The moment we got off the plane at Churchill the Sergeant-At-Arms announced: “Welcome to Fort Churchill, the Land of No Return!”.  (I’m thinking to
myself, “O Christ, just like Basic Training!”)  In reality it wasn’t that bad.  Temperatures in the winter hovered at about 50 to 60 degrees below zero and in
the summer they shot up to 60 or 70 degrees during the heat waves.  It was twenty below when we stepped off the plane and when we had departed from El
Paso it was ninety above.  A 110 degrees fluctuation in temperature.  In today’s world they might give you some type of psychological tests to see if you
could cope with the isolated environment.  Some guys couldn’t adjust and were transferred out in sporty straightjackets.

Looking back on the Arctic years, I wish I had tuned in more to the surroundings.  Perhaps it was because my concentration was directed more towards my
writing at this time.  Also I was there under army duress.  I completely ignored the plight of the Polar Bears, Global Heating (which began the day I
stepped off the plane) the raw beauty of Hudson Bay, the polar ice caps, the Eskimos’ southern stronghold and the historical and cultural richness of the
place.  King would have flourished there.  He would have investigated it fully.

Everything at the launch site, at home base, in the village and outside the village of Churchill was contained within long winding tunnels because of the
harsh whiteout winter conditions that could spring up unannounced at any time.  Churchill consisted of a sickly, spindly village surrounded by even sicker
spindly Eskimo and Indian Reservations that were in reality only shacks in the best tradition of  John Steinbeck.  I stumbled into an Eskimo Reservation
once.  (The Military declared the Eskimo Reservations off-limits to G.I.’s).  When I entered the shack I came face to face with a two hundred year old
couple, wrinkled, weather beaten, urinating in front of a wooden fire.  They looked up at me as if I was a terrestrial freak which I certainly was.  I left.
The trappers would come from further north and stop off for rest, recuperation and warmth in the town of Churchill before going back into exile on the ice
flows of Hudson Bay.  What they were trapping God only knows.  Maybe The Wild Snowball Man of The Teutonic North!

In the village there was a bowling alley and a movie house.  The pictures were changed every night and we would be there every night to see them change.  
The people who wanted to drink could go to the canteen, gamble and play cards.  Gortz and I were partners in the card games but most of the time I was
broke so I watched and cheered the Gortz on to yet another loss.

Gortz, besides being the barracks barber, loaned out money at a substantial rate of interest and sold on the black market army cigarettes that he inherited
from the PX to the Eskimos, Indians and Canadians.  The Canadian Navy was also stationed at Churchill doing some rocket research with Russian made
rockets.  The Canadian rocket was the Black Bart.  The Canadians were there with their wives and children.  Since there were not enough women to go
around some of the Canadian’s off-spring wound up as bed mates for the American G.I.’s.

Our mission impossible was to shoot weather rockets, mainly the Aerobees, Little Johns and Nike Zeus’ at the Northern Lights in order to get more facts
concerning the exact composition of them.  There were investigations into the effect of the Van Allen Belt and other cosmic ray sorceries on space travel
and communications.  We would also shoot rockets into the solar flares, sun spots and sun storms to determine what effect these impolite outbursts had on
earthbound communications and space telemetry.

I hooked up with The Gortz, who wasn’t exactly an underdog, but a survivor, a rebel with a cause.  In his civilian life he had been a runner up for the Mob
and you could tell when he got out of the army he was going to continue in that line of business.  I was drawn to him because he was a colorful character.  
There were a couple of top secret microwave oven stations at Churchill which would later figure in Gortz’s downfall.  I heard, although I don’t know if it
was true, that when I left Churchill for discharge at Fort Dix, the Gortz was caught screwing Eskimo Pies in the off-limits Microwave ovens.  He was court
marshaled a second time and probably received a dishonorable discharge.  The first incident I will get to in a bloody minute!

The army was after The Gortz.  They had singled him out and were waiting for him to make a fatal mistake.  The Gortz never did a thing unless there was
an absolute necessity to do it.  The army knew that I cavorted with him and thought I was his concubine.  By mathematical implication and subtle
psychological association I was guilty as well.  They were after me because they knew that I was also a Rebel with a cause.  Sure enough they got us on
some trumped up charge of abandoning government property!  Can you imagine my yellow sheet so far!  Molesting alligators and abandoning government
property in the Arctic!  Abandoning it to whom, to where, to what, for what purpose?  Who would want it for Lee Iacocoa sakes!  Not even the polar bears!  
I got busted to Private First Ass just as I was about to make Corporal (Specialist Fourth Class as we high paid weather technicians were called).  That stripe
would have paved the way towards making Sergeant before discharge.  Can you imagine!  Sergeant Marty Lewis!  I was eventually discharged from the
service in good standing as a PFC.  I won back my stripe for good behavior at Fort Monmouth’s Weather Station.

Keep in your silly minds that I was involved in something that I thought I liked--meteorological observations.  The rest of the guys in the weather group (a
pretty tight knit group merely because there were so few of us oddballs scattered throughout the army) were mostly forced into those positions.  They had
no ulterior interest in Meteorology.  But by this time I too was becoming disenchanted.  

Our specialty was to over-inflate Radiosonde sounding balloons that would be accompanied by instrument packages.  The balloons would plagiarize the
autobiography of the upper Oppenheimer air, inch by soggy inch, second by agonizing second.  It was all I could do to keep from being swept away in the
helium euphoria of the balloon launch.

I was court-martialed over this abandoning government property crap.  It was a delightful Summary Court-Martial with a huge turnout as court-martials
go.  All we allegedly  did was leave a couple of theodolites, launch pad or two and several million dollars worth of rockets unattended while the Gortz and I
went into town to get laid.

We would normally go back and forth to the Launch Site by the usual mode of limousine services in the Army--the Deuce and A Half Ton Truck or in an
air conditioned jeep.  The Launch Site was a maze of tunnels where the various Skinner like rockets and instrumentation packages would hang out.  After
they were assembled they were wheeled up to the launch pad from the bowels of the Clockwork Orange Blockhouse precisely at firing time.  During
certain Shots, while this or that component was brought up to snuff, we slept on the benches surrounding the firing board for days without end.  The place
was in a constant state of military flux as scientists from all over the world would trek up to Churchill with their pet project tucked away in their crotches
and then line up for the day when they could pollute the Dutch Schultz Arctic atmosphere with their technological junk.

Our job was simple.  We would get surface launch pad theodolite readings so that there were no surprise wind parameters at the last minute, that would
throw the rocket off the golf course and force it to end up as a substitute enema up some Eskimo’s white heiny.  We launched Radiosonde weather balloons
with instrument packages in support of the Airport Field Weather Station located on the air strip.  We would compute ballistics so that helicopter crews
could go out and search the Churchill Downs tundra swamps for the nasal dripping nosecones.  That famous abandoning government property incident
came about when a radio message arrived at the Launch Pad instructing the Gortz and I to remain at the Launch Site until we were relieved.  The Gortz
and I had relieved ourselves all right, pissed into the night and then we took off to town.  

They called me in and read the Court-Martial agenda from the Army Bible.  I felt like Captain Quieg Swigs without all of his marbles.  Durbin was the
prosecutor, judge and jury.  Right there, in broad daylight, he walked up to me and ripped off my PFC stripe.  “Are you kidding!”  I thought to my own
benign self.  (I was about to be discharged in a month or so).   I just stood there and looked at Durbin with my existential eyelids in awe, utter amazement
and complete detachment.  If he wasn’t such an uptight prig he probably would have burst out laughing.  I had come a long way from my molestation of
alligators at White Sands (in lieu of molesting Cindy Kellas) all the way to the horrific act of abandoning government property in the Arctic!  The absurdity
of it all was overwhelming!

The real reason that the Court-Martial took place at all is that I supported the Gortz in another horrendous miscarriage of justice that occurred in the
barracks a few months previously.  The Gortz didn’t get along with his roommates except for me and sometimes Cooper.  He and Coop were always teasing
each other.  Each room had a den mother assigned to it and ours was a Specialist Fifth Class and a typical hillbilly red neck from Virginia--a coal miner’s
son from off the Okefenoke Swamplands Reservation.  (In reality he was a very likeable personae).  He didn’t like big city folk like “cussin ussin” herein.  

He and The Gortz got into an argument one dismal night and in the ensuing soufflé scuffle The Gortz grabbed him by his hillbilly throat and Hill Street
Blues jollies and started to choke the deep South out of him.  The Civil War fight was quickly brought under control but the Sergeant-At-Arm’s-Length
accused The Gortz of attempted murder.  I came to the Gortz’s sudden defense during his Court Martial and swore on the Old Testament that the event
was overly exaggerated.  Since there were no other witnesses except for me and The Coop the whole matter was dropped until it resurfaced over the
abandoned government property caper.  In fact, at the conclusion  of our tour of duty at Churchill  there was no bad blood between any of the participants
(including Major Durbin).

My final punishment for this offense of course was the directive from “Double Bourbon” Durbin to get a haircut.  I got a haircut!  My last one under Major
Durbin’s jurisdiction.  I got it from The Gortz!

It’s like this one Sergeant used to say about me--old Sergeant Wolfbane Wolfbags (Sergeant “Smoking Pipe, Me Working” Wolfe).  Wolfe began his
career with us at the Fort Monmouth Weather Station in New Jersey.  Then he haunted us at White Sands and now was in charge of our Weather Or Not
Group at Churchill.  “You know, Lewis, you’re the type that skates on very thin ice.  One of these days you’re going to fall through.  You do just enough
to get by.  Some day you’re going to slip.”  It may be true “Wolfebags” but if I slip I’ll just get up.  You see Wolfe’s mentality went just so far.  His triple
basted brain could only conceive of a person sinking.  Wolfe was limited in the Army way.  The way the Army thought so thought “Wolfebags”.  What ole
Wolfe didn’t know was that I had come to grips with the absurd very early in life.  I had come to “Kierkegaardian” grips with my “causa sui” project.  We
shouldn’t be happy or sad, or too serious, when life itself was absurd because of our mortality factor.  The secret of the Everlasting still eluded us.  

One other silly incident happened before I finally departed Churchill.  There were very few women at Churchill Downs.  The Canadian Navy (whose
barracks were shaped like a naval vessel) was stationed there.   That meant that their sexy dependents were on base.   (What we did for legalized ass was
every six months we took a trip to White Sands and eventually to Juarez for rest and recuperation.  The Army was literally shipping you down there to get
laid.  I don’t know why they just didn’t organize a whore shuttle service from Juarez to Churchill by filling DC-7 Cargo planes with prostitutes and then air
lift them to Churchill.  They could have dropped shipped them out of the bomb-bays.  Thousands of sexy hookers descending from the groins of the
airplanes!  The Gortz would have loved it!  He would have had a piece of the Catch 22 action!

In any event, I was infatuated with a Canadian Dependent.  I was in love with her or her ponytail.  She reminded me of Mynt Green and Paige Phelps all
rolled into one.  Another G.I. Joe assigned to the Motor Pool was also after her ponytail.  We had an absurd fist-a-cuffs one night to see whose woman this
would be.  It never even came close to blows.  Just a lot of sparring around, jabbing each other’s belly buttons, shadow boxing at midnight in the middle of
the Arctic landscape surrounded by his and my old biddy buddies egging us on.  It ended ten minutes later when a Whiteout suddenly descended and blew
the bluster out of our respective arguments.  We nose-dived for the warmth and protection of the barracks.

I went on leave a couple of times and traveled back to Albany.  I also went back to White Sands.  It was twenty below at Churchill and 100 above when we
landed at El Paso.  We were as white as ghosts compared to the tanned troops at The Sands.  It was an Army vacation of sorts.  They didn’t expect us to do
much of anything.  The horrible part of it was that we would have to come back to Churchill.  

I enjoyed parts of my stay at Churchill.  The Whiteouts (if you were caught outside during one for over five minutes) could be fatal to your liver.  You
would lose your sense of direction and never find your way back to the barracks.  Even if you were only ten feet away from your destination.  The wind chill
factor would be about fifty to eighty below zero with winds howling at 70 m.p.h. to 100 m.p.h.  The snow would be blowing so hard horizontally that the
white screen came as close as the raised hand in front of you.  You could freeze to death on the way home stumbling back from the Village of Churchill
(from the local tavern).  Perhaps you would be discovered months later in the exact same position that you had been frozen. Many were the slumped,
frozen turd corpses that were stuffed down the Townie’s barbershop’s garbage heaps or down some forsaken back alley of Fort Churchill.

If your gloves were off more than three minutes your hands would be frozen to death.  Touching heavy metal would yield third degree burns.  It was like
taking a bath in electrified dry ice.  My eyelashes would stick to the metallic theodolite that we used to track surface balloons.  These were only some of
the nastiness you had to contend with at Churchill.  In the summer, the mosquitoes were as big as burnt self-propelled pancakes because of the basic
“swampish” nature of Churchill’s topography.  Whenever one walked out on the edges of the periphery of the Launch Site one would have to wear
protective netting like beekeepers with mosquito masks across your face.  If you stood still for any length of time your entire form and content would be a
crawling mess of massless mosquitoes.  Getting trapped outside in the swamps without your netting meant certain disfigurement or even death due to
scratching, biting and suffocation.  It wouldn’t take long to be overwhelmed by the stink of mosquito toes.

One didn’t go out often into the swamps.  But every once in awhile the Major Double Bourbon Durbin would get a burr up his ass and decide that the
Troops needed a little exercise.  He would organize work forces to clear the swamps and rid them of rocks and vegetation.  Can you imagine that!  
Removing rocks from the Tundra!  The region was a vast conglomeration of rocks for millions of square miles for the last 100 million years or so.  Leave it
to the Executive Branch to waste the Peon’s time!  It would take at least two centuries to clear one hundred yards of terrain.

When a rocket was canceled or delayed, sometimes it would be days or even weeks before firing time.  You would sleep at the launch site on the next
available bench.  But not the civilian scientists.  Even up there they had the best of everything.  They would come out just before launch time.  No wonder
we had pent up jealously.  After all they were their rockets not ours!  Their experiments not ours!  We couldn’t give a fuck less about them! The Army
didn’t give a fustian fuck either.  They just wanted to shoot the military rockets and fuck all these wise ass high brow experiments!

In the summer it was warm as dried toast--zero to seventy degrees.  You went dressed in T shirts and rode the Hudson Bay “Icebergers” like bucking
Broncos at a Bronx car auction rodeo.  I even had a few sanguine experiences of firing a rocket by pushing the little ole red firing button.  Up at Churchill
most of the Army rules went by the wayside.  You were just there going along with the flow of the agenda.  Everybody was just hiding out from themselves
and from the upper Brass for a year and half in Limbo land.

From time to time you would see these big moth eaten horny polar bears and their Smokey family of friends haunting the ice packs and garbage dumps of
Churchill.  They would make raids in the village or hang out in abundance and squalor at the town’s garbage dump.  Once, we chose up sides and
played a game of lacrosse and touch football with the bears.  We won.  The bears got pissed off and ate the dump.

The gravitational tidal currents at Hudson Bay were as far reaching as the Bay of Fundy with very steep gradients.  Sometimes at high tide, there would be
swells smashing the coast twenty green feet high.  One night a Greek merchant ship floundered and ran aground during a raging storm and dry-docked
about two miles from Churchill.  The crew had mutated and mutinied for lack of pay and had jumped ship.  One of my early, less famous poems of the
Arctic was written to commiserate this event.

One also had to be wary of the tricky tides.  Stories abounded of people being swept out to the center of Hudson Bay due to the shifting vagaries of the tidal
ebb and flow.  One day I was walking the beach at low tide and was lost in premeditative metaphysical thought.  When next I looked around the tide had
changed directions abruptly.  I was surrounded by a water line skin deep and rising as fast as an explosive fart.  I scampered back two miles and managed
to out run the surging waters.  But there was a fleeting moment where I panicked and did not think I would make it.  

(Interestingly enough, the more or less famous poem,
FAR ROCKAWAY contains the lines “When next I looked around...”.  However, it must be noted
that that poem was composed some five years later during my brief stay at Manhattan Beach, just north of Coney Island in Brooklyn, New York.  The
poem was inspired by the views from this beach across the channel looking eastward to Far Rockaway at night.  (See in this volume:
).  That abandoned Greek ship is probably still waylaid at Churchill.

I did my 15 months at Churchill Downs standing on my head.  Towards the end I looked around from the vantage point of my bunk and spied little ole
Cooper hot at work on my typewriter.  So “I’s” walks over and looks over his shoulder and sputter “what ‘youse’ doing Coop?”  “Oh, we’re nearly ready to
get out of the Army.  We better start thinking about what we’re going to do.  I noticed that Pan American Airways has jobs for Weather Observers down in
South America.”  Pan American, as it turned out, ran Cape Canaveral for the United States Air Force.  “Oh, that’s interesting.  I think I’ll do that too.”  I
sent in my application and forgot about it.  We were shipped back to Fort Styx for discharge.  Just as we disembarked at the Processing Out Center an
announcement blares over Big Brothers’ speakers that everyone is frozen in place.  We are on a worldwide oxymoron alert either because of the
Cuban Missile or the Berlin Crisis or both (I forget which was the case).  Twenty-four hours before I was to be discharged I was frozen in the Army instead.

The Army felt so bad that they allowed me to pick any place in the world to spend the next hundred years that I would be frozen.  I heard through the
Grapevine that Sir Thomas O’Davey was spending the Freeze at Fort Monmouth, New Jersey Weather School so I chose to be sent there.  Twenty-four
hours later they had my Orders cut and they shipped me out by omnibus to Fort Monmouth.  It just shows you how fast the Army can move its own ass
when it wants to move it.  Naturally, they told me to get a haircut before I left and naturally I did not!

When I teamed up with O’Davey again, he told me that he was trying to enter the Drug Enforcement arm of the Border Patrol for the Eternal Federal
Government.  He had always been interested in going into some form of police work.  Davey had just returned from 15 months in San Juan.

I stayed at Fort Monmouth for a little over three months and then the Freeze was lifted.  This last tour of duty was pleasant in that it gave me an
opportunity to reestablish old relationships.  We had no extra duties, parades or KP because we were members of the small, elite, esoteric Meteorological
Technicians Special Services Detachment Association.  We wore little red, white and blue fedoras.  Everyone was scared of us.  No one, from the Gate
M.P.’s to the Commanding General of the Fort knew what we were all about (just a bunch of sissies) so they left us alone to do as we pleased.  When one of
them was actually smart enough to pronounce the word Meteorology (never mind knowing what it meant) he interpreted it as signaling that we were on
some Top Secret Mission and were not to be disturbed.  At last Discharge came on February 22, 1962, at the age of twenty three.  Well, here I was again!  
What was I going to do now?


                                                 HOME AGAIN

I packed my scruffy duffel bags and went back to Albany, New York.  At this time my cousin Irwin had separated from his cousin Sanford’s Army & Navy
Store and had opened up his own Amoco Gas Station.  Sanford, shortly thereafter, left the Army & Navy business and embarked on a career in the
sporting goods industry.  He joined the fray just at the right time--shortly before the sports’ boom that was to rock the following decades.  He brown-nosed
his way into a partnership with the owner of the company and eventually bought out his partner becoming head of a worldwide sports equipment company.  
He thus became the second millionaire in the family dynasty.  Irwin, however, with my help, went bankrupt in the gasoline business in less than sixty

I had completely forgotten about my supplication to Pan American, when one day I received a letter asking me to “come on down” to Cape Canaveral
immediately in order to interview for a job as a Weather Observer.  I had by that time sent numerous applications for employment to the United States
Weather Bureau.  I never got past the first interviews.  I could have taken a job offer in Alaska to do weather work for the construction of the Alaskan
Pipeline.  But just coming off fifteen months of isolation at Churchill I thought that I would prefer a warmer climate.  I had by now had my fill of fill-ups at
the gas station the first day on the job and therefore accepted Pan American’s offer with joy and exhilaration.  Two days later I had said my solemn good-
byes, sold an old used car for $110 spending money, disposed of my last minute possessions and commitments, made out my last will and testament to avoid
estate taxes and boarded a plane out of La Guardia--sans haircut, and headed to Orlando, Florida just outside the Cape.


                                                           AWAY AGAIN

These were still the pre-moon shot years and as a result the Cape was mostly Floridian desert palm glory.  During Orientation, as they checked out
my checkered background for incongruities concerning my Secret Garden Clearance, I stayed quarantined aboard an old Navy Frigate dry-docked in
one of the many inlet channels astride the swampy Cape (now Disneyland).  I went through a few weeks of lounging around awaiting my orders for
Ascension Island, 4,000 miles down wind or 5 degrees of separation below the Equator, halfway between Africa and South America.

Ascension Island was two hundred miles due South West of St. Helena where Napoleon had been exiled.  Ascension Island was nothing more than an
ancient accident, inactive volcano (possibly the tip of Atlantis—but no, in 2014 they supposedly found that in Spain) jutting out upon the middle of the
South Atlantic Ocean.  It was used by the Air Force during World War II as a refueling base on their way towards the West African Coast from
Brazil’s eastern flank or as a substitute crash site on the southern fringes of the Bermuda Triangle.

The trip down to Ascension took two grueling days by army cargo plane.  We were fully dressed with parachute gear for most of the ride.  As I said
already, Pan American ran Cape Canaveral for the Air Force.  ABM’s were being tested at the Cape and fired down range 5,000 miles to land south of
Ascension Island.  Our job was to work with a Radiosonde Balloon Team collecting upper air data around the impact area and then relay the data back
to the Cape so they could deploy rescue vessels to recover the instrument packages in the nosecones of the spent ABM’s.

To digress for a moment, in order to update you on the events transpiring in the States, my sister Evelyn at this time was living near Orlando, Florida
with her second honeycomb of a husband. Her first husband, Gene "The Crier" Schrier, had been a Chemistry Professor at SUNY at Binghamton, New
York.  He was involved with the cutting edge research work on the composition of protein molecules, the beginnings of the Genome projects.  He also
accomplished one of the first synthesizing processes for protein molecules’s DNA in Hershey bars.  They were married for ten years and had no
natural children.  They adopted a babe, my nephew Billy.  Professor Schrier, while working in his lab one fine night, met and fell in love with another
professor of Chemistry.  He left my sister to marry her.  Billy stayed on with Evelyn.  A decade later Professor Green Genes (Sad Sam’s term for
him-- Evelyn’s second husband) dropped the teaching of Chemistry (joining the trend of a growing number of professors in the economic Chaos
Theory Sciences) and entered the stock market as a broker shortly before the market started its sensational run from the Dow 700 mark to almost
crashing through the 20,000 figure in 2015.

Evelyn “Florence Nightingale Keats” Lewis had graduated from High School and gone into a nursing career.  She had flunked her initial entrance
exams and with my encouragement reapplied and was accepted.  Two years later she became a registered nurse.

Rita, on the other hand, went on to a professional career of insanity.  She kicked it off when she married Jerry Spero one bright family day (in the
family way was Rita) when Jerry was home on leave from Fort Bliss, Texas.  They moved out West for a short time and then bolted back to Rochester,
New York.  Jerry worked as an ace technician for KODAK Corporation.  Jerry was also noted for being the very first AMWAY Pest.  Eventually he
got involved in the local politics of the Democratic Party.  

Right in the early stages of their marriage Rita started to depart from reality at 32 feet per second every second and was diagnosed Schizophrenic
Absentia.  She began three hundred decades of trips back and forth to State Institutions for electro-shocking and analytical quackery chemical
therapy.  Her marriage ended in a brilliant divorce twenty five years later.  Currently Rita (now presumably dead as a doornail) spent her remaining
time in a semi-catatonic stew in a half-way house, half-way between here and Rochester and is now for certain dead.  They had one forlorn child,
Sandy, who married in his early 20’s but got divorced during the first year.

Returning now to Ascension Island, one had the same parasitic, symbiotic relationship between the military and the civilians.  This time, however, the
shoe was on the other cloven hoof.

What a great contrast Ascension was to the frigidity of Churchill.  Resting as it was five degrees South (?) of the noble Equator.  It was so hot in the
daytime that one could hardly stay outside for more than one half hour.  In fact, military rules forbade the G.I.’s from going out at all in the
afternoon.  Fuck the military rules!  You had to wear a British sun helmet and ear muffs most of the time.  To be caught outdoors without them for
longer than five minutes would be equivalent to receiving third degree burns.  Excluded from this proviso were the St. “Heleneians” who were
employed as flunkies on the Base.  They, being dark of skin and skinny to boot could endure the microwave reddening of the ultra violet alpha beta
rays forever and then some.  

At precisely 4PM every day the typical tropical convergence showers would begin and cease thirty minutes later.  These showers were the direct result
of the converging adiabatic currents and winds that built up in the morning, heating the ocean flow causing instability over the tropical environment.  
That same zone of convoluted confused divergence eventually led to the initial stages of Hurricane development.  

Another attractive feature of Ascension Island was the cool, coral surrounding the island (today, for the most part, dead coral).  Congregating around
the coral were tropical fish in abundance accompanied by all their fishy beauty.  The waters were blue green and crystal clear.  It was this seascape
that inspired one of the most beautiful narrative poems of the 20th Century:
(Contained in this Volume).  Ascension Island was St. Patricia Claire.  The poem was thought out in the South Atlantic but was actually written when
I left Ascension and Pan American and returned to Albany.  

Incidentally, Hurricanes do not exist this far south except in their initial stages where they manifest themselves in the unstable, convectional,
radiating heat of adiabatic air flows that are hurtled northward to the Hurricane Latitudes of the Caribbean.  Tropical convergences, however, do
spawn from the squalls generated at the Equator.
 CY-THERIA was written in my bedroom on Clinton Avenue in the winter of my first discontent in a
mood that fondly recalled my brief stay at the Equator.

We were receiving a decent salary for the time, about $20,000 dollars tax free earnings.  It was tax free so long as you did not spend more than fifty
days in the States in any one year.  Since room and board were free there was no need to spend any money.

There was a different movie every night.  The movies were shown in a large Julius Caesar outdoor amphitheater beneath the panoramic, spacious
Southern Cross Sky.  This overhead drop inspired another poem--SOMNAMBULISM.  That poem was also written shortly after my return to the
States and the composition of
CY-THERIA.  CY-THERIA was a straight romantic, narrative lyric celebrating the beautiful raw power of nature’s
forces with the containing metaphor of the Hurricane.  
SOMNAMBULISM was a surrealistic rendering of the same death of poetry theme beginning in
the middle part of last century and culminating in the first decade and a half of this century.

Money in South America was worth five times as much as it was in the States due to the runaway inflation.  This made one’s salary loom even larger
than it was.  A lot of civilians never returned to the States but disappeared into the mysterious Amazon Basin to open small businesses.  They were
rich compared to the peasant population.

As for my feelings at the time, here I was again just after fifteen months of isolation at Churchill about to undergo another two years in the Tropics.  
If one isolating experience had not followed hard upon the heels of another, and had I not got a bug up my ass to return to school; I probably would
have stayed.  I too could have retired to the wilds of the South American Jungles and become the first Jewish Amazon.

Once every six months, for rest and recuperation, we’d go into Recife, Brazil in South America.  Recife, which was formally a sailors’ hang out during
World War II, was a city a lot like Juarez, Mexico.  However, the prostitution syndicates of Recife were better designed.  The entire beach front
consisted of high class, glass windowed hotels and apartment buildings.  The buildings’ foundations were on stilts.  In fact the house where I
frequented was called
Harry's House-On-The-Stilts (probably named after my father).  There were pragmatic reasons for building the living quarters
on stilts.  The foundations were enmeshed in grass, mud and filth, were snake infested and contained nefarious mildewed debris.  The structures
would rise some twenty stories above the ocean.  Out of every other window were draped scantily clad whores inviting you to come up for a drink of
Spanish Benzedrine.  The apartments themselves were lavishly decorated--Wall-To-Wall carpets, garish furniture and a bar and kitchen in every digs.  
There would be a sex party in every apartment.  One could stay, if one chose, all night very inexpensively.  If you didn’t like what was going on in one
apartment you could gather in your hardon and stumble into another and join a party already in progress.

The women were beautiful vixen like Portuguese Amazons as the direct result of the various interracial breeding over the centuries.  The results of
these Darwinian sordid fornications had led to the most exotic looking women in the world.

Some of the G.I.’s, and civilians for that matter, never left those apartments.  They married the whores and settled down in South America and never
were horny or had to pay taxes again.

The prostitutes of Brazil made up most of the upper class in Recife society.  Besides the foreigners, they made most of the money domestically and
could afford the best hotels, food and lingerie.  On the opposite end of the money spectrum were the poor peasants tilling the land.  There was no
middle class.  Back then, in the early 60’s, in the underground bars of Recife’s Red Light District, one could often hear the first mumblings against
the exploitive capitalistic society of its northern neighbor (“hey that’s me!  I’m outta here!”).

As I mentioned a chapter ago in this notation on Ascension Island, the water was clearer than the Caribbean so one could see one hundred feet down
to the submerged shoals of coral and view with pleasure the plethora of tropical fish during their diurnal activities.  This time I did not bash the fish
over their silly heads with the back end of my fishing rod but I figuratively bashed them with flowing words of poetry.

From the moment I landed at Ascension I knew that I wasn’t going to be involved in good old fashion weather work because they were doing heuristic
ballistics for the Cape.  I was foolish at this juncture for this job could have led to weather work if I had stuck it out.  I could have had the latest
training in the cutting edge work being done on computer forecasting and satellite technology that was to blossom in the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s.  For some
strange reason a strong urge came over me one erotic night to return to the States and go to college.

The impulse to stick with Meteorology was waning and being quenched by artistic strivings.  I always felt that leaving Pan American was one of the
few major mistakes I had made in the twistings and Alan Turnings of my contorted career.  The incident that precipitated my hasty departure from
Ascension was that the head of the Radiosonde Team, a civilian, had been expecting an expert in the Radiosonde Field.  I was far from that.  At first
he was angry at me for not having proficiency in Radiosonde Theory and intimated that he was going to ask the Cape to approve my dismissal.  Later,
as he rethought his disgusting position, he realized that the fault lied with the Cape and not with me.  I was down there already so I might as well stay
aboard.  Well, as I said, the night before I had a strong desire to get back to the States as soon as possible.  I told him that I didn’t mind resigning but
he practically begged me to stay.  I was set on leaving.  Had he not been the person that he was I probably would have stayed and my career would
have been set.  We clashed from the moment we met in the whorehouses of Recife my first night in South America.  Thus he became the first in a
long line of civilian, dumb, arrogant, insensitive, management scoundrels that inhabit every workplace and especially the type that have haunted me
in my numerous occupational hazards.  In fact, as I stood before this over-stuffed, ossified virgin paradigm, I felt sure that the last comment out of
his Oliver Twisted lips would be to “get a haircut Lewis”.  Of course, he couldn’t say that for we were both naughty civilians but I was still ready,
willing and almost able to stick my befuddled middle finger up his Radiosonde nose.

The next day I walked along the cafeteria’s lunch line and remarked to the lower class slob of a cook that I was leaving.  He just shook his besotted
greasy head in Wilde-eyed amazement with wonder and respect.  He said he sure wished that he had the courage to travel five thousand miles, find
out he didn’t like his boss, tell him to go fuck himself and then up and leave.  With that bit of suppressed rage in my hip pocket, after six months at
Ascension, I returned to the Cape and spent the next two weeks processing out of Pan American.  I left behind forever my career in Meteorology.  I
must confess for two years afterwards I still entertained ambitions of joining the Weather Bureau.  I sent out applications and got on long lists of
Federal Eligibility which is equivalent to getting on long lists for public housing--a waste of time.  I was called for a few five minute interviews but
nothing ever came of it.


(The birth, life, death and after life of a Hurricane
somewhere in the South Atlantic Ocean—representing
the death of Romantic Poetry ((Art)) in the 20th Century)
A witness to a storm I did not see or experience.




Sun blisters on Thetis’ surfaces,
Darts past the cloudy terraces.

Waves roll along at windward pace,
“Crenellated” crests kiss in the senseless race.

Somewhere below this frolicking play,
Cy-Theria spawns on a low barometric day.

Wine blue waters falter near her home,
Charybdis curls the chalky foam.

Now from the West comes an easterly band of showers,
Endowing the orphan with flamboyant powers.

Sister sea ascends from five fathoms deep,
Embalms the sun’s cloudy fleet.

The fumes from the crispy air  embroiders a showery belt,
Knitting Cy-Theria’s gusty autumnal pelt.

The sea--its calm quietude--symbolizes emboldened flows,
Lumbering towards twilight adrift stalwart tiptoes.

The cobra seas, menacing swells, like Arabian flutes,
Blots the stars, makes them mute.

Above, the circling thundering Thrush,
Spreads night’s bronze brush.

Eastward...eastward...ever eastward She careens,
An embryo colossus surges forward to underwrite our favorite dreams.

Rainy feline battalions
Bids flawless flanks atop of rearing stallions,
To spew and fume, to shred their peaceful medallions.

No moon or stars season the cauldron waters,
As wheezing sprays dampens the celestial daughters.

Ever down...down...down...downward, troughs recede,
Reminding the piston spitting waves of their lethal needs.

The trumpeting winds buffet the barren shores,
Shake the ocean to its sullen core.

This Rebel from alien waters,
Marches onward...onward...ever onward, its grotesque beauty never falters.

Now midnight-- heavy seas-- Beaufort on its knees,
Not far distant, the motionless stare of St. Patricia’s trees.

Poised-- with majestic strength,
Tide joins the surging sea with abrupt suspense.

The harrowing of intermingling waters alongside of century winds,
Streaks landward...landward...ever landward, like icy pins.

Cy-Theria!  The Island awaits your destroying glory!
Cy-Theria decimates the sea that unfolds her ancient story!

The storm breaks!
Cy-Theria reveals her ashen face.




Island buoyant on coral waters...
Day blesses night, then deserts to quarters.

Island people “berthed” in sleep,
Under the limpid sky that purples above the darkening Deep.

Surfs roar towards unwilling shores,
Interrupting the grumbling sailors' lore.

The garland garble of pebbles on Pat Claire’s beach.
See sea swallows invade the dusty streets.

The Island’s shoals stab the receding ebb,
Fossil-scathed caverns fuel Cy-Theria’s luminescent bed.

These Caribbean nights, these stormy tones,
These tortured moonbeams spray across disheveled dry-docked bones.

These scurrying crimson crabs, with aching feet,
Sensing somewhere in the night their safe retreat.

These bare feet trespass on the lonely docks,
While palm trees persist with their undulating tick-tock rock.

Noon west breeze comes from sudden east,
Flutters tropical leaves and wakens timid tropical beasts.

Graceful spells form on snowy swells,
While the sea tips its briny hat to tiny sea shells.

I’m ready for Cy-Theria of St. Pat Claire,
I gaze shelf to reef with a chilling fear.

The spidery clouds choke the sky,
The ebb of tide flows towards strange quays to die.

I leave my misty dreams,
To run between mischievous moonbeams.

I will not gaze on Cy-Theria’s massive conception,
I turn from the sea with a Divine discretion.

The sky shades are drawn,
Light skims the breakers onto rocky pawns.

Now Patricia’s trees and her leafy emissaries,
Join me in a vortex of whistling revelry.

Dice drops sprinkle from turbulent spheres,
The dilating crests unfold their china tears.

Now and then stars laugh through,
But are quickly ambushed by the cloudy brew.

Groggy boats are angrily buffed!
The “Giantess” of the seas waxes rough!

Go wake the people!
To protect Pat Claire’s global Steeples!

The frightened cove and scared bay
Long for dawn the clay of day.

A backward glance shows the ominous swells,
Entwining Patricia Claire with frothy pounding bells!

I cannot leave!
Bewitched by the lambent glow of Cy-Theria’s frothy sheath!




Pat Claire spies the wavy souls,
Blast wizened rocks, pilfer eroded holes!

The obliterated night is seared with jagged light,
Clouds bellow with anguished fright!

Tandem tidal waves plaster infant reefs,
Retorting resonant sprays slaughter palm tree leaves!

The whistling phantoms of Aeolus crucify the docks!
The pelting surgical rain inundates the rocks!

The vertiginous pendulous sea,
Up in harmony...down...down...the dizzy heights with a nauseous wheeze.

Cy-Theria, in all her debauching omnipotence,
Churns across Pat Claire’s innocence!

Her chalice overflows on dewy gardens,
Her windy gown flares and hardens!

And hypnotized by the Fury’s mock,
Step I from rock to splashing rock!

Blown against their wobbly wills,
The chafing mists dance upon dromedary hills.

Death, the interpreter of Life, “are” sea walls one hundred high!
The Empress Cy-Theria liquidates the statuesque sky!

