane. Links and downloads.

What the heck?

-

Can't rightly imagine no more.

Lit my tee-shirt on fire, just to

watch it burn. Sat down on time,

hoping that it really flies. Brought

me a charcoal burner, so I could

be like other guys.

-

Nothing worked. Forever failure.

Kenny Norton Jungles John.

14,434. JUMP THE CATAMARAN

JUMP THE CATAMARAN 

I saw it once, before I went.

It must have been the frog I

sent. A letter enclosed with

it too  -  a missive to a real

fine world. Not now, not

now, it read. I jumped the

catamaran, and fled.

14,433.RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,284

14,433. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,284

(Small Block Power In a Big Block World)

I've never known much about

anything, and to paraphrase

Mark Twain about memories,

'What I didn't know I made up.'

It works for a long-term mix-up, 

swirling cool things up and then

altering and content. Yet, in my

own personal review, I'm amazed

at how factual I've been : how it's

all been true, and related to my

real-world experiences. I've had

segments of my life, almost by

decades, that so differed from

each other and were so varied.

Some of it here (though, apparently,

I too am running out of time. 

Thanks, Doc), can be laid out

on paper in the most perfect

fashion, and each has its own 

memories that alight from the

page, pick up their instruments,

and strike up the band! The old

1960's meld right into the old

1970's, and with as much fidelity

as Christmas Carols to the stories

they relate. The 1980's and my

'career' days; the 1990's and past,

right into my most noxious Biker

days  -  tales I've hardly yet even

touched. I took a left turn, I took

a right turn, the road that got me

got me to here. 'Nuff said. Not

quite dead. Yet.

-

My first car, I guess it was back

about Winter '69, was a freebie.

Some guy on Avenel Street, at

about #90 or 92, as I recall, had

an old Renault out front with a

note on the windshield for the

junkyard wrecker guy who was

coming to take it away. It was a

cold late January. I used to walk

a lot whenever I was back to

Avenel (I'd tried to compare 

notes, in my head, about how

weird it was when I'd flip-flop

on a weekend, from NYC to

Avenel, to see a girlfriend there;

the enormous differences were

baffling to me, and it got me

into the mental situation of then

thinking of Avenel as a little, 

Dutch, settlement (all those 

pointed duplexes along lower 

Avenel Street resembling, to

me, Holland), whereas, actually,

the big Dutch settlement I was

actually living in, was NYC

itself. Pretty strange; 1640 to

1960, etc. - A real parade!).

-

So, anyway, I stopped at the

guy's house and walked up his

front steps, rang the bell, and 

simply said 'Hey, if you're 

junking that car I'll gladly 

take it.' He said 'Sure, it's yours;

saves me the trouble.' He gave

me the title, and I walked the rest

of the way home (to Inman, at

my weekend-parents' house where

I'd been raised). I forget how, but

I got it to the house later. I tinkered

with it some and, like the guy had

said, it needed a timing gear. Now,

let me explain about old Renaults,

which I think, in French, probably

translates back into 'piece du merde'

or, as we'd probably put it, 'piece

of shit.' Unlike an American car

of those days (this was the Dauphin

and 4CV Renault days), the 'timing

gear' here was just that. Not a chain;

just a fiber-gear that ran, at the very

front of the engine, under a cover,

between the crankshaft and the

valves at top. Chandler Motors, in

Linden, on St. George Ave., was

a 1960's Renault dealer too. They

had the needed part  -  a 12 dollar

fiber gear  -  the one in the car itself

had, because of the fiber, worn down

the gear's teeth. It turned out to be

magically simple, for me, and turned

me immediately (in my own dumb

head) into a 'Master-Mechanic' (of

nothing). Anyway, the car worked,

and I got a solid year and a half out

of it, and probably 10,000 more miles.

