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RUDIMENTS 1146.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,146
(seeking gold in the railroad yard)
I never wanted to be anything;
mainly because the trying  was
fraught with peril; the accidental
kind, the kind you never see
coming. The last regular soldier
killed in the Civil War  -  east
of the Mississippi anyway  - 
was a Yankee named simply
as 'Arwood.' He lies buried
today at Asheville, NC. It
was all unforeseen; a mopping
up exercise against the local
renegade forces. Now, really,
it takes all the good intentions
of one man to live a straight
and steadfast life, but to have
it snuffed out, by some Deistic
fiat, just seems crazy, whether
distant OR near.
-
'America I've given you all and
now I'm nothing....I can't stand
my own mind.' Allen Ginsburg
wrote that; he's buried at the
fringe of Newark. Here's my
story about first finding that:
It seems funny to say, about
someone like him  -  queer,
short, chunky, Jewish  -  that
he was my neighbor, but he
was. Just around the little
corner at the Psychedelicatesan,
the Peace Eye Bookstore, Peter
Orlovsky, him, and all the rest
of that crazy crap. I met him once,
too, at Rutgers, giving a reading
when he had to take a dump, and
said so. One of those stupid phrases,
like 'when you gotta' go you
gotta' go.' Into the men's room
stall he went. Talking aloud the
whole time from inside. While
I stood at the urinal, peeing.
Like a horse in its stall, he got
his stall work done, and we went
back out. Crazy as he was. Then,
later years, when he died, I tracked
down the burial. Someone had
told me he was buried in the same
graveyard as the Kings of the
Gypsies get buried in. That was
all garbage, not a stitch of truth
to it. They're all ten miles away
from there.What's anyone know 
about anything anyway, and who 
listens to stuff like that? He's in an
old. Jewish, cemetery, under the
Anheuser-Busch sign, along the
railroad tracks. Period. No tricks 
or two ways about it, and let no
one tell you any better. I've been 
there, for years now, walked it all,
found my ways in. It's pretty
weirdly mystical, in its own 
crummy manner. 
-
'The kindly search for growth, the
gracious desire to exist of the flowers, 
my near ecstasy at existing among
them. The privilege to witness my
existence  -  you too must seek
the sun.'
-
Ginsberg's gravesite, the old part
of the cemetery anyway, is a strange,
vertical, city of the Jewish dead. Tall
stones, with carvings and etchings,
symbols and prayers, in tightly rowed
layers, a population from another
time and place. Crumbling, in places,
buy well-situated nonetheless. The
end of the gravesite area where the
Ginsberg site is (family, father, mother,
etc.) is, on the other hand, a newer,
flat, more modern, sunlight section
at the rear, at the tracks, at the
beer factory. What a site! The flying
eagle sign running the lit-up sky.
-
So, when there's not much to do
it's the time to do something else?
When everything that can go wrong
has gone wrong, there's not much
left. Walking through the Ginsberg
cemetery can give you the feel of
the creepy. But I sort of thrive
on that. What's a place like this
called. Necropolis? Tall, stand-up
Jewish gravestones' markers with
symbols and the Hebrew lettering.
Photos of the dead. Trains go by,
supposedly bearing the living, to
their destinations. I kind of feel it's
the other way around; the living are
here, and the trainload of souls
rolling by bears the dead on their
way to oblivion.
-
'A lost battalion of platonic
conversationalists jumping down
the stoops of fire escapes off
windowsills off Empire State out
of the moon, yacketayakking
screaming vomiting whispering
facts and memories and anecdotes
and eyeball kicks and shocks of
hospitals and jails and wars, whole
intellects disgorged in total recall
for seven days and nights with
brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue
cast on the pavement, who vanished 
into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving
a trail of ambiguous picture postcards
of Atlantic City Hall....under junk
withdrawal in Newark's bleak
furnished room...'

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