The Innocents, the sylvanite sylph-like Ships, raked by storm,
Resound against raped forlorn...

Mistress seashells cry with lonely abandon,
Overhead hyacinth debris propelled at random...

...Then the serene caress of the motherly calm,
As murky starlight flows from cloudy palms.
While all across the moon the Host spreads her Pagan arms.

Chariots with warriors on rearing steeds,
Abate the fury but circle the horizon for further deeds.

Cy-Theria’s heart comes to rest,
O’er Pat Claire's ravished breast.

Not much later...Beaufort Five,
Now rocky shore, grassy plain need not hide.

Night, the coal colored elf, dives towards dawn,
Cy-Theria’s lullaby soothes the drenched lawns.

But from the pulpit the people stare,
Into the undulating glare where swells march in awesome pairs.

All sky inhabitants in hasty march,
Politely dissipate behind St. Claire’s steeple arch!

And now wind and rain baste the coast!
Waves come pounding on virgin domains of the Host!

The skies’ arteries are severed again,
As down...down...down...from Hades’ jugular veins rains they send!

Weeping willow widows gather her wandering tresses,
While she divorces the bereaved Island--bids adieu through her
Impressionistic dresses.




Windy echoes subside,
Cy-Theria’s rustling skirts embalm the tide.

The Islands hush,
The clouds tassels blush.

Cy-Theria steers its placid beat from the comatose Isle of Pat Claire,
As Dawn wrests the morrow from the salty piers.

The sun bobs to and fro on horizon’s lowlands,
Rescuing grave, carmine, graying cloud bands.

The waves against the bulwarks,
Exhume the fiery ovate, morning’s culprit.

The scenic drama ends with bulbous stars,
Saluting the morning breeze from afar.

The sky-folk emblazon their luster across drenched rock,
Pat Claire’s wind-scarred steeple chimes “six...tick-tock...tick-tock”...

Out from frosty earth pores,
Come sprightly crabs to begin their daily chores.

Day strikes!  Signals sapphire perch in morning schools,
To beware the javelin nosed sharks and their jousting duels.

Phoebus pastes the jeweled knaves of night,
To pose as crystallites dotting the beach with soggy light.

The vengeance of Cy-Theria that blots the cowering East,
Appears as phosphorescent showers strolling towards Homer’s Greece.

A ribbon of stalagmite prisms crowns her auburn hair,
Rainbow handmaidens pamper Cy-Theria’s dwindling dandelion glare.

My eyes no longer view her dying quivers,
Persephone has entombed her beneath her irreversible rivers.

My gaze transcends the warming morn,
To eye the beach bereft of tide and torn.

The discontinuous cantankerous gifts from the ocean’s sepulchers,
Spill in infinite array like venal cultures.

Relentlessly the sun bakes earth’s skin...
The listless Doldrums...Cy-Theria’s lethargic kin.

Phoebus pastes at heavenly heights,
Peaceful cauliflower of tropical whites.

Once again docile sprays dampen my face,
While blushing turtles battle the coral wastes.

Then the brewing quiescence,
Brings a Guest in my sullen presence.

The Dutchman soothes my shoulders,
While Saint Patricia Claire, I and Boulders,
Watch the ocean rich with drifting beachwood,
As the speck of Cy-Theria treks eastward...eastward...ever eastward...




And now,
As the precious leaves of summer leave,
Yet seem to be the fading props of Fall,
There come wondrous visions of Cy-Theria,
The clandestine Beauty in perpetual coma now...

O!  Did stronger breezes ever blow?
Did whiter clouds ever bleach the sky?
Did a sadder heart ever beat?

(Strong birds do climb the sky!
Farmhands work the fields among the Caribbean rye.
The sun has sultry shadows marching on,
Lovely fish swim in lichen swollen ponds).

Then Luna kisses Apollo,
And their embracing shadows
Descend to earth, while skyward,
Melting animal figurines cease to be.
I with blistered back,
Stand numb, as the lunar blacksmith
Comes helter-skelter across my eyes.
Then I think I see Her Star!
How chaste!  How far!

And now that the amber leaves of autumn flake the ground,
And the ambrosial mist disperses everyone and everything
And foggy pogroms purge sequestered banks;
The Voice of the Flying Dutchman summons Rhea’s Zeus...

“The Empress Cy-Theria is mine!
That sterile ethereal beauty,
That Huntress with windy darts...
Has taken Cupid’s
Briny arrow to her heart.
And each year it’s
Not Persephone entering granite Hades!
It’s Cy-Theria, The Hurricane!
Who collects her seduced foliage,
Trees with shoulders bared,
Coquettish rocks anesthetized with fear.”

“Just before the autumn sheds its greenery,
I slept with the Empress
In her windy den.
I!  The Flying Dutchman!
Nursed on nebulae!
Sprung from stars!
King of the blinking Pulsars!
Queen of the Pulsing Quasars!
Shepherd of the White Holes!
Somewhere under those Chaotic cosmic particle waves
We made lusty Orion, east of the Quintessence,
Blush with a diminished luminescence.”

“No more the races in the glen,
No more the fish swim with frosty fins,
Her breath once a southerly Gale,
But Zeus, now I only hear
The silent diction of auburn hills...”

“Father of Quintillions!
Hosts of Hosts!
Lord of Lords!
Magellanic Brightness!
I, The Flying Dutchman!
God of the Intergalactic Seas!
Bring you Cy-Theria
Of Saint Patricia Claire
In all her Romantic
Tempestuous, vixen, virgin, ‘waifish’,
Unnatural, impressionistic, surrealistic Chaotic Beauty!”




(Now that Life has long departed
And I sit and talk with Tiresias
About the Neutrality(1) of Death;
The Blind Man screams!
“O to live for Eternity(2)
Because Death is void of time!(3)”

“Life”, I said?
“Yes, there are Quadratures(4) in Life,
Ten so far they count.
Dimensions—that is,
Each bending on the other,
Ten Infinities, perhaps more;
And each has its own way towards Life".

“But you are blind!”
Yes, but my eyes died but once
And are dead, while alive;
Yours are dead while alive,
Have not lived,
And now are dead once again,
Another Eye, only to die again!(5)”

Yet both sides have I known(6)
Though I’ve known them blind.
Yet... I still feel the ebony breezes of Zanzibar,
Yet...I still hear the voices of a tyrant Czar,(7)
Yet...I still dwell apart from the Neutrality of Death,
Among the black-white(8) of amber Nothing."




As kernel flaked cu(10)
Scurry across the crying sky
And blanket earth
With a dawn fomented from the dust of corroded hues.(11)

The brine-swept sea
Frivolously frolics with sea pea beaches.
The soft glow of cloud-pocket blues(12)
Join in the celebration(13)
For the mackerel(14) covered moon of Mid-September.(15)
And somewhere among the stifling breezes
One discerns the eerie tinsel talk(16)
Of signs that dangle from the Door-Posts-of-Decay.(17)

I listen to the notes of Nature
And covet the grandiose ant colonies(18)
While they slowly trek behind their own slow trek(19)
As vibrant in the blooming Wasteland(20)
The refurbishing of the weeds
Bend on their stilted stalks to kiss the puckered ground
And from their grasshopper heights(21)
Are the stronger storms of distress(22)
Streaking like star infested stones.(23)

Come...the pollen fed fences
Come...the swollen rivers
Come...the starved people(24)
Led by endless lines of stacked hay
With grey hewn to blood.(25)

Sigh...the swollen clearings
Sigh...the sterile forests
Sigh...the bereaved mourners(26)
Possessed and partaking
In the Bear’s healing ritual.(27)

And all the sorrow of grief reeks
With The Passion and The Pity
For Rome that was Brother-In-Glory(28) to baby Greece.
Then, as now,
The Dancing Delilahs of Eupria
Spray across the satiny scape
Dipping into the fog pink of a memory again remembered.(29)
A certain 'Jamais-Vu'”.

The Equator’s cincture
That buckles its way around the earth
Then emits its slow jewel shine of the electromagnetic Reticulate Python
That squirms with eternal constriction(30)”

“I am blinded!
But blind men see through other’s absinthe fears.
For they have walked with Tutankhamen in the Valley of The Deep(31) Tears
And reclaimed the Spring years
The Disordered Spring.”

“O!  When they march won’t they watch!
Life oozes from every crevice!
Leaks from every reality!
And twilight’s mission is
To stop them, turn them around--
They become Found
And walk with a blind man’s eyes!”
Then Death springs from the hybrid liquid torment of Baptism
That Christens the birth of funerals(32)
During the Carnival of The Clouds performed by the Duality(33)
Of the chaff sheared by searing winds(34)
That creates the chaos and destroys the calm.(35)
Then King Cirrus and his icy fleets(36)
Parade wispily by
Forking the roadway of the Bibles.(37)
They(38) veil their eyes from smoke-glassed(39) suns(40)
And oft(41) during their winters(42)
Of whispering disintegration and dissipation,
They see rising
Two, colossal, over worked, over-
Looked statues in the unbecoming of thundering Cu--
The Handsome Anvils(43) of Salvation(44)
That bedevils actions
Degage, Engage
Not for inhumane humanity
But for themselves
They benefit too,
Thus Mankind’s by-
Product--the Benefit.(45)

Then brewing deep beneath
The grisly,(46) crispy,(47) spidery(48) Cirrus lie
The anxious, leaden,(49) smothering, blankets of Nimbus
That seethe with the guilty weight of overcast,(50)
“But here!(51)
During the crystal purity(52) of
The Carnival of The Clouds
Far from the interlocking Cu,(53)
Far above the Green(54) Cirrus,
We disgorge the feast of Kings.(55)
We cannot dine,
So we succumb
And we become
The Bliss
The Flaming Swords of Eden’s Guardian Cherubim(56)
And we(57) uncertain are
Tomorrow’s Planets!
The Future’s Stars!(58)
Eternity’s Galaxies!
The Unknown Nebulae(59)
And Infinity’s White Hole Universes!(60)


1.        Neutrality of Death.  Since the human condition does not know what death is, certain speculations concerning this state can be formulated.  One such
speculative possibility that comes to mind is that death is the complete opposite of life.  If one were to construct such a theory one would eventually arrive at the
position that death is completely different than life in shape, manner and content.  One can then infer that since neutrality is not a state of grace known in the real
world; it is a state of grace that exists outside the world.  This is the kind of “Being” that I am discussing in the Introduction To The Disordered Spring.  I assume that
total neutrality is a derivative from life-like forces.  I argue that this neutral state (quasi-neutral) could not possibly be contained in death because death is the
complete opposite of life.  Death cannot contain any of life’s inebriated Metaphysics.  In this poem, I am not particularly concerned with the rebuttal to this apparent
yet very real contradiction and paradox.

2.        Eternity.  Living for eternity allows Tiresias to experience all of the Quadratures.  (Quadratures will be explained in Footnote 4).  If the universe is infinite then
death is not an ultimate state of divorced “Being”.  Assuming an infinite universe is possible in life, gives to life, rather than to death, a much more enriched set of
“existences”.  Death, in this poem, is neutrality raised to a primordial power.  It is the negation of the Quadratures.

3.        At the risk of annihilating the definition of neutrality altogether, or of overstating the case on a, relatively speaking, minor point, in the Science of Ontology,
Neutrality is a state that contains nothing.  Therefore it dispenses with time.  It dispenses with “essence” or experience and it certainly does not contain the

4.        Quadratures.  This term embraces the underlying theme of The Disordered Spring.  Because the term is not widely know in Western Science Circles, a brief
discussion will follow.  There are at least four time, length, width and depth.  However, it is with the compounds of the dimensions of the Fifth Order
and larger that I am concerned with here.  It is the Fifth Dimension that is the starting point or inceptive phase of the First Quadrature.  Quoting freely from Gibbons’
QUADRATURE ANALYSIS, 1959, Pageant Press:

The Fifth Dimension  A Fifth Dimension requires a realistic
breakthrough from an expansive and contractive, or an
equivalent of space-time intensity.  In theoretical Physics,
the speed of light is demonstrated by the Lorentz transformation
equations to be the optimum speed obtainable by any and all substance.

The transformation equations have subsequently been overturned by Dr. Otis in a book on relativity and light speeds.  (
Light Velocity and Relativity, Christen E.
Burkel and Associates, Yonkers-On-The Hudson, NY  1963).  The above conclusions have an important impact on any theory that purports to discuss infinite universes
at large.  Present day Tachyon-Chaos Theory also bolsters the concept of infinite light speeds.

These equations are based on the proposition that the units
of both length and time are shortened with increasing speed.
In our Fifth Dimension, a similar concept is applied, except
that units of space and time are shortened with distance, thus
forming a space-time curvature or Quadrature phenomenon imposed
upon space and time.

In one direction, time is positive, while in the opposite
direction time it is negative, like future and past time.
Thereby, the Fifth Dimension identifies our two primary
units of all creation, the positive and negative electrons.  But
if there were only two electrons in all space they would again
remain as nothingness and would forever be lonely and as
empty as were space without curvature.  The factual existence
of two electrons by curvature of space dictates, in turn, the
possibility of the co-existence of still another modifier, one
that would account for the existence of more than two electrons.
This Dimension would be the Sixth.  The other dimensions consist
of parallel states of electron motions, acceleration and further
impositions and modifications of the Fifth Dimension.

In this poem I am concerned with the implications of the Fifth Dimension and the Virgin Mother Magdaline of Electron Quadrature, i.e., the effects of infinite light
speeds, the potential and kinetic universe, infinite regression and progression and the recognition or reconciliation of logical contradictions in the White and Black
Hole Universes.

5.        Eye.        This is the symbol for knowledge or the experience of newness, i.e., the new found faith with the discovery of the Quadratures.  The listener, the
human observer (the audience of the Prologue) has not received and is not making use of this knowledge.  But even if they were given another chance they would have
“another  eye”, only to die again!”

6.        Both Sides.  In the ancient Greek myth, the blind Tiresias was said to have had not only the ability of prophesy but also the ability to experience both ends of the
sexual spectrum, i.e., being both male and female at the same time.  (See also Footnotes for T.S. Eliot’s The Wasteland).  In addition, when the combination of male
and female merge there is created a neutral perfect state of Being.  (See Footnote I).

7.        In this instance there appears to be a violation of the laws of Neutrality.  The implication is that Tiresias has in some measure a contact with life through
prophecy and longs for it.

8.        Black-White.                        The combination of black-white tends to produce a neutral color hence the meaning of neutrality unfolds.

9.        Carnival of The Clouds.        This is the Containing Metaphor of the poem.  (See all other Footnotes on clouds).

10.       Cu.                                       Meteorological abbreviation used for “cumulus cloud”.  The shorter term is used for the rhythm’s sake.

11.        The setting is supposed to be an impressionistic or an unnatural one in the introductory stanzas in order to prepare us for the “unnatural event” that is to

12.        Cloud-pocket-blues.        One of the many formations of fair-weather-cumulus or altocumulus covered skies are patches of cumulus or altocumulus coming
together but not making a complete overcast sky because of the spotty patches of blue separating the cloud pockets.  This gives the onlooker the feeling that he is
looking through the portholes of a ship.  Thus he has a view of the higher clouds of altostratus and the cirrus family which reside at greater altitudes than do the
cumulus genre.  (See Footnote 27).

13.        Celebration.                    (See Footnote 27).

14.        Mackerel Cumulus or altocumulus, sometime take the shape of patches or rolls, giving the appearance of fish scales.  Therefore it is the mackerel covered sky
enhanced by moonlight illuminating the scales that shows up with vivid aclarity.

15.        Mid-September.  Even though the poem’s title is
The Disordered Spring, the title functions surrealistically by being symbolically associated with the underlying
theme of the transformation into the Fifth Quadrature.  The double meaning of the word can be interpreted as Spring coming in September.  The seasons, however,
follow in their naturalistic sequences except that September occurs every Spring.

16.        The rattle of rusty, decayed signs when the wind whistles through a “ghost town”.  This line enhances the unnatural setting.

17.        The signposts and the talking are the signs of civilization.  The signs are the warnings that are being pulsated by the flashing Quadratures.

18.        Civilization, or humans in a societal context.

19.        The construction of the poem here, slows the rhythm, thus slowing the trek of the ants.  That is to say, reality or culture is moving in unending circles.  The
forward portion of the train is moving so slowly that they have become the rear portion.  This circular motion is a three dimensional motion.  It forms, however, a non-
Euclidean Great Circle (a Geodesic).  A circle of this type does not allow the ants to penetrate into the Fifth Dimension.  In Physics, there is an apple analogy that is
partially if not fully descriptive of this point.  If one were to venture forth in a straight path of two dimensions, one would eventually return to one’s original point of
departure due to the assumed curvature of space.  One cannot communicate with anything other than a three or four dimensional system.

20.        Eliot’s The Wasteland-- i.e., rejuvenated not through participation in past cultural traditions but rejuvenated by participation in the future and its Quadratures.

21.        (See Footnote 22).

22.        The implication here is that insects and other animals become restless before storms and earthquakes due to the decrease of air pressure and increase of
humidity that precedes a storm front or the flux of magnetism that precedes an earth tremor.  The restlessness reflects these changes in atmospheric conditions.  In
weather forecasting lore, insects become more lively and crickets are said to be capable of sensing the increase of humidity or less dense air.  In regards to quakes, the
animals’ natural balance of south and north magnetic poles in the chemical-electric circuits of the brain become realigned in an attempt to reestablish equilibrium with
external electromagnetic variances.  (A further implication is that of the storm change itself, i.e., the changes of weather patterns).

23.        Starlit stones.  The signaling meteors and comets, the “frenetic fireworks” of the universe announces that the Carnival of The Clouds welcomes the 1st
Quadratures, the Disordered Spring and the Fifth Dimension.

24.        The exodus of the world.

25.        The image at this juncture has numerous connotations. Not the least noteworthy is  that the storms are so intense (not unlike the feelings themselves) that
they have the capability of turning a color gray into liquid blood.  This transformation of one sensed phenomenon, the color gray, into a material substance is termed
“transmyphagia”.  The first syllable of this word is derived from the notion of becoming or the crossing over to and “phagia” simply means, or is derived from, the
Dionysiac and Orphic Mysteries wherein maenads (nymphs) eat of the blood from freshly slaughtered animals.  From this act the nymphs gain a sense of partaking in
the spiritual genesis of God.  This latter notion is termed “omophagia”.  Orpheus was torn asunder and eaten by these nymphs, i.e., by the followers of Artemis.  The
image encompasses the theme of being possessed and partaking in the Bear’s healing ritual.  (See Footnote 27).  This blood, coming from gray’s neutrality, is life
giving blood.  Also compacted within this image is the mystical concept of mind over matter.  It is the power of the mind to convert perceptions and other modalities
into different objects by electrophoresis thought projection.

26.        All of Nature takes this trip.  But sighs of relief and regret are to be heard alongside the sighs of mourning for the lost Traditions.  Sterile as those Traditions
might be, Nature, including human beings, will never return to the first Four Dimensions.

27.        This is a reference to Faulkner’s short story The Bear.  The reference symbolizes the purification of the people as they pass from the lower clouds to the
higher ones.  They are passing from the first Four Dimensions of experience to the 1st of the Quadratures.  The purification resembles the cleansing of Isaac McCaslin.

28.        This is a pun on the term “brother-in-law” or close kin.  The allusion is to Edith Hamilton’s phrase, “Rome was power, but glory, that was Greece”.

29.        Memories remembered are the “unnatural” but much desired mystical unions with happiness.

30.        (See Footnote 55).

31.        i.e., the ocean.

32.        This refers to the ancient idea that the beginning of life is the beginning of death.  Birth is more of a disaster in Existential thought than is death.

33.        Life and Death.

34.        At higher levels in the atmosphere, the Jet Stream, the strong upper air currents, cause what is known in meteorological terms as “wind shear”.  The shear is
sometimes the cause of upper-air turbulence and initiates the development of low pressure areas, i.e., the stronger storms of stress.

35.         Chaos.  Chaos refers to the Quadratures.  Calm refers to the first Four Dimensions.

36.        Icy Fleets.  Cirrus clouds are usually the precursors of low pressure troughs.  Cirrus clouds are the highest of the clouds.  Cirrus clouds are composed mostly
of ice crystals and contain very little adiabatic moisture, i.e., icy fleets.

37.        Cirrus are usually viewed as thin, spidery, lacy clouds.  They lazily and almost imperceptibly work their way across the heavens and form a gradual overcast,
i.e., forking.  Also the cirrus symbolize the joining together of religious, political and economic beliefs into an uneasy amalgam or alliance in the superior heavens

38.        This refers to humans.

39.        The sun is not clearly visible through Cirrus.  When one looks at the sun one gets the impression of looking at an eclipse through smoked glasses.

40.        The plural is used here because there are many so-called suns in the new creation.

41.        I.e., often.

42.        Winter is used as the precursor season to The Disordered Spring instead of Spring.
It is also used because of the disorder of the seasons.  (See Footnote 15).

43.        Anvil.  Cumulus clouds, during thunderstorm activity, are sometimes described as “anvil-topped”.  This description best fits the cumulo-nimbus clouds.  There
is also the connotation of permanence or the forging of a steel anvil.

44.        Salvation.  (See Footnote 45).

45.        The reference in these lines is to Sartre’s concept of “en soi”, “pour soi”, and Camus’ “engage", “degage”.  The Existentialists tell us that it is Man’s
responsibility to participate in the best of political human endeavors, not because of the promise of a better “afterlife” but for the fact that this participation benefits
Mankind.  The implication here is that Man participate in “action” for himself and the by-product will be the benefit of Mankind.

46.        The piling up of adjectives gives the effect of the piling up of clouds.

47.        Cirrus, are cold air clouds, thereby are crispy.  (See Footnote 36).

48.        (See Footnote 36).

49.        Stratus clouds, or nimbo-stratus precipitation clouds, have the ability to appear lighted from within at night.  This internal lighting gives the appearance of a
“leadened” sky, i.e., heavy.

50.        Guilty weight of overcast.  Guilty because the cloud cover prevents earth from viewing the
Carnival of The Clouds, the formation of the Quadratures and the
Disordered Spring itself.

51.        Fifth Quadrature.  Above the Cirrus.

52.        Cirrus (after purification) pure air above 40,000 feet.

53.        (See Footnote 12).  But the cumulus have become interlocking with no blue patches visible.

54.        i.e., envy.

55.        This reference is to the snake metaphor of Footnote 30.  Giant snakes, African Queen Pythons in particular, swallow food they cannot digest.  When surprised
they disgorge their prey.  Humans cannot swallow the new Dimensions.

56.        Cherubim.  When Adam and Eve were ushered out of Eden, God placed Cherubim with flaming swords to guard the entrances of Eden so that Mankind could
not reenter.

57.        i.e., humans.

58.        Future’s Stars.  What will come to pass.

59.        Unknown’s Nebulae.  The five remaining Dimensions and components beyond the known Quadratures or universes in the area of Chaos, i.e., The Strange
Attractor Zone.

60.        (Refer to Emerson and his discussion of the “Over-Soul”).  This term suggests the idea that nothing in an infinite universe is created or destroyed.  (See also
Noether’s Conservation of Energy Theorems).  The concept is analogous to the physical law of conservation of mass and energy in any given entropic situation in either
the classical, relativistic or quantum context.  In an Infinite universe, the Intellectual Law of Reincarnation or “Reconstruction of Being” means that every individual
particle has the potential to be every other particle.  That is to say, that a man can be a rock, a planet can be a sun and insects can be reduced to cosmic dust. This
reincarnation, reduction and projection are based on the passage of the leading causative factor of Time.  They are the functional “differential-integrational”
equivalences in the calculus of time passage.  This type of reincarnation is not the same as the Hindu or Buddhistic types which are dependent on hierarchical ascent or
descent of status imparted to the individual because of previous “Karmatic” accretions.  Yet this Reincarnation still has some values integrated but differentiated from
the moral context.  The reconstruction of Being is independent of any moral commandments, indictments or moral actions to improve our future existence.  The
Infinite potential of the universe imparts to the Finite-kinetic state of Being, the cause and effect relationships of the very things that will be manifested in the new
objects created or as yet unrealized, i.e., the unactualization of Being.

Infinity owns these Island Universes and the Universes are a limited example of the Infinite working its potential on certain objects of Being.  The visual and
perceptual representation of these processes are the expanding and contracting Universes.  Man’s reality becomes the microscopic-kinetic of the Infinite potential


        PART 1


(How a spaceship having passed the moon was driven by quantum solar
plexus winds.  How it sped to another galaxy.  How it spun towards
a Pulsar named Megan and from thence made its way towards the
Ambiplasma Latitudes of the great Radio Quasar in the Crab Nebula
of the Constellation Andromeda.  The strange events which befell it
and by what manner the Modern “Astronut” reentered the Earth’s polluted orbit).

(The Year being 2015 ((actually written in the year 1965)).

"T’was a Modern 'Astronut'                                              The Modern “Astronut” meeteth        
And he stoppeth one of Three                                            three wise old farts--NASA
“By what right do thou stoppest me?                                 OFFICIALS.  He detaineth one
The wine is flowing                                                           “lassoing” him with his bionic
The bridegroom glowing                                                     space tether.
I am best man
Listen my ill-begotten friend, within...”

“There was a rocket”, quoth he...                                      The Best Man becomes “hysterical”.
“Just a minute nitwit!                                                       The countdown is about to commenceth.
Take your goddamen hands offen me!                               The “Astronut” constrains him to hear
You space sick silly goon!                                                  his tale of woe...
You yellow livered loon!”
Eftsoons!  His hand dropt very soon!"

"The countdown was swift.
CNN cheered!  The Anchor Woman bellowed!
The earth’s gravity was eventually swallowed!”

“Gaily our photon rocket
With its gleaming sprockets
Sped into the sky
Like a gigantic pizza pie!
And below our starboard deck
The launching crew became a nervous wreck.                    The Modern “Astronut” tells how the
The sun rose on the left                                                     rocket flew towards the moon with
Upon the ocean came she!                                                  a strong solar wind on its tail and
It shone towards our destiny.                                             partly cloudy skies above, until it reached
Down she tumbled into Bermuda’s muddled sea                 the Bermuda Triangle.        
According to our right wing telemetry.”        

“The Best Man slappeth the “Astronut”!                            The Best Man hears a wine glass break
For he thought him nothing less than space junk               within but the “Astronut” continues to
Nor nothing more                                                               constraineth him.
Than a prefabricated space spore.
The Bride starts to shriek
While scratching her virgin button a virulent red
She idly prepares for the groom, strapping down
the bridal bed.”        

“The Best Man grabs the bride’s breasties                        
And she, his bulbous testes,
Yet he cannot forsake the Modern “Astronut”
Therefore spake on, and on, the Modern Man                       The rocket ship is disrupted by a solar
The Nuclear "Missioned" Uncle Sam.                                    flare and rotated out of the solar system and then is twirled about in “4-Phase
“Then a solar flare erupted                                                   Space.
Accelerating our G-Strings
And gave us hypersonic wings
And made the boatswain sneeze and the Captain
While we were tossed and turned towards strange
With splitting neutrons
And prisoner of war electrons.
We split like constipated atoms,
Our rocket surpassed the “Tachyon” barrier,
And disappeared like a supersonic ice cream
It rained acid micrometeorites
Composed of Martian tektites.
The temperature soared downward
Towards absolute zero...then stopped!”

“A Venusian ice flow                                                         A Wonderland now appears of
Came whistling bye the bye                                               children’s Toys-Are-Us things,
Like a crimson fireball                                                      cabbage patches and stereophonic
Exploding against evening’s wall.                                       sounds where electromagnetic video
And through the magnellic mists                                       miracles reign supreme.
I saw voluptuous scenes...
Shapes of nude queens
Sprouting from erotic dreams
With cosmic flares betwixt between".

"Women were here
Women were everywhere
Adorned in the latest space underwear.
Comets out dragged asteroids
While we all scowled at the dilating void.”                          Then a great Space Monster called “God                                                                        
                                                                         Fly” came through the Plutonium 3-Mile
“And then behold!  A God Fly!                                            mists and was welcomed by the
I did spy!                                                                            Chenobylian crew with open armpits...
Via the alpha particles
Via the erratic neutrons
Like a crazy Muster Quark escaping a berserk
We threw it Kosher Lox
From a cancerous black box.
It begged for more
Like a little ole lusty whore.
And then it split
And I did shit
But the Navigator kept his awesome eye
Nigh upon the boiling spit.
Faster than the speed of light
Into the infinite twilight.
The God Fly paved our way
Playing hide-and-go-seek                                                    The God Fly proves that big birds can
For the better part of next week.”                                       fly and tows them into the next galaxy.

“In rain, wind and snow                                                
It never faltered
Nor its shape did it alter.
It sunned itself by day
On the high calorie cosmic rays.
While at night it dined on antimatter
Which enhanced its size
and made it twice the fatter.”                                            The Modern “Cosmonut” gets stoned and bored with the antics of the God
                                                                         Fly.  He killeth him with his unregistered
                                                                         Sears & Roebuck Saturday Night Special
                                                                         Green Laser Beam right between his Existential Bust, thus
                                                                         bringing Part I to an abrupt conclusion.   


“The strobe lights of Heaven appeared.
Slightly askew, slightly weird.
Blowing from a distant galaxy
Like some ironic poetic fallacy.
The Fly ensconced in a conch shell of helium
Blew hot, hard and loud
And then blew himself out!”                                                 His Motley Crew Cuts cry out against the High
“The solar winds continued to pass from                               and Mighty “Astronut”.  They attempt
Our redoubtable behinds                                                       to mug him for killing thine God Fly but
As we moved on down the line.                                              settle for Contempt of Small Claims         
We shut off the rockets                                                         Court.
For no God Fly harassed our crystal sprockets.
A shout echoed from my motley crew
‘P.U., lynch the bastard!’
Which only made us go that much faster.”                            When the “flatulated” gas evaporated, all                                                                        
                                                                             thanked the “Astronut” and thus made
“It made me stop to thinketh                                                 themselves accessories despite the legal
Had I done a foolish thing?                                                     facts.
For all knew I had slew
That wild and wooly shrew
For eight pence and six salty scouse.
I had killed the Inflation Fly
That made the stellar gas
Glow like an entropy witch’s ass.
‘Ah fie on those son’s-of-bitches!
I’ll slay those miserable wretches!’
And there above the Musical Spheres,
Like a silver plated chandelier
The Constellation  of Andromeda
Sparkling like a starry umbrella
Now I knew I was a lucky fella.”

“We drew closer to a blinking Quasar                        
That splashed upon our magenta spars.
I swore I killed the Fly
For shooting space muck into our eyes.
‘You were right!’  They cried!
‘To make the Super Fly doubly fry!'”                                  The solar winds recommenceth.
                                                                          The rocket ship escapes the strong
“The Hurricane blew and blew                                             and weak nuclear forces of their
Solar waves foamed and spewed.                                          galaxy and enters the Constellation
Fireworks fussed and fumed                                                Andromeda. They head for a
They nearly drove us to rack and ruin.                                sparkling Radio Star named Megan but their engines "conk" out...
Atoms split and electrons shit!                                        
Antimatter didn’t matter then disintegrated
While in the middle of poached space we slowly

“The engines halted.
They were suffering from media over exposure
And were severely over exhausted.
T’was a shame
For it sure looked like rain
And I’m the one they’ll surely blame.
No one spoke
Into that sea of vacuum packed space
We just continued backwards at a leisurely pace.
20,000 degrees in the middle of a star
Like a bloodshot black body nebula two below par.                The God Fly begins his revenge.
Our white hot rooms
Blossomed into controlled atomic mushrooms.”

“Light year after light year,
We waited and waited.
On our stranded photon rocket.
It seemed that we were surely ill-fated.
All because of a leaky sprocket
And some ding-a-ling forgot to seal the O-Ring.
Forlorn as a falling star
Orbiting around the ruddy lakes of Mars.
Lava, lava everywhere!
But all we did was stare and swear.
Matter and substance abounded
But none to drink, confound it!
The very depths of space did rot
And I began to cry on this very spot.
‘O for Christ sakes
That I should come to this!
A nice Jewish Mariner!
A nervous wreck upon the starry bliss!’
Helio Monsters like slimy robots
Strode before us like malignant blots."

"Ions danced, mesons pranced
Stars exploded
And we got loaded.
Space like a nuclear reactor
Expanded by a multiple melt down factor.
The White Dwarfs burned with a bloody light,
First red, then blue, then white hot ultra-violet.
That incredible bug-eyed Helio Monster bugged me
When he strode astride his stinking toes.
Nine fathoms wide was he
And followed us through ten thousand gassy seas.                  The Man In the Quasar follows them.
Past lands of milk and honey,                                                 He is one of the invisible vitamin freaks
Where it never rains but is always sunny.                              of this Galaxy.  Neither good nor bad
‘We’re out of beer!’                                                               dead or alive, he is a gravitational mascon
And their sneers turned to Bronx cheers.                               sneak.  His Disciples are too numerous
For when I served them Interferon sun flower                       to mention and no star worth its dust in
seeds                                                                                      this Anti-Galaxy is without them.  The
Every tongue spat Vitamin E on me.”                                     Crew, fit to be tied, would just as soon
                                                                             sue the “Astronut” but instead they issue
“Land a Goshen, glory be!                                                       a mental dispossess.  Then they tie God
Those miserable Bastards!                                                       Fly about the “Astronut’s” oily loins and
Sewed the God Fly between me knees!”                                   then they tie one on.


“We had a merry time
I broke out my vintage wine,
And everything was mighty fine.
Everyone was of good cheer
Looking like our infra-red peers.
Yet how red our eyes
Glistened like beef pot pies!”                                              The “Astronut” spots a sexy star behind
                                                                          the behind of the curvature of space.
“Behold methinks I see a flying saucer!
Or is it a flying saucer’s daughter?
‘You who pulsate like a naughty star
How we wonder what thou art?
Glowing like a firefly in Sylvia’s Bell Jar!!’
I unhooked my nuclear gyroscope
To discover it!  What a dope!
It was nothing but a double helix hoax!
Joe Doppler screaming at a burning red bird’s
nest!                                                                                  As it drew nearer it was apparent to one
Disappearing the very next day                                          and all that it was clearly a Cliff Irving
Far beyond our Milky Way.”                                              Money Market Hoax, a Goodyear Space
“It’s only a blimp!                                                              Blimpie’s reflection on the silky red rays.
What a bunch of pornographic pimps!”                               And so they commenceth to curse upon the sweaty deck...
We laughed and roared
At that blimpy whore.
It tossed and turned
Yearned and burned
But it was none of our concern.
I took my bull horn
And yelled ‘Ahoy!  Ahoy'!  With ample scrotum
The crew ended their fuss and muss
Their obscene murmurings became a quiet hush.
I aimed my laser beam
Smack dab on her starboard beams.”
“What the fuck!’  I cried
Then and there I almost died.
For she commeth on through
Like an Iceman’s nagging shrew.                                           But to his dismay the laser beam passeth
Though I blew her to kingdom come                                       right through yonder blimpy shrew.  
She held her ground she would not run!                                  It must be a ghost Blimpie.
She did not buckle for all my trickery
I blew my whistle and sounded reveille!
The Boatswain’s mate gave her another blast
Upon her starboard ass.
‘O were done for, missed again!!’
So I counted to ten and fired again!"

"The sun set as Haley’s Comet appeared in the
But still that blimpy bitch hid the stars
Cut off our path to the great purloined golden
Then it caused a sudden eclipse.
Our rocket ship, I sweare it just missed!”                               It’s a nuclear reactor that resembles
                                                                              two sunny spots.  It seemeth to himeth a
“I must not rejoice                                                                  giant Synchrotron playing the tom-toms.
I was innocently hypnotized by that kinky ship
I had no other choice.
And with a disbelieving pate
I released a whopping spit
Thereby sealing my Fate
It did its royal bit
And threw a final fit.”                                                            It was nothing more or less than a
                                                                             transparent piece of cotton space candy...



"Behold!!!  There were two sunny spots!
Radon reactors fueled her helm
Like two bloody clots painted on the nebulous Ylem.
And on her electrified throne
Sat Princess Neutron
While Super Proton spoke on the ship’s antitelephone.
Busty Neveron, her lusty aide
Proudly strode the decks
Eating “marbleaide”
And drinking lemonade through his gleaming gammon neck,
Then bombarding his lover with an annihilating peck.”

“Her lips a gamma blue
Her bust a wanton platinum blonde
Her legs porous alabaster
Her skin blanched white as toxic plaster.
Her cobalt ass
Splashed against the rubbery mast.
A Nightmare was this gruesome twosome.
They scared me from my wits
Caused me Crew to chew their tits.”                               Like mother, like daughter.