-

The two things about the car  -  and I

drove it everywhere, from Nyack to

Saugerties to NYC to Philadelphia  -

(three if you wish to count the 40 miles

per gallon gas), were that 1. It had both

a 'city horn' and a 'country horn,' which

I thought was pretty cool The city horn,

of course, was the loud one, and the

country horn was more of soft and 

gentle purr, signifying a beep. And, 

2. the other thing, which I just lived 

with, was that certain sorts of bumps or

rough road would pop the transmission

out of 3rd gear. (The car had 4). But I

was always aware of that and thus able

to work around it. The little car was a

gem. A little while later, foolishly

(as seemed always my wont) I simply

gave the car in upon the insistence

of an older mechanic friend in Rahway,

Freddie Fox, of Fox's Garage. I probably

should never have listened to him, but

I did. He'd say, 'Why you driving a

little piss-pot like that?' I guess shame

wears a baleful face. He had a 1957

Jaguar to sell for some lady undergoing

a massive divorce and hating her

husband and wishing to sell-out

everything he owned out from under 

him, including his Jaguar. Which I 

got for 300 bucks, needing an

exhaust system (it had been sitting),

which Freddie gleefully not just

replaced, but fabricated for me,

chrome tips and all, for another

60 bucks. I was suddenly living

large, in the 12mpg car department

anyway. One day I raced a Volvo

sports car (a P1800, it was, 60's

era), all the way up from Sea Brite,

NJ. It was some sort of challenge

that the guy's girlfriend had in her

eyes at the bar. (I probably should

have wagered for her!). I won,

barely. By the time we got to the

Avenel Fire House light, both cars

were cranking with fury. I had

cracked a cool 103mph on my

speedo, and the Volvo was right

next to me the whole way. At the

firehouse they continued straight,

(northward), and I turned right

for Avenel Street like Parnelli

Jones (an old-time racer) waddling

home. Never saw them again. My

two friends, in the Jag with me, I

noticed, were busy cleaning up

their own poop.

14,432. WE NEVER KNEW OUR DAYS WOULD TURN BACK

WE NEVER KNEW OUR 

DAYS WOULD TURN BACK

...Or at least no one ever told us

it was true  -  the pests of lies and

truths and learning and rules that

held us in check just kept holding.

The '64 Chevy, lost in the weeds,

remained silent too. The world was

a mute tenor, still trying to hold a

note. John Glenn in his capsule, to

struggle through lower space had a

mission. Well, maybe, we thought.

So did the dogs and the monkeys

too  -  sent like sentinels to make

their high arc aloft and come home

dead. Time stops then? In its most

high position? Is it that just a

rumor as well?

14,431. THE DISTANT CARRIAGE

THE DISTANT CARRIAGE 

Like chestnuts  -  broken on the

ground  -  that just remain  -  curious

and shiny brown, as if polished by

air and dilemma combined : certain

truths and realizations linger. Two

carriages passing, loaded high with

hay. I watch the bonneted ladies drive

them, slowly past my country lane.

14,430. SO PLEASE TELL ME MORE ABOUT BLINKY PALERMO

SO PLEASE TELL ME MORE 

ABOUT BLINKY PALERMO 

I will end up telling you very

little, preferring that you looked

it up yourself : Strange Matterhorn

of stealth and desire. Funny paintings

aligned as in rows. That's maybe

how Blinky Palermo goes.

-

I went once to DIA Beacon;

where he was all the rage; 

arrayed like cool fixtures on 

the walls of two rooms.

14,429, RUDIMENTS, pt.1,283

RUDIMENTS, pt.1,283

(much too late for goodbyes?)

For those who came away

with me, I was thinking of

other things : how memory

fades and things pass away.

A droll image on a cartoon

sheet. An old sagging car 

on the curb at Twelfth 

Street.

-

There have always been 

times for confessional 

moments, and I suppose

this is one now. I look too

intense, perhaps, but it's

never been my way to press

hard on that count. Most of

my difficulties have been in 

dealing with others, not myself.