“One by one                                                                
They grabbed their anti guns
And without my oxygen tank
They made me walk the space plank
While kicking me in the rear flank.                               One after another his thankless Legions
They cheered and jeered                                                 kick him in the arse.
On the Ghostly Galleon                                                
They snorted and snarled like Tartar stallions.               Then his buddies cop out and die.
They were hollering for union double pay
While I was getting waylaid!
I told them to dropt dead!
And they did so dropt!
Like radioactive bars of iridium lead.”

“My cronies’ souls flew by the bye                                     But annihilation in Anti sex begins to
To where they went I cannot summarize                            beguile the Modern “Astronut”.
Nor do I give a good Kubler-Ross’ pig’s eye!
But when she gave me a seductive glance
It made me shit in my Styrofoam pants!
For I was having intercourse with Nothing
And that sure was something!”

“The Ambiplasma shone like a bubbly rose                          The Universe’s cousin, Ambiplasma, has a
While silently she stripped away her clothes                        three dimensional chess match for the
The green feminine slime                                                    rocket’s motley crew.  She became the
Yelled out, ‘I’ve won this time!’                                          Patron Saint of Lesbians in Space.  She
Quoth she, as she sate me upon her sexy knee.”                 also wins two out of three falls but fails
                                                                           to seduce the “Astronut”.

“The stars came out                                                            Then the moon rises upside down from
And began to pout.                                                              The House of The Rising Sun.
My adrenaline turned to melanin
And began to erupt from my bloody nose
Which by now resembled a transplanted hose.                     Then the tinker toy stars begin to play
I jumped aboard that lusty pirate trollop                              Badminton with the Plankton Planets.
But in her arms I received no solace.
While the jeering First Mate
Started to reminisce of his gangrene Kate.
We ‘yawed’ and ‘yammed’
‘Goddamn’!  I told the chief engineer to goose
her cams.
Then the moon like a silly goon
Rose upside down like a lily livered white Lune.”


“I feare thee Modern ‘Cosmonut’!                                           The NASA Official feareth the smart-ass
I feare thee are a schmucky nut!                                             Shuttleperson bugging him thusly.  But
For thou art long, lank and lean                                               the “Astronut” persuades this fruit fly
Shaped like a septic tank’s starboard beam!                             from Shuttledom with a worn out
Come now ‘Astronut’!  Come clean!                                         condom sprinkled with pseudo-scientific
Or I’ll kick thee in thine balls!                                                 jargon of his unethical bombardment and
For I have other business after all!”                                         continues to nageth unto him.
“Feare thee not by Lucifer’s left twat!
I’m really not space rot!”

“Alone at last!
On the vast expanse’s electrified turf.
Stoned on the Martian Grass
Sucking radioactive icicles and brunching
On plutonium sassafras.
Just me and my Bunsen Burner
And all because of good ole Von Werner.”

“O fie!  Fie!  O me O my!
What a life!
How I hate this god forsaken sky!
What I’d do for a piece of the corporate pie!
Or just a thin slice of roast beef on Red Chinese                          He protesteth against the Ambiplasma  
Rye!”                                                                                           chimera and its black bung-hole
“Here I am, as helpless as a wingless bumble bee
A stupid Schnook upon the ironic sea.
I turned to Hell
And commenced to yell!”
‘Santa Claus was not dead
He simply converted to a holographic bedspread.’
At that self-same moment
Me self-same-self
Took an aspirin
And swallowed my Neo-Synephrine.
I leapt forward like an oily Mexican Jumping Bean
As if stepping from a solar wet dream.
The God Fly fell from my oily loins
Like a counterfeit religious coin.”                                           His headache cleared upeth.  His
                                                                              drugged stupor ceaseth.


“Grab the brushes!        
Scrub the decks!
Chip the paint!
What the heck!
We’ve been blessed by a goddamn saint!
We’ll be on our way yet
Don’t you sweat!”                                                          God’s Mother-In-Law produces a
                                                                     cosmic meteorite shower and this is the                                                                         
                                                                     pause that refreshes the “Astronut”.
“Beyond the Beyond I watched                                        
The time bombs implode like prison clocks
I saw the isotropic photons                                            And in his Ecstasy he break tap dances
Rape gelatin rotary pi mu prions.                                  the space drag upon the flimsy Ambi-
And cobalt glaze ignite the hoary maze".                       plasma.
                                                                   The electromagnetic particles  lit
"Helium ooze and propane Cyclops’s                            his pipe as well as the accompanying
Immersed in lithium mucus tropism’s.                         alpha beta waves.  And in his quantum
Within this shadowy universe                                       mechanical madness, he thought of his
I watched as Time grew horny                                       Birthplace.  It was a free Universe and
And living things became inert.”                                   everything was on the House.  He billed
The aged denizens                                                         everything to his Creator and by the light
Grew to a blackened singularity                                    of the silvery moon he began to croon.
Before disintegrating to resins of regularity".                                                                                                

"I pointed my electron telescope
Into the center of Hydrogen Hope.
The energetic magnetic fires
Strummed on nude “nippled” lyres.”                             The Glory of the Holocaust and its
                                                                    orgiastic nature takes place in the Erotic
“A well of disgust                                                          Fires.
Erupted from my lusty bust!
‘O Divine Nothings!!
Mortal jests!!!’
I cursed the poor dears
For almost forty light years.”

“That sassy Ambiplasma was a wicked lass.
She sure had a sexy ass.
Then I fell asleep
Upon the freshly vacuumed street.
My pot eyes like two fried eggs
Dripped down my spine then down upon mine
I dropped a load
Like a constipated toad.
But those crazy bastards I had not forgotten
I had hoped by now they would be rotten.”                        His men still envy his penis and
                                                                        recommence to curse and snort cocaine.

“There’s nothing worse
Than stealing a dead man’s purse
Or hijacking a widow’s hearse
But that’s what happened in this very verse.
Seven years of bad luck
What the fuck!
For eating unleavened bread
And stealing from the corrupted dead.
But I’ll be damned if I die
In this God begotten pig sty!”

“When I awoke
I was flat broke!
Drinking a calorie less diet coke.
My garments stank
Like a warring Yank.
I ached all over
And vomited on the space clover
Just as we passed over the Cliffs of Dover.
I thought I had the Rickets
But it was only a space patrol cop
Issuing an outrageous ticket!
I believed I had the scurvy
My head ballooned as big as a soap box derby."

“The winds did pour
The rains did roar.
Guitars clanked                                                             He heareth Rock Music that sootheth.
And I began to paint.                                                     He seeseeth strange color organs
The rockets did quiver and quake                                  in the Pulsar so he took some
Like firecrackers at Finnegan’s Wake."                       Angel Dust to supplement his
                                                                    Interferon deficiency.        

“Though low on fuel.
Our rocket rose like a magnificent jewel.                      They spun out of the Pulsar’s
Beneath the rising of the moon                                      Gravity playing field.
The dead men sang a gruesome tune.
They hissed and pissed
Sweated and abetted.
They rose
With their bloodshot eyes mostly closed.
A Private First Class steered the Ship
While the others bit their lips
I took my last sip,                                                       These weren’t your normal average
Yet never a breeze blew                                              gay men. The “Astronut” asked them
Across our tanned sinews.”                                         to do for himeth what they would gladly do for their country.  
                                                                 A strange unfathomed passion engulfed them.  
                                                                 The Devil of Patriotism dwelleth deep within them.

“Back to work you slobs!
Man the Hawsers!
While I fornicate with the Ambiplasma’s
Move your asses!!                                
Remember you’re the State’s tools,
Nothing but bumbling bureaucratic fools!
Move it, or ‘I’ll deprive you of your family

“I feare thee Modern ‘Astronut’!!!”
“Be calm thou wedded fink!!!!!
Shut your goddamen mouth for your shit also
And around your neck I detect a pinch of pink!
It’s not your place
To judge my face!”

“The Devil’s Mate
Waltzed with Matilda the Boatswain’s date.
They danced around the mulberry “bushys”
And prodded each other’s tenderloin “tushys”.
Then I heard a bald eagle curse out a German Beagle.
Bernstein conducted the Fifth Symphony
Above all the glaring cacophony.
After the crescendo
I uttered disgusting innuendoes.
The rocket belched forth
And I dismissed my musical court.”

“Yet never a word did I sigh
For feare we’d surely die.
We moved without a hitch
Into that boiling pitch.
Onward, ever onward...
‘Heave ho!   Yo Yo!
Blow the man down!
Man the Yardarm you fat clowns!!!’
Faster and faster!
Past the starry alabaster.
In and out of gassy caves
Not even time to get laid!
Planets whizzed by
Disappearing into the shrinking thighs!”                                  A lonesome midnight tramp steamer
                                                                               from Texas A&M tows them as far
“‘Throw out the anchor!’                                                          as the Gulf of Shiekdom but no further
I yelled with misdirected rancor".                                            than a recursive line.  God Fly is getting
                                                                               his revengeful rocks off and so this
"Around and around we flew                                                    nitty ditty is constraineth to continueth.
Like a red hot blood centrifuge                                        
Then like a woman’s spastic orgasm
We shot forward in one giant spasm!”
                                                                               A Space Anti-Analyst speaks to him
"How long I was bugged by this analyst pest                             thusly: “Eh, what’s up ‘Astronut’"?  He
I know not nor care to knoweth!                                               tells him his troubles in the microscopic
All I want is eight hours bed rest                                              asteroid bubble.  That he killeth the God Fly...
For doing my pacifist best.”                                                
                                                                               Such being the case, filled with
                                                                               Jewish Guilt and Protestant Ennui,  
“Never in all my lifeless life                                                     has been charged with pardoning a Presidential Quaker
Had I heard such tripe.                                             
A voice from anti-air
Communication betwixt a neurotic pair
‘It is I’ quoth I.
‘While waiting for Godot,
I am the man
Who killeth the God Fly bye the bye!
I’m glad ‘tis done
For it sure was fun!
Now get thee gone
Before I do thee wrong!'
He spake not a sensible word
Just evacuated an enormous turd
‘I’m sorry!’ quoth he
‘I must have voted for the wrong Party’                                  With his deposition on the Confessional
Then they flatly refused                                                           Record, the Analyst freaks out on his
To disappear into the Venusian summer.                                 own couch and his asteroid bubble dis-
Quoth they, ‘This “Nut” hath apologized                                  appears into the senseless void.
But still we feare he’s in for a second surprise!’”



‘Tell me quick!?
Are thy hip?
What makes them pass the speed of light?
Overcoming the Einsteinium plight?’


‘The Light beam knows no master
For none can travel faster than a bastard
Except another tachyon beam it seems,
In some other invisible parallel scheme of                                 The Astronut has been cast adrift on the
things’.                                                                                      invisible hyper-active dew drops of
                                                                                 space and is thrust bodily into the 20th                
“‘But while they stroked the atomic piles                                   Dimension of the 25th Century upon his a-political buttock
Shedding twenty centuries of traditional styles                       
The invisible cosmic ray hypertension"                                                            

“I awoke almost broke!                                                                Super Nut’s forward advance is thwarted
I felt like a horny bloke                                                               and he is penalized 15 yards for un-
And that my deare fellow is no joke!                                             necessary goodness in the 5th Dimension
‘Twas the night before “Christmaskah”                                        on a Monday night.  He snaps out of it  
Not a star blinked                                                                          and his Ennui begins anew and anon while his migraine pains return.
Nor a gas molecule shrank.                                                        
Me and men
Ten times ten.
Stood side by side
All naked, we began to cry.
Among our dung heaps
It was impossible to sleep.
All looked towards me
To see if I would take the first space pee.
I told them to turn around and pray
For I could not thinketh of a better way
To pisseth away the reborn day.”                                                 The Hoax is finally adjudicated exposed.
                                                                                  The Curse is turned into a phony political
                                                                                   issue and erased from their nihilistic
“I snapped my fingers!                                                                 buttocks.  Then they were abruptly lifted
‘Let’s not linger!’                                                                         from their mortal droppings.
I looked at pale space                                                
Embellished with starry lace.
I looked towards home
With a homesick groan.
I had traveled an empty road
So the pages of my daily log sadly told.”

“Faster than a speeding bullet!
More powerful than the Long Island Railroad!
I blew me nose
And dripped mucus down to me toes
For thar she blows!!!!!!!!!!”                                                           Three cheers for good ole Earth!!!

“Hip, Hip, Hurray!  Hip, Hip, Hurray!
Hip, Hip, Hurray!
We ceased to pray’
We cast out our ballast
Out of orbit at long lasteth!”

“As we drifted over the Hudson Harbor
I longed to meet a red-neck barber.
I regretted not having landed farther,
For the Harlem River was filled with grass                                                                                                  
As putrid as a venereal lass.
So roughly was it hewn
Since I had scarcely grown.
And on the bullion bay
The factory soot sullenly lay.”

“My knocked-knees knocked together
I prayed for better weather,
But it was not forthcoming
So I prepared for my top secret homecoming.
‘I kid you not!  I do not jest!
Thou soon to be wedded Wedding Guest!’”                             His Guardian Angels and Fairy Queen
                                                                             Mother, verily pissed offeth, leaveth him.
“We sang ungodly hymns                                                       Then Reality appears in all its wretched
To more than compensate for our original sins.                      forms.
I lit a cigarette
For surely I had paid my debts.
Before we finally sank
I gave my piggy bank a final yank.
Well bless my soul!
And Old St. Gelt’s hole!
He washed away
The God Fly’s entrails
And delivered us up by First Class E-Mail!”

“Five million hours, circled we,                                              The Bankrupt Ark is forced to circle
Around ole Kennedy,                                                             the airport for thirty days and forty
Waiting for the fog to lift from the noble sea.                        one Arabian nights like all the other
I was running out of gas                                                         deregulated discount flights.
I knew the “flatulated” fuel would not last.
‘Deare Lords!  Grab your parachutes!
I’ll save the interstellar loot!’
I took a pocketful of Quasar rock
And stuck them in my stinking sock.
I brought her straight down
Like an Olympic acrobatic clown.                                               They bail out...
I missed the flight plan by a thousand miles
And landed in a Flushing Church aisle.
Stunned by all the ribald fun
I pushed all the buttons
And let it all hang out.
I felt like a Medicaid Gladiator
As I sped through the cockpit’s rebuilt radiator.
Without a living care
I spiraled through the awesome air.
I sailed over Flushing Meadows
Past the racist ghettos.
Far from the target
Much closer to my Aunt Margaret’s
Far from the Cable TV cameras..."

"And that’s why I wildly stammer!”                                           The penance, plagiarism and plague of old age falls upon one and all...
And whenever the clocks strike twelve past
That old ennui returns to me self-same-self.
Until I get it off my sunken chest
I receive no solace, mortal rest nor my un-
employment check."

"I do not jest O Wedding Guest!
I go from galaxy to galaxy
For I am what I am and bound to preach.”                               And forever and ever he is constraineth
                                                                              to do his Evangelical thing.  Protesting
“Like I said before!                                                                  from galaxy to galaxy and making a
You dirty old whore!                                                                 generalized gaseous nuisance of himself
Take your goddamen hands offen me!                                      by bugging the asses of the gullible
Or I’ll send you back to the outer galaxies!                              cultist masses.
They’re having a swell time in there
Why do I continue to stand anon out here?
Unhand me I say or say your remaining prayers!”

"O Wedding Guest!  O Wedded Pest!
Fare thee well!  Dare thee well!
I hope you burn in Hell!
Remember, he protesteth best
Who hateth all military and political conquest.
Love your female intergalactic neighbor
If you want to remain in cosmic favor!
For all things big and small
Dial the Modern 'Astronut' on a Twitter
Texting, Facebook, cellular call.”

“Then the ‘Astronut’ got uptight.
Pulled his switchblade and demanded more civil
The Wedding Guest karate chopped him to the
Then politely threw him out the door.
He was quite forlorn,
In a real sense twice reborn
So a sadder more economic horny man
He rose the morrow morn.”           


What is Love about?
When it creates a thrashing flesh cloud color,
Then a glaring tint
With a warmth and ruddiness of a blush;
That quickens to rouge
Then decays to the incarnadine rust of dust
Then “rebirths” again
Into scarlet’s brother
Vermilion, sister to cerise
Great grand cousin of diamond “solferino”
Then disappears like a gory claret wine
That resembles a robust rubicund
Or some hectic florid cherry tinge?
Then Love changes all this to a chastened inert dead red bliss.

What about a Love Amaranth?
Becoming suddenly milky
Blanched with white light
White nitrous blackness suddenly fills
Stainless steel rooms filled with floriferous spoons
Polishing the newly plucked chestnuts on their sun-burned sides?
The ecru of fuming dust that you walk upon
Becomes a terra cotta string of pearls.

Even russet Paradise embarrasses before your beauty.
While Love makes these polychromes
That fade with the hues
Of the wan and tallowed face,
Opaque with my disgrace.

From out of the copper sorrel of daylight—
Daylight, with its semi-transparency
Its diaphanousness fluorescence,
Comes the Amaranth Queen in her chromatic gown
Enhanced by biaxial prisms
Filtering her lemon “gridelin” trimmings with damson ruffles.
And on her hair sits a nuclear braid
Severing the laser light
With apricot iridescence.
While piercing the trans luminous clouds
That dare to brave an iridium shadow below her.

What kind of Love is it Amaranth?
Shivering with sheer delight
That changes the shimmers of the golden things
Into the first pastels of Fall?
Or the bustling rustle of languid leaves?
What is it about Love Amaranth?
That makes passion the better spent on work
The more squandered for glimpses of the Queen of Ennui?

The planes that “arrow” their powerful flights towards spiteful horizons
Have now become rounded hues
Mysterious as the liquid frozen birds that undermine the sky.
While the same pretentious sun
Sprinkles amaranth petals dissentingly
Across the bellies of the blood soaked valleys.

Is it that same passion
That tenderness foliates
Or yearning’s fevers enraptures?
A passion directed towards our inamorata
With the same feelings that might be spent on acrimony or partake in revolt—
Whether ruffled, vexed or perplexed?
The vexatious passion that springs forth
Froth from the wells of piquancy
Producing a ferment preceding
A storm’s clamorous uproar
Anticipating inert dispassion?

What is it about Love Amaranth
That makes even the tremulous shores
Overflow like some singed Cimarron Gale
Trudging across the earth
Like a trek across a white hot hearth?

O Amaranth!
Foul unharnessed passion!
Frigid sprite!
That very utterance reminds me of your presence!
Of some immateriality
Some astral existence that once was
That now is never more, never more.
But now some discarnate disembodied “demoness”
Some incomplete replica of hamadryads of Diana
Where playful Nereids were raped by the ongoing sea...

During these hours of green depression
I have talked to Puck and Oberon
Broken bread with satyrs, gnomes and banshees
And your twin in beauty, oval plated Lorelei.

So what is Love about Amaranth?
When it tears the placid lake
And flays the most noble breast,
When it makes a walk among the ruins
Resembles the sober Egyptian catacombs.
That climbs the tallest star
As if it were not the “farthermost” of the far.
That gives to mundane things
A trinket value of some fabled Rizpah
Waiting for the King of Kings
Under the hanging breeze
To bend and kiss her dead sons’ sleeves?

That very word!
Reminds me of other galaxies
Perplexing for you as well as for me.
For somewhere in the empyrean firmament
There are other “yous”.
Some are luminaries, some asteroids
Others anti-constellations
Called Helios, Phoebe
Cynthia and milky Selene.
And from their stellar orbs
They make love to Lucifer
With a passion that “scintillates” across
The Polestar’s “Jack-O’Lantern” auroras.

Yes, what is Love about Amaranth?
When soldiers bear their blunted wounds
Like gentle Tutankhamen’s wandering towards their tombs?
And the ripe reappearance of tragedy
Reverberates across the room
And is the knowing knell
That disembowels a disassembled afternoon!

What makes one return to benign lips?
What makes one hate the love that impregnates Polynesia?
What makes Saturn’s myriads shed their strange blue pathos
Indicting first the piazza
Then the inner sanctum of the patios
With last night’s maroon moonbeams?

If under the finger tips of the universe we do die
As we surely do
To renew our borrowed darkness
Then surely we do creep towards “ever-ever lands,”
Ermine skies
Above sculptured mists
Produced from finer silken wrists.
So these two hands I do take
In not so unholy matrimony—
These hands that whisk me from Verlaine’s charms
To forge my olden days near indigo quays.

But by the harbor beam
We pause to stare
Glimpsing Isolde petrified in prayer.
For slow she goes
With kisses thrown to a “wronged” wind
O “wronged” wind!
Wind that Zeth cements to our condescending deaths!

Winds!  Wounds!  Death!
Those very words are to me
Like the very abscess abodes of Hell!
Those needles in my flesh
Are my bones in quasi-mortification
Convulsed with woe
While the nurse of death
Suckles me at her “icicled” bludgeoned breasts.

The carnage of that final coup-de-grace
That scurries the remaining carrion—
And those sepulchral obsequies...

(That passing bell, that tolling dirge,
The lamentations and the muffled drums
As my bleeding catafalque is covered
With the sands from a hundred shriveled hands.)

But during my funeral rites
And around my winding sheet
The Potter’s fields seethe with an overwhelming grief.
One is all but overcome
While pondering my sarcophagus.
Tap the Sexton on the shoulder
He’ll direct you in
Into my charnel home
Where all are as welcome
As the serenity that drapes the Diggers dining on eternal wine
While raking leaves across Yorick’s recurring cockle shells.
As if the rime hoarfrost around my thick ribbed corpse
Would know the subtle difference.
And though she be calefaction
Boreal or snowbound with chattering rot;
I’ll bend to kiss the chilblains cheek of my Amaranth Queen.
For we must all stand someday, humbled before this Horrendous Awe.
That gathers its colored lights through its bleeding straws...
And though she be now with eternalized beauty
She still does dwell
In the infinite squalor known only by the dead.
Her cadaverous beauty squandered in stiffened lace
While angry maggots brunch on her past mistakes.

What is it about Love Amaranth?
That makes trees bend with pride
Like two outdated nuns sitting side by side.
Sullen as the knitted tide.
That makes the sinews of the years
Go gallantly up the much maligned
The much despairing emery epochs of life?

The crazed cry of the babe in the abandoned woods
Is the self-same scowl of the days mis-spent and mis-understood.
If all the dimpled roads
Were suddenly illuminated by some “nebulatic” glow
And worried shame spread across these prison bars
And hesitated with Vesper’s fading light...

The very heat
Like the very knell!
That knell!
That resonates through my plastic ears,
Like a hearty gurgle from a cracked bell.
And the very incendiarism of my auto-da-fe
Reminding me of a pyromaniac’s
Triple basting on Tyburn’s beady-eyed hills.

O meek souls!
In the painful pancreas of Hell!
While the Sexton strolls homeward
In the telling time of night...
While you in Gahanna,
You in Limbo and you in Apotheosis
Are worms that never die!
You in all the infernal regions
From Pluto’s gardens to Charon’s dens
From Acheron’s rills to Lethe’s window sills!
You in the very nirvana of existence.
You in the beatitude of anguish and creation
And you in the unalloyed pleasure domes of Heaven
You, The Intercessor and God of our sorrows,
You The Risen, The Incarnation.
The Preserver and The Destroyer,
The A-Existent!
The Consoler of the consoled, console me not!
But listen to my love song...
Sung from the Fortunate Isles
The Valhalla of Hesperidia
In Nature’s elusive Elysian Estates.

Yes, what is Love about Amaranth?
When midnight’s mistress presses the tresses of her confusing affairs
While all across the years
Love rakes the ointments for migrant tears.

Just the flow of them again!
The knell!
The sound that forever ends!
And while the wild winds wail
She becomes nothing less
Than a whimper, a muffled howl
From beneath the sea lily’s murmuring fowl...
A voice that forever ends.

So my condolences are conveyed
Along with the fleeting parade
The parade of “creped” “gowned” requiems
Mourning like “Niobic” mandarins!

Yes, what is Love about Amaranth?
It is you and I “sepulchered” separately
Like Cleopatra and Anthony.
For none but Death, the morbid monster
Can teach me Love, life’s first disaster.
And none but Love, the monster morbid
Can teach me Death, life’s final disaster.


“Yes, I have the eyes that glisten like the listening sea.
So come my young poet,
Come my young poet,
Why not make love only to me—only to me?”

“For I have the hair of auburn
Like freshly scented leaves adoring Fall’s first sunburn.
So come my young poet,
Come my young poet,
Why not make love to me, only to me?”

“I have the Egyptian cheek bones
That pierce through the pores of the centuries
Quietly dispelling the cadaverous gloom of countless mortuaries.”

“So come my young poet
Come my young poet
Why not make love to me—only to me?
For I have the cuddly breasts
To create the cradle for your lustful rest.”

“So come my young poet
Come my young poet
Why not make love to me—only to me?
I have the almond tasting rose hips
That sends craving across a thousand lips.”

“So come my young poet,
Come my young poet,
Tell me true.
Why not make love to me—only to me?
I have the flanks that will wrap around your love
Inserting your precious gift into my woman’s velvet glove.”

“So come my young poet,
Come and tell me true,
Why not make love to me—only to me!”

“For I have the heart that yearns
For the pregnant potion in your sleeping urns.”

“But most of all I have
A love that transcends
The eyes, the hair, the breasts, the thighs and my
Sexy womanhood.
For O my young poet I will love you only as a woman could?”

“So tell me young poet,
Tell me true,
Why not make love to me—only to me?”

“I’ll tell you young beauty
I’ll tell you true!
Why I’ll not make love to you—only to you.”

“Yes, it’s true, you have the eyes that glisten
Like a gathering of doe melting the morning’s dew.
But I only make love to nature’s creatures
Who capture her most salient features.”

“I’ll tell you young beauty,
I will tell you true!
Why I’ll not make love to you—only to you.”

“Yes, it’s true you have all the Egyptian parts
That pierce the steel canopy of male hearts
But even Cleopatra could not foresee the genocidal nature of a lover’s darts.”

“Yes, I’ll tell you young beauty,
I’ll tell you true!
Why I’ll not make love to you—only to you.
Yes it’s true...doubly true, like two windowless clouds your curvy bust—                                                                                             
Formed from a cherry crucible of rusty lust.
But is a conquering kiss across your heaving cleavage
The only way to sample your nipple’s guarded beverage?”

“I’ll tell you young beauty,
I’ll tell you true!
Why I’ll not make love to you—only to you.”

“Yes, it’s true that your diamond dimples have graced a thousand lips.
But surely these lips should be enough to satisfy your fulminating hips.”

“I’ll tell you young beauty,
I’ll tell you true!
Why I’ll not make love to you—only to you.”

“Yes, it’s true you have the lusty loins and fabled thighs
But it’s the withholding heart that prevents the driving winds of passion
From intermingling with beauty’s idolized fashion.
For most of all my love, I need a Love that
Transcends the eyes, the hair, the breasts—the thighs that house your woman’s

For what I lack my love, is a Love that surpasses all the rest,
Slaying the Mystery by annihilating the anecdotal tomb!”


Hushes softly sensed,
Are like sounds that strafe the desert space.
The belfry stands and stares
At the broiling sun of a scatter-brained day
Destroying the “darkening”...
As three thirsty dragonflies
Sight St. Michelle
And its liquefied reefs...

All wait at their own patient gates.
All have come from Ennui’s Western’s Columns.
All have shed the promiscuous curse of Nausea
To stand by Peace and her aphonic friends
To hear the thrashing waters choke the babbling sands
To see blistering waves buckle stones—
Stones that stare towards sweltering towers-Towers that lust for shade—

The melodious foes of a swollen sun
Pursue the battered opals of apparent dusk.
The filtered musky glow of a crimson prism
Spray day’s end slantwise across our churchyard prison.

Six O’clock!  Six!
The algae eaten belfry hears the doubtful hours
Strike the doubtful Vespers.
And in the gathering distance...
Ancient screeches up-well from ancient creatures.

And all at once!
The day is shattered!
The day is destroyed!
For here they come!
The Swallows of Capistrano!
Here they come!
Those raucous creatures!
Here they are!
On the wings of a billion tidal winds!
Soaring in the nebulous blue birth of death!
Their “chirpmenship” silences the deafening bells...

Imminent invasion!  Now one...
...Now ten hundred, now ten million!
Enraptured birds crush the disenfranchised air!
The swallows have to home come—
To Capistrano...

Say the sad swallows of Capistrano...
“Wake the prisoners!
Stop the Executions!”
Say the sad swallows of Capistrano...

In through the towers!
Their sunny-tarred wings
Beat welcome to tons of cooling concrete!
Over the barium bays, the salty beaches, across the driven lands—
Past the bewildering array of battlements...
Some sit and mingle
Others, like us, sit
And sting the rocks with metallic melodies of revenge.

Some hang us, the Dead,
Upon their “dwarfy” carrion stained beaks
And disperse us into the ebbing shades of day
Deep into night’s sinusoidal envelopes.

Now, all turn frozen ears leeward
To see the swarthy enemies of Murder
Depart the Capistrano’s—

Depart the Capistrano’s
Their bells...
Their demented prisons...
Their mocking Execution Towers...


See the Thunder’s mumbling crowds.
See the sultry day forgive the heat.
See the buttered sun broiling pregnant clouds.

The garbled grey of sheet metal skies,
Stretch relentlessly beneath the tepid swamps,
Where margarine mosquitoes make hasty love to dragonflies.
Stripped spikes kiss the ragged soils
Strike the forgetful Earth!  Flog the stately spires!
And the vibrant day, like spumy incense boils.
The nimbus sponges squeeze their pernicious juices
Scorn the forked plains, scold the parched lawns.
As sky’s breakwaters flush the flooded sluices.

Boot black winds compress the limpid branches.
Rambunctious tumbleweeds stampede towards the thundery mountains—
Hailing the rusty destruction with their tympanic dances.
Hermit clouds part their snarling snouts.
Rush for the eastern peaks chased by elephant trunks
While lingering somber showers remain to pout.
Sun collects her grazing pilgrims.
Her iron fickle flames spray the east,
With “graffiti” bees encircling purple children.
And all across the barren shelves,
Thunder spanks the mountains, lightning ignites the stars,
As sulky oxen draw the rainbow past inky elves.

Worms writhe in muddy cistern pools.
“Venomed” snakes bite the bloodthirsty mud
While sea gulls swallow the bloated breeze that cools.

The puzzled storm disperses beyond the impish peaks,
As the gingham grey of day
“Trods” the summer’s night behind the timpani of the thunder’s feet.


Vicissitudes!  Vicissitudes!

Vulgar reefs show their teeth
From beneath
Angry shoals maintain hungry poles.
Frozen bergs lead the omnipotent herds.
Drip-drop comes to an icicle stop...

Incandescent waters
Studded embryonic halters...

Make-believe is almost everywhere;
Even the Lighthouses make a lovely pair.

Up you now!  Soaked weeds!
Make haste, barges of minor deeds!
Prepare the beachhead for a sudden overlay!
For the tides of vicissitude flood the Fundy Bay!



Night like a Thracian Goddess
Entombs the somnambulistic void.
As grotesque shades
Shovel spring graves,
While treacherous spires
Expire in harmony alongside impassioned choirs...

Rains send their rains to flood...
Flood the noxious puddles...
Hunchback snowbanks hover like melting requiems.
Then distant sounds abound...

A tap-a tap tap tap...
A tap-a tap tap tapping...

A talking lenticular cane comes...

A close-a close close closer...

And from the slow pine groves
Emerges a companionless shadow
That Awesome Awe of an awestruck shadow...

Is a tap-a tap tap tapping...

A Blind Man meanders towards North Gables
His frozen future a hundred steps behind the Living.

She speaks!  He listens!
“Cross my Madonna, I’m so afraid!
For your very breath reeks with an unmitigated transmogrification!
Eons that await do you await for me?
Or must I depart a waif unclaimed?
There he stands!
Like great Triton
Blowing on wreathed horn!
He shows me Arabian sunsets
Splashed with broiling rosettes,
Abreast au Berge holocausts.
He shows me tumultuous fires
And urban rouges of Eurasian tides.
There are in him
Far more tribes
Than life has in her dim decanter.
He shows me Breese’s and Helens
And ten thousand azure hems.”

“Threshed!  Uncherished!
People up!
Give me your suffering!
And I’ll give to you nestling brooks.
I’ll close your weary eyes...
Eyes that I will open
In my many mansions.”

I have heard them say
Will join me
When they see me
Meandering among my meadows
Past the snaky brooks that run
Cool, aft and under
Kinky bridges that bend hello
Just beyond the Gabled snow.”

“Walk with me.
Apparitions and Crosses do.
All illusions,
They walk…wait… then walk again;
While at their swampy feet
Tumble raucous lapping’s
Of my distinguished nooks.”

“Come to my Castles,
My measureless spires of corroded Khans.
I’ll spring from the Gabled Trees!
Because you are alone
And never have your days dimmer shone.
Bring your wrinkled leaves of May
And I’ll disperse them far from earthly quays.”

So beckoned Death’s motes
And the One
Who told her
With bent hellos
Sent to the jocund sea
Flowing towards Infinity...



Now that the cold flow of dawn
Crawls across the numbing halls;
Queen Vespertine saunters by her incredulous windowless window...
Casts a westward glance,
Presses her evening’s chestnut hair,
Against the glass that binds the vesper grass.
Her eyes sprinkle over sawdust hills—
Over the crenelated harvest
And with her lavender prevailing arms
Waves to pumpkins
Waves to primping wolves
Swallowing the bristling air,
Waves to “slithery” swans
On the escarpment escaping her deathly primrose stare.

Now she stands so desperately alone.
Now that the crowd of a hundred living
Leave her to frozen irony
Leave her to the golden guns of noon
Spliced from the dice strewn ice.

“North Gables!
Send me your weary Mistress!
Release her through your sleepy eaves
To dance among the naked galaxies.
For I long to bind her bleeding spirit,
And shackle it with a maritime platinum tourniquet.”

“I stand here aghast,
A partner to isolation.
While the brutal bells pronounce your exodus knell.
Queen Vespertine!
Lift your wrinkled body
Cast your cares from your empty hulk
The kaleidoscope of broken dreams,
Life, begs your final presence at his door—
Answer not!”

So forlorn,
So empty,
So totally so,
Filled with romantic cholera
She feeds on life’s final faint,
Feeds on the paper,
The garb of granite walls
Then comes her clutching kneeling ways;
Her wooden words enclose
The agony that prefigures the ecstasy.

“His are not the foreign shores
Or Surinam’s Plebian jungles
That surround sporadic sounds
Of Orangutans limping past
The disappearing trees.
His are not the massive clefts of cities
Closing their indifferent tentacles across
North Gables’ rejected pleas
Exhumed from her praying palms.
Neither are they domestic mountains nor foreign wars,
Neither they or their starry shoulders
Can circumscribe his euphoric turrets
Because it’s Death, the vacated emissary
His soldiers scaling the saluting fences!
His Conquerors’ final assault
That flitters by
Shady caves engulfing her omnipresent eyes.”

All that enter There abandon the human slopes.
Those that leave There never reclaim mortal hopes.
Those that enter There dance with demonic stars.
Those that leave There never wander very far.
Those that enter There never placate grotesque guests.
Those that leave There never gather milk from my mistress’ swelling breasts.

“Autumn on the wing!
Willows on the lake!
Birds that ride the wind!
Hitchhikers of a blistering sun!
Where has my Mistress gone?
Will she be for very long?
Insects on the branch
Berries feeding the Gabled sky
Tears that gather in my eyes!
Where have I seen that mirage before?
Will I see it once again?”

“Drive on incessant threnody breezes!
Shake the darling buds of blight!
Rock her dying cradle,
Sever her umbilical rights!
For now I lay me down to cry,
Like North Gables’ Mistress lays herself down to die.
Lays her herself down to die—
To die
So that she may live...



Tap a tap tap tapping.

Lo, the snowy breezes of Ennui blow
Across the Aegean Hills
Past the ebony vales
And descend once again upon my gloomy pen.
And once again North Gables
Embraces the stony day
Bidding a stern goodbye
To a galactic voice
That bids me stagger from my toil
That bids my winter livened books,
Back to their crannied nooks.
I leave the world of somber scenes
For a stroll among romantic dreams.
I leave the lips of numbing fame
And hear Vespertine’s voice above the frosty lanes.

O dead Queen!
O embalmed Presence!
That knows the very Deep of things...”

“Here I am !
Here I am!
I am Vespertine!
I wait across the disheveled street.
I am the whining air that cares.
I am the Ennui!
I am the Ecstasy!
I am the repository of daring pleas!
I am the poetry that scars the leafless trees!
I am the dreamy lagoons
Where diamond grottos are marooned on sunny afternoons.
I am beauty consumed,
I am you and I,
Careening majestically across the dovetailed sky!”

“But here I am!
The Poet,
Your troubled Twin
The Infinite trembling phantom of your icy eyes.
I join my Queen!
I’ll spill from a Grecian chalice
Tranquilize the vibrant mountains
With my beauty “ladened” fountains.
I’ll climb the astral stairs
And dwell among the yellow years.
I, along with the awakening east and auburn west
Commit my poetic incest!
So before you disperse your golden gaze
Take me through your Gabled Maze.”

“Here I am!
I am Here!
The Vulcan daybreak
The flame of Thika that lights the smoldering stake.
So before that “tossy” sea
Can sink my mortal skiff
Stretch above the frothy quays
While the haunting Leviathan larks’ notes
Melt the vicinal snows,
And send their tantalizing harmonies
Across your darkening memories.”

“Up and Up!
Further and farther!
Past your ethereal dwellings
Meshed in the wispy haze—
Then thrashed against the dances of a second sky!
Soaring with larks of broken patterns
Lurking eternally above your mortuary gardens,
Beyond the Beyond!"

“Cease!  Soaring Poet!
Let go my hand!
Unlock the gabled Gate!
And in my Infinite ways
I’ll watch you die under my dateless sprays.
For I am the dawn!  The unyielding!
Morning’s captured pawn!
Sister to sunbeams!
Beauty’s “foreverness” dwells in my many mansions.
For I alone seize the bony knees of the rampaging trees!”
“Here I am Vespertine!
I return to North Gables
So show me if you’re able
Show me your poetic presence,
Shower down upon me
Those forbidden metaphors of future’s days.”

“No more, no more can I see the geysers in the night.
No more, no more can I inspect the Gordian light.
Destroy my poetic might!

For I can no more see your poetic eyes
Than can the ones that never try."

“Here I am!
Among the laughing coffers
Smothered by human vipers.
Mortal and dismembered among their ciphers.”
I ask the Romantic Hostess;
‘Why I to sanctify your charnel ghost?’
For have I strewn garland nets
And wrested Beauty’s chrysalis from her present imprisonment
All for abrupt abridgment!
In death’s deserted dunes!
I courted the flickering sunsets
So that I the highest would arise
To view your imperial demise.
So step on down
Step on down
So that faltering schooner
Will not be me
Swallowed by the python sea.
But now and then let your poetic fury
Pierce night’s dreaded jury."

"But who am I?
If I am not the dawn   
That casts a million lights
Below her enigmatic eyes;
I am the poet,
A lone vessel in my Queen’s harbor,
I am North Gables’ waning luster."

...A tap, a tap tap tapping...


The Weather Vane has locked!  North by East!
Charlene is dead!  Go tell her she’s deceased!
Can you remember when the Vane pointed Sou’ by West?
And sublime breezes blessed her poignant rest?
When the cupola tree, Umbrella Palm’s “foliaceous” branches
Fired the Golden Being with wreathed fancies.
Now its dank, breathy poise poses in weighty anticipation.
Reviewing the ashen past as darkness covers its troubled undulation.

One has all but walked the rainy graveyards after memorabilia is said and done.
One has all but smelled muggy stones under a mourning sun.
One has all but traced the sawdust avenues when curfew breezes came,
One has all but sat on emerald chairs and dwelt among the lame.
One has all but the cherished thoughts of graveyard visits spent in solitude.
And one has all but escaped life’s crowds only to get entrapped in death’s multitudes.

Aye!.  The Arch-Bishop-of-Trees has beauty dripping from its very boughs.
For in the gathering distance is Charlene’s lengthening chaos somehow...

The Weather Vane has locked North by East under withered clouds.
Along the copses of intermingling shrouds,
Soldiers cemented to the moon’s dramatic play;
While Aesop’s Fables applaud the morbid day’s display.

The lion-colored afternoon emits its panther blue.
The bulging Western winds touch.but in vain cannot restore her views.

Charlene Jardine is dead!
The winds, trees and yards are a lumpy lead!
The graveyard benches-empty-like the night stars stand.
The preacher with his senseless book in kindly hand—
Thoughts shorn from ivy’s climes strike the clocks.
The Memorials, the thousand sounds of time, are earth’s fallen shocks.

So if it be a glance at locked Vanes under the weighty blue
Or mystic Yards burying the fallen few
Or spacious hemlocks “enfurrowing” the unstable night,
Charlene Jardine is dead.  The Vane is locked.  The future’s blurred from sight.”


The Weather Vane is the symbol of life and death.  If the Vane is moving normally, its pointer will rarely come to rest for very long in any one particular quadrant
especial the Northeast Quadrant in the Northern Hemisphere..  In the first stanza the reader discovers the Romantic notion that somehow the Weather Vane has
foreknowledge.  Therefore, all of Nature has foreknowledge of Charlene’s imminent death.

The poet glances out the window one afternoon—“lion-colored afternoon”, of “panther blue” and notices that the Vane has stopped or “locked” in a certain direction,
i.e., the Northeast.  Noting this somewhat rare positioning of the Vane the poet deduces that the Vane has foreknowledge of Charlene’s death.  This foreknowledge is
communicated to the poet as a possible reason for the malfunctioning of the Vane.

Further interpretation is that of the Romantic notion that all of Nature is partaking or has foreknowledge of Charlene’s death (known as the “pathetic fallacy”).  This
notion resembles the Germanic psychological concept of “Einfuhlung” or empathy.  The notion also reminds one of the quasi-mystical concept of clairvoyance wherein
the poet obtains foreknowledge of future events in the present.  The mystical forces, namely Nature’s components, are the conspiring telepathic avenues that receive
this data and transmits it to the poet.  The poet does not receive these communications directly from humanistic orientations.

Since death processes belong to Nature, Nature would know of Charlene’s death before the mortal condition would.  “Go tell her she’s deceased!”, is a direct invocation
(command) to Nature (and by implication) to death, instructing Charlene not to fight death. Death is inevitable.  The earth is ready to receive her.

In the second couplet, the question is directed towards life.  The warm breezes of the South and West are far more representative of Life than are the colder stiff
breezes of the North and the bitter Easterlies.  This question takes the reader back in time, in the poet’s imaginative awareness, to a time where Charlene was alive
but in the terminal coma, the terminal coma of life—“her poignant rest.”

In the first stanza, by way of contrast, Charlene was alive.  Whereas she is dead in the afternoon.  The scene is being set for the solemn atmosphere of her burial by
Nature and her traditional burial by Humans with their awkward attempts to confront death with ritualized burial customs.  Nature’s mourning is more sincere,
seductive and therefore more effective because Nature is not bounded by artificial devices such as the ones described in the Fifth Stanza. “The preacher,” (and all the
inanities he represents), “With his senseless book in hand”—i.e., the hopeless futility of his time-worn prayers sprinkled over the dead.  (“Clocks” is the key word
here, symbolizing that Time has ceased to exist for Charlene and the Dead in general.  Time is emotionally and sardonically looking at the futile events that are
transpiring in the name of clocks, i.e., the time passages of reality.

Returning now to the First Stanza, in the sixth line, we read, “Fired the Golden Being.”  Fired is used in the double biblical sense for igniting of and the dispensing with
the “Golden Being”.  He is dispensed with by the words “senseless book”.  (The Bible is only sensible in that it reports history, gives comfort, contains poetry and the
art of religions.  Religions prevent moral chaos for they instill a morbid sense of conscience).  This senselessness is particularly acute in religious practices and
customs.  The other major sense of “Fired” is that the “Golden Being” is ignited with “wreathed” fancies so that even He believes in His own mythology.

In short, if He existed, He would also be a committed Atheist.  He would not believe in His own mythic identity.  He would find the notion for the necessity of beliefs, in
and for themselves, absurd.  In point of fact, the whole religious dogma in this area of Theology, has been pointless except for the fact that this type of questioning,
yearning as it were, has given the human condition something to occupy its historical presence.  The more important concerns of humankind should be the uncovering
of the universal nexus of spontaneous occurrences.  This endeavor will help Man improve his depraved condition and help him to rise above historical sequences.  The
wreath symbolizes the mythic thorny crown of Christ.

The next two lines reinforce and prepare us for the somber scene of the burial as Nature reeks with a moist, damp, feminine, receptive state.  It is as if all of Nature is
holding its breath.  When Nature exhales she will receive her new member into her household...”Now its dank breathy poise poses in weighty anticipation.”  Nature is
looking forward to Death’s intercourse with Charlene with the delight of an enraged “necrophagous” creature.

The line “Reviewing the ashen past” is reminiscent (so it has been claimed in psychologically based literature) of the ability of a person to recall most of their past
experiences for a fleeting instant subsequent to the comic-tragic moment of death.  But Nature has to accomplish this feat for the poet as well as for Charlene because
Charlene was in a coma before her death.  Now there is a slow rhythm beginning to be perceived, “as darkness covers its troubled undulation.”

The Second Stanza brings us back to the graveyard proper.  Now the poet is reflecting before Charlene’s burial.  (The burial takes place in the Fifth Stanza).  He
reflects back to other funerals that he has seen.  In his mind he is reviewing procedures that took place then.  He anticipates the one that will take place today.  The
last two lines suggest that the poet has a morbid taste for death in and for itself.  In a real sense, it is an ecstatic experience and he achieves a deep satisfaction from
the melancholy words and moods that death practices evoke.  “One has all the cherished thoughts of graveyard visits spent in solitude.”  But the attempt to
communicate with the morbid, the solitary and the dead, instead of giving him a sense of completion, freedom and isolation has helped him to escape the bustle of life
only to find himself hopelessly entangled in “Death’s multitudes”, i.e., the confused “existence” after death.

The Third Stanza releases the poet from the trance induced prison.  He is being recalled to the present moment.  Nature is in motion once again.  “The Arch-Bishop-Of-
Trees has Beauty dripping...”  This statement is the Platonic notion that the universal form of all trees would be the Arch-Bishop-Of-Trees which includes all trees.  A
modified version of this state of affairs is that the universal form of all trees would eventually include the form of all existence.  Charlene is hopefully attaining this
purer form.  However, she achieves more.  She is transmuted into pure “Beauty” or the Universal of Universals, the Form of Forms, that embraces all of Nature and by
implication embraces all of existences and non-existence.  Thus the poet receives a glimpse of “Becoming”.  She is being transformed by an unknown mechanism into
the “lengthening Chaos somehow.”

In the Fourth Stanza we are back to the present again.  The Weather Vane will remain locked eternally for the poet.  Nature has turned into one large funeral.  “Along
the copses of interlocking shrouds.”  The fourth line is a rebuke by the very myths of tradition themselves—rebuking not only Man but Nature too for their
ostentatious “morbid day’s display”.  Yet Nature continues to mourn and display sympathy because Charlene (Mankind) is its offspring.  It is only temporarily in the
hands of Mankind’s concern.  The dust of Man really belongs to the dust of Nature.  It is of the same fabric.  Therefore, Nature has more of a sworn duty (a
responsibility if you will) to mourn with profusion than does Mankind.  Nature may continue to show its sympathy long after Mankind’s has dwindled away because of
the cares of the living.  “The lion-colored afternoon emits its panther blue.”  “The bulging Western winds...”  Notice that the Weather Vane is locked in the Northeast
position; yet it is the cold, blustery winds of the West that actually fuel and represent reality and movement in juxtaposition to the Northeast winds of stagnation, decay
and death.

The next to the last stanza features the poet’s reflections directly.  Notice the second line, “yards are lumpy lead.”  “This again refers to stagnation, weightiness and
stability as contrasted to function, form, movement and instability.  The motionless tone of the funeral, i.e., sterile—is compared to the isolated stars scattered
throughout the heavens on a clear night—“like the night stars stand.”  (The empty spaces between the stars, appearing empty to the naked eye back on earth, are
sometimes filled with Magellanic, gaseous, cosmic dust like particles similar to the results of solutions to Cantor’s Dust Equations that can be seen most vividly in the
Milky Way).   

In the concluding stanza, in the second line we read “Thoughts shorn from ivy’s climes strike the clocks.”  The futile words of the preacher echo around the graveyard
until they finally crawl up the ivy covered wall surrounding the cemetery only to be dispersed futilely among the “thousand sounds of time”, “Shocks" means here a
pile of sheaves of grain, i.e., wheat.  In other words, Nature’s dying "shocks" are finally joining the human death in the personae of Charlene.

In the final stanza, in the second line, we find the condemnation of the concept of graveyards.  The implication here is that the graveyard is a place that still retains
some of its mystical restraints and connotations delegated to them by our recent primitive ancestors.  The conclusion is that the “Yards”, bury only the “fallen few”.  
The higher spirits, the creative spirits, are entombed by the “spacious hemlocks” in the same way that the “transclusive” hemlocks envelop the night.  This is the
meaning of “enfurrowing”, i.e., entombing.  Whether it is Nature’s condition, the Human condition, the “Yards” or the “hemlocks” claiming Charlene—she’s dead
nonetheless.  And in the final lines the shock of this awareness is finally made vivid and immediate.  The tears finally flow---“The Future’s blurred from sight.”


The crystal thistles of a sultry Sirocco.
Time’s own foster child fires, forager of the Wastelands
Taunts the charcoal grass.
The burning thighs of lavender flames,
Leap to quench the sky!
The complete blue of day strokes the choked plains
Swathes the plains with indigo dyes.

In royal beiges
Delicate tones of brush-berry preserves
Perseveres across the steam-bath lands
As granite flames whisper
To the murmuring glassy-eyed flowers
To broiled lilacs in their ashen pews.

Comes the crowning call of the Raven’s sylvan voice
Bustling through the groggy fog...
Smoke, tumbling under the cauldron sun.
The Marauder spirals over the sweltering Flats
Spreads its sun-burned slate diamond studded wings
And hovers like some hooded cobra entwining the ashy pines.
The charred woods of calico
Strut across the ocean’s saline Divide.
Combustive heat lightning distorts the ripening apples
“A-Maying” among the baked apple trees.
The sooty foot of night rains down on parched bowers.
The magnesium ignition of sparkler flies
Enflames the embers,
Through the murky blaze of the satiated greenery.

Burn on insatiable sapphire fires!
Do to the Lee Lands
What the explosive Foehns
Have done to our blistering tarred lands!
...Baked the clay cloned mines...
While upon the loamy kiln
The Raven returns
With black radiated body
To peck and paw
At the apple golden wastes.

Leave the Burning Hills of Mozambique!
Leave them to the Raven Beasts!
For luscious breezes fairer blow to windward
Where opulent waters fertilize the Raven’s Chinook cinders.


I went out to the hazel shore...
And felt the waves that had been before,
And all along the barren beach
Far from the bathers’ tanned reach
The yellow rains from a dimpled moon
Spoke to me from across the windy ruins.
And while the sand shuffled its angry grams
Against the breakers’ breathing hands
Silence’s sloth settled over the ocean’s stern
Athwart the ebbing waters’ returning churn.

When next I looked around
I spotted my Albatross across Long Island Sound.
Its harrowing voice atop of chilly waving waves
Called me to its watery grave.
“O visitor of my secret pores!
Join swashbuckling dolphins in their seafaring chores!
Then I walked the salty grains
At peace with my civil pains.
Drunk on Atlantic’s transparent breasts
Where death’s beauty strode shoulder less...crest, over crest, over crest...

Even then, over the stretching straits
Lovers’ bones and grievous wails
Melted into the gathering gales.
Even then a distinct ambition
Addressed my sublime vision
While the masochistic waters rolled on with frightening precision.

But now that I am an old and ravaged sage,
Adrift among the savage waves—
A beach tyrant assaulting the bouncing buoys,
While flashing in the lonely void city joys glitter like forgotten toys.

And from afar comes a wiry fog like a slumbering God,
Over the isolated...the sheltered beach...the imperial bogs.
Then I sink beneath the drowning harbor beams,
To join darkness’ universal themes.




There was, shall we say,
A haunting loneliness
About the whole of
That land sea south of the Keys
Where dolphins watched with glaring respectability.
Us, we descended through the eerie blue of the sleepy Amazon.
The quaint, faint green of hazy grass
In its musky abundances...the piled upon the piled.
Untouched unblessed, “unmartyred” coral wastes
Raped the Sargasso-infested, emblazoned shores!

Our Ship left the north side of the Domes of Many Stains
(And like Life, a many colored balloon,
Feared the String holder Death, The Mighty Severer),

Embarked southward, Antarctica-“ward”...wave by dizzy wave.



There is shall we say,
A drop-by-drop silence
As our ermine Skiff in leaky drift.
Bye the bye, the palm trees slides.
The streaky waters out streak their internal tides.
The Southern stars bedeck the Caribbean Rood,
And are the bedazzling gems in the dagger background of dark.
And of late, the faint radium firefly stars
Are chastened by the ancient anchor of time.
Thus, the dust between the dust state
Finds Christian death
Scattered among the Pagan pearls.
Agnostic stones become
The comas of Somnambulistic Ennui…



There will be shall we say,
Once upon a day, once upon a night,
Once more morning, the docking island will beckon.
The regal, splendorous rock formations of incandescent waves
Ember grooves underneath the many roofs.
The four hot ashen
Nuns of the suns
Will incessantly burn.
And to us the earthen Hell
(Or so they say)
Looks quite jealous with lavender envy
And will not be smothered by our docking sails.

O!  The warm welt of Helena’s molten waters
Encase our incendiary non absolute corpses,
And across the gallant vacuums of "tide-less" space,
Past cooing angels,
Our own Senate of the Gods will go.
Untrammeled as the Infinite Island submerges
"Neath" the sneezing earthquakes
And Atlantis’s spawning’s in every universe.
A voice from the hollow belly of the galaxy will bellow;
“Death is a waste of time!
Live for an Eternity!”
And like the worm of a four dimensional apple,
Our skiff’s transparency will transcend the spatial expansion...


While Andromeda sits upon her midnight cloud,
Piercing Earth’s twilight shroud...

The distant chimes of a church tower,
Caresses each bird, tree and coral bower.

The glows of a fragile day dimple her cheeks.
Lifts her ear as the emblazoned universe speaks...
The Inter-stellar dusts from will-o’-the wisp lands,
Disperse the crystalline glare of the sun’s closing fans.

The bubbling beauty rises from her hypnotic trance—
Joins the regalia expanding outward in the vast expanse.
Thought by thought she caresses the galactic plain,
Stumbling on the blood stained stars of the slain.

Down on earth, helpless ants grope towards home,
Driving against the oblate drunken rain that creates muddy clones.
Andromeda!  Host of a trillion sparklers!
Illumine these wasted graves with your markers!

From her midnight clouds she looks above...
Though earth’s cloudy turrets muffle her galactic glove...

Seamless Andromeda!  Unending spiral miles!
Your Infinite Sphinxes disperse in numberless files!
Starry fingers of the sky eclipsing but never ending,
Your expanding light years belong to the Romantic understanding.


If, when I awake,
The earth is a voluptuous green
The sky a stately blue
The sun smiling butter—
Then this is not any day!
This is the day of Aphrodite!
This is today!
This is Love!

If, when I draw the shades,
The clouds are bewildering hues,
The winds come with buoyant breaths,
The air becomes purged of sylphs—
Then this is not any day!
This is the day of Aphrodite!
This is today!
This is Love!

If, strolling to the shore,
The euphonious waves spank the banks,
The “pins and needles” of the sand flay my feet,
The prostrate eyes luxuriate in perspective views—
Then this is not any day!
This is the day of Aphrodite!
This is today!
This is Love!

If, when my ethereal double revives,
The love by my side abruptly smiles,
The kinetic fires dispel my past,
The potential deity sheds her purity—
Then this is not any day!
This is the day of Aphrodite!
This is today!
This is Love!

If when I sleep again,
The Holy close my eyes,
The universe remains inert,
The sleepy remain asleep—
Then this has not been any day!
This has been the day of Aphrodite!
This has been today!
This has been a day of Love!

But, if when I awake
The earth is fallow;
And if when I draw the shades,
The sky’s cupola becomes a tempest:
And while strolling towards the unwilling shore,
The ocean becomes a bed of dried salt.
And when the spirit survives,
The love by my side mimics with a “Thesusian” marble grimace—
Then when I sleep again
The Holy sin and open my eyes!...

Then this is any day!
This is not Aphrodite’s day!
This is is not today!
This is not love!


Winter’s come and gone.
As spring’s slumber
Signals summer’s lumbering trod.
Then the explosive imagery bursts forth,
Becoming overpowering Symbol Visions...

Nullity, nihilism, nothingness
Annihilation of the nonexistent
Spectral unborn shadowy
Unbegotten form!...

Then Delacroix’s needles makes “in-fusion”
As his vision commingles,
Intertwines, interweaves,
Becomes imbued, diffused,
Promiscuous, celestial...

Do we see all this
While in the summer wait?
A glimpse of the Infinite!
It’s superlative!  Supreme!
But desperately inchoate!

The labyrinth of the mind
Is a tangled skein,
A jungle,
A network of intricacy.
And from this deranged pathos...
The budding embryo,
Out of the orifice of eternity...comes...
On some noxious rendezvous.

But there is inert torpor here.
Quiescence, stagnation...
But all at once!
With an ebullitions uproar,
Boasting of malign hysterics,
Comes the pain—
The periodic spasmodic discharge of truth—
That tempers...that softens...
That chastens...that restrains...

Quel your sobs,
For out of  Keats’ “Wasteland”,
That poetic moorland,
Steppes of associations far “flunged”
On the shoreless reaches of
Time’s own pathless trails.

I am like the queen
In a leaning castle,
Like stars that grasp the night
And choke dying diadem moonbeams
On their way down playful paths
Toward rodent infested earth!
I am like the iridescent poppy seeds
Sparkling phosphorescent rays of joy
Over healthy galaxies!
I become the spume
From Titan’s War on Olympus!
Like some tyrant whirlwind of “tornadic” grandeur.
Overflow my seething banks
With strains from a “Dantesque” allegory.
But then I am closer to
Explosive metaphors
Gushing wild-eyed
And staring insanely at
Blood-soaked carnations,
Crystalline orchid fears
With mosaic midnight-blue diadems,
With lemon gardens at the helm.

I am like the coronet
Seen in the sapphire
Of a dying amethystine twilight,
Perhaps like some offspring
Of illegitimate emeralds...
The sterling scions...
Or grave, earthy symphonies
Played by skylarks
That revolve around
Lyrical Kublai Khan’s
Efflorescent pleasure domes...

Now as loftier souls
Flitter above and beyond me.
Pausing in the nebulous pink Utopia,
Then sink away...
Into the emphemeral distance
Of transperent transcendency—
Now swimming
Through the rip-tide of the universe
On Jason’s azure fleeces
With a “Shelleyian” wind
Flaying our bronzed backs,
And overhead sanguine clouds
Mixed from Angelo’s pastel easels....

Is it now?
Now that I look from
Oblique planes of Infinity
Across relativity’s curved cauldrons
And see “synesthesiac” echoes
Reverberating against the halls of the universe
As the wind holds my breath
With the speed of a thousand passing lights.
I become disfigured, amorphous
But with tinges of heptagon dimensions.
Twisting, pain-racked...listen...
Listen to my distorted trip
Beyond light’s singular speed!
Then we come to form,
As does the sun’s painful rays
When stretched to pass in prismatic review...

Sailing voyagers,
Fugitives from the scud of earth,
We come passing by...
Ahead of wave-particle light beams
With our nomadic nimble dreams.
By leaps and bounds!
Cudgeling the Oblivions!
Ahead...backward... backlashing
With an electric elasticity
That ricochets off the rotted walls of eternity.

Then I’m caught
In a roiling, rolling, revolving, spinning,
Encircling, gyrating, whirling gyre of a gyre’s
Virginal, vertiginous eddy...
And out again—
Unfolding, disentangling,
But still pulsating,
Throbbing like the fibrillation
Of last year’s constricted atrium’s diastole...
Journey’s end
Finds me
Running, rippling wavelets in neap tide,
Perhaps quivering—then
A twitter...flicker…then a flutter...
Then blows Zephyrs,
First a breeze, then a squall,
Then a blast, half a gale---gale
And I am anesthetized in a stupor
Of noxious, sensual, cocaine trance.
The incandescent smells
That greet my addicted corpse
Now become ablaze—
Smoldering in gold vermillion ashes...

Yes, as we become,
Shreds of embalmed ash blonde
Calcimine with frosty milk white dots
And lurid chiaroscuro fawn chlorine chestnut
Red magenta and robust rubies,
Grass green in all its simplistic vibrancy.
The lemon tallowed candles
And magenta dyes
The cerulean of the poet’s sky!

Wait!  Another wave!
And here I am again!
Up in tumultuous rhapsody!
Like mescaline fireworks!
...Then the spicy clouds depart.
And there in an opulent Pantheon
On top of Olympus
My breath comes short
A “noon-tide” rendezvous!
...And the entire crater
Just shivers with intense seduction!
And the slipperier chant of trance
Pushes us past
Kublai’s caverns
Fathomed not by man but by...

Around and around and around that chocolate covered dome.

We are abundant!
...And Infinite!
And what we want to know is,
Will you join us
In yesterday’s summer of tomorrow?”
...”But where will I be yesterday?
Once winter’s “horriffics” come and go?”
“We don’t know!”


Night!  Night!  Night!
The Poet of darkness,
Crawls across the
Tin facade of clocks
On “steeled” coppered steeples...

Its very facade,
The day’s tasseled covering,
Is melting on rolling causeways
Over the fog encrusted clouds
As it gathers in the city’s quays
Aglow with rebellious twilight.

The patchwork of vesper’s reality.
Slowly evaporates to the tan
Melancholy of night’s artificiality.
But the boastful gloom ignores
The awry silent flickers
Of silent sand fingers.

The sky’s handkerchief,
Jupiter’s planet appears...
In silent ringed solitude,
Quiet, dutiful, respectful, “resposeful.”
The last felt delicate twinges of sleep
The relief for the noisy noise.

Cool abrasions,
Saunter idler of the West.
Here come winds flowing east
To suck past eyelids
That are fastened,
Along with incense,
And are dispensed
In twice the breadth of breath.

The saltshaker meteors
Can, by lovers unnoticed,
Fly by
Until the evaporative spectacle
Dazzles the still sleeping humans—
“Fogward” bound, enveloped
In green “Twelfthtide” tasseled oceans.

Nuit, host for tired eyes!
But in day
There’s all forgiveness
Among rays of sun;
But it’s the night
Come to form
That is the day’s poem outdone.

Feeble shadows masquerade in strength
Next to graveyards of disbelief.
And boastful life,
The ghost demoniac phantasmagoria,
Inundates like
Mescaline mixed cocaine fumes.
From Omar’s Turkish reefers
In frigid incense parlors.

...The foaming buccaneer hashish stars
Sentinel Conquistadors
Aurora-Australis’s Magnetic Radii!...
Soft cat creeping eels reel
On their haunches
Beg to sleep
Now that all is done
A day is done,
Night is begun
Left and gone...
And went away
To some other hollow
To express its existence
To people towns,
Princes with crowns,
Children with sounds...

In the crannies all is sleep
All is done, all is memory.
Night comes on, day goes gone.
Black predominates, white evaporates...

(Les jours blancs sont mort.
La nuit noir est ici).

Night, Night, Night,
The Author of Darkness,
Crawls across the
Tin facade of clocks
On “steeled” embellished steeples...


(A Ship Aground in Western Hudson Bay)

Ermine pastures of treasures
Isles of pleasure
Comely angels
Tinkling bells
Flowing hair
Tender stare...

No matter how we try,
Birds will fly
The skies will cry
The hills will display their grass
Memories will review their past.

Behind that trailing hue
Lie skies embedded in blue.
Healthy airs
Forget cares
Spiced with dew drops
Walkways mellowed with corn colored dots.

Over that hill lie valleys—
Down those valleys, singing sea alleys.
Boys and girls
With saucy curls
Women and men
Ten times ten
Dot the scenery
Arousing my memory
While seeing Hades
I dig my grave with a crimson spade.

Birds bring leaves to mighty shores!
Oceans rush to beaches with salty roars!
Trees will root the earth,
Gardens will reveal ripening afterbirths.
Auspicious valleys will fill with pride.
Flowers grow famous side by side.

(Abandoned French ship,
Destroyed steed.
Neptune smiles with depthless deeds.

Souls emitting lively dances
Twelve abreast twelve askance
In-between, the tide tugs
At Neptune’s smothering Alsatian rugs.
Arctic nights dance with drowsy stars.

Icebergs eavesdrop on golden sand bars.
“My ship—Alsace Lorraine!
In storm you campaigned,
But now Captain Steel bends his head".

"Wily ship shaves the bottom...
The skeletons’ creaky moans
Like Death,
Desperate, despairing,
Deceased and rotten!”)


See the bees’ honeyed dance.
With windy warmth they knead our glance.
The buzz-buzz of buzzing She-Bee trances
Spurt from “syrupy” hives
Grope for honey hidden on the shelves of time.

Do nectarous draughts.
And paraffin potions form on “wispy” stems?
Do Boston Briars drip honeysuckle from their grottos?
If they do,
Then shoo your daughters into the festive night!
Shoo them onward
For October’s collages surge across molasses stained ponds!

Now begins the humming promenade.
Morning sees the She-Drones launch
As flutes engage the seductive melodies
Biting the flowery arcades.

See She-Bee Queen and her Gypsy moth friends
Gallop unswervingly the lacquer space.
Streaming towards creameries
To ambergris dells
Where the approving ones
Will splash aureate hues on their only begotten sons.

But how will other insects know?
That beyond the Hives maroon naphtha flows?
It will be the Dance of the She-Bees
That will infect nauseous He-Bee fleas.
And if none does pour
The Bees will return to their damask cores
To feast on the Present’s poisoned floors.
They’ll buzz buzz around the waxy caves
Repeating off-beat rhymes the rest of their honeyed days.

The glint and clash of filmy indigo winglets,
Frenzied fuzzy bodies,
Dripping dewy drops from saucy noses
Striking urban poses.
While the forest unmasks its undisturbed foliage;
While the caprice of cerise antennae
Glow like sorghum chandeliers
Upwelling on burnished electric-blue embers.

And often on the buzzing bridges
The bees bite the floral patterned foliage
As the future stings Poetry’s sterile acreage.
And often in the humming distance
I hear if I want to listen...


The Destroyer.
Blue Throated Rudra.
Creator, Preserver-Destroyer-Trident
Six faces, thrice the eyes,
Necklace of serpents his mountain confident.
Black Kali, has her necklace of grisly skulls—
While four full mouths of wailing flesh she silently mashes.
Nandi walks in a sleepy town by seedy mounds.
Jungle foliage, musky hemp, fills our silky tents.
Lightning stings! Mountains crack!  Thunder peals!
Mystery ropes climb the cobra skies.
The Night aborts pregnant dawn.
Vishnus’, Brahmins, Bodivistas’ cries
Are Samsara’s lances
Ending SHIVA’s


Fire Temples, burning incense, burning low,
From white heat, white breath comes, comes slow,
Slow it comes, as Farvardins call in the distance...
The vultures screech, “tu whoo, screech, tu woe”...

The Benzedrine spirits
Spirit Isis east of the Hills of Bombay...
Caught in the early morning’s clay,
Sits Mithra with his crooked sashes
That stroke the Grecian urn ashes.
The emblazoned rubber plants smell the Arabian dawn
So gather in your children with sweet song
For soon another Parsis will be gone.

A stultifying silence befell the hallways between the hills.
Beyond the repetitive rills, dancing among the flowers of darkness.
Are stone spirals,
Chambers “wreathed” in grief,
That all once—

Leap towards the messalise sky!
Then, all at once she comes to stand,
Stand against the mourning thighs of burning noon!
That stretches like forbidden Chinese Walls against spiny ruins.
Bronze Statuaries!  Chocolate Hemlocks!
That stretch to kiss the sky!
“O Dakhmas!  Silent towering caskets!
That cleft the lower spires of paradisiac sties of gloom,
You shatter the ‘rubbery’ afternoon.”

“There in the distance!
Swirling circles of Mithras’s pleasant pheasants,
Creasing their lava ladened lips—
Hurry your distorted flesh of grisly blue
To the second stone shelter.
For giant night comes on stolen slippers of soft repose.”

The vegetable gardens in the East
Wave their spiny leaves to the Parsis’ deceased.
Ere long the wind-bitten winds
Will gild the opal youth
In its bric-a-brac hands of vermouth.

All have left the Towers to their own.
But she remains to watch the swooping murderesses.
Her eyes all “aglaze”!
They glance at one
Who dares share the secret of Becoming:
Their goblet eyes send their fangs around her supple spine...

...Ah!  The thoughts that kill yet caress!
Stain her weeping willy spiraling mind—
If those vultures lay dead in these Towers
Would she pluck the swollen meat
And implicate others at the festive feast?
Her thoughts infringe on sorcery!
“Away array!”

But Mithras bids the Host that She must stay.
So descending to the first level like a child,
She looks upward towards the ethereal bloody veined sky
While billions of gruesome creatures chew her ravenously to shreds.
Her rasping bones tumble down the Well
So they can suture the wounded Dead.

(But will she fly like those fattened creatures
With the vermin gladdened calories of living features?
Or will she hover above thy Hills,
Thy Hulks of Silence,
And wait for the day when the next Parsis
She’ll dispose of with her hushed playmates in quiet ebullience?)

...”Tu woe, tu woo, screech, tu woo tu woe...”



Ninety six thousand waves
And then we depart
To our endless disappearances.

Where are they now?
Now that you rise from your stormy bier?
To scathe the amaranth pier
Like some migraine spirit from a frenzied Lear.

Where are they now?
Those that come and went
Those that come and go?
Those that will come and will go?
Those dismembered “diables” in their East Village Dens.
Inhaling Iago with the aid of their opium political pens?

Alone on the patient rocks
A quixotic herald awaits for Fern
That jaded sheet that will smote the balsamiferous calm.
There is prepared for her—
A bed to pacify the tide.
A pillow to rest her leeward lie
And a lover to close her windy eyes;
Whom will kiss the buxom air and stroke the breasts of surprise.

Portly mansions vacantly open their “bricky” arms,
With welcome sent from petulant wooden farms.
But she will not garner children as her host—
Instead a welcome from a decimated coast.

There’s beauty all the while,
There’s beauty standing by the pigmy stiles,
There’s beauty walking down the oceanic aisles.
There’s beauty in her chagrin wiles,
There’s beauty in her circular miles,
There’s beauty on the weather dials.
There’s beauty in the ensnared quietude,
There’s beauty in her Queen Mab attitude.
There’s beauty in her perpetual wail,
There’s beauty brewing by the stubborn sail.
And there’s beauty in the gathering gale.

Yet they do not come and wait,
Those people growing by the gate.
Yet there’s beauty in the hydro-headed mountains,
Fumigating the coral with her perfumed quatrains.
But none greet the wearied lady
Reeling past the southern jetty
On the tambourine heels of dawn’s confetti.

But they come on sun-burned days
For commercial pleasures the hours to slowly slay,
With their boastful boats
And children like angry goats.
People that spurn the spray
People that unwelcome the iridescent floods that wash the bathing bays.

But their beards hang long
And blondes strum while warmly clung
And coffee sands fill their anachronistic hands.

Fern, from afar and from “anear”,
From another day,
Sees all this with her frothy frown...
“I’ll return to the ultimate Deep
Where a hundred like me wait at Hurricane Retreat.
I leave Tethys breeding grounds
Encircled by prefabricated towns.
So back to your ninety six thousand waves
Melting meekly one upon the other
Like sister sleep and her delinquent brother.
So back to your tawdry shores!
I go to where the pure ones row
Where Sailor Blue lifts his ‘piney’ oar
And sings ‘heave ho’ and
‘Thar she blows!’”

But where are they now?
Yes, where are they now
Now that dusk’s dankly wings
Reveals the real things...
Those “glozed” impressions
Ruminating like some pastel obsessions
That subsidizes the artist’s premonitions.
That diabolical trance
Of a Nor’Easter’s dance,
While all the while she forwards a filial hand
To clasp the apologetic sands.

Yes, where are now?
Those that come and go?
They come, when another day
To line the beach
When the tide does ought but gently clench its teeth
And tetrahedral surfs—half a rock they cannot breach.

Ninety six thousand waves
And then you depart to your endless disappearances.
Unless you come to see the deed
That I escort in from the tempestuous sea.
For even now, I a phantom
"Fathomlessly" among them
Bestow brief visions that go unreturned.

So at your home I’ll never knock
Or fleck the rusted locks
Or lay my censured head
Or sit beside your ruptured dead.
I go to Hurricane Retreat
To preside over my unwarranted defeat,
Like one of Flora’s prehistoric beasts.