A rudeness equation I seemed

always to have the solution to,

much of my time was spent

nursing hurts  -  the sorts of

hurts inflicted by others, but

always without them knowing

they were doing so. It's always

been said I was too sensitive;

but it's the way I had to be.

Within the nature of each

creative person  -  whether 

it be writer, artist, musician,

whichever  -  is that uncertain

pouch wherein such hurts 

collect. A creative person

learns intuitively how to

'blend' them back out into

the better realm of everyday

life  -  by making 'art' or by

whichever creative format they

use to interweave that light of

interior reality with the more

paltry substance of the everyday;

the unblended world of the same

reality in which the everyday

crucifixions occur  -  that of the

one-dimensional and quite dull

enterprises of such relentlessly

stupid things as politics, opinions,

money, the inter-personal strains

of work, family, life, and leisure.

In true fact, for an artist, much 

of that is far outside the realm 

of the real. I never knew my

place, and I never knew my

substance, except for that factor

of the 'creative' within me.

-

Too late it all is now for apologies.

For all the things I've failed at an

inner bell rings. The million nods

and notions that went into my

makeup and life   -  myriads of

of nothing, really  -  are fading : 

All those crazy ladies at the flea 

markets and swap meets, with their 

toys, jewelries, blankets, trinkets 

and junk; the sports guys, with 

their cheering and emotive assaults,

bets, wagers, and beers; the alchemical

darings of those insistent that they

could turn their everyday dross into

a new gold; the parsons and padres

and priests and ministers all that I

have met along the miserable via

dolorosa of these days  -  to each

and every I say Ole! Or perhaps

just Thanks!

-

I had a brother-in-law once who

blew his brains out in a car. Just

like it sounds too, it's not just some

weird Beatles reference or something.

Talk about 'acting' upon internal

impulses, boy, I could never get past

that one. He'd had it all planned out:

a note/letter left on the desk, food

put out for the dogs, a final message

on the old phone machine, instructions

for dispensing the ashes over some

Sierra Nevada foothills, which songs

were to be sung and by whom! Willful

dispensing of properties and possessions.

It was all baffling to me, all. The lights

were left on, he walks out to a car in

his yard, sits in it, and POW! Two

days later the willful barking of his

dogs gave him away. Probably the

saddest moment I experienced, to

that date. It only got worse.

14,428. HIATUS JUNCTION

HIATUS JUNCTION

Misery and comfort in each

the same bin; fighting over

space and contending within.

'I wish to live on, oh thank you

kind sir.' My last words towards

someone I spoke to incur.

-

'Leave me your wrath, and your

anger then too,' he replied. 'I

can lift your burden, and I can

re-supply your shattered mind,

in all that you do. Stay steady,

don't waver. I am here.'

-

'But so,' I said, 'I used to have

the pleasure of largesse; now I

am just sad and angered too. 

In terms of being a mess, there's

no more I can do.'

14,427. THE HORSE COLLAR

THE HORSE COLLAR  

This horse collar has a rub

and it's rubbing me raw  -

intentions count for little

when the firefights begin.

I cannot turn this way, nor

can I turn the other. My own

ribboned neck-flesh is bleeding.

-

There's a Captain on the hilltop

is calling out my name  -  if he

really means me I'm not sure.

A cavalcade of noise distorts

all things. If I've been shot once

already, even that I can't tell.

14,426. NONE TOO LUCKY

NONE TOO LUCKY 

Count your schemes before

they hatch disasters, and consider

yourself lucky if you can smile.

It only takes awhile: before the

lame ducks of designation start

to consume the bread; before the

leaves of rose madder start to fall

down; before the icicle blender 

starts melting its ends; before the 

last cart headed to oblivion starts 

leaving the town.

14,425. LIKE EVERMORE

LIKE EVERMORE

Man throws stones into

the water. But does a

ripple affect a tide?

14,424. HARVEY THE STONEMASON

HARVEY THE STONEMASON 

Well, there was a hell of a guy;

trowels and levels, chisels and

hammers. As I recall he'd suck

his damned cigar and shoot spit

into my eye. He had a wife he

always called 'Nitro'  -  he said

because she had a 'damn temper

like flame.'