You find them now
Those that came and went
Those that come and go
And those that will come and leave—
For after ninety six thousand waves
Come ninety six thousand more
And then we all depart
To our respective reappearances...


Now come to me O multitudes of Earth!
Now that the empyreal apron tumbles to ocean’s bosom.
Now that tawdry day’s expired.
The beckoning shoals of night crease the swerving decks.
And from the flaky core of  Worthern’s Rings we hear...
...Hear the owl in deep descent
Careening from forest to forest
Twittering among the mildew cornices
Caught by the bright schism’s rays
That splice the empyrean
Into little massive hemorrhage displays,
While elephant giants oppress the musty air.

O dark Planet!  O mystic Planet!
O Red Planet!  O lush Planet!
Your ever encircling darkness
Strangles the torporific air.
Emery stars wrap the very elms
With the slanted shades of crescent night.

Lightning stabs the iridescent mountains
That are caught in a very silent womb tomb.
The chimeric coast
Beseeches the ocean gaseous breakers
To slash the collective shores
And to cleft Old Worthern’s manacled chasms.

Quiet is in his sheath.
Death is in his iridium mausoleum.
Time is in his kayak canoe.
Life is near its favorite precipice.
Shadows are on the hearth.
Yet still we proceed
Forever and ever along an unending spiral Polyhedron
Until dawn’s jacket
Becomes the soft and shallow breeze of tomorrow;
Until then, Old Worthern’s a cryptic galaxy embedded in an infinite sea.


Come!  Let’s run!
The sun’s healing rays
Lighten a darkened day.
Rub the scape with tones of yellow tallow,
Engrains the mountains
With graying mists.
Noble rock formations
Cringe together
Abridging the chill
Of the Thatcher’s descending waterfall.
Springhtly aurean rainbow icing
Is on the verdant moss—
Moist, lush green
Soft as the silken robes
Of the Persian Sorceress.

Lighthearted trees shadow
Lover-filled gullies
In lilac finery
Queen Quiet hears her echo;
Her star trimmed gowns
Go rustling hush-a-bye bye,
As she slyly turns
In the horizon’s ivy sky.

(On falling off the cliff...
What dimensional ecstasies!
The Persian Sorceress was spotted
In frivolous play
Along Thatcher’s mountainous trails.)

Look for dandelions!
Yellow candelabra candlesticks!
Lighting my way!
Lilacs, mothers of inky pearls!
Roses, shame-thorned hussies!
Violets—if the sun had daughters,
And daughters she truly has,
Then daughters you truly are.
Posies!  Nature’s bouquet
To the gentle grass...
Young seedlings
On top of the tree line on Thatcher’s highest peaks
On a day that is partly obscure...
Sapling, oak, elm and beach,
The juniper, myrtle, ash,
Fig tree, gum tree eucalyptus...

The copper bark of thickets!
Gleaming chaparral and jungle bush!
The undergrowth!
Brushwood, sedge, scrub,
Heath and fern,
Bracken and heather!

Deep below, where the falls
Part the swampy glens
Kelp, rockweed, sea lettuce,
Sargasso and gulfweed dance!

The elegance of it all!
The grace, charm, style,
Systematic symmetry and delicacy
Stun my soul!
Venus, Hebe, The Graces,
Hyperion, Helen and the Apollo Belvederes
Must be on some picnic
Across this scented land!
I see their resplendent images here!
Picturesque and undeformed,
Bright-eyes, rosy cheeks
Phosphorescent phantoms.
Filtering through the comely air!

So, the Persian Sorceress
Guards the Thatchers
Throughout the night
Until the bending of the dawn
Yields the blissful raptures of the day...

So, from the cliff...
We come crashing to the ground:
Dead!  The Persian Sorceress of  the Thatchers
And I, the both of us,
On the sleepy ground...


Night’s minions are death’s brides.
She’s sleep, a ravenous reaper,
She’s crimson gore that fills the balmy moor...

Knock    Knock...Knock...
Click,     Click...Click...

Hade’s sluiceway opens, veins gush again.
Snakes writhe by Duncan’s creamery skin.
Sprites hasten their ghosty ways
Past Hecate’s chambered caverns,
To clutch the jagged dagger,
To grind it on the Stone of Scone.

“Arise!  Arise!  From the bloody fields!
For high o’er the Heath
Incarnadine rainbows see the sun
Draw its milky red baths.”

All the wounded fill the dead air,
And like choleric sores
Rabid rats bite the Facilities’ musty pores.


The Watchman hears the rain
Swearing between the eaves,
Like a voice sprawling across the tumbling floor,
Infecting the molds on a ferrous Moor.

Crunch, Crunch, Crunch...

“O bones that whiten and shun the sun!
See what the Macabre Ripper of Murder Moor has done!”

Run!  Run!  Run!

O little children of the Heath,
And little old woman in your Firth:
Beware the sallow-tallow moon,
And blushing clouds at noon,
For "neath" the Stone of Scone
Sits the stained Thane and his bloody mane...

Help!  Help!  Help!
Cut, Slice, Rip...
Drip, Drip, Drip...
Click, Click, Click...


Poetry is the Poet’s way
Of paying respect
For the heathen’s use of beauty.

Thus the Poet is the one true Evangelist amongst us—
That is...
When inspiration is upon them.

Paintings are Poetry’s visual expression
Poetry is Art’s audible expressions.
Thus they are the wide vistas
East of Infinity.
And Imagination as the luminous lighthouse
In reason’s storm-tossed seas,
Gives us views
Which are much too grand
Even for Poetry!

You are either the writer
Or the one written about:
That’s all there is—
That’s all there will ever be!


If, when night approaches.
We are but two steps from the grave.
Then when we sleep
Is the distance cut in half?

Knowing more than one answer
Is knowledge;
Knowing not one, unhappiness;
And to know one,
Wisdom. Bliss and calm,
Knowing the latter state
Belongs only to the Infinite.

And by knowing,
Doubt breeds discovery and truth,
While blind faith breeds
Lethargy and blind obedience...

Our evident truths of today
Become tomorrow’s question marks!

... and ...

We wish we knew
Just one thing to be true!


Life’s battles begin in the morning
With the first raindrops
To wet our faces
And end with the sun’s last beams
That close our eyes.

But the Ways of Existence
Do not matter
In the Life yet to come;
The passage of time,
During the eternity that follows, does!


Look at the sky
On a starry night,
And see what you are!

Then my advice to you, young pedant,
Is to be literate in mind
And illiterate in action.


If we can say ...

The fiction of Fiction
Has a truer strain
Than the truth of Non-Fiction ...

Then we can also say ...

A poem should be short
And to the point
When it runs the risk
Of being a finite creation,
But long and diverse
When it runs the risk
Of being an immortal creation.

Saying also ...

The only perfect cube of  democracy
Can be found in the mind.


One advantage of being a poet
Is that you can quote yourself
In time of verbal need.


Yes, I believe the mind is immortal—
As long as it is used
To achieve that immortality!


  Baby Summer,
Your Charming wile! ...
Atlantic’s bubbling waters idle.
Thundering morns, bring on storms!
Zeus’s bolt, the golden sky bridle!
Exotic rainbows shining on warming, chilly tears.
Yonder ... some mourning graveyards coalescing night’s horizon pink.
Poised, in white virgin fashion: artistic healer of cares,
Summer, the opiate that endows maidens with helpless scent,
Heats buxom tree branches that inspire the wren.
Sing with ectasy while sun bakes cement!
The cloth cloudlets of glacial effect
Will numb the inspecting senses,
Kissing us with regret.
Summer steps down –
  Begins to


Autumn maturing briskly in her many colors,
As haze from fire ferns scares her leafless brothers.
Potent sandlot breezes
Resound throughout the wholesome countryside
And harbors’ gleeful voices
Winging their way windward on evening tide.
Outspoken sun
Invests its hues of brillance
And points to the Halloween moon
Which allows shy shadows of metallic radiance.
Inhaler of pearly washed air
Then storms across the roaring heavens.
The indisposed repose in night;
By dawn the dew reveals its denizens.

Tincture of wine vines
Cling closely to the escaping wall.
Younger youths prepare robins’ wings for flight
While hearing destiny’s call;
Zealous maidens frequent shaded coastal inlets
As splendid autumnal chariots
Grace the earth with cloistered ringlets.

Byzantine animals play among the forest dangers,
As miniature fillies graze rampant: ingesting healthful mangers.

Climbing unchecked through vascular hills ...
Autumn on its knees,
Makes happy genuflections
To summer that’s gone–
And to winter’s insolence.

(If this is a vaccination of the season’s gifts,
Then autumn’s treasures we’ll cherish with measured sips.)


Lyric winter snows:
Creamy snow tapestries listen for
The sparkling stars of trampled ice toes.

The pleasing cold bites frosty noses of lovers poised in bliss:
The climbing stairs of winter dear,
Lighted by a frigid December, moon-earthenware, dainty dish!

Into the glens, into the valleys of cozy streams!
Flake by flake, an August land
Of golds and emeralds: harvest lands become wintry sheens.

The apple trees in starchy white,
Fumble incompetently
As branches invade the vein-blue sky
To greet the pleasnt birth of sun’s toxic cold:
Stinging light!

Into the depths of winter we fly!
Into the February morn bright and warm!
Winter’s charm thaws our arms with a shivering sigh.

Icy-eyed winter robs the starling’s nest,
Of mother dear in search of food.
Her feathery coat buttoned by winter’s zest!

Snow stars bed down on Thames’ moor,
Weighted with freighted sky talk from angelic lips:
Whispering to every pane, knocking on every door!

The white cuffs of trembling blizzards
Howl across the barren, drifting,
Shifting snows.
The countryside displays the enamel tablecloth of March’s wizards.

A foot thick by the totem ice stick!
On calico lakes ... pine wood ablaze!
The skates scissor stealthily as March shortens winter’s wick
The chemical topaz of approaching night,
Mercury tumbles in the glass, in quiet blush.
The galaxy's suburb stars huddle with a deepening delight.

But streaming across heaven’s tent,
Is heaven-born April: with spring’s dispersing thaw—
As winter’s melancholy scenes reflects waning strength.


In morning,
When frozen sunbeams
Spray from her solar diocese,
She dashes the moon
And sends Selene to Aries,
The devouring Ram.
And there...
From the last cloak of night,
She winks at the last International star—
And fumbles infant-like
Up ...up ... an International hill.

When she entwines the eastern summit,
The confused sunbeams
Will emigrate in joyful array
And fill every night-despondent crevice
With light from Elysium’s glowing chandeliers.

As she waxes,
And higher than the peaks she rises,
All Endymions turn towards her,
As spring’s prolific beauty
Lime in luster Thetis,
Flowers every living things
And even K-Dypee-Daphne
Relaxes her petrified veins
And smiles at Psyche-soothing Venus,
With spring’s tulip ointment.
Sight-seeing birds corner her tresses—
While north they trek to caution earthlings,
K-dypee’s enchantment’s undone!

The oaken bucket well,
Overflowing dewy vintage,
All ears tuned, the key—
Spring’s orchestra is tuning with
The lame slippers of winter.
The ember forest’s fiery sun
Sleeks its dusty-eyed beams
Brusquely by tom-girl clouds
Of cauliflower scent
And spends its cher light
On the awakening buds of morning.

Dipping down fastidious chasms
Of lonely, rolling hills—
Just at twilight,
She held her famous breath
And went fleeting from sea flames
To majestic sugar canes
In horizon’s splendor,
In her own good time.
She touched her gift
And made mist embrace
The amethystine grape phantoms.
All are still
In mourning
Of the now departed
Lords of Creation ...
Evening’s Sister-In-Law, Infinity.

Then Daphne kissed the sun,
And by that simple gesture
The sun sent its warmth
Feeling its way down the stalk.
(Each leaf was gifted with one sunbeam
In order that the soft quiescence could reign supreme.
Some leaves had brilliant jade reflections,
Others possessed shadows of dark deflections.
Her eyes then glanced on the steel fence,
And it too glowed at her expense ...)

The little children of International Earth
Suckle warmth from her breath
While she converses with cavernous valleys,
While they hide their envy of her churning love
Melting on the foliages’ repressive protection.

If the world
Could follow her
Across those three-o’clock skies
And see an afternoon
Of lustrous kisses,
From coastal seas to
Mountains of swarthy deserts,
With Zephyrus
Waving her as the Crescent Star
In their afternoon’s unfurled flags! ...

(She heals the burdens of the day before,
Making all memories seem like folklore.
She dapples the sky with a fictitious hue.
She shines through storms to bring visions anew
For whatever vision’s worth – through storm may imbue.

Wavy, cloud-lit skies outflow in rainbow showers.
In quaint sleep the ceaseless deep deftly cowers.
“Fibrillous” woolen sheep clothe the morning with translucent dews,
As curvaceous ducks’ aimed formation fly in labeled hues.)
And all the wild life,
With rosy candor, is in dismay.

Then as the Red Button of the East and West
Sinks into the liquid, brazen hills,
The aromatic rain-raisin winds
Settle for the balm of night ...
The squirrel kneads its way through the hillocks,
Perks its casual ears towards an intruding silence;
Then, in cadenced Mosque-at-Dusk shadows,
He deftly tiptoes
With frequent pauses at K-Dypee’s fence
And makes tranquil prayer
Atop her decaying sunset grave.
(The trees stare with green profusion.
The clouds sway with subtle intrusion.
Two figurines dot the meandering lake
Like apparitions enveloping the aqua wake.
The sun mightily sheds its clothes,
Fumes vehemently night ward on sunbeam toes.)

There is prepared for her an East-West Cradle
That beckons with reddening, yawning furrows,
Dawn’s twin – twilight – vesper’s harbinger.
So now she gathers in her warmth,
Waves to the International homesteads,
Dust the sunbeams from her rosy skirted kilts
And glissades reluctantly towards the hills ...

Just before she leaves
A reflected glance
Towards the hills “whence” she birthed,
She sees twilight waxing
Evening, swallowing his cosmic dust –
A misbehaved child of Grandfather Night.
They’ll make their cortege,
Then curtsy at the East-West’s embarrassed horizons ...

As you intern your sons and daughters,
Quickly decorate them with clouded gowns –
Baize, bathed in sapphire-emerald tints,
In belief that tomorrow
They won’t appear naked
As they promenade throughout the heavens.”

Aromatic!: redolent: spicy:
Balmy: incensed: ambrosial;
Perfumed lilac of the rooted family
You’re magnified dandelions!
And your brusque clothes seep with an ancient sorrow.
With cavities of autopsied sparks,
You are the ‘benign pine’ whom dismisses the lark ...”

So the International hills smiled
And with august dignity waited in the night ...
For ... the International sun ...K-Dypee-Daphne ...
To rise over the International Hills!



At the age of 24, in 1963, Meteorology was finally a fait non-accompli and I was back in the Archetypal City of God, Albany, New York.

I was ready to return to Hudson Valley Community College.  This was the same Hudson Valley Technical Institute that had been refurbished and now included a
Liberal Arts Curriculum alongside the disjointed technologies.  It would allow me to transfer to the University, namely SUNY at Albany.  When I first got back to
Albany I tried to enroll at SUNY.  They told me that my marks weren’t good enough.  But if I went back to Hudson Valley I could transfer if I maintained a B average.  
That is exactly what I did.

I went back to Hudson Valley Community College for a year and took their Liberal Arts Course.  This time something clicked educationally speaking because my
marks improved dramatically.  It seemed no more difficult to get B’s and A’s than circled 65’s.  Yet I am still not really studying or opening books but I’m doing okay,
intuitively grasping most of the subjects by the short hairs.  I ended up that first year with a B+ average which was enough to get me transferred to SUNY at Albany.  
They accepted me with open arms.  I financed my part of the educational bargain with the G.I. Bill of Goodies and an assortment of school loans.

At the same time that I was publishing
THE DISORDERED SPRING, a classmate (but not a soul mate) in the Philosophy Department, had his silly pamphlet of right
wing poetry published by a local press.  He drew what little attention there was away from my landmark work and that was that.  Naturally, the Disadvantaged Press
engaged in the typical vanity publishing scam and only published a few hundred books when in fact they had contracted for a few thousand.   Only a few of those books
remain in existence today.  
THE MILK OF PARADISE, a second poetry book, was begun after I completed DOS and was completed in my Junior Year at SUNY.

My poetry writing years came to a vapid close at this juncture for the anemic, political poetry of polemic ineptitude held sway on the campus.  The Magic Surrealism of
my Futuristic Romanticism would have to wait another fifty years before being revived by the year 2010.  I switched to satire in my senior year at
SUNY and completed
a line by line rendition of Dante’s
THE DIVINE COMEDY and titled it THE DIVINE TRAGEDY wherein I inverted the moral structure of Dante’s Heaven and Hell.  I
punished good and evil was rewarded in a contemporary setting.  Later, I destroyed the entire manuscript after spending three years on it.  
TDT was followed by
OMLET SMITHEE, PRINCE OF PEACE, a satire on Shakespeare’s HAMLET and the “Nixonian” Administration.  Hard on the tar heels of that play followed EXIT THE
based on Ionesco’s EXIT THE KING.  I rounded off my satirical period with THE DAY OF THE DOG, a satire on the Bible.  I only got as far as the end
GENESIS.  Most of these materials ended up in the wastepaper basket and few, if any, copies are in existence.

I enrolled at
SUNY for the BA Program in Liberal Arts with the double entendre major of Philosophy and English.  I skated through the next two years with a B+
average yet I am still not applying myself.  I am of the City of Albany, a Townie; whereas most of the students are living in the dorms or in apartments and have
commuted from the distant lands of Suffolk County, Long Island.  A few blocks from the school, I on the other hand live at home.  Having been in the Service I am
more or less the elder statesman of the class.  (These being the years preceding the adult education boom).

I spend most of my evenings in the dorms playing pool-- hanging around the hanger’s on in the dorm cafeteria.  The construction on the new University is moving
along apace and will be located uptown on the outskirts of Albany.  I still attend classes in the old red brick buildings surrounding Albany High School.  The new
campus is completed by the time of my graduation but I never attend classes there.  Nelson Rockefeller comes to town and gives the “go get em” graduation speech for
our class at the new campus and I am struck dumbfounded by the almost identical looks of him and my father as they shake hands during the ceremony.

I graduate in June, Cum Lawdy Lawdy, Miss Bawdy, Cum Lawdy.  I am dating on and off two girls from Schenectady and one Albanian.  One is a Jewish redhead as
redheads go, that I met at a Jewish Singles’ Dance.  The second was Kitty Tanski, a folksy, artsy, “craftsy” Shixsa loner type that inhabited the halls of
SUNY.  The
third was Elaine, a Jewish girl I met at a Jewish Community Center dance in Albany.

The philosophy courses were sexy and easy.  I could write my way out of any paper bag.  The math requirements courses were the ones that gave me the most trouble.  
I either flunked or received a D minus in Calculus.  In Graduate School I flunked the French Orals needed for The Masters.  I tried to take it cold turkey.  Otherwise
I maintained a B+ average through Graduate School.

I struck up a less than perverted friendship with Marvin Resnick in my undergraduate years at
SUNY.  He was majoring in Library Science.  He had a photographic
memory and was a Master rated chess player.  He used to beat me in chess playing blindfolded.

For spending money I got my kicks and a job at the
New York State Public Library in the Museum Building.  This was a fascinating library because the stacks would
descend some ten levels underground.  On the bottom level the most valuable books were kept in a vault.  I spent most of my working hours in those stacks perusing
the old newspapers and magazines dating back to the 17th and 18th Century.  It gave an idealistic picture of what Albany was like back when it was named New
Amsterdam.  Larry, majoring in chemistry and immersed in Quantum Mechanics, introduced me to the up and coming Beatles’ sound.  Our boss was Old Mr. “Fat”
Katz.  This job turned out to be one of the best in the latest series of douche bag jobs.  The reason for this is that I was able to do an excessive amount of reading.  I
could spend my breaks sitting in the park across the street from the Governor’s Mansion or on the stable portico steps of the Library.  In fact the dusty jacket of
pits the background of the Library’s statuesque columns against the symbols of the Greco-Roman classical leitmotif that I was inhabiting rent
free.  I worked at the library for three years until graduation.  Anyone in their right frame of mind will grant you that that is a long time to work at any douche bag job.

Louie had graduated fat free from St. Bonaventure University and had moved to New York City where he went to work for a printing company as an unidentified
indentured Quality Control middle management toadie in Long Island City.  He moved to a rent controlled apartment in Queens which was noted for its turn of the
mid-century low cost housing projects--Le Frak “Freckle” City.  It was a half hour’s worth ride to the City on the Main Street Flushing Line.  We’ll see more of Louie

All the rest of us bums--the old crewcuts, Georgie “Porgie The Gentleman” Parker, Kenny “The Dutchman” Wolven, “Casey at the Bat”, Bob “The Sailor Hat”
Sealsey, Sacci “The Motor Mouth”, “Dunking Donut” Pumpkin, Ray “The Bowler” Martone, Bill Money Bags” Greeny, Steve “The Dildo” Lubin, Art “Dr. Faustus”
Cohen, Jay “The Genius” Katzel and Billy “The Cracker” Graham and all the other subterranean vermin of our gang had evaporated from my life forever and anon.

Joe “Tricky Dick Knees” Trillio, as I mentioned earlier, did a brief stint at
Hudson Valley Technical Institute taking up Chemical Engineering.  Shortly thereupon he
married a sexy bitch and took over “Tough” Sammy’s grocery store.

DOS manuscript cost $2,500 to self-publish and resulted in “debtdom”.  The debts were the direct result of living below my means at low paying jobs.  Even so, that
poetry book represented one of the best and brightest volumes of verse in that Century.  When I left Graduate School I owed $6,000.  A large sum.  

I left Hudson Valley Community College in 1964 and entered
SUNY at Albany in 1965 in full battle uniform.  That was the same year that DOS hit the streets.  The
“Beatlejuices” were in full harmony, however, they were not yet propagating the “Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds” mentality so dearly needed in the country.   
And Bobby Zimmerman (Dylan) was still picking his artsy fartsy nose in Glens Falls, New York.  Coffee houses were in and out of vogue together with their coteries of
fat faddists breast fed flakes in make do, make shift, see-through shifts.  The hangers-on (the small hump backed poets with their long hair in residence) are coming
directly to and from their morning toasters and streaking nude like homeward angels while spraying cracks and crannies of sidewalks with their garbage dump art.

At this time I renew my childhood acquaintance with Alan Ginsberg from my Hebrew School days.  He takes a cross cultural educational route and an equal amount of
English and Philosophy courses as well as takes a lot of transcendental professorial guff.  Alas, Alan’s two brothers went on to be prominent doctors.  Al went on to be a
Professor of English at a Junior College in Richmondville, a farm community outside of Albany Flats.  He then retired and became one of the very first journalists to
discover the value of the Internet in 1993.  He remarried at fifty--a twenty six year old music teacher, and started a brand new second family.  Along with a new baby
he also embarked on a new career as a jazz musician with no previous inclination or ability in music.  In a certain sense, as I will discuss and illustrate later in this
book, I also discovered my musical abilities in my late fifties.  Today, in retirement, he makes as much as he did while teaching at the Community College for thirty
years.  Many nights I would spend over at Al and his wife Paula’s apartment discussing the future shock of literature and of poetry in particular.

The University of SUNY at Albany was becoming infested with folk singers, guitar players and off-key poets.  Beat artists of all persuasions were surrounded and
catered to by boggle-eyed young dollies with long blond hair.  It was the time when the Viet Nam war was winding down to a soft crescendo.  I stood aloof from all this
mumbo jumbo, pseudo intellectualism which passed for literature of the Left because my writings were completely in conflict with the major themes of the 1960’s.  
There was no room during this hypocritical period of Modern Art for the Neo-Romantic.  In the age of political realism I was writing dream poetry.  I was completely
out of touch and so
DOS and MOP fell on deaf ears.

At this juncture I had had only a few poems published in some obtuse, chartreuse colored paperback poetry anthologies scattered throughout the United States.  By the
age of 27, for all intents and purposes, my poetic career was finished.  I didn’t have an artistic commitment to it.  I was a radical out on the fringe of the fringe of the
cutting edge.  I was one of the few radicals over-reacting to the conservative nudity antics of the Guttenberg Ginsberg School.  I was a complete outcast in that I was
the only practicing Romantic in the United States.  I enjoyed being in opposition to the poets of insipidity.

The reigning Poet Laureate of
SUNY at Albany was a real promoter type.  He held sway over the local writers, poets and philosophers and was ironically a campus idol
even though he was from the Right Wing School of Thought.  He suffered from an acute case of left wing backlash that at the time was trying to stem the tide of 60’s
Marxism then sweeping the universities.  Ironically his views would come of age during the decades of the economic minded conservatism of the 70’s, 80’s, 90’s and
continuing well into this Century..  But he was 15 years ahead of his time and was scoffed at except for his small group of neo and post nasal drip conservatives.

As for me, there was no way I was going to get a hearing in a legitimate press or any other press—over ground or underground.  Most of the media was under the yoke
and tyranny of all the poets sitting on the head of a Medieval pin.  Interestingly enough, today, Romanticism is back in the forefront due to the backlash aimed at the
sterile, computerized architecture of our existence.  I knew back in the 60’s that Art was dead for all time.  We had come full circle back to Primitive Art in all forms
of artistic expression--led by yours truly-- Pablo Picasso.  The computer art that was emerging in the 1980’s was not Art but a vehicle to replace Art in the 21st
Century.  It would take another 30 years before my theories would become Coin of the Realm.  Pop Art and the Warhol years were hard upon us.

The themes of Art during this degenerate period concerned the different Races going on in the cultural and social arenas such as the Housing Race, the Race for or
against Peace initiatives, the Space Race, the Terrorist Races, the Race to Starvation and Drought Races and the Race to escape earth before or after nuclear
meltdown, computer driven stress catastrophes or asteroid-comet collisions scenarios.  All of these Races would be won or lost by the year 2050.  The 21st Century
would see the consolidation of these Races as well as the consolidation of Racism that would necessitate the only remaining race at the second half of the 21st
Century-- the race to the outer galaxies.

By 2050 the environment would be strictly “computo”-scientific and militaristic in order to control the various Races of the social-cultural disciplines.  It will be an
interesting era of exploration akin to the energy fueled eras of the 15th, 16th and 17th Centuries.  It will be the Age of the Colonization of Space.  I didn’t think then
nor do I now, that poetry was the place to explore these themes.  Poetry’s dogmatic approach should be through complex symbolism to avoid the crisp, mundane
description of the various Races.  Poetry should use the language of the Beauty Poets and not the language of the ancestors of British Empiricism and their cousins the
American Pragmatists and Neo-Realists.  It certainly should not rely upon the language of the Guttural Poets who displayed their wares at that time in
demise.  Poetry was not and is still not politics.  It is not short and sweet in order to please commercial editorial practices, but long and diverse to please the poet.  
Poetry for the poet’s sake. There is no other sake worth considering.

My major love affair at
SUNY was with Barbara “Delaney” Canavan.  I met her one night in the University’s version of the Greenwich Village Cappuccino House.  
Barbara was truly one of your prototypical artsy “craftsy” individuals with that long straight hair down to the crimson crack of her bottom.  I met her the night
following her encounter in Saratoga with one Bobby Zimmerman.  She met Zimmerman during intermission when he came over to her table and started to flirt.  
Naturally he tried to pick her up.  He asked her if he could sleep over at her house between engagements.  She turned him down.  Good move!  Bob Zimmerman went
on to be Bob Dylan the following year.  I slept with Barbara Canavan the next night and two months later she was pregnant with Luke Lewis and not Luke Dylan.

I began a two year relationship with warm hearted Barbara who had recently been widowed and left with two adorable babes--twin boys ages 6.  Her husband had been a
history teacher.  He went to school one morning, said good-bye and she never saw him again.  He was killed on the way to school in an automobile accident.  

As I said, Barbara got pregnant and I panicked and let Joey Trillio pay for the abortion.  Shortly thereafter she started to date a Psychology Professor at the
University.  She eventually married him.  I kept in touch with Barbara during my stay in New York after Graduate School.  I lost track of her until twenty years later
when we met on a visit back to Albany.  Barbara had stayed married for about ten years.  She got divorced and remarried again and again.  When I saw her she had
been divorced for a second time.  She had abandoned the artsy “craftsy” way of life and had become a beautiful bureaucrat in
The Department of Health and Welfare
--with her Ph.D. and was Assistant to The Commissioner of Health (Death)  under Governor Mario Cuomo.

Alas, I graduate with dishonor and naturally that will bring up my favorite question “now what?”  I have a worthless BA in English and Philosophy.  I don’t want to
teach at the Secondary Level.  I get a silly notion in my head that I would like to go on to Graduate School and study Philosophy at the
University of Buffalo.  Come
next September I am off and chasing Achilles’ tortoise at the U of B.

Before I bury the undergraduate years forever and anon I must allude to one other incident that occurred during the great Blackout of 1965.  The Blackout occurred in
my senior year at
SUNY.  It was late in the afternoon, 5:20 to be exact.  We were partaking in a Philosophy Seminar with Dr. Lewe who just happened to be blind.  
When the lights failed he didn’t realize what had happened and kept right on lecturing in the dark.  Someone finally spoke up and told him in no uncertain ontological
terms that the lights were out.  There must have been a power failure.  He responded with his blind man’s bluff wry all knowing smile and said “that’s interesting, for
a blind man the lights are always out!”  With that bit of philosophical platitude he adjourned the class and led us single file through the darkness of the corridors.  He
was the only one of us that didn’t harbor that panicking feeling in the pit of our stomachs that we might be under a terrorist attack.  He took it all in his philosophical
stride.  He felt that it wasn’t going to be the end of the world as we knew it.  The seeing leading the blind, he gently led us safely from the building.

During the first week at U. of B. I met my roommate to be, Al Eber, a bubbly, fast talking, semi-balding, “rolly polly”, in constant motion, highly energized Jew from
the Flatlands of Brooklyn, New York.  Al’s only wet dream was to have a house in Scarsdale and a successful law practice on Wall Street.   In reality, he did just that
but on the West Coast instead because thirty five years later I finally tracked him down .  He had become a very successful lawyer for off-shore enterprises and a
specialist at helping those questionable types protect their wealth.  He was still married to Judy Osborn from his
SUNY at Buffalo days.  What a turn of events.  Two
years later, as he gradually became addicted to soft drugs; he abandoned his dream and went off to make a living as a hippie begging on the streets of India.  At this
stage I hadn’t yet “turned on and tuned out” but it seems that Al had been smoking grass from the back of his ass since the delightful age of fifteen.   I had gotten
drunk a few times and occasionally sick on beer and pretzels but for the most part I was a very light drinker.  Grass still seemed to be, in 1966 anyway, some
mysterious narcotic associated with musicians in Harlem.  I’m a few years older than my fellow graduate mates so once again, due to my army experience, I’m put in
the role of the Elder Statesman.

Al and I decide to room with each other on Park Avenue in downtown Buffalo which is a ten mile bus ride to the uptown Campus at Amherst, New York.  These are the
GO-G0 years.  S.D.S. (the radical left wing organization) is in full bloom at U. of B. having been imported, like German Beer, from Berkeley in California.  
U. of B. is known as the Berkeley of the East Coast.  It is a south paw school and most of the Philosophy and English Departments were strongly left footed and very
active in anti-government anti-bull shit.  Few days would pass without the Liberal Arts arm of the student body exploding into some sort of fracas or another, engaging
in sit-ins, teach-ins, be-ins, fuck-ins or participating in pitched battles with the police.  The
U. of B. Campus, like Columbia University, was a war zone of international
prospects and pivotal proportions with sharp political divisions between the ultra conservative Townies of Buffalo proper and the radical rabble rousers of
U. of “BB”.  
Police cars with sirens blaring dotted the political landscape at the Amherst Campus.  U.B. was a hot bed of sexual, political, drug and multi-media activity.  Post Hippie,
Post Beat Art and Literature flourished there.

It soon became apparent to me that I wasn’t going to be your scholar to be so I didn’t commit to the Ph.D. program under the guidance of the infamous Dr. Paul Kurtz
leader of the
Humanist Sceptical Movements.  I entered the Philosophy of Science Masters' Program for the reason that at the time I was in my own hot pursuit of the
Discontinuity of Time Flow and Infinitism.  I came to the realization that Relativity Theory was a limited theory and should not be considered to be factually descriptive
of the observable, semi-observable or for that matter unobservable universes.  

I had, by the time I arrived in Buffalo, completed my superficial analysis of the basic
Asymmetric nature of the universe and gave particular attention to the methods
of traveling backwards in time.  It would be another twenty five years in the future before I would consider the rather difficult project of synthesizing the hyper-active
Geometries needed to back the theory.  
Fractal Dimensions hadn’t been fully exploited by the middle 60’s even though Poincare had stumbled upon them almost a
century ago.  The time in the 60’s was not yet ripe for the combining of
Relativity Theory, Quantum Theory and the yet to be invented Chaos Theory.  The
philosophical bias in the 60’s, 70’s, 80’s and 90’ (and still a decade and a half into this century) was to embrace any theory which advocated the
Symmetric composition
of the universe.

It was apparent, to me anyway, that most of my fellow students were little scholars and were really into Philosophy.  I was quite detached and not assimilated.  I did
enjoy some of the courses except for language and logic propaganda of the
British Empiricist Schools.  It was obvious that if I was going to pursue a teaching-writing
career in Philosophy I would have to change my study habits and even open a book or two.  This was against my nature.  I flunked the French Orals Exam needed to
complete the Masters.  Otherwise I maintained a B+ average.  I secured all the credits for the Masters except for the French Revolution Requirement.  But I had made
a decision not to go on for a Ph.D. or rather Fate had made the decision for me.

END  OF  VOLUME  I          


                                  OMLET SMITHEE, PRINCE OF BAWDS

                                                     ACT I

                                                   SCENE I

(At a guard post, port side, outside the Village of White Plains.  Enter Bagel, Marshmallow, Horrendous and Accord in National Guardian Uniforms).

HORRENDOUS:              Such was the very Neo-Post Hippie garb upon his salty visage.  ‘Tis strange!

ACCORD:                       Twice before at this dreaded hour, he hath gone by our watch “flatulating” at his will.

HORRENDOUS:               In what particular thought to work I know not nor care to knoweth but in the scope of my most gross and dross limited opinion it betokens
some  strange paranoia in our collapsed stellar state.

ACCORD:                       Come and drink some wine on it for ‘tis of grosser vintage.  We get time and a half for this late hour stakeout.  Come Horrendous good fellow
fart, and one and all.  Why such cost and grand preparations for antimissile missiles, broken treaties and foreign trade implements of war?   
Why does yonder aircraft carrier steam to port?

MARSHMALLOW:         Why indeedee!  I beseech thee tell me or forever hold thy peace and thy good graces!  (Grabs Horrendous by his bony throat).

HORRENDOUS:              Cool it man!  Unhand mine groggy pate!  That I can tell you forthwith for it is not yet Classified Material.  As the gossip will have it our last
Dictator, Big Brother Daddy-Long-Legs Diamond, whose image might even now appear, was, as you know, by Lenny Bruce and his
descendants of Greenwich Village fame, thereto pricked on and accompanied by the most awesome hubris.  Then he did combat for six
minutes, Gentile Goyim Prince Valiant Omlet Smith.  Yea and Omlet did slay Lenny Diceman Bruce.  Then by a sealed compact vetoed by
the Russian Congressional Diet that finally approved cross-dressers using condoms in our Kingdom, did forfeit in a game of Panolopy of
Monopoly with the former Heavyweight Minister of Affairs, Kissoff, all his lands, gainsays, power, Baltic Place and Jill St. Gwenivere’s great
Dane.  And it doth well appear, until out of state, to recover alas, by dirty hands and dirty tricks, all those aforementioned lands in terms
most compensatory.  Thus well done this is the main lei-motif for our War Summit preparations and dress rehearsals.

HORRENDOUS:              Bull shitty!!!  A mote it is to trouble the mind’s eye!  For it is in the most high and mighty Peace City, a little ere the night rest fell; that the
graves stood tenantless and the sheeted dead did squeak and gibber.

BAGEL:                          O man shut up for God’s left bodkins!!!  I’m trying to get some shut-eye!  (Enter McGhost Heroin-Cocaine--with adjoining howling winds
accompanying him and blowing him forth forthwith).  But soft, behold!  Here comes that smelly bastard again!!

HORRENDOUS:              I’ll goose it good if it sasses me anon!  “Get away your Holy Sotness!!  If thou’st has’t any complaint speak to God’s twat not to I or thine.
That there be any rancor thing under the Devil’s Blue Sky that can do thee harm and grace to me, speak, dolt!!!  If thou’st has’t to accost thy
outhouse it’s over there in yonder bush.  Or do thou like a beggar come, be-looking for a handout or for thy last welfare check?!  Speak!!!!!  If
thy has’t uphoarded in thy life, treasure trove from thy tomb, for which they say you lottery free spirits oft walk the night and get your kicks;
speak of it or get thee hence!!”  (All four kick and punch McGhost.  An alarm clock rings).

BAGEL:                          Pinch it Marshmallow!

MARSHMALLOW:         Shall I waste it with my unregistered Saturday Night Special?

BAGEL:                         ‘Tis here!

MARSHMALLOW:        ‘Tis there!

ACCORD:                     ‘Tis somewhere!  ‘Tis elsewhere in my underwear!

HORRENDOUS:              Thank God ‘tis nowhere in Otherware!

(Exit McGhost Heroin-Cocaine, highly pissed offeth).

ACCORD:                     We do it wrong, being so farcical in appearance, to offer it the show of our collective anus arms and the back of our hands; for he was all for all
a pacifist Ghost and our vain blows betoken a malicious mockery.

BAGEL:                          It was about to speaketh when that dammed alarm clock went offeth!

HORRENDOUS:             And then it started like a guilty thing upon a fearful summons.  I have here, the Cock, that is the strumpet of the morn.  (Grabs his crotch).

ACCORD:                      But soft, belook!  Thy morning in russet mantle clad is climbing over yonder hill and walks o’er the dew of Yonder Mall.  Let’s break up this
bull shit session and by my ignoble advice let us impart what we have seen tonight to young Omlet Smithee of White Plains.  For upon my
hoary life this dumb spirit will speaketh to him.  Do ye consent that we confront him with it?

MARSHMALLOW:         As needful in our loves and befitting our sacred duties.

BAGEL:                           Let’s do I pray.  We shall find him, not unlikely in there (pointing) writing his Ph.D. Thesis in the Castle John.

(All kiss, hug, embrace.  Exit.  Double flourish with trumpet and saxophone accompaniment).

(A triple flourish.  Enter Trixon, Trixon’s wife, Petty Polly Polly Folly, Omlet, Felonious, Lard-Ass, Voltmeter, Horny Whistleblowers, Lords,
Attendants, assorted Fops, Senators, Representatives, Supreme Court Judges in drag and the Court Playboy Bunnies).

PRESIDENT:                  Though yet of late Omlet, our dear brethren’s assassination memory be green now let us befitted to beat our meat in grief and forever hold our
peace.  Our whole nation is Lorentzian contracted in one massive brew of grief that so far as discretion have fought with nature; that we would
unwisely with our joint sorrows have forgotten together with remembrances of ourselves.  Therefore, our sometimes sister, now my Queen, the
The sad-eyed Imperial Mistress of the Lowlands, has in her way with beseeched joy and through an ostentatious and lusty eye, with death in
marriage like a horseless carriage and life in funerals, taken with equal pride, taken the former, a better course, taken me a wife!  Nor have I
herein gathered your better wisdom for you have freely gone along with this mourning affair long enough and we give you thanks.  That is to
say Omlet, enough is enough!!!

Now follows, that you know young Finklestein, holding a weak supposal of our worth or thinking about our late dear brother’s death, our state
demanding the surrender of the Palestinian Lands, lost by thy father at the Russian Peace Orgy.  To our most valiant brother I drink to thee
and thine very own.  So much for him and now to the drossest affairs of my own Estate and the reason for this press conference.  In other
words Omlet, bugger off!!

This much the business is: we have here an amendment to the Bill of Rights abolishing all rights put forth by the young Sodom Sadam
Finklestein, who impotent and bedridden with a malady, scarcely is able to self-abuse himself nor hear our peace pleas and of this his nephew’s
purpose.  To suppress his further gait herein and to extract the levies, tolls and taxes and other list of just proportions to be made at will and
jostled from his lowly subjects.  We would here dispatch you good Horny, Whistleblower and you good Voltmeter for bearers of these tidings to
Peking.  Giving you Sirrah no personal power save but the scope of these self-imposed limitations.  Fare thee well and may your foolishness  
commend you withal!

(Turns to Polly Folly and tweaks her tits and she grabs his crotch--both giggle and snort.  Makes lewd gestures to the Court).

HORNY AND VOLTMETER:  (Together in harmony)    In that and in all things do we show our further ignorance.  My Grace I thought you would never shut up
                           and give us leave!

KING:                           We doubt it nothing asunder.     (Aside).      But the doubt with which the doubter doubts, is it not the doubt?  No doubt!   (To Horny and
Voltmeter)        Heartily farewell!!        (King boots them out the door).  (Exit Voltmeter and Horny with Trixon’s size 15 up their asses).

KING:                           And now Lard-Ass what’s the news with you?  How’re they hanging eh?  You told us of some new space suit you bought.  You cannot simply
speak in tongues to the Viet Bongos.  Speak up Lard-Ass!  Take thou thumb from thou’st mouth!  What woulds’t thou have?

LARD-ASS:  (Aside).    Your death and wife my Lord!        (To Trixon).    A three day pass by your leave to return to the other side of Midnight from whence by force
I came to your stinker shores with right arm extended to I know not where .  For I had a dream once--to play the tuba at your Coronation
Orgy.  Yet no, I must needs be confess, my own thing done, my thoughts and wicker (grabs his codpiece) bend towards France.  I must submit to
your gracious leave and ask for an unconditional pardon.

TRIXON:                     Have you your old man’s leave?        Come, what say you Felonious?

FELONIOUS:               The whimpering brat, hath my Lord, wrung from me his allowance two weeks in advance.  I do beseech thee give him leave to go.

TRIXON:                     Get thee hence Lard-Ass!  Time be thine for ‘tis not mine unless I’m divine and thy best graces spend it as thy will.  But now my cousin
Omlet and my bastard goes it with you?

OMLET: (Astride).       A little less than pissed or kind and more than just kin folk.

TRIXON:                     How is it that you still wet your bed?

OMLET:                      Not so, my Lord:  Only my diapers perspire in the sun now!

QUEEN:                      Good Omlet, cast off thy clothes and join our nude soiree society and let thy eyes look upon bodies of friend and foe alike.  Do not forever with  
          thy veiled lids seek for thy addictive father in the dust.  Thou’st must know that he was a child abuser and a common pimp.  All that die must
          live.  Passing their urine in the Big John in Thy Sky.

OMLET:                      Aye, Madam.  It is common if it be common be!

POLLY FOLLY:         Then why seems it so particulate with thee?

OMLET:                      Seems, Madam, Seems!  Dam well is !!!  I know not seems!  ‘Tis not alone my stinking cloak, good mother, nor mini-skirts of solemn black,
nor windy suppositories, nor my bad breath nor yours.  No, nor the fruitful river of the eye, nor the dejected visage, together with all forms,
moods, shapes of grief, aspirations, ennui, anxiety complexities, compulsions, obsessions, dread, fear and trembling, nausea, vomit, psycho
semantics and hypochondria--these are states that seem and they can surely denote and connote me truly.  These indeed seem, for they are
actions a soap box opera actor might mimic at the Living Theater and perhaps nigh on Broadway.   But I have that within that passeth all show.
It is but the droppings of a wanton sow.

TRIXON THE 1ST:     ‘Tis sweet and commendable in your nature Omlet, but true poetry is in the piety of pity not in the mourning!  Tsk, Tsk, Tsk!  To give these
mourning becomes Electra duties to your old man--five minutes is enough man!  You must know, that your father killed, killed a father, that
father killed, killed another, that one slain slew his and the survivor bound in filial obligation for some term to do obsequious sorrows; but to
make an ass of one’s self, ‘tis unmanly grief.  It shows a dirty mind as well as conceals dirty underwear, an unprincipled and unschooled idiot
with a simpleton’s mind!  Why take it to heart old boy?!  Que serai, serai and all that French rot!  Come, light up a joint with us, snort some
crackers and sniff Elmer’s Glue ere the light of day persists.  Get high!  For let the world take note.  You are the most immediate to the throne
and the only one here that’s straight.  (Omlet moves towards the Throne Commode with a possessive obscene gesture).

TRIXON:                   Not yet old boy!  Don’t be impatient!  They’ll be plenty of time to sleep with your mother when I’m on my two year junket sabbatical leave
courtesy of the hapless taxpayer.  Don’t spoil a good thing!  If good it be.  (Takes his rusty staff and wraps Omlet over the head forcing him awa
from his groin).  Remember, I’m still King Turd around here!  I didn’t marry your mother or kill your father just for tax purposes!  


OMLET:                     (Aha!  Mark that!   Something stinketh in the Pentagon!!!!)

TRIXON:                    Are you going to the Howling Poetry Reading of the Pentecostal Papers by Judge Ruby Ginsberg at Queens College?

OMLET:                      I’ll wait till they give back the college to the college.

TRIXON:                    Well said Omlet!!!  Good show!!!...You dawdling Dildo!!  My dear, sweet, lovable, inimitable, stone-faced, motherly Omlet!!!!!  We beseech you to
stay hereth during Intercession.

PETTY POLLY:           Let not thy mother lose her panties Omlet.  I pray that thee stayeth with useth.  Goeth noteth to the annual Fuck For All Parade and protest
overly much.

OMLET:                      Ok mom!    TRIXON:   Well said again my boy!!!  Why ‘tis a fair and academically sound conclusion!  Come Madam we are missing our
              favorite Talk Show, Oprahditz.  (Double Flourish.  Exit all but Omlet).

OMLET:                      Oh that this too, too, too, too two-by-four solid flesh would thaw and resolve itself anew!  O for Christ Sakes Omlet, you’re not going to start
feeling sorry for yourself?  Oh shit, shit, shit, how bored and filled with unremitting ennui I am!  Fuck it!  Fuck it all!!  Life ‘tis but an
“undeodorized” latrine!!!  Filled with the scum of a thousand bathtubs!  That I should come to this!  I feel like a Bronx Bagel.  I would marry a
whore if I could but find one.  The Old Fart dead two months.  It must have been her time of the month that drove him to the sticky place.
Absurdity!  Thy name is Woman!  All laugh while she, even she, Oh God!  A beast that wants Intercourse with Reason would have waited
longer.  Married her other son!  Nay my grandmother’s grandson: but lo just like my dear old dad, yet no more to my father than I to Joe
DiMaggio.  Within a month's month!  Ere yet the salt of her self righteous tears have been duly flushed from her mascara laddered eyes she
got a divorce!    O most wicked speed!!  Cauldron, cauldron, bubble, bubble, toil and trouble, toil and trouble!  To post such dexterity under the
incestuous sheets!  Karma Sutra, Karma Sutra, it cannot nor will not come to good!  But though my bladder breaketh I will hold my ionized
Goethe heavy water!  

(Enter Horrendous, Marshmallow, Bagel and Accord).

HORRENDOUS:          Hail to your mother!

OMLET:                       What?  Are you stoned!?     HORRENDOUS:    Stoned as a bone my Lord and your wrecked servant ever!

OMLET:                       It matters not, not that it really matters!  Sirrah, my good fellow, I’ll change clothes with you!  What do’est thou north of Yonkers?  Are you
quite bonkers my lads?  Do trees still grow in Brooklyn?  Come I prithee tell me the news of my far flunged Kingdom?

HORRENDOUS:           My good Omlet, my dear, sweet, gay, fat, lovely Omlet (pinches Omlet’s cheeks until Omlet’s tongue darts from his mouth).

OMLET:                       I’m glad to see you.  But what the Hell are you doing here?

HORRENDOUS:           Split my Lord!  Resigned our Posts!    And on our way to yonder deli to fill our bellies.

OMLET:                       I wouldn’t let my mother know that!  Nor should you do me violence if I tell her.  Have you some ill-begotten love affair brewing in our fair
County?  Or are Ye bound for the County Fair?  We’ll take a trip ere you depart.  (Astride)   (“Sniff some Gluon”).

HORRENDOUS:           My Lord, I cometh to killeth your old man!!

OMLET:                       I pray thee, I pray thee do not mock me fellow fart head!!  I think it was to see my mother nude!

HORRENDOUS:           Indeedee!  It was in my mind’s eye!

OMLET:                       For shame Horrendous!!  The funeral orgy did coldly furnish the marriage tables.  Oh if only I had seen the light at the end of the Mid-Town
Tunnel.  If only I hadn’t missed the subway that night Horrendous!!  Oh my Papa!  Oh my papa!!  Me thinks I see me father!!

HORRENDOUS:           Oh, your father, where my Lord?

OMLET:                       (Gooses Horrendous).  There, Horrendous, there!!!! (Horrendous jumps).

HORRENDOUS:           I saw the old boy once.  He was a drunken sow!

OMLET:                       Drunk or not he was an April fool’s fool!  Take him for what you will.  I hope to not look upon his salty visage ere I depart this world.

HORRENDOUS:           My Lord, I think I saw him yester year.  But perhaps I was mistaken.  It could have been The Lone Ranger!    It did wear a mask!

OMLET:                       (Distracted)        Saw!        Saw, “WHOM”?

HORRENDOUS:            You mean “WHO?

OMLET:                        If I had wanted a grammar lesson I would have consulted Strunk and E.B. White!  Get on with it Jack O’ Napes!

HORRENDOUS:            My Lord, the King your father.

OMLET:                        The King my father.        (Starts to croon “Oh my papa...” until Horrendous boxes his ears).

HORRENDOUS:            Hold your tongue Knave O’Japes for I have more to impart!

OMLET:                        For God’s sultry bodkins let me hear it!

HORRENDOUS:           Two nights to the day have I slept with these marvelous gentlemen and we have been stoned for the better part of the weekend in the East
Village.  In the dead vastness of the barren Bowery landscape we saw an illusion, a figure of speech, an Oxymoron did materialize, like your
father, armed to the teeth with a golden tennis racket, socket wrenches, silver medallion, M-1 Rifle and shoulder to air Rocket launchers
around his nubby throat.  He farted twice, nay thrice and then some.  ‘Tis indeed smelt like your father was wont to smelt in his better days.
These three told me about this video tape so I watched the DVD the third night.  Sure enough it came to pass.  It did its thing and left.  I sweare
to God and hope to live!

OMLET:                       Where was this concerted Concert Freak-Out?

MARSHMALLOW:       My Lord, upon some rain drenched farm stage at Woodstock.

OMLET:                        Did you curse upon it?

HORRENDOUS              My. Lord, I did goose it but good and four and six pence.  It gave me the middle finger but yet once me thought it belched and made like it
would vomit.  Then my dam alarm clock went offeth.  It hobbled away and vanished from my sight.

OMLET:                         Zwounds!  Sounds like you whoresons had a good time last night!

ACCORD:                     As I do live and breathe my honored Lord, we did!!

BAGEL:                         We thought it best to let you in on some of the fun.

OMLET:                         Indeedee sirs!!  Would I have been there he would have spoke to me!!  Hold you another Stone-In tonight?

MARSHMALLOW:        Same time, same watch station, my Lord!

OMLET:                        Armed with two six guns and a sawed-off sword you say?

BAGEL:                         Aye he was packing a rod.

OMLET:                        A bullet proof vest?

MARSHMALLOW:       Nay, a catcher’s codpiece for a mask.

OMLET:                        Then you did not see his face?

HORRENDOUS:            Oh no my Lordy, his head was severed from his trunk and his arse sat upon the missing pate.

OMLET:                        I wonder if he was laughing?

BAGEL:                        No doubt he was in hysterics!

OMLET:                        Bloody and decayed?

HORRENDOUS:            Nay, putrid and horny.

OMLET:                        Smoking an opium pipe?

ACCORD                      That’s himeth!

OMLET:                        Did you make a buy?

BAGEL:                        Did you make a score?

HORRENDOUS:           Yes, I did my Lord Shitsy.

OMLET:                       Disgusting!!    How long did his remains remain thus?

HORRENDOUS:         ‘Till it was time to go my Lord!

MARSHMALLOW AND ACCORD:    He did indeedee overdo his own thing.  Stayed longer than his limited warranty demanded.

OMLET:                      Was he a clean shaven Maven?     Was there an Indian Scout named Tonto by his side?

ACCORD:                   Aye my Lord, a black beard with an Indian Scout behind.

OMLET:                      That settles it!     I’m coming over to freak out at your pad tonight!  Perchance God is not dead after all!  He may be just a wandering Jewish
Ghost in the collective Jungian unconsciousness!  Perchance we’ll all trip out tonight!

HORRENDOUS:          I doubt nothing.

OMLET:                      If it assumes my old man’s visage I’ll piss on it though Hell itself freezes over!  I pray for you all.  Don’t spread this gossip for whatever passeth
tonight for good sense none shall understand.  I will repay your loyalty with my love but not with my ailing tongue for in this day and age it is
most dangerous.  So fare thee well April Fools.  Your place at 11 O’clock high.

ALL:                           What an honor!?

OMLET:                      I love you all.  Farewell.  (Omlet kisses and hugs them.  Exit all but Omlet breaking out in song, singing a Nitty Ditty-In-The-Round).

" My old man packing six guns
With bleeding gums at high noon!
All is well
Or it dam well better be!
Round yon virgin
Going to get me a piece of ass tonight.
All is tepid all is  bright.
(Repeats) For round yon virgin
Surem I’ll screw tonight".

I feareth a triple play!  Would the party were now!  ‘Till then I’ll sleep it off on yonder bench for foul deeds lie ahead!  Though all the earth o’er
whelm them!  (Exit after tripping over a garbage can).

SCENE II:                 (A small room in Felonious’ crash pad.  Enter Lard-Ass and Candy-Ass).

LARD-ASS:               Alas and alacken!  I doubt everything!  I even doubt Descartes!  As for Omlet, tease him and toy with his affections, a pacifist bitch of squeamish
nature.  Give but a glimpse but no more.  A little legen perhaps, a little bosom perhaps!  But keepen your legs crossed!

CANDY-ASS:             No more, but why?

LARD-ASS:               Think upon it thusly.  Perhaps he really loves me; or perhaps he only wants to fuck me?  What’s the real difference?  How much is his net worth?
Is he one of the famed Four Hundred?  Does he appear at least once a week on the cover of TIME Magazine, WOMAN’S WEAR DAILY or on talk
shows?  For surely he will either be respected or rejected out of hand.  Has he the same desires as you and I?  For you must needs be remember
that he was a congenital, perverted idiot from birth!  On his shoulders lies the fault for this sexy bureaucracy. He’s been circumcised with a pencil
sharpener and his hapless brain scanned.

So if he says “I love you”, reiterating on a previous theme already touched upon, he really wants to fuck you.  If it fits your purpose to be
particular where you submit--some motel mote perhaps but not on New Year’s Eve for Auld Ang Zion in Central Park.  For then the whole
Reformed Welfare State is in double jeopardy and a lot more will be at stake than just your crimson maidenhead revisited or a balanced Federal
Budget--if you with too loose and ad hoc free desire, smoke his joints or lose your reserve and spread your thighs at the wrong time.  Regret it not
my dear sexist sister, Candy.  Keep a birth pill in thy cleavage of thy bosom of thy power wonder bra--out of sight, out of dirty minds.  Not to
belabor the point-- a point once well maken, do not striptease unless needs be.  Be wary then, but still sexy.  Use your chastity belt for remember
chastity belts save two out of three virgins.

CANDY-ASS:             I shall do as I am royally bidden and keepen a pill concealed in the bosom of my gown to surely defeat Omlet’s purple pinion.  But my good
brother, do not as they say some Pastors do, show me the steep and horny way to Hell while they make theirs to Heaven living like puffed out

LARD-ASS:               (With an innocent smirk upon his grimy pate).  Who me?!  Trust me not!  I stay too long for here comes the Day.

(Enter Felonious)

FELONIOUS:             What, you maggot!!  Still here?  A double entendre is a double play is a double play, say what you will.

LARD-ASS                There’s no alternate side of the street parking today Sirrah!

FELONIOUS:             I thought you were on your three day pass.  Still here?  Out, out brief candelabra!!  For shame!!  The hot air puffs your chest and sits on yonder   
Candy tits!  Sail ho!!  What are you hanging about for you dangling preposition?  (Slaps Lard-Ass’ face).  There, a slap for thee!!!  And these few
Axioms keep in thy purse.  They and a nickel might get you a ride on the Staten Island Ferry!  Be a wise guy.  Give no thought to thought.  Nor
think of thought while thinking.  Be familiar with the vulgar.  Give up thy friends to thine enemies’ list and dine with fiends and consort with
ginks.  Gird their loins with words of steel.  But do not dull thy palm with your private parts nor solitary entertainment or retribution.  Give
friends, Romans, Countrymen and Republicans your ears but few thy sweat of thy balls.  Forget the censors and disregard judges, editors,
publishers and critics.  Pay for what you will but steal when you can.  Rich and expensive wardrobes and gaudy as the tasteless styles dictate for
clothes make th man a woman.  Be a unisex Scrooge.  Neither an Indian Giver or a lender be.  For loans are often as not never repaid and that is
how it should be as it is in Heaven and as it is in all things.  But this above all things, to be or not to be, and it must follow as lust follows upon
lusting; thou cans’t be a mistress to just any man!  Name your price!  Fare thee well my bambino!  My hard-on is in thee!!

LARD-ASS:              Gladly do I take me leave.

FELONIOUS:            Time flies!

LARD-ASS:              As well it should in your presence Sirrah!  Fare thee well, Candy and remember well what I have said to you.

CANDY-ASS:          ‘Tis in my bosom placed.

LARD-ASS:              Fare thee well sweet nothings!

FELONIOUS:            Marry, what’s in thy bosom child?  Pray thee tell!  (Lard-Ass finally makes it offstage after doing a few sit-ups).

CANDY:                   Why my tits my Lord, my tits!!! (Looking down her blouse).  But nay if you please my Lord.  It is about Lord Omlet.  Of late my Lord...

FELONIOUS:            Well, you don’t say...!

CANDY:                   (Continues the thread of her speech). ...of late I have been to Lover’s Lane with him.

FELONIOUS:            Are there such places in thy Kingdom Come yet?  Did you get laid?  If it be more serious than this don’t put me on for I too have designs for the
young, hot, lascivious Omlet.  So give me the truth, my pinion’s honor is at stake.  (Looks to and scratches his crotch).

CANDY:                    My Lord (pointing) what honor is it that resides there Sirrah!!  But he of late hath attempted to rape me!

FELONIOUS:            Mark that!!  Rape!!  Rape of your locks I suppose!!  You speak in tongues like a wanton bitch!  You overripe tartress!!  You believe in these   
advances as you call them?

CANDY:                    I do not know my Lord.  I am confused.  What should I thinkest thou when in church he pulls my skirt cap-a-pie above my head and confesses a
certain hunger?  Should I call it rape, starvation or religion!?  Or the rape of religion!!!  Or simply sixty-nine in the chapel?

FELONIOUS:            If thou’st will bend over I’ll teach you the difference between rape and religion thou slutty cow!!  And as for Omlet, I’ll teach him how to rape!!!
You are but a babe in the woods!  Do you take his snickering for true lust?  Guard your body more succinctly.  Or to plagiarize another phrase, to
be a phrase monger, rendering it thusly: render unto Omlet what’s not yours to give and render unto yourself, his self--rendering it thusly or
you’ll render me a self-referential fool!!!

CANDY:                   My Lord, it is difficult to render one a Fool who is already a Fool’s plaything!   He hath too attempted rape in a fashion!

FELONIOUS:           Aye, fashion you may call it!  I thinks he looks ridiculous.  Nude!  Spiked hair ranging from skull cap-a-pie to his rectangular purple Carmel
colored shoes!

CANDY:                   He swears his love in seven sacred languages and seals it with seven Holy Cows and forty Wows!!!

FELONIOUS:           Horse shitty!!!!!  To coin another phrase.  Omlet is young and fat.  His vows are those of but a pious bawd or of an honest pawnbroker at best!  He’s
nothing but a pious Jew from Malta!  A fat slob!  Piteous prig!!  A self-fulfilling prophecy!  I don’t want to see him mount you again!!  Keepen your
no  nonsense legs crossed both in and out of church!  Mind you this!!!

CANDY:                  I’ll shall try my ignoble Lord!        (Exeunt Candy swinging her sexy ass).

SCENE IV.              (A platform below an arch in Washington Square Park, enter Marshmallow, Bagel, Omlet, Accord, Horrendous and Doorwoman all in a super
conducting sweat).

OMLET:                  I’m freezing my frigging balls off!!!

HORRENDOUS:      It is a wee bit nippy.

OMLET:                  When the fucketh is he going to show up?     What hour is it?

HORRENDOUS:      My watch can nary tell the time.  It’s stoppeth!  Time dilates!

MARSHMALLOW:  I’ll dilate your asshole in a minute you whoreson faggot!  It’s about eleven past 11:00.

HORRENDOUS:       Indeedee!  Your atomic flavored watch is a miracle to behold!  It draws near the season when that wonton wanton foolish bastard is wont to roam
and walk the night.  Drop some acid and perchance we’ll hallucinate it into existence, (A series of multi-media flashbulbs go off within.  A blast of
electric guitars, anti-farts and anti-ballistic missiles are shot off without).

ACCORD:                What dost this mean man?

OMLET:                    The King doth take his spouse to a drunken orgy.  The missiles sound the beginning of the screwing on the mountain’s summit.

HORRENDOUS:        Is it custom?  

OMLET:                   Why yeah...if it custom be.  I was going to make a longer speech on the subject matter but this First Act doth run on too long anon.  My intellect at
such times fails me.  (Enter McGhost Heroin Cocaine The Ist--in the nude).

HORRENDOUS:        Look man, there it is!!!

OMLET:                    Well I’ll be damned!!!  Be thou a spirit of health or a goddamen Halloween goblin?  Bring with you perfumes from Heaven or farts from Hell?
(McGhost farts twice).  Be thy gay or straight?  Thou has’t a most abominable shape!  I shall speak to thee bombastard!  Shall I call thee Omlet
after myself, dolt, or douche bag!?  O answer !!!!!  What the fucketh are you doing here!?  O answer me!!!  I thought I would never have to look at
thee again!  What may this mean?  Thou dead corpse cavorting around in the nude!  What would Canadian Customs sayeth?  What would the
Society For The Prevention of Nudity Among Corpse’s say?  Here is a fig leaf for thee thou hideous baggage!!!  (Pokes McGhost with his silver
tipped spear.  McGhost farts again but says nothing, then belches).  Back to Nature with thee O baggage head!!!!!.  Why do thou buggest me so?

(McGhost beckons Omlet to follow him by tickling him under his chin dredlocks anon).

HORRENDOUS:        It beckons you to away with it.  Like you were some fallen Faust.  As if it were guided by desire for you and you alone, albeit said.

MARSHMALLOW:   It beckons you to some yonder rendezvous.

ACCORD:                 But pray thee do not go.  Stayeth with useth soul brother.

BAGEL:                     No, by all the mean mad pi mesons go!!  I am not jealous!

OMLET:                    Jesus Christo!  Jealous of a Ghost with transparent balls!!!  You are sick!  Follow it I must!!  Away scurvs!!

HORRENDOUS:        Let the pinhead go!

OMLET:                    And why not!  It won’t cause a Recession!!  A Water’s Gate!  What should be the fear but fear itself!?  I know karate, serate, judo and koko
moodo and other forms of violent defensive offensives diplomatic strategies.  Besides, it’s right here in the script.  (Omlet goes offstage to get a
copy of the script and reads from therein herein).  (“Follow the fucking Ghost you meathead!”).  (Omlet does a few classical headstands, knee
jerks and wind sprints-- a few more disgusting tricks and then falls on his fat ass).

O well, I set my life at a pin’s fee anyway!  And as for my horny soul, who gives a flying fuck for that!!!!  It gives me the evil eye once again.  I’ll
follow it.  I have nothing better to do for after all I’m only a politician at heart.  Wasting my time as well as yours is my way of life.

ACCORD:                You Ghoul's left bodkin!!  What if it tempt you towards Tut’s Krypton Crypt? Or beyond Death’s door on yonder cliff?  Or to some graveyard flea
market?  What if it becomes familiar and grabs you in the dead of night and deprives you of your virginity?  Think on it!  What if it steal the little
bit of reason you possess?

OMLET:                    Reason is no great loss!!  It waves to me still in the still of the night.  So on fair fellow; I’ll follow thee.  Sartorus Resorus brothers!!

MARSHMALLOW:   My Lord, be gone with thee!!   (Pushes Omlet).

OMLET:                    Unhand me!!  (Slaps Marshmallow).

OMLET:                    Unhand me!!        (Slaps Horrendous).

OMLET:                    My fate cries out!! Unhand me fops!!!  By Heaven I’ll make a ghost of he who touches me again!!!  I say away!!  So on, I’ll follow thee!!
(Horrendous, Accord, Bagel, Marshmallow and Doorwoman kick and punch McGhost and Omlet till they are offstage).

HORRENDOUS:        Have after him!  Tally ho and all that British Thatcher Continental rot!!!  To what issue will this come?

MARSHMALLOW:    Omlet must have farted!

ACCORD:                  Let’s follow and see what happens apace.

BAGEL:                     We’ll follow the odor!

HORRENDOUS:         Nay, we’ll follow him!  For to follow the rich and famous in life is to follow their fatuous egotistical odors!

SCENE IV:                 (Another part of the Bowery.  Enter Omlet and one pissed off Ghost dressed in tie-dyed pantaloons, black mesh stockings, garter belt and high
heels.  Omlet has a black cape draped about him with all the philosophers' names written in luminous chalk and sports a jeweled loin cloth).

OMLET:                     For surem, today’s bagels are tomorrow’s microwave French fries!  Where in blazes are you going?  Speak!!!  I’ll go no further North!  You’re
off-sides!!  I’m not Robert Frost!!  This is not the path not taken me laddie!!!

GHOST:                     Marke me!!!

OMLET:                    (With shovel of shit in his hand).  By God I’ll smash thee!!!!!

GHOST:                     My hour is almost come.  Whence I to sulfurous spleen and tormenting flames must render up to Caesar’s mother, myself.

OMLET:                    Up yours Putz!!!!!  You dead Puffka!!! (Extending middle fingers of both forearms thusly).  Alas poor slob!!!

GHOST:                    Pity me not but listen!

OMLET:                   Speaketh upeth man!!!

GHOST:                   So art thou to revenge when thou shalt hear what thou shalt hear.

OMLET:                   Spit it out maggot breath!  Revenge what?

GHOST:                   I am a holy ghost's gonads, thy father; doomed to walk my dog around and around Central Park forever.  I fast on Matzo Balls and dine on chopped
liver.  ‘Till all my foul goodness done in my days of nature’s prime are burned and purged away.  But that I am forbid to tell the secrets of my
Byronic charnel prison.  I could however give you a sneak preview.  It will make thy short hairs stand on end, standing now though they be.
(Points to Omlet’s cod riveting crotch).  Make thy two pot eyes start from their orbital spheres!!!  If thou dost ever love thy old man--

OMLET:                   O really father!!  Bugger off!!!

GHOST:                   Revenge my foul and most unnatural rape!!

OMLET:                   Rape!!!!!  Dost everyone in my Kingdom Come claim rape!!!!

GHOST:                   Dost thy mock me too!?  That’s what I said dum dum, rape!!!  Most foul, strange and unnatural Rape!!!

OMLET:                   Let me know who did what, to whom, by what authority, so that I might sit on them!

GHOST:                   I find thee fat enough for my revenge!!  And duller thou be than a stout weed!!  Now then Omlet, listen.  For I’ve oft been misquoted in the TIMES.
While sleeping in my orchard a Coxcomb stung me on the arse.  So I even then decided to run for the Presidency.  But know ye this, this Coxcomb
that did rape me now wears my crown!!!

OMLET:                   God bless my Fillet of Soul’s Hole!!!  Saints preserve us!!!  Truculent Trixon!!!!!

GHOST:                  Aye, that lecherous, rambunctious, adulterated, decaffeinated Republican Beastie with cyclamate breath!!!!  O wicked wuss that has the power to
consummate at will and so to seduce, has won through his shameful lust the virginity of a most seemingly virtuous Queen!!  O Omlet, what a let
down it was!!  For I who love dignity before honor and thought that both went hand in hand.  To lose her to a Kavetch!!!  Thou lewdness takes shape
in Heaven, so that lust and angel dust is linked.  Angels sate themselves in celestial beds while drinking ambrosia chasers from Homer’s Cup.  But
soft, me thinks I scent the morning air.  Brief brief let me be like yonder candle and then away!  Array!

As usual, while sleeping in my hammock in the Rose Garden, thy Uncle stole a love potion and poured it down my Portonoy Pantaloons.  It passeth
quickly through my bladder.  I freaked out and died of constipation.  Thus was I, while sleeping, by brother’s dish pan hands, sped from life, liberty
and the pursuit of happiness, of crown, thorns, harem--at once dispossessed.  A Virgin!!!  A Virgin!!!  A Kingdom for a Virgin!!!!!

If thou hast any royal balls boy feare him not!!!  Let not thy Bowling Green become a nudist colony!!!  But whatever thou doest doest quickly.  And
prick your mother in the bust for me for auld ang zhine sakes.  Fare thee well fat fellow!!!  Big Ben shows the morning to be near. I have a hangover
and a brunch date with Dracula Stoker.  Adios Amigo!!!  Remember dear old dad this Father’s Day!!!  (Ghost mounts his bedraggled horse with no
name and shouts a mighty "Heigh Ho Silver Away", and speeds into the ashen night).  "Hi Ho Silver Away Array"!

OMLET:                By Jesus he’ll not get away with this!!  Or that either!!  O humbug!  Dam wino!!  What else?  Me thinketh the Ghost doth protest too much!!!
Remember thee indeedee!!  Do you think on the tablecloth of memory I have room for such trivial pursuit?  Perchance bureaucratic record keeping?
That thy commandment above all else shall live and take precedence?  Poppycock!! (Ghost reappears).  No, by Heaven, I’ll remember or revenge thee
not you libelous snot!!  O vipers k’diapers and villains apace!!!  Away!  Away!!  Array!!

My glasses if you please.  Mete it is as I set it down thusly; that one may be bearded, nude and still be labeled a bureaucrat.  So you are Unc.  Unc,
take thou’st that (slaps Ghost) and that (slaps Ghost thrice forbidden compulsory).

Now to my word.  It is Shalom!!!!!!  Shalom!!!!!!  O Ghost remember this!  (Kicks Ghost)  I sweare you’ll not easily forget!!!

(Horrendous, Marshmallow, without).  HORRENDOUS & MARSHMALLOW:  (Together).

My Lord, my Lord!  (Enter Horrendous and Marshmallow).  Lord Omlet, hello hah!

HORRENDOUS:   There’s that Lune’s ass!!

OMLET:                 (Reading the
VILLAGE VOICE upside down since it doesn’t make much difference which way you read it).

MARSHMALLOW: Hi-ho Silver my Lord!

OMLET:                  Hi Ho your ass!!! I’m over here!!

MARSHMALLOW:  How is it with you my noble Lord?

OMLET:                   I’m okay, you’re okay, how isn’t it with you my most ignoble Lords?

HORRENDOUS        What’s new and exposed in

OMLET:                   Same old right wing bull shit!!!

HORRENDOUS         A good critique!  Tell us anyway!

OMLET:                    It’s not worth repeating much less reading and repeating!

MARSHMALLOW:   Come on ole buddy let the public decide!

OMLET:                    You’ll only spread the news.

HORRENDOUS:        Not I, my Lord!

OMLET:                    Scout’s Honor!  (Aside) To coin a Russian phrase.

HORRENDOUS & MARSHMALLOW  (Giving the Scout’s Salute).  Scout’s Honor!!!  We do beseech thee!!

OMLET:                    Okay!  There’s n’er a General dwelling in the Pentagon whose asshole isn’t in the military!!!

HORRENDOUS:        You bubble shit, you’re putting us on!  There needs be no Black Ghost from the pits of Harlem's graves to tell us this!!!

OMLET:                    Well, all’s well that ends well!  I hold that we all take our video games and go home.  You Sirrahs as your business directs and I sirs as my desire
points.  For you have a business and I have a desire thus making both of us comrades in business and desire.  Such being the case, supported by a
premise stated earlier in this Act; you go that-a-way while I go this-a-way and I’ll be in Westchester afore ye!!!

HORRENDOUS:        These are but the terse, wild, wooly and worthless words of an Existential Phenomenologist Terrorist my Lord!!

OMLET:                    So they are!  I hope my tautologies offend thee!!!