-

It's funny the things you remember.

The blue house with the double

dormers that those two funny gents

lived in; before I knew things could

be gay and it wasn't all funny. One

word that leads into another.

-

The lady with the '59 Galaxie, who

worked for the dentist far down the

street  -  a five-foot dynamo with a

scampy attitude to everyone. We

kids were always scared but her

sweet little name was Rose.

14,423. ON THE FENCEPOST

ON THE FENCEPOST

On the fencepost I see a

dried-out steer-head. A

whitened skull, really.

Nothing more. I got to

the skinny-stick, but I

got there too late. 

14,422. TO BLISTER WITH BOTH HANDS

TO BLISTER WITH 

BOTH HANDS

Fans are with the frolic even though

the whimsey ends.  No more declaim

for rooftops your happiness. Just 

now live it instead.

-

It seems such a clear notion - the

shining, the happy the fun. Look 

all at what's around you; what 

has just begun. You should

blister with both your hands

this moment in your sun.

14,421. THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY

 THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY

Unlike those stories fisherman

tell, about 'the one that got away,'

I am fishing in a thin sea, for time.

Not much to go on. If the fish are

running, they are not mine.

14,420. NOW VOYAGER?

NOW VOYAGER?

I stepped outside in the

midnight air : once more

to my barren defenses. The

edges of this world were dark,

and the sky seemed weak. I

travelled fifty paces, 'midst

the dark, to see the light I

though I saw. Around the

wooded cove, the illumination

seemed different; of another

source. I rounded the trees.

-

To my strained delight, and

realizing I could do little else,

I witnessed the strange, white

brilliance of a three-quartered

plus moon rising. The light was

a strenuous push, and my awed

self welcomed what I saw.

-

Move along now, voyager,

move along.

14,419. ALL IS NOT GAIN THAT IS GOT IN THE PURSE

ALL IS NOT GAIN THAT 

IS GOT IN THE PURSE

Immaterial, irrelevant, and useless too.

I drive home, ameliorated, in the dark.

The wind whistles the trees overhead.

I hear little, but listen to everything.

14,418. TAKE THEN THE SOUTHERN ROUTE

TAKE THEN THE 

SOUTHERN ROUTE

Well yes then, take the southern 

route but don't go getting crazy. 

The roads are of much more 

hazard, and the land lies lower 

the longer you go. The route 

plateaus downward too, until

swamp and bog are all you get.

-

A part of me stays put in the 

mountain air, but  -  there  -  

levees and stanchions are all 

you'll see. Ships and freighters,

oil-drilling platforms too. If

you like that stuff, it's OK.

-

They'd hazard a guess every

year about this time  -  or at

least they used to  -  about the

storms which would hit and 

what sort of rains and winds 

they would get. Now, by any

contrast, it's all drama and show.

Weather-people and weather

channels  -  each so full of crap

as to be ready to blow.

-

Light your pipe and bring tobacco.

14,417. JESUS MUSES TO MARTHA AND MARY

JESUS MUSES TO MARTHA AND MARY

"Oh self-denying gentlewomen:

a little world cunningly made.

Boiled chicken smothered in white sauce?

My attitude toward the betrayal was neither

shocking nor bold. I withstood that challenge 

OK. Stepping forth, of course, I was as 

surprised  -  at one level  -  as anyone would 

be, yet  -  and on the other, less human, level  -  

I knew and felt that it was coming. Nothing 

much else to be said about that, though I 

wondered of the time and the year. Why, 

at 33? And why there? Were there not yet 

far other lands still to be conquered? Could

we not have done so much more? Why not, 

Father, wait another 1500 years and get

this thing more totally done? Why only

this small tribe of local fools?"