HORRENDOUS:        It’s not, my Lord, your tautologies that offend but your breath and body odor!!!  (Takes a can of deodorant and sprays Omlet).

OMLET:                    You stupid shit!!!  If it wasn’t for the fact that you’re a General in the I.R.A. I’d run you for Parliament!  I’m sick and tired of people spraying me
all the time!!

HORRENDOUS:        Have you tried taking a bath?

OMLET:                    You’re quite right old chap!  Now that I think upon it I haven’t taken a bath in eight years!  It’s one of those tough political decisions for me!  But
come, I’ll tell you.  It was a stupid Ghost.  Its I.Q. n’er reached a 100.  Yet on second thought I’m not telling you Goy boys a dam thing!  So
there!!! (Sticks out his French tongue).  And now fops, because you are scholars and soldiers, an irreconcilable state of mind, Middle Eastern Vets.
of all things (gives them a disgusted look) do me a favor.

HORRENDOUS:        At your humble service, my Lord.

OMLET:                    Keep your traps shut about what you have seen tonight.  Or by God I’ll give you both fat lipids!!!

MARSHMALLOW & HORRENDOUS  (Together).  We will not!  (Omlet starts to twist both of their arms and legs until they agree to disagree).

OMLET:                    Nay, but sweare!

HORRENDOUS:        In Faith, my Lord, not one discouraging word to be heard!  Not I!!!!

MARSHMALLOW:   (Twists Marshmallow’s arms and nose).   Nor I, my Lord!  In faith!!!

OMLET:                    Upon my sweaty Sword!!  Sweare!

MARSHMALLOW:   We have duly sworn, my Lord, already!!

OMLET:                    Indeedee gentlemen, sweare or I’ll run you through!!!

(Ghost, beneath stage burps).  GHOST:  Sweare you miserable bastards!!!

OMLET:                     A ha!!!  Who asked for your two cents!!!  (Kicks the dirt beneath his feet).  Art thou still here?  Or art thy worms farting in unison in the night?
Come on boys you heard the miserable bastard, sweare!!!

HORRENDOUS:         What is it with you White Man with forked tongue?  What are you on?  Are your alpha beta waves out of whack?

OMLET:                     Never to speak of this anon , that, or which you have seen and heard!

(Ghost, beneath, hiccups).  GHOST.   Sweare shitheads!!!

OMLET:                     On your honors!!  Then we’ll shift our ground.  Come hither!  Gentlemen!  Put your hands in my pockets.  Never to speak of this that you have
seen.  (Ghost--beneath).  Sweare you sons-of-bitches!!!

OMLET:                      I could not have put it more succinctly you old Vienna British French Empiricist!!  Once more my good friends of animals.  (Laughing).

HORRENDOUS:          My Lordy, do you have Christian Reborn Fundamentalist Cholesterol in your pants?  For God’s left bodkin what the fuck has come over you?!

OMLET:                     Though it be an unwelcome Guest I must admit Horrendous I’m drawn unto it.  Horrendous, there are more diversions in Heaven and Earth than
just Walt Whitman's free verse prosy poetry and Marxist Capitalistic economic philosophy!  But come, no matter, here, as you did there, so help
you God!!  No matter what kind of lewd fool I make of myself to be hereafter, no matter what antics I indulge in or what theories I propose or
ponderate; that you, seeing me, shall not give me away.  If I pronounce some run-on sentence, misuse a dangling modifier every now and then, or
utter an incoherent paragraph, such as herein (Points to the Void.  Then Omlet closes his eyes and rocks back and forth in a meditational lotus

“OM, OM, OM, Hara Krishna, Krishna, Krishna, OM, OM, OM, Hara Krishna, Hara Krishna.”  Or some such other nonsense as the Post Modern
Poets are wont to sputter.  Like, “I fall on the thorns of life, I bleed!”  That you know I wouldn’t say ere I weren’t tripping out.  So I say again,
sweare!!  And may God have mercy upon your hearty souls!  (Ghost beneath).  Sweare for God’s sake!  The plot weakens and I want to get some
sleep before the Second Act!!!

(They sweare).  

OMLET:                    Okay dad, you can hit the waterbed!  Go to boys.  I still love you and whatever political rhetoric and hogwash or favors you may ask, as poor a man
as Omlet is he can always take a bribe or spare a little change for charity.  (Aside).  Trust me not. (To Horrendous and Marshmallow).  Come
Horrendous and Marshmallow, let’s sleep together.  But do not kiss my lips, I pray you, for they cans’t give thou aid nor comfort.  It’s time for a
joint!  O cursed period!!!  Nay, that I was sent forth to make the time bloody right!!!  Come, let’s go together!!!  (They join hands kicking high and
singing, exit all harmonizing, HE’S GOT THE WHOLE WORLD IN HIS HANDS accompanied by a Gordian flute and full chorus of flunkies,
toadies, slime buckets and communist lickspittles).


(A room in Felonious’ Crash Pad.  Enter Felonious and Redundancy in Medias-Res-Tutus in-situ from Africa).

FELONIOUS:         Give him this bread, wine, wafers, blood and a copy of the Holy Writ Redundancy.

REDUNDANCY:     My Lord, my Lord, I will, I will, I will--Will I?  I will!!!  By Schopenhauer’s Will I will!!!

FELONIOUS:         You “shall” Redundancy!!  You “shall”!  But before you visit him stake him out.

REDUNDANCY:      My Lord--I did intend it.  I intend to do it!  Truly.  On my word I did intend it.  I did intend it!  For indeedee I intend to do it!

FELONIOUS:          Marry, well said, Redundancy!  Say it once more and I’ll have your head!  Listen to me Sirrah!  Inquire for me what prostitutes he visits.  How,
when and where they earn their equal keep?  What syndicate they work for?  What price freedom?  Do they get equal pay for equal favors?  Sneak
around, spy a little, live a little!  Borrow my Mercedes Benz if you must.  Do you mark this well Redundancy?

REDUNDANCY:      Oui My Lord, Oui!  Oui, Oui!

FELONIOUS:          You must needs be to know that Lard-Ass is a general fuck up!  He’s liable to join some S.D.S. Enclave.  Some Communist front to Make New York
City a new Planet.  Or worse still, a Weather Women faction of the Y.M.C.A.  He’s even liable to become a syndicated columnist for CNN and
addicted to wheat germicides and reality shows!  A drug freak or join the crazies and become a Yelpy

REDUNDANCY:      A drug freak!  A nude Yelpy!!!  You’re putting me on!  Heaven forbid!!!

FELONIOUS:          Aye my laddie, turn to mugging freelancers in Central Park for a living, swearing before breakfast and screwing at large.  He would probably go so

REDUNDANCY:      My Lord, that would do him honor and you justice.  Or is it him justice and you honor?

FELONIOUS:          In faith, for might might be right!

REDUNDANCY:      But my Lord...

FELONIOUS:          Come on now Redundancy, you’ll do this for little ole me.  It’s not nice to reject Mother Felonious.  (Tickles Redundancy under his triple chin).

REDUNDANCY:      Aye, my Lord I have nothing better to do.

FELONIOUS:          Then do it!  Listen man, this is what I mean.

REDUNDANCY:      Very well my Lord, if I must I must and a must by any other name is still a mustn’t.

FELONIOUS:          (Astride)  God why am I beleaguered by such dolts!  (To Redundancy).  And then Sirrah...what the Hell was I talking about?  Where did I leave off?
I was about to say some foolish thing.

REDUNDANCY:      Would that you would say it quickly Sirrah; I have to take a royal shit!!!

FELONIOUS:          Shit, O yes, now I remember.  You will speak to him thusly, “I know the maggot!  I saw him yesterday or t’other day”.  Or some such nonsense to
fit your British Empiricist breeding.  You lie your fucking ass off and thus by indiscretion find out the historical basis for his transgressions.  So
ending my Nobel Prize lecture on the subject--(Felonious plucks a nearby flower and starts pulling its petals asunder).  “He loves me, he loves me
not.  He loves me, he loves me not...”

REDUNDANCY:       My Lord, I love you truly!

FELONIOUS:           Not you, you licentious looney tune!!!  God be wi ye fare thee well!

REDUNDANCY:       Good God my Liege, take your arms from about me!!!

FELONIOUS:           Watch your diction Trixon’s vixen!!  I’m studying to become the next President of the Vienna Circle!

REDUNDANCY:        Excuse me my Lord!!!  I don’t think so!

FELONIOUS:            There is no excuse for you Redundancy!!!  My love.  Let me play the fool for I play it the best!

REDUNDANCY:        Well said my Lord!!  But well said, has been well said too many times in this Act.  Farewell!!!

FELONIOUS:            Hmm...(Exit Redundancy with his pants falling off).  (Enter Candy in her Victoria Top Secret Night Gown).  I dreamt I saw Candy in her Maiden
Form Nightgown!!!  How now what’s the matter Candy?

CANDY:                    O my Lord!  I have heart burn!

FELONIOUS:             From what in the name of Goddamen?  Too much Commercial Realty TV?

CANDY:                  My Lord, as I did lay a screwing with a Royal Lackey in yonder linen closet, I saw Omlet Smithee Prince of Bawds, with his fly unbuttoned, no
washed out T-shirt, his feet a smelling, his face as pale as “La Belle Dame Sans Merci’s” ass, his knees a knocking and torso thrashing about with a
metaphysical corkscrew up his royal ass.  He had so piteous a look as if he had just been released from Death Row.  To speak of whores he comes in
front of me!

Note:                       Insert missing page here.  (Up Yours Audience!)

...possessions (points to their loins).  The President will not forget any favors you bestow upon him after the next election.

(Rosynuts and Guilderfuck strip down and we see that Rosy Nuts is indeed rosy “nutted”).

ROSYNUTS:           We respect your wishes since they congeal most jovially with our own best wishes and your imperialistic natures dominate my Dominion.  (They   
continue to disrobe to the tune of NEW YORK, NEW YORK).

GUILDERFUCK:     We obey and bend to lick the arse of the Queen!

QUEEN:                   O my that tickles!  (Both lick the Queen’s ass).

TRIXON:                 Many “tanks” smelly Guilderfuck and horny Rosy Nuts.

POLLY FOLLY:      Much thanks smelly Rosy Nuts and Horny Guilderfuck!  I bid you to seduce my son!  You!  Over there!!!!  Make yourselves pragmatic Government
Officials!!  Bring these two gay blades to where the sun lamps don’t shine and then on to Lord Omlet.  (Exit Rosy Nuts and Guilderfuck and some
government freeloaders).  (Enter Felonious and Candy).

FELONIOUS:           My dear Elexa-Hente!  Supremo Asshole of The Universe!

TRIXON:                 Thou hast not fathered another child hath you?  I hope your dispatches from the Pentagon will breach this incredible gap.  For you are a gap
monger are you noteth?

FELONIOUS:           O boy am I my Lord!  I’ll hold my soul’s organ as a ransom if these dispatches be not what you want to hear.  (Reads).  “We’re advancing on all
fronts according to Radio Free Europe.  However, Radio Peking says that they are advancing on all fronts”.  Who’s to say? The truth lies at the
heart of neither spectrum.  But there’s more!  I cross my nuts and hope to liveth!

I do not come here to give you the O.T.B. results nor the Lottery Number for the daily screwing of the public at large, nor the ball scores, nor th
the Mafia’s policy receipts for the past fiscal week.  I have found the very raison d’etre of Omlet’s hang ups!!

TRIXONIAN I:         Speak fool!!!  Even the C.I.A. have failed to covertly or overtly uncover the dirty tricks source of this affliction if it do affliction be?

FELONIOUS:            First let’s hear what Hefner's PlayboyBunnies have to say.  My bull shit follows hard upon theirs.

TRIXON:                  Marry you speaketh well for a left-winged ionized snot!  Bring on the bunnies!!!  (Exit Felonious playing with himself).

TRIXON:                  (To Polly Folly)   He tells me thusly Polly, he knows wherefore your son has ennui, nausea and distemper.

PETTY POLLY:         I doubt it’s nothing more than an Excedrin headache or a strained groin muscle suffered when you kicked him in thine balls during the folderol
t’other day.  I’m sure if his Mrs. Clinton's Blue Cross Double Cross Plan doesn’t cover it his Medicade won’t either!

TRIXON:                   Good God not another Health Plan from the dullard Clintons'!  We’ll soon find out or I’ll never have another piece, in peace, for Peace!!  (Reenter
Felonious while the Bunnies finish their strip tease act.  He is attended by Voltmeter and Gay Voltmeter).  What say you of the Union  
negotiations in Heaven, Horny and in Hell, Voltmeter?  What are our Soul Brothers putting down?

VOLTMETER:       (Reads from a roll of toilet paper).  They say you owe them $5,000,000 or 50 tons of grass in exchange for 30 condom factories to prevent the spread
of Tourette’s Disease.  They want one million more troops to advise the Devil’s Gay Boy Scout Legions to send to Iraq, 50 double Helix Neutron
Bombs, half a gallon of Napalm self-tanning oil, a half gallon of mother’s milk and 40 gross of high grade rubber to prevent an Aid’s epidemic in the
9th Circle.  And that about sums it up!

TRIXON:               Why those holier than thou sons-of-bitches!!!  I’ll have them spanked to death and then nuked in my microwave!!  Tell them to go fucketh
themselves!!   I’ll think I’ll go ahead and admit Russia as the 52nd State!

Meanwhile, don’t forget to deduct your pay from your expense account.  Write the rest off as an oil depletion allowance.  Welcome home!  I see you
didn’t die for nothing!!  Grab a bunny, relax, sip some wine, break a joint with your fellow Republicans!  (Exit Voltmeter and Horny and in the
process of exiting stripping off the remainder of their clothes).

FELONIOUS:         Now that they are through wasting my Liege’s most holy Madam, to expound my thesis further.  Instead of telling you why day is day and
night is night.  Why blue is really red in disguise.  Why the cosine of longevity is the essence of a cathode diode; I will let you in on some
provocative grapevine gossip that I heard at the typing pool over at the
WASHINGTON POST today.  Your mother-fucking son is an asshole!!!

TRIXONION THE 1ST  (Aside to Polly Folly).  There needs be no Felonious from the latrines of the East Village to come all the way over to Gracie Mansion to tell us
this thusly!!!!!

FELONIOUS:        An ass I say, an unadulterated, unpolluted, homogenized ass!!!  But what else is true madness but the ass-hood of the general masses?!

Or falling in love with my slutty daughter!  Tee hee hee...Tell him to let my daughter be!  Tee hee hee.  (Starts singing).  “Let her be, Let her be...”

PETTY FOLLY:     I think thou doth protesteth too much verily!  More substance with less bull shit!!!  (Polly passes a matzo to the King and the King wipes his ass with

FELONIOUS:       That he is the Mad Rapper Raper Rapier there can be doubt.  Perhaps even the murderer of the Irish Moors--the Loch Eliot Ness Monster!!  ‘Tis true,
triply true, so true it may prove false!  Or to use a foolish simile I shit you not!!!  But think as you may my ass does not pose as my face!  If you grant
the first of my many sorties it remains to find the Great Causal Chain of Being for this effect or rather the cause for his lack of defecation.  For hast
he not been sorely constipated of late?  Sir, Madam, it is well established that I have a cock-teaser for a daughter.  While I seduce her occasionally as
occasion warrants, for it is fitting for a daughter to fulfill a father’s Oedipus complexion.  But I don’t overstep the bounds of sweet vulgarity.  I have
my silent majority scruples and a morality of my own making.  I do not abuse sir, abuse my privilege.  Instead I choose to self-abuse myself.

But listen to what your son has written.

(Reads).             “Dedicated to my Celestial Sex Goddess:
‘O most “sexified” Candy!’”  There’s a trite phrase, an incongruent incongruency
of fluency, “sexified”.  But listen further:
“Four score and seven years ago, Ronald Ronzoni came to the East Village...”

POLLY FOLLY:  Did our lovely son say all those original, poetic things?

TRIXON:             I told you dear, you should have let him play a little closer to the airport runway.  Now he’s a free agent and wasting his time on the foul sex!

FELONIOUS:       Shut up your goddamen mouth and I’ll tell you more you old whore!!!  

“Doubt that the stars are made of Ambiplasma?
Doubt that the sun is made of polyunsaturated hydrogen
and crushed ‘Astronuts’?  
Doubt that I am a truth teller, but never doubt
that I love myself!  I am sick at the sight of thee!!
Of all the people I detest I detest thee the best!!!”
“O most best be blessed be I,
Believe it or not.
So long, it’s been good to know ye.
Thine ever more, never more, never more.
Quoth I most “sexified” lady,
Whilst my aorta still beats and pulses blood into my vena cava,


My daughter gave this pornographic note to me and I turn it over to thee as Exhibit A of Omlet’s lust--so that ye and the Supremo Court may
determine whether or not this letter (along with this Play) has any redeeming social value.

KING:                 And she has returned his insult with insult?

FELONIOUS:      What kind of fool do you take me for?  (Starts to sing).  “What kind of Fool am I?”

TRIXON:             As a dirty old man, a liar and a braggart!!!

FELONIOUS:       By Jesu Trixon you may be right!  What did you say the name of your shrink was?

TRIXON I:           You stupid shit!!!  If you don’t get on with this you’ll need the name of a good grave digger!!!

FELONIOUS:     Ah yes...where was I?  Lord Omlet is a rat fink and off his mother fucking rocker!!!  I told my daughter to lock her chastity belt, feign her period,
become a Marxist and receive no little visitors in the night.  She obeyed me and deprived him out of his ever loving skull cap.  Now according to Garp, a
Thomist Fop, thus making a sad story short and to the point, he blew his cool!  He fell into a swoon, into self abuse, thence into a trance and then had a
vaginal discharge somewhere in the N Zone.  He burped for forty days and forty nights, went on a breast cancer protest binge round yonder mote, got
wrecked and by all this he became what he now professes to be--a corporatized success!!!!!!

Etc., Etc., Etc.  (You get the general idea).



          CHAPTER XVI


While attending Graduate School at SUNY Buffalo, I started to reconsider the Theory of Infinitism.  This was the same theory sketched out during my army years.  It
was an involved, convoluted theory that eventually evolved into the Special Case of Time and its forward and backward flow characteristics, i.e., permitting the
traveling backwards in time in a non-relativistic universe.  I will delay at this point the discussion of the theory until later in the narrative and then I will reveal
Infinitism in all of its gory details.

I had ceased to compose poetry.  I was now twenty nine and spent the next two years at U. of B. - 1968-1970.  My final piece d’ resistance of verse was
.  LA BELLE VISION “SANS MERCI”, a drug related poem was also composed at this time.  I’m making it through my Masters in
Philosophy without opening any books.  (This was nothing to brag about because the point was to open some books!)  On the social front, Al Eber, my roommate,
started to “turn on” with grass during our second year of rooming together.  By that time we had moved to Hertel Avenue and founded Hertel House in the center of
Buffalo about thirty minutes walking distance from the Amherst Campus.

Al started to go back and forth on weekends to his hometown of Brooklyn and purchase packets of grass.  He began to distribute it on campus to his law student
cronies.  By the time he had departed U. of B., two years later, he had “turned on” half of U.B.’s Law School students at the grass parties given for his benefit at Hertel

We painted the apartment all black with car primer paint so that during our pot parties it would resemble the night.  The door-jambs, door-knobs and window sills were
painted with Day-Glo paint so that they would be illuminated in the dark.  The ceiling had the whole solar system complete with stars, planets and galaxies inscribed on
it.  The walls were adorned with Day-Glo poster frescoes.  A Black Light was installed over the entrance so that any material that wasn’t black reflected back light and
would give off a luminous glow in the Madame Curie pitch “blende” darkness.  A strobe light was secured from the dens of antiquity of the East Village to give the
flashing strobe effect.  The room was then stripped bare of furniture and a six inch thick foam Wall-To-Wall mattress was laid down.  When one got stoned and looked
up at the ceiling one got the distinct impression of traveling through space to the outer galaxies.  The combination of the black walls and ceiling, Day-Glo paint, Black
Light, vibrating strobe light, Beatles’ drug music mixed in with Alan Watts’ Hindu Cantos from
experimental drugs--mescaline, peyote and grass, all combined to produce a most interesting weekend “trip”.  On the door leading to “The Stoned Room” was a sign

Adding to these artificial effects was our giant stone fireplace where we would cook the various delicacies before lighting up and getting smashed on wine, women and
song.  The menu would alternate between fresh lobster, steak, clams, chicken and other morsels that Al would whip up in Hertel House’s kitchen.  Most, if not all of
the graduate students, sooner or later, would spend a night at Hertel House and it would be remembered as the keynote experience of their stay at U. of B.  Hertel
House and that experience became an alternative for the teach-ins, be-ins, fuck-ins, suck-ins, lay-ins and whatever else was “in” at the time.

My first year at U. of B. was quiet and uneventful, with no parties because Al and I were living in a private house on Park Avenue in downtown Buffalo.  It was during
my first year that Al met his steady girlfriend, an undergraduate, Judy “Putzini”.  At the time, I was visiting the local college hangouts either alone or with Al.  I
formed a crush on another Judy but this one also had the “hots” for Al.

On my visits back to Albany, I dated a girl named Sylvia.  Both Judy and Sylvia were black haired beauties in the same vein as the late, great Lorraine “The Beautiful”
La Bella of my teenage years.  A third girl joining this make believe ménage a trois was Lucy “In The Sky With Diamonds” Sanchez, a State University of Buffalo
undergraduate.  The State University of Buffalo, as opposed to the radicalism of the University of Buffalo, was a conservative Teacher’s College.  Lucy was a Puerto
Rican from the be-stressed streets of Spanish Harlem.  Eventually Lucy and I became good friends.  Both she and Judy Reiss became Al Eber grass Bunnies and were
constant visitors to Hertel House.  They joined a string of other harlots loosely connected with both student bodies who anxiously vied for a night’s worth of stoning at
the infamous Hertel House.

Getting stoned back in the good old days was a semi-comical, semi-tragic ritual--not like today where the youth gets stoned for the sake of getting stoned.  Back then,
it was an intellectual exercise in order to take a journey into the forbidden self.  In fact, Dr. Timothy O' Leary had written a series of monograms on the techniques of
getting stoned and described the stages one passes through while smoking pot luck.  The first stage was the paranoid stage where the brain throws up its defenses
against the assault on its categories of rationalization, the ratiocination processes of extrapolation.  This stage is followed by the grumpy stage, then the giggly stage,
the hungry stage (the munchies) the meditative stage (where intellectuality and creativity reign supreme) the talking, communicative, jabberwocky, clairvoyant stage
and finally the sexual, erotic stage.  The experience ends with drowsiness, coma and sleep followed by premature death.

All of these foregoing stages were facilitated by records.  Certain recordings had to be put on at different stages (just at the right time) in order to enhance the drug
induced state.  The paranoid stage, the initial stage, was a very realistic fear of being arrested or lighting up in front of an undercover “Narc” who frequented our
parties ad-nauseam.  One was afraid of being discovered by the many police spies that infiltrated the halls of U. of B.  They were assigned there because of the constant
political agitation both on and off campus.  On a weekly basis most of the left wing spokespersons, poets, artists, folksingers, Black Panther and White Panther leaders
and women’s groups would lecture the pants off us.  We had a right to feel paranoia for our parties at Hertel House were open-ended and most people were allowed in

Time dilates or slows down under the influence of grass as well as produces distorted perceptions so that sensual encounters are greatly prolonged.  This especially
holds if one is “aphrodisiacally” instilled with a virile sex drive (horny).  Although each individual went through the various stages according to their own biological
clock work orange mechanism and metaphysical beliefs, one could regulate the ritual so that the group as a whole would be passing through the right stages at the
right time.  Another major difference between then and now--then it was a group sharing experience which made it healthier and less dangerous than now
(notwithstanding the fact that today the marketplace is filled with more potent drugs).  Very young children are indulging themselves in the drug scene and obviously
they are not as prepared intellectually for the effects.  We were not exposed on the grade and high school levels.  We waited until we had solid educational experiences
behind us.  We used psychological analysis and research to contain the side effects of the drugs.  Still, there were an alarmingly growing number of L.S.D. Freak-outs.  
However, Leary himself had had over 250 trips on L.S.D. and remained both psychologically and physically fit.  He produced most of his instructional drug related
literature during this period and most of it was published in the journals of academia.  Today there isn’t any intellectual backbone to drug taking.  Therefore it is self
destructive and nihilistic.

As for my own drug experiences, I first experimented with grass at Hertel House in 1969.  Since I was poetically inclined and dealt in images of the grandest design and
fabric, my experiences were hallucinatory in degree and kind rather than symbolic and abstract which they would have been had I been more scientifically and
mathematically oriented at the time.  I remember the first hallucination that I had was one of a clock encased in blackness with Day-Glo paint pouring over it giving
off magnificent colors as the paint mixed with the physicality of the burnished metal of the clock and the various textures and hues of the darkness (scientifically
speaking an after image projected on the retina after shutting out the surrounding light by closing the eyelids).  This vision was the basis of the “LA BELLE” VISION
“SANS MERCI”  poem.  

Today, when I think of that episode, I can summon up the exact same image of the night of the clock with the glowing colored paint spreading over it.  My one
experiment with Peyote left me non-plused.  I didn’t get seriously ill by vomiting.  Many had predicted that would happen.  I remember the distinct distortion of space
because the sidewalks appeared to come out of the earth at a forty-five degree angle.  It took forever to walk up the sidewalk’s incline in order to get into the
apartment.  I never had any bad trips on drugs and neither did Al.  Al was getting stoned every night and yet still managed to finish in the upper ten percentile of his
class.  When he needed to buckle down for an exam he did.  Al was what you would call back in those days a “pothead” as opposed to the snow white and seven dwarf
syndrome of contemporary cocaine addicts.  He experimented with mescaline and its derivatives that surfaced at the campus.  Since my school work consisted of
nothing more than writing papers and staring at my belly button, I had no problem maintaining an A average.

As for me, I just got stoned at the parties about twice a week but was still in control.  I certainly could see where it would be easy to step across the state line and
become a drug addict.  This was especially the case since we lived at a place like Hertel House.  The last I heard of Al Eber is that he failed to take the Bar Exam.  
Once, when I was in New York City during a summer retreat from U of B., I visited his house in Brooklyn in 1971 and his mother told me she had followed him to
India where he had traveled to study at a Zen Buddhist Monastery under Eru “The Guru” Smolowitz.  The Eight-Fold Path was all the rage in the middle and late shifty
“Sixties”.  Everyone was off on a two week sabbatical to gain eternal wisdom in a fortnight from the wisdom teeth of Indian Maya scam artists.  He took along his girl,
“Punch and Judy” to the South Face of The Himalayas.  His mother had tracked him down to a small Indian village where he was eking out a living at 75 cents a day.  
She tried to talk him into coming home but could not.  Twenty five years later I still haven’t heard whether he is still there or a lawyer ensconced on Wall Street living
a life of shame in Scarsdale Heights.  I am inclined to think that the latter is the case in point.  What a tragic-comic image of that nice Jewish Mother from the
Flatbush Section of Brooklyn following her son half around the Indian Ocean like a Loch Ness Monster Mother in order to get him to rejoin The Establishment.  Al
Eber, did you ever come back!?   (Yes he did!)

At the end of the first year at U of B., I got disgusted with the philosophical nightmare of my course load.  I had heard that my old biddy buddy from Junior High and
High School days, Louie “Gumbaya” Rendano, was living in Le Frak, “Freckle” City, Queens.  He had weaseled his way into a cushy job as a Quality Control Manager
at a plant in Long Island City.  When summer vacation came, I packed my duffel bag and arrived in New York City in 1967.


                             THE NAKED CITY

These were the years when one could open THE NEW YORK TIMES and see jobs for Caseworkers advertised and where one could walk into the Central Welfare
Center on Church Street in downtown Manhattan, take a simplistic exam and be assigned a job the very next day.  Two days after the exam I was a member of the New
York City Social Services Department.  Three days after that I went out on strike along with the rest of the Schlocky Social Services Union.  This Union was a bastion
of the left wing elements in society.  In the 50’s and 60’s it, like its sister Union, the Teacher’s Union, was very powerful.  Our strike followed hard upon the tax heels
of the big Teacher’s Union Strike of 1967.  The only difference in our strike “leit-motif” was that we were not only striking for higher wages and better working
conditions like the teachers, but were striking for increased benefits for our clients--like telephones in case of an emergency, increased furniture grants and
emergency rent and food grants.  Our salaries were at rock bottom prices for comparable work.  Never again, following this strike, would either Union be as strong as
they were before the Retrenchment Era and the Right Wing reaction set in of the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s.  When the country took a sharp turn to the right, the Unions
became the first casualties and degenerated into nothing more than hollow shells, over weight, overstaffed, over paid bureaucrats and little more than unlikely
spokespeople for Management.  So here I am, a graduate student from the U. of B., in New York City, a hapless caseworker, out on strike on my fifth day on the job.  
Although I was apolitical in nature, I was more sympathetic with the workers’ causes than I was with Management’s viewpoints.  The strike was a Friday The
Thirteenth farce.  We were constantly harassed by the Right Wing Truck Driver’s Union who felt that they were the only ones that had a right to better working
conditions.  Some of the more “goonish” and boisterous of them were crashing our strike lines and assaulting the case workers.  These were the years the divisions
would sharpen between the conservative established mobster run Unions and the more progressive, liberal, artistic, creative Unions such as the aforementioned
Teachers’ and Social Services Unions.  It would all be downhill in the future for Unions in general and caseworkers and clients in particular.

The Welfare Department, at this time, was filled with a rainbow coalition of left wing graduate students, gypsy moths dropouts, artists, poets, musicians, communists,
philosophers, communist gangsters, Hegelian synthesizers, bag ladies and unemployed cockroaches.  All the so-called vermin orphan radicals had found a home and a
way to pay the rent.  My supervisor was a black woman who called to me one day early on in the strike and asked what I was doing on the picket lines.  “Yousa” just
joined da Department two days ago.  “Yousa” wouldn’t know nothing about no dam strike!”  She couldn’t convince me to come back in until the strike was over four
weeks later.

The head of the Union was an ugly, radical, left wing Beastie, unshaven, unkempt woman who was attracted to me.  She attempted to get me to become more active in
the Union when she found out that I did some writing.  I wasn’t particularly attracted to her so I respectfully declined to get involved after attending a few Union
meetings.  I felt that one’s existential prerogatives were relinquished to causes that should not transcend an individual’s own cause.  But I would give moral support by
honoring the strike.  I had seen enough in one week to know that the City’s bureaucratic bastards deserved a good boot in the ass.

The first Welfare Center that I worked for was the Veteran’s Welfare Center on 7th Avenue and 37th Street in the heart of the garter belt garment and fashion
center.  My territory would be all the five Boroughs.  My very first house call I was sent to the South Bronx with my little black book in hand.  Naturally all the
ghetto’s drugged rats would be waiting for me and recognize me as a caseworker because of that aforementioned black book.

I exited the subway somewhere in the lower circle of Hell in a lower 100 block of the South Bronx.  The slime and stench overwhelmed me on this hot, sticky July
afternoon.  Garbage was piled two stories high between the abandoned buildings.  The winos and the addicts simply expelled their refuse out of their windows.  They
didn’t have enough motivation to bring it to the curb and even if they did it would never be carted away.  A decade or so of garbage was piling up in the streets for
French poodles to piss on.  The bombed out lunar crater landscape and the hovels of the clients could be likened to a World War II landscape in post War Germany.  
The dens of the clients were surrounded by enclaves of addicts blocking entrances to the buildings while plotting their next mugging.  They all had that look in their
eye of “what the Fuck are you investigating us for you white faced boob!  Just give ‘ussin’ the money and get the hell outta here Honky Tonk!”

Society and the Welfare Department in particular were in an undeclared war with the clients.  These institutions were sure that the welfare cheats were getting away
with something.  When I saw the environment they inhabited--what the fuck were they getting away with?  There were no limousines paid for by the taxpayers parked
in front of those apartment dwellings that I visited.  There was no fancy furniture or orgies taking place.  Just a scene of hopeless, dejection degradation, neglect and
child abuse.  So what if the checks were being spent on wine, women and song in an effort to escape their miserable surroundings.  Let them get away with it!  All the
limousines that I have seen have been double parked in front of the taxpayers’ subsidized City Hall institutions, in the theater district, as perquisites for insurance and
accounting firm executives and in front of Wall Street Option Trading firms or parked in front of banks paid for by their bounced check scams, in front of computer
driven leveraged corporate buy-outs and mergers, in front of sports complexes, rock musicians’ and other reality (non-reality in actuality) entertainment
entrepreneur’s mansions in Southern California--all of whom bilk the public out of billions due to their exaggerated salaries and tax evasion ploys, in an inverse
relationship to their productivity, talent and actual net worth to Society.

These corporate parasites were living off the fat of the land and the backs of the poorer classes.  The rich were the real welfare cheats and criminals of society.  I was
caught in the middle because my employer was the City of New York so I would have to mouth platitudes and propaganda whether I agreed with the Welfare guidelines
or not.  The most pathetic cases were the real needy, the old, the indigent and of course the children.  They didn’t scream and holler like the addicts and the muggers
so they got very little, after hours of waiting around with patience and dignity.

The Welfare Centers themselves were dens of iniquity filled with overworked harassed intake workers and screeching, nagging, whining, complaint ridden, wounded
semi-starving, unwashed, poorly clothed children and howling babies.  The majority patiently sat in their “swiveless” chairs and waited their turn while recently
released prisoners from Rikers Island and The Tombs, the night walkers, stalkers, addicts and mass murderers received one, two or three replacement checks in a
direct relationship to how loud they screamed.  They were given these extra checks just to keep some semblance of law and order and to keep the Centers from
erupting in complete chaos and rebellion.  Threat of assault against caseworkers was always a stunning possibility in the Centers and especially out in the field.  
Reports of assaulted caseworkers would be in the newspapers daily.  The police were also in evidence in and around the Centers.

The Intake Workers and Supervisors at the Centers weren’t your casual summer worker but career people who spent a lifetime shielding themselves from the sea of
needy humanity that engulfed them daily.  They were steeped in the Welfare rules and regulations and tons of paper work which helped to insulate them from actually
doing anything worthwhile no matter how well intentioned they were.  They had a reflex action to turn down all requests.  If it wasn’t for the summer workers the
clients would have really received a royal screwing.  The lifers prime aim in life was to eliminate as many people as possible from the Welfare Rolls and take in as few
clients as possible.  “What!  You didn’t take advanced courses in calculus in-between the murder and mayhem in the ghetto!  Sorry, come back when you can show
proof you’re working towards your college diploma or have had at least ten job interviews since your release from Riker’s Island!  Next!”

If you were an addict you had to be a post doc graduate student enrolled in Phoenix House, Daytop Village, Synnanon or The Disney World Drug Rehab. Programs,
preferably all four simultaneously.  This proved you could be members of all four Health Clubs and still be stoned.  There were some meager attempts to establish the
work ethic via work related programs but the voluminous amount of paper work plus the lack of training made these programs worse than taking a battery of SAT
tests to enter college.

The social theory prevalent at the time was that these lower class slobs should react the same way as the educated middle and upper finger classes did when confronted
with the daily problems of life.  They should behave responsibly when given money or the Department would teach them how to behave.  They should pay the rent and
buy food and not spend their checks on wine, women, song and tap dance routines at the Apollo Theater.  It was this middle class attitude that they were trying to
superimpose on the poverty stricken.  That was the main fallacy in the thinking of the Welfare Systems.  What seemed so logical to us seemed senseless and useless to
them.  They just didn’t understand.  The black caseworker supervisors were the hardest on their own people.  They weren’t going to let their black brothers get the
best of them.  They thought they knew all the scams.  They had worked their way out of the “shetls” of the ghetto so they felt if they could so could their stricken
brothers and sisters.  At least when the Black Panther movement did come together they were honest in some respects and said, “hey, now wait a minute!  We have
been blaming everyone else for our plight.  It’s high time we started to point the finger at our own bad selves and help our people shape up.”  For a brief moment a
candle lit up over the Ghettos in the late 60’s and early 70’s as the poor tried to pull themselves up by the sheer force of Quantum Mechanics Bootstrap Theory.

I did my thing as a caseworker and wrote out checks, thirty two per second every second and the hell with the verification investigations!  During the strike at the
Center, I met Sue Ulman, Alan Arkin’s (movie actor) cousin.  Sue was the daughter of Dr. Ulman, collaborator of Dr. Montigue both of whom organized the first
Research Sleep Labs.  Sue was a left wing artist who lived first on East 6th Street between Avenue A and B in the East Village and then a year later moved over to
Christopher Street in the West Village.  These were the years when the radicals held sway over Greenwich Village using Needle Park (East Byrant Park) as a staging
area for speeches and whacko demonstrations.  The East Village was also the home of the Electric Circus where all the famous and infamous rock bands made their
appearances with the newest psychoedelic musical techniques of the drugged generation spawned after being imported from the West Coast of California.  

My first summer I stayed in the apartment above Sue Ulman, an apartment which was particularly noteworthy for its floors that slanted upwards at a forty-five-degree
peyote angle. The East Village was the home of the love brats, the hippies and extinct beatniks.  Sue had left her home in the affluent Westchester suburbs of
Riverdale to escape the life of the Middle Class.  Her mother visited her every few weeks and tried to talk her into returning home and abandoning the Bohemian way
of life.  Her mother wasn’t successful.  Sue had taken a liking to me but we ended up as friends.  Once, I got involved in a small business venture with her when she
needed money to pay for rent on Christopher Street.  I got the idea of throwing singles’ parties and charging the hell out of the public to attend.  We tried it and it
worked for a few weeks until the landlord got wind of it and threatened to throw her out.  This idea hit me five years before singles’ parties would become a growth
industry in Manhattan.

I visited Alan Arkin’s home with Sue for a family get together.  Arkin was away on Location.  The rest of the family was as kooky as Sue--mostly artsy “craftsy” or
wilde-eyed intellectuals with strong left liberal tendencies.  Towards the end of the summer I received a visit from Louie “Gumbaya” Rendano in my East Village den.  
When he saw the splendid squalor I was living in he talked me into moving in with him out to Flushing near Main Street in Queens.  He cooked and I did the dishes.  It
was a perfect marriage.  Then we moved to Manhattan Beach in Brooklyn near the ocean and Long Island Sound just north of Coney Island.  We moved into the
butler’s quarters of an affluent family.  From there we both commuted to our respective jobs.  On weekends I would walk to the beach and sit on the rocks and
compose the few remaining poems of my second book
THE MILK OF PARADISE.  Especially noteworthy during this, the Naked City period, was the composition of
HURRICANE FERN  and FAR ROCKAWAY.     During this Hippie Dippy Dandy period in the East and West Village, I was wearing the garb of the day--multiple
assortment sets of beads, iron crosses, jewelry, leather goods, Edgar Alan Poe black cape, cane and sporting a Rip Van Winkle beard.

It was also during this period that I visited my mother in the hospital back in Albany.  The prognosis was that she was going to die.  She didn’t die then but almost did
when I visited her one night and she saw me in my leather leotards and gefilte fish beard.  At first glance she didn’t recognize me.  Then she went into shock and the
next time we met she was out of the hospital and I was sans beard, jacket and married!

I had a brief affair with that same thermodynamic black supervisor, Mrs. Hamilton--the one who inquired about my Union activities.  She came to visit me in my roach
infested room to make love in full view of the roach parliament that presided at West 81st Street, one block east of Central Park West and one block west of
Columbus “Murder Alley” Avenue.  I must admit that I was a little uncomfortable with the black and white tie affair.  She was also older than me by a decade.

Finally, by the end of the summer, I decided that case work wasn’t to be my career.  I returned to the University of Buffalo and picked up another year of Philosophy.  
I didn’t open a book but I was still maintaining A’s.  I took a long hard look at what I was accomplishing at U of B.  The rest of the students were serious.  I didn’t
want to become a teacher of Philosophy.  One had to make a choice at this stage whether one was going on to the Ph.D. program.  In other words, as the French would
say, I was forced to be more engage rather than degage (“Merdre” or get off the pot!).   I chose to take another leave of absence in 1970.

I have touched briefly on the reason why I began to write.  It was a mistaken romantic notion that somehow a writer’s life was better lived than the normal run-of-the-
mill sort of professions.  When a writer became famous he was well received, well recognized.  He stood apart unlike the profession of Meteorology.  Although that
profession was set apart in its own way.  But Meteorology was not extra-ordinary.  I enjoyed Meteorology but it did not have the aurora surrounding it as did the writing
profession with its accompanying fame.  It was like the fame of a movie star, automatic access to beautiful women.  While the writer was typing away there would be
sexy women entertaining him.  (I don’t know what I expected to do with these women if I was diligently typing).  These then were my fantasies in the late teens when I
began to write.

Not long after these first musings I flirted with philosophical meditations initiated by Aristotle’s logical systems.  The theory I propounded was modeled on his type of
categorizations.  I called it Absolute Logic or the Theory of Opposites.  It was a short step from those first prestidigitations to the reinterpretation of the Theory of
Opposites into the Theory of Infinite Logic.  That is to say, I decided to apply Absolute Logic to determine what would eventuate if I applied such logic to the structure
of the irrevocable, absolute universe in an infinite manner on the macro as well as the microscopic and sub-microscopic levels?

By this time I had stumbled across pieces of Einstein’s dismantled Relativity Theory--his speed of light limitations and his analysis of the bi-directional flow of time.  
What struck me dumbfounded about contemporary Physics’ Theories of the early 1960’s was the mistaken conceptualization of what in fact an actual Infinite Universe
really implied (assuming of course that the universe was Infinite).  Most of the hard evidence gave credence to the fact that it was or that it had the potential to be
Infinite rather than the limited notion of potential finiteness held by most modern theorists including Einstein (due mostly to his insistence of cosmological curvature).
It occurred to me that all limitations imposed on the structure of the universe, that is the limitations imposed by theory, were without factual foundation if indeed the
universe were Infinite.  For example, take one of the important foundations of Physical Theory, that of the limitation of photonic speed.  This mathematically imposed
limit in an Infinite universe is of course absurd.  One has to clearly define the concept of Infinity and then redefine all systems of knowledge of the universe from the
perspective of humanistic orientations using these new definitions.  Thus Infinitism was born fully grown and I spent a great deal of energy redefining Infinity so that
the rest of what would pass for philosophical analysis in the upcoming 21st Century could be restructured to fit this “reconceptualization”.  No matter what
philosophical viewpoint is expressed, that viewpoint is derived from the humanistic orientation and therefore had only the slightest possession of a validity factor when
compared to Infinity’s orientation or truth perspective.  In the back of my mind I knew I was headed for a direct frontal assault on the psychoanalytical suppositions
that lay at the heart of 20th Century Psychology and Philosophy and in particular the Existentially based systems that assumed that we were dealing with an egocentric,
“anthropic” principled universe.   We had brought our analyses to bear on mankind and the way the conscious mind functions in relation to the rest of the universe.  
This type of modernistic thinking was in fact taking us back to pre-Renaissance mind sets where there they postulated that the sun of mankind and its accompanying
earth, sun and planets were the center of the universe.  Today, contemporary philosophers had substituted man for the sun and the solar system and thereby made
theories of the conscious even more egocentric than the heliocentric theories that had preceded them.

Before we had traveled too far down this road (which was aided and abetted by the British-American equivalent of language, economic and political analyses) I had
decided that it was necessary to restate the obvious before 21st Century philosophers would get bogged down in the quagmire of earth oriented conceptualizations as
somehow expressing more than just a very limited set of truth values.  These lesser theories were conceived by human consciousness and that being the case we must
realize that these concepts have only as much validity as do concepts derived from other than the human source or perspective.  Therefore, faced with an Infinite
universe we see the potential for an Infinite number of orientations that in some very real sense oppose the humanistic orientation or “vice-versa” while vying for the
truth values in this universe.  These other orientations, depending on where they originate from, may claim higher degrees (deeper degrees) of validity than the
humanistic orientations.  I conveniently put Whitehead’s objections aside.  Alfred North Whitehead made the statement that first a philosopher should tell him what
basic assumptions (presuppositions) are at the heart of his theory of the universe and if he (Whitehead) doesn’t grant you the validity of those pre-suppositions; then
your entire theory will be bear no more resemblance to the truth than does the theoretical edifice you are trying to undermine.  Putting the one other major objection
aside, the objection interposed by the language paradigm pests, that I am imparting to the abstract notion of Infinity a physical reality that it in fact does not possesses
in the real world.  I make my basic assumptions, notwithstanding these critiques, and plunge into the headwaters of Infinitism.  Infinitism began not as an apology for
Eastern viewpoints where all is Illusion but I took the “Humeian” path, the skeptical path as opposed to “Berkelian” Idealism or the “Descartesian” byways of
Subjective Realism know as Rationalism.

If we look about and accept the universe out there and acknowledge the fact that we are just a small part of it (albeit embedded deep within it) then theories that
evolve from the human mind can have a very limited truth value in the Boolean Logic sense of truth.  Infinitism implies that there are other sources for theorizing
besides our own mind based sources.

Another term that we must become familiar with during this exegesis is the term Perspectivism which grew out of 19th Century Metaphysical speculation as well as
being alluded to in Jainist Eastern Philosophy.  A philosopher proposing a theory is only formulating assumptions, deductions and inductions from his perspective and
does not take into account the Infinite amount of other Perspectives--some that may be supportive while other disruptive of his theories.  Therefore the egocentric
philosophies, that is the psychologically based “Existentialisms” and their allies the theologically based “isms” become rather weakened in ultimate outlook because
they are the most Perspective limited.  Therefore, a subdivision of Infinitism becomes Perspectivism.  Only one Perspective is that of the Humanistic Perspective.  
There is also the Rock Perspective, the Molecule Perspective, the Plant Perspective, the Photonic Perspective, the Language Perspective and finally the Existential
Perspective.  Each in its own simplistic way has some small measure of truth validity assigned to it.  But on the register of the Absolute Validity Index, each by itself is
eclipsed by the brightness of the metaphorical mythologizing residing next-door.  If one had access to a 20th generation super parallel processing quantum “nano”
biological computer, one could process all the Perspectives and synthesize them with a super merge technique; then perhaps one would get a brief glimpse of a more
significant truth value for the components of the universe that would aid in elucidating the universe and its universal laws (Quantum observational indeterminacy
notwithstanding).  One could then go on to generate a rather accurate Cosmology for the Whole.

I can now progress from this vantage point to point out that the odds are rather in my favor if I say that the Universe is Infinite.  For all that means is that it must be
Infinite with pregnant Perspectives because all does flow from the Infinite composition of the basic structures.  What remains for the Philosophy of Science to figure
out is what flows from those Infinite structures and how such flows precipitate out into the here and now of Existence.

Einstein considered the universe to be spherically finite which is a rather soft-headed notion to say the least.  He also sought to simplify the Physics of SpaceTime.  He
should have instead supported the physically complex universe for then he could have deduced his Field Theory rather quickly.  Infinitism has never been shy about
dealing with the Beyond of the Beyond.  This theory of contradistinction can naturally be abstracted from the original starting point in my analysis.  It is the instance of
where something can and cannot be at the same time.  I do not want to get into a discussion of Simultaneity or Synchronization here, but simply wanted to point out
that contradictory logical statements transcend Eastern Philosophical delineations and are blessed with a true contradictory nature similar in stature to certain types of
Hegelian transcendences or consolidations.  A transcendental Synthetic Theory is one in which one summarizes philosophical viewpoints and reconciles these outlooks
in a tranquil manner.  It is a philosopher’s touchstone for it appears to have the fewest of axes to grind.  It is the taking of a neutral stance.  It is a phenomenology of
philosophy as one might refer to it.  These then are the first prickly postulates of Infinitism.  Thus if you grant the assumption that there is an Infinite Universe,
Whitehead's objections aside, that everything must flow from that Infinite Universe; then the Humanistic Perspective has only one small claim to the Cosmological
Truth Structure of the Universe.

The foregoing leads into The Theory of Potentials and Kinetics.  Something could have the Potential to draw sustenance from the Infinite Regions and then Kinetically
become viable in the real universe of our perceptions.  Therefore, a rock has the potential to be a First Law in and for itself.  The reason that in this universe that it
does not happen that way on the macroscopic level (as opposed to the microscopic level where it does, for such transmutations are occurring all the time) is that the
transformation between the mediators of the two worlds are discontinuous and Fractional-Fractal.  Of course, Modern Physical Theory breaks down when it comes into
contact with these “transmutational”, transformational obstacles with each new energy level that it encounters.  Events that are not apparent on the macro and micro
level are apparent on the super micro level where the basic laws of the macro-micro universe run amuck.

The above situation was obvious to any good natured Infinitist twenty years prior to the decade where we started hijacking neutrons in their own backyard.  What was
needed were the transformations, the micro-mathematics, the “nano-pico” Geometries, the quantum mechanics that could underwrite and unite the implications of the
micro, macro, super micro and super macro worlds.  Until we had specialized and categorized these integrations no unified hypothesis could be formulated that could
hope to gain favor with the Flow from the very first Postulates of Infinitism or be buffered with the Axioms which glorified the logic of contradictions.  This is the noble
direction that the Philosophy of Science of the 21st Century would have to pursue in order to uncover and unleash the havoc of these wicked transformations.  These
new laws are non-residual, complicated and not “renormalizable”.  They are not simple and by no stretch of the imagination (even with the help of Super Symmetry)
are we reaching the bottom line basic laws of particles.  We have been getting tantalizing glimpses of the “basic constituents” of the universe.  These “basic
constituents” are pointing the way towards the Transformations that translate into higher Dimensions.  My own Master Thesis was nothing less than the analysis of the
give and take of the micro-structures of particles in hyper-space at the juncture of massive energies, at the apex of the Transformational Barriers.  It sketched the
fractional-fractalized geometric forces impinging on these super micro structures within a given micro SpaceTime frame.  Oddly enough, thirty five years later, this
analysis is being taken up in earnest by the Physics and Cosmology Establishment (the Standard Model advocates and their ilk) as we rush headlong into the world of
Transformational Theory on the cutting edge of new theoretical vistas.   


                                  THESIS EXEGESIS

Before I left Buffalo I handed in My Masters Thesis on the Nature of Traveling Backwards in Time.  It was nothing more than a philosophical discourse, in a most
casual manner, that blended the Metaphysics of Infinity with the science of SpaceTime thereby merging pure physics with pure metaphysics.  The professors who were
to oversee the actual writing of the thesis were not pleased to have it submitted ex-nilo, intact, without any consultation as to subject matter and direction.  They
informed me that I would need a few physics professors on the panel for my oral testing of the subject matter because they were not properly trained or qualified to
quiz me on the physics end of the proposal.  I, like Wittgenstein fifty years before me, put the manuscript on the desk and said “take it or leave it!  I’m on my way
back to New York City!”  They left it and I left U of B.

The Thesis itself was a direct rebuff to the language analysis that was pouring out of England and that had been passing for philosophical discourse at the time.  It was
in opposition to the Marcuse version of Dialectical Materialism that had infiltrated like a deadly virus from the Coast of California and the home grown variety of
Phenomenology and Existentialism imported from France and Germany that had been festering like a rancor canker sore in and around the Eastern Establishment,  In
other words, just as my poetry of the previous decade had been an affront to the political polemicists of the 50’ and 60’s so to would Infinitism be an insult to the
moronic philosophical thoughts circulating in the late 60’s and early 70’s.

In the document, I had advanced the either/or hypothesis that something is or is not, by borrowing from my first forays into Absolute Logic analysis of my army years.  
Philosophers in general and the ones at U. of B. in particular reject the notion of the either/or prerogative.  They say a theory doesn’t always have to be either/or.  The
theory can reflect various shadings (the term I use in physics is gradients of truth) of the either/or dichotomy.  In a real sense of rapprochement I agree with them in
most instances.  But their views are subsumed in my absolutist position.  

One must realize that my philosophical analysis in the army years was pre-philosophical formal instruction.  Then I just looked at the components of the universe and
used purely logical deduction-induction by pitting the consciousness-unconsciousness of the human orientation versus the a-conscious neutrality of the universe in
opposition to that very same human orientation.  Thus I derived the main components of the cosmological quotient.  

For example, the Theory of Opposites states that if something is good on an ethical moral plane, then that gradient of goodness stretches out along a continuum to
absolute good and if something is in the opposite sense bad it stretches out to the opposite direction to absolute bad.  The implication that follows is that one can
consider the largest categories of continuums in reality (i.e., for the human orientation) as life itself as opposed to death.  (Keep in mind that I am now discussing the
initial theory of Absolutes and not yet taking part in the transverse of the nature of time travel in a non-relativistic universe).  If you have life then everything in life
is life giving and in death, death giving and pertains to death.  They are the complete opposites of their separate continuums and have little need for gradients, etc.   
From the foregoing assumptions one could deduce the solution to all ontological problems when dealing in the substratum of reality simply by comparing opposite
states.  I had written about 100 pages of this absolutist reasoning and it was completed well before I had come into contact with philosophical writing on the professional
level.  Later, this foundation became the basis for the Theory of Infinitism.  The Philosophy Professors of SUNY at Albany and later at SUNY of Buffalo felt that I was
obsessed with the notion of Infinity and I had wrongly assumed that Infinity was an actual living construct in the three dimensional universe of reality.  Instead I
should realize that the concept of Infinity was just a mathematical construct of the mind in a quasi-physical sense and functioned well within the Categorical
boundaries outlined by Kant.  I, however, reasoned that I was no more preoccupied with the construct of Infinity than say Kant was with his own Categorical
Imperatives, than Plato was with his shadowy Absolutes, than Hegel was with his World Spirit--Thesis, Synthesis and Antithesis, than Nietzsche was with his Will To
Power, than Schopenhauer was with his Will to Disbelieve and much later Wittgenstein was with his language transcriptions and in our own time the Existentialists are
with Being and Non-Being.  I was dealing with the underpinnings of the universe some of which had already been diagnosed by 20th Century Phenomenologists.  I had
hoped to probe even deeper and rip asunder the phenomenon and explore the constituents of pre-phenomenon i.e., the phenomenon of phenomenon themselves.  It is
these “noumenona” that eventually make the universe intelligible to us--operating as they do in and out, above below and surrounding reality.  Infinity was a powerful
tool to be used to show that underlying all these various points of view was a notion of a dynamic Infinity that would make itself manifest if we looked beyond the
common sense notions of academic philosophers.

It is not surprising then that The Theory of Infinity (Infinitism) would culminate in the solutions to the basic riddles of Particle Physics in particular and Cosmology in
general.  I was engaged in the creation of what the philosophers of our time would correctly label as the Philosophy of Philosophy.  Absolutism was not as sophisticated
a tool as was Infinitism when studying the Asymmetrical properties of the universe.  Absolute Logic gave me a jumping off point into the life force of Infinity and
made it a four dimensional flesh and blood entity and not just an abstract notion of three dimensionality.


                                          LIFE GOES ON

One of my residences in New York City was on West 83rd Street, on the top floor of a roach infested apartment.  The wall was papered over with aluminum foil that
only enhanced rather than curtailed the noise the roaches made when crawling over it at night.  Even in the pitchblende blackness of night, I knew whether the roach
in question was arriving at the ceiling or the floor board or was still in the middle of the wall by the crinkling noise the wallpaper made as the roaches scurried to and
fro on their nightly activities.  I was a half a block west of Central Park West and one block east of Columbus, “Murder Alley” Avenue.  I paid $60 a week rent to the  
super named Mr.“Swindler” Sweedler.  He owned three buildings side-by-side.  I remember him standing outside his buildings all day, spying on everyone
and everything that took place on the block--and who went in and out of his buildings.  For all his watching, he was never able to stem the tide of robberies that took
place in his buildings.

Early one morning (3:AM) the police came bursting in.  Apparently someone tipped them off that I was consuming drugs in my room which of course was theoretical
nonsense.  They did a perfunctory search, didn’t find anything, apologized and left.

Unbeknownst to me at the time, living in exile, in the building next door, was Ruthie “The Late” K.--the best friend of my future ex-wife.  But I would not meet Ruthie
for another year.

The second year in New York City I worked at the St. Nicholas Welfare Center on 125th and 7th off  St. Nicholas Avenue on the breast and nipples of lusty Harlem.  
These were the most active years of the Black Panthers.  Their base camp was a few blocks from the Welfare Center.  Following the caseworker strike there were a
wave of client strikes, sit-ins, scream-ins, mug-ins and murder-ins.  The Center was complete chaos.  I remember one day looking out the window of the fourth floor of
the Center and seeing a sea of policemen in full combat gear.  On the other side of the street, armed with clubs and banners was a battalion worth of Black Panthers
and their followers.  They were simply facing off each other.  There was a citywide parade that the Black Panthers organized consisting of masses of welfare clients,
poor white trash, a conglomeration of left wing political parties, gays, lesbians and assorted other fringe groups like the Moonies and Hara Krishna tambourine dancers
and me.

As I indicated earlier, the Welfare Union was strong in 1968 but by 1971, when I said my futile good-byes, it had been broken.  The City Fathers were trying to convert
the Welfare Department into a bank like operation where caseworker visits would be abolished and clients would simply come in and pick up their checks at a teller’s
window.  This meant less and less client contact and made the whole business that much more impersonal.

I don’t know how all this worked out because I haven’t been back since 1971.  I doubt that it was all that successful simply because of the fact that today’s inflation,
cost of living increases, astronomical rents and lack of housing far outstrip the meager raises that clients were getting.  Their plight would only worsen in the late 80’s
because unskilled jobs in a computer driven society became fewer and fewer.  Another reason that it could not have worked very well was the dramatic increase in drug
usage that plagued the ghettos during the next two decades.  With the Unions being at their weakest since the turn of the Century, I can only deduce that conditions
for the clients are horrendous.  On the other hand, I haven’t heard of any revolutions like the 60’s taking place.  I guess the City has been able to sweep the problem
under the proverbial technological rug along with all the other unsolvable urban political and economic problems (and actually the City got lucky in the 90's when the
whole problem was legislated away by the Conservative President Billy Double Bubba Boy Clinton).

I threw some singles’ parties at my 81st Street apartment.  I had moved into this apartment upon my return to the City for the second time.  I moved in with my two
cats that I had fathered at Hertel House--Byron and Shelley.  I tried to make the 81st Street apartment a carbon copy of Hertel House but it just didn’t turn out right
because the environment was different.  My only piece of furniture was a card table from Albany to hold my typewriter.  I slept on a mattress on the floor.  Except for
those pieces of furniture the apartment was bare.  81st and Columbus Avenue section of Manhattan (unlike today in the middle of the second decade of the 21st.
Century) was infested with drug addicts and in fact, at the time, this area had the highest crime rate in the City.  It was even higher than the lower Bowery and the
East Village.  One of the first Phoenix Houses designed for drug rehabilitation was a block away.  Many times in the middle of the night there was a constant whirl-a-
gig of sirens speeding past my window on the way to a drug overdose victim.  81st Street was an especially dangerous neighborhood and there was a high risk of
muggings and robbery.  Not that I had anything of value to steal except for my old beat up Royal Portable.  

One woman from my past, Barbara Canavan (Delaney), visited me while I was still at Manhattan Beach.  I still didn’t feel that I was in love with her so I ended that
relationship and wasn’t to see Barbara until twenty years later.  Another brief fling, also at Manhattan Beach in Brooklyn, was with a topless hippie artist older woman
whom I met one day while walking along the rocks of Long Island Sound.  We had a brief affair which I cut off due to our age differences.

This was the period when the free for all, do your own thing atmosphere heyday of the 60’s was drawing to a close.  We were about to enter the era of the restricted
economy beginning with the budget crisis of New York City when the City (and I personally) were slipping towards bankruptcy.  During my last year at U. of B. I did
manage to procure a job as a substitute teacher in the Buffalo Public Schools and worked mostly in the Ghetto.  I didn’t have my teaching certificate but they were
hard up for substitutes and therefore let graduate students teach without them.  During these same time periods I had had a couple of interviews for teaching positions
at some women’s colleges, one in Ronkonkomo, on the eastern tip of Long Island.  I didn’t get job due to the fact that I didn’t have a large bust or a Ph.D.  Even the
Junior Colleges wanted Ph.D.’s.   The Intern and Instructor jobs at U. of B. followed the pattern of most universities in that they were dispensed in accordance with
inter-office politics and how well one got along with the professors.  Since I stayed relatively aloof, I didn’t have a chance at securing one of them.  Out on the job
market, for every one position available there were at least twelve hundred well qualified candidates.

In New York City, once again, instead of the Welfare Department, I answered an ad for a driving instructor and ended up joining Bell Auto School in The Bronx.  
Before I moved into my 81st Street apartment I made an attempt to live closer to work by securing an apartment in The Bronx.  The neighborhood was a conservative
bastion of Italian brotherhood.  When the landlord saw me unpacking my things he noticed my typewriter and thought I was some kind of a writer.  He refused to let
me move in because he had heard rumors about the wild parties thrown by artists and was afraid I would do the same.  So I betook my two cats Byron and Shelley and
decamped to West 81st Street and Columbus Avenue.  I commuted to Fordham Road and The Grand Concourse by subway.  I started my training and brief career as a
driving instructor.  I had to enroll in their school for driving instructors in order to learn how to drive properly.  I had been driving since I was sixteen and like most
people I thought I knew how to drive.  I was soon to realize that approximately 90% of the people on the road don’t know how to drive.  This is especially the case if
they were self taught, taught by a member of the family or a close friend.

Even if they went to a driving school the chances were they took an abbreviated driving course and never learned the techniques for safe defensive driving.  We were
told that there wasn’t an accident that wasn’t the driver’s fault or preventable no matter the situation.  We were taught by the Smith Method.  This was the same
method employed in the Greyhound Bus Driving Training.  Legend has it that the inventor of the method drove for twenty years and was so talented at defensive
driving techniques (looking a half a mile ahead and a half mile behind) that he never had to apply his brakes.  He always established his escape route, maintained his
distance between cars and in effect built a shell of safety around his moving vehicle.  (Bull shit!)

At Bell’s we were drilled like soldier recruits in Basic Training.  The instructor repeated the instructions over and over until it became like a tape playing back in your
mind.  We had to know at all times who was ahead of us, who was behind and on our sides, the color, make and model and approximate distance of cars on both sides of
the divider and where our best escape route was in every type of situation.  In fact, so precise, dramatic and repetitious was this instruction that to this day I can still
hear the instructor somewhere behind my right ear (where he actually sat) reprimanding me for being lazy or making a foolish move,  I believe all drivers should be
required to go through the Smith Training.  

I flunked my first try at the driving instructor’s exam but managed to pass the second go around.  The Bell Auto School gave me something of value for the rest of my
life.  It almost gave something else of value--a love match.  I took a liking to the boss’ daughter and she to me.  She was a beautiful young woman of 16.  I was 28 at
the time.  It was an impossible situation.

I was talented at driving instruction once I got the hang of it.  I was patient, soft spoken and handled the clients professionally.  But the thought of spending my life
going around in circles didn’t appeal to me -- “left turn, right turn, easy does it, watch it!  Pull over there you dumb son- of-a-bitch!”  This was about as thrilling as
spending my life on the golf course.  The decision to leave was taken out of my hands however, because the owner, Mr. Bell, got wind of sexy Sandy’s relationship with
me.  He called me aside one day and asked my intentions towards his daughter.  In no uncertain terms he told me I would be fired if I didn’t stay away from her.  I had
decided to leave.  Sandy wanted to elope.  I wasn’t ready for that.

The years are now 1969-1970.  My next job was a brief fling at Arthur Murray Dance Studios but my revulsion at the strict ballroom teaching techniques and clannish
structure of the group didn’t appeal to my democratic free spirit nature.  I stayed there a month and then answered an ad in
THE VILLAGE VOICE for writers of
exotic material--pornography.  I answered it and interviewed at an office where rows of clerks would be inputing filth on what was then the latest word processing
machines.  They were transcribing tapes that had been submitted by writers.  I was referred to a plush hotel on Central Park South and there met an amiable chap who
hailed from Canada--"Pornographic" Patrick.  He gave me a cassette recorder and told me to go somewhere alone and dictate my fantasies in any format I chose.  
When the tape was full and overflowing, turn it in and get paid and maybe laid.  So I betook my sexy self to Central Park South just across the street from Patrick’s
luxury hotel.  I thought to myself, what a wonderful way to make a living.  Just relax under the warm springtime sunshine, stretch myself and my organ out on the
grass like a horny Rip Van Winkletoes, close my eyes and free associate.  Before the day was over I realized that spewing out garbage wasn’t for me.  I believe I lasted
a week, handed in my tapes and never returned.  I don’t recall whether or not I got paid and I certainly didn’t get laid during that erotic interlude.

After the pornographic episode there were several other odd jobs of “ungainful” employment that I secured.  One was a foot messenger in Manhattan.  I did that for
about a month.  Then I decided to get my Hack’s license and began driving around and around New York City in ever increasing recursive concentric circles.  It was
about this time, in the middle of the year 1969, that I met my first ex-wife, Susan “Saint Susan” Jablon.  Later on she told me that she had first seen me at the
Laundromat and became interested.  She had also noticed me on the bus.  I have no such recollections of her.  My life nonetheless was about to take an abrupt about
face for the better or for the worse depending on your point of view.

I am living on the edge of consciousness theory on 81st Street with my two cats.  The apartment, as I had mentioned, was nearly a partial vacuum.  I’m broke.  I have
no furniture and I’m feasting on TV dinners.  I’m weighing in at about 125 pounds, sporting a motorcycle jacket, a nest of post Hippie beads and crosses, sans Edgar
Alan Poe Black Cape and full rabbinical beard.  

I experimented with a few singles’ parties of my own and was attending singles’ functions in and around Manhattan.  A few days before I met Sue, I was dating a
woman from Brooklyn named Regina.  For some reason I can’t recall I decided that I didn’t want to take her out anymore.  I think the reason was that the she was
geographically undesirable.  I decided instead that weekend to go to a Greenwich Village party that was advertised in
THE VILLAGE VOICE.  I lit up a couple of joints
and betook myself to Christopher Street.  By the time I arrived I was thoroughly stoned.  I sat down cross legged in the middle of the room surrounded by a bevy of
horny women and began holding court.  When I looked up from my stupor and “make out” bull shit, in front of me sat St. Susan Jablon. She was definitely my type--
long black hair, sexy, Jewish nose but not too Jewish looking, dark and most of all wearing a white silk blouse that exposed her 36 C’s with one wicked glance.

I immediately left my entourage and started to converse with Sue.  That conversation lasted for the next thirteen years.  She later told me that she was attracted to me
(perhaps because of the fact that I was the only man in the room) because I was sitting in the middle of the room with a broad Cary Grant smile plastered across my
face surrounded by a bevy of buxom women.

Sue didn’t realize until much later that I was stoned as a bone.  I was definitely attracted to her.  When I took her home that night it turned out that she resided three
blocks from my apartment on 84th Street and Central Park West.  After I gave Sue a joint we slept together.  That night we probably had the best sex of our thirteen
year relationship.  It was all downhill from there.  I didn’t return to my apartment except to confiscate Byron and Shelley, my typewriter and the few personal things I

I moved into Sue’s basement apartment the next day, set up my typewriter in the living room and was in business by nightfall.  At this time I was driving a cab and
writing.  Unbeknownst to me these were to be the final days of writing for the next twelve years for reasons that had nothing whatsoever to do with Sue, our future
children or our poor marriage relations.  The reasons had to do with writing per say and with the realization that I was not a writer for I had no serious commitment to
that profession.  By this time my writing had degenerated into the scatological masterpieces that had absolutely no chance of being published.  I could never expect that
anyone would pay their hard stolen or inherited cash for such outpourings as
.  But in the confines of Sue’s apartment, for the next year or two, I went through the motions of being a closet writer.

By the second day of our relationship I knew that I didn’t love Sue but I also knew that I wasn’t going to leave her for a long time.  I guess at the age of 30 I was ready
to marry and being my usual lazy self, I simply went along with the Yin and Yang of things.  It was too much of a struggle to extricate myself from the sordid
situation.  My heart also went out to Sue because she seemed so vulnerable and lonely and had been mistreated by previous seducers.  I didn’t have the heart to
depart.  So, in the true existential manner I was going to let whatever was going to happen, happen.  And it did!

Sue, for her part, was the typical and in some ways not so typical Flatbush left wing, rebellious Jewess of the 60’s.  It turned out that she was an elementary school
teacher and was teaching in the Crown Heights Ghetto Section of Brooklyn when I met her.  During her college years she had been actively involved in The Dubois
Club, a Communist front organization.  Underneath, however, Sue was really too conservative to be a dedicated communist or even a radical left-winger for that
matter.  She professed to support all left wing causes and had put in token appearances at anti-nuke rallies at the U.N. in the 50’s, workshops, demonstrations and
even managed to drag me to a Washington, D.C. Peace Rally against the War in Viet Nam.  During this demonstration we almost got gassed to death.

By the time she met me she had settled down at the age of 25 to the typical life of a teacher in  New York City’s various and a sundry Ghettos.  She was involved with
the very first Phoenix House, a drug rehabilitation center and was a close friend of the Director and originator who had formed the first Residence on 84th and
Columbus Avenues in the very epi-center of the drug kingdom.  She was spending her free based time, after school, as a counselor to the addicts.  In fact when I met
her she was violating the rules and dating one of the addicts--a violent type who had on occasion roughed her up and treated her like the prostitutes from his former

This is why when I came into Susan’s life she was ready to be treated better.  Since I was in the process of dumping Regina and Sue was in the process of extricating
herself from the influence of her drug addict student, we both got each other on the rebound.  The last time she saw the addict was the day before we got married when
she went to see him to break it off for good.  He tried to talk her out of it and they probably slept together but that eventually ended.  Naturally, it didn’t upset me
because I wasn’t in love.

The Director of the first Phoenix House was a former drug addict, pimp and ex-convict who was now dating Ruthie K. (Susan’s best friend from way back to their
elementary school years).  Ruth K. you may remember I mentioned lived in one of the buildings on 81st Street, in fact two floors beneath me.

In a real sense then you could say this move ended my bachelor years at age twenty nine.  Susan resembled Judy Reiss whom I was in love with back in Graduate
School.  If I could have brought that feeling into this relationship it would have helped matters considerably.  Sue, for her part, claimed that in the early years she was
in love with me but since it was not reciprocated she fell out of love.  In reality, we both hooked up with each other because we were tired of looking.  I felt comfortable
with Sue and she felt comfortable with me.  At the time I moved in, she had just finished repainting her small apartment which actually was designed for one
occupant.  We weren’t talking marriage until six months into the relationship.

A little more background filler is in order concerning Susan Jablon.  She had recently returned from a rather extensive stay in Europe.  She had spent several
summers there and had attended French classes at the Sorbonne.  She had also survived various jobs as guardian for young French children.

Besides resembling Judy Reiss she looked a lot like Lorraine La Bella of my high school years--long black hair, medium height and a sexy coloring of the skin like
Italian, Spanish and Israeli.  We were similar in many ways, both lonely and both ready for marriage.  She was a sheltered Jewess from Brooklyn with a provincial
upbringing and outlook on life.  She made several close friendships in her immediate neighborhood and still today maintains those relationships.

After graduating from Brooklyn College she became an elementary school teacher.  She was able to teach in the New York City Public School System without getting
her Masters in Education because she was one of the few lucky ones that was covered under the older Union contract.  The new Union arrangements had made it
mandatory to get a Masters after five years in the System.  During the budget crunch of New York City in the early 1970’s, in a maneuver designed to save money, the
City attempted to lay off teachers by the thousands.  The excuse they used in Sue’s case was that she failed to meet the requirements by not securing her Masters.  
The Union got off its fat institutional ass and took up her case.  As a result of the Union’s action, Sue was one of the few teachers in her position that did not lose her
job.  (Parenthetically, Sue eventually did get her Masters in the late 1980’s during her second marriage but in my case I never officially completed the requirements
for the Masters).

Sue had had several affairs of the heart in her college years--mostly as a direct result of her pubescent, adolescent rebellion against her stereotypical Jewish Mother.  
She dated a lot of Puerto Ricans and Blacks.  Naturally that outraged her Kosher mother.  Sue had an older brother, Irving, but more on Irving later.  She also had a
sister Anita, fifteen years her senior.

I think Sue, like me, got married just to prove that she was normal, could find a man, and have children.  Shortly after our first meeting Sue took me to visit her
parents in Brooklyn.  They blipped out then they saw me with beard, beads and black leather jacket.  Two weeks later her father died of renal heart failure on the
streets of Brooklyn on the way to a funeral.  I always thought he expired as a result of seeing who his daughter had chosen for a mate.  Her father had been a slumlord
and owned three buildings in East New York.  Shortly before his heart attack he had been mugged and sent to the hospital by some angry tenants while he was
attempting to collect back taxes.

Finally, a year or so into our underhanded relationship, at the age of 30, Sue then being 25; Sue and I made and carried out our fatal attraction plans to get married on
January 20th, 1970.  We did so.  So it is written!  So let it be done!!!