14,416. AND THE HALF AND HALF CONTAINER SWEATS

AND THE HALF AND HALF 

CONTAINER SWEATS

I'm living this 3D action, but

I don't know how or why. To

think that I'd be famous, and 

rich, by now, a wheezing old 

dotard in a comfortable old

age, yes, that was one a dream

of mine. But  -  no  -  too much

intensity for all that crap, I let

the time go pass me by. Nothing

left but containers and boxes.

Nothing but letters and fetters 

and confabulations left. I guess

I tried out but never passed

the test? And the half and

half container sweats...

14,415. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,282

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,282

(we end up being...)

When the lighting is bad

it's hard to do anything good.

Even the smallest tasks go

awry : the coffee filter folds,

the toothpaste cap rolls on

away, and Heavens knows

about getting dressed and

putting on socks. There are,

now, places in NYC that prey

on such weaknesses; like 

jungle cats seeking out the

old and the infirm. Claims

are that any of this can be

made better  -  home help

and all the wonders at may

bring. I think it's a city thing,

how they bring in the extra

help and make hundreds of

dollars a week, easily, while

the skipping girls and au pair

maids and all of that then

gleefully find their ways to

ransack a purse, or file a bank

account away. From any other

angle they call it organized

crime, but there's little that's

organized about it. It keeps

an anarchy all its own.

-

I can remember those days

in the 1960's when  -  pretty

much like happened to Benjamin

in 'The Graduate,' some stupid

geezer would come up to you 

(and by 'you' here I mean to say

'anyone'), and start baling career 

information at you, about your 

future, like it was water out of

a boat. Let alone 'plastics,' as the

movie had it. They always left out

those other parts  -  about getting

hooked up with some illicit hot

deal, a way to so quickly make

millions that the rest would never

matter. Early in a career, it's all

a crime lab anyway  -  wanting

to test the limits, see how much

can be bent away. No one ever

really wants to work, and shouldn't.

It's a thieves' game and only the

ones at the top get the manners 

and means to walk heavy with 

the graft that makes any of it 

worthwhile. The rest drone on  

-  slaves to their own dreams 

and innuendos. I guess no one 

ever says, 'Let me see what I 

can steal,' but that's how 

it happens.

-

What can be the value of any of

that? I often wondered. They say

you only get paid for doing things,

but I wanted a system where you

could get paid, just as well, for 

NOT doing things. Like the old

Dick Tracy 'Crimestopper's

Textbook' - always a favorite

of mine  -  there seemed to be

hundreds of ways of finding

things out. Clues abounded,

hearty and heavy. I soon learned

that crime was everywhere. My

father said 'Don't get caught.'

But that still meant 'doing' things,

working, having a job. The thing

about a job was the other people.

Man, I hated that  -  having to

meld and fit in, act the game,

nod and smile, read the sports

pages just to know which geek

did what, because you knew damn

well some idiot on the train or the

job would bring it up. I used to

feel that I'd rather be in solitary

confinement than have to work

every day with some moron who

always had to place phone bets on

games, or phone-trade some hot

stock and then ransack the papers

for tips and results. Like money

mattered that much, at the bottom.

-

One always had the beach-bum

routine as an option. Flee to some

pale Hawaii, or, like Gaugin, find

a fine Tahiti in which to dwell.

Whether in mind or in reality it

hardly mattered. The ones who

did it in mind got to be called

crazy. So what? I always wanted

to stow away on a steamer to

Bremen or Hamburg  -  the way

the stories went it was easy to

do, sneaking on board, finding 

a place to hide. The way it went,

I was told, was that they'd find 

you, yes, but by then you'd be

two days out (1960's) and there

wouldn't really be much to pay

for being found. They'd pummel 

you a bit, make a 'man' out of

you, and then put you harshly 

to work doing some harsh and

menial job. Once arrived in

Bremen or wherever, scatting 

away was easy and your new

life awaited. Of course, that left

out a million things  -  language,

food, lodgings, papers, police,

family, but who cared about that.

Life was crazy in the living, so

take a big bite.

-

We end up being all that we are,

and only that forever.