Ancient Dreams,
Dreamed-To The Tune Of Allen Ginsberg’s Howl
Peter Paul Markin,
North Adamsville Class Of 1964 and thus already past sixty-four, comment:
Many of my fellows from the Generation
of '68 (a. k. a. baby-boomers) will be, if you can believe this, turning
sixty-four this year. So be it.
*******
Ancient dreams,
dreamed.
Yah, sometimes, and maybe more than sometimes,
a frail, a frill, a twist, a dame, oh hell, let’s cut out the goofy stuff from
youthful reading too many Raymond Chandler Philip Marlowe tough guy detective
stories, or chasing after Dashiell Hammett’s Sam Spade for that matter, and far
too many Saturday afternoon double-feature matinees at the old Strand Theater
uptown woman monikers, and just call her a woman, and be done with it. Such
women (frail, etc., okay) will tie a guy’s insides up in knots so bad he
doesn’t know what is what, and not just guys who did not know what was what but
guys who had been around a bit, had tasted the fruits, hell, knew the score, or
thought they did. Tie up a guy so bad he will go to the chair, you know the big
step off jolt chair, the ‘lectric chair, kind of smiling, okay maybe just
half-smiling thinking about that scent he could smell even in that last dingy
cellblock although he had not smelled that smell in the flesh in years.
Frank, Frank Corbett (but read: future Markins
and a million, more or less, other guys) had it bad as a man could have from
the minute Ms. Cora (excuse the anachronism) walked through the door in her
white summer blouse, shorts, and the then de
rigueur bandana holding back her hair, also white on that hot summer day,
no breeze to be had except hers, in 1946. She may have been just another
blonde, very blonde, (and a real blonde, always a question in the back of every
guy’s mind as he would find out to his satisfaction once they hit the satin
sheets) frail serving them off the arm in some seaside hash joint but from
second one she was nothing but, well nothing but, a femme fatale to our boy, our boy Frank with the big hungry eyes. I,
Peter Paul Markin, swear, I swear on seven sealed bibles that I yelled, yelled
through the womb or from some toddler’s crib maybe, how would I know, all I
know is that I did, at the movie screen that year for him to get the hell out
of there at that moment. But do you think he would listen, no not our boy. He
had to play with fire, and play with it to the end. Play his hand out right up
to the big step-off smile, half-smile whether I had yelled or not. And hence my
own Frank troubles from that day forward:
Nose flattened cold against the frozen,
snow falling front window “the projects” apartment, a place built on “wait on
better times, get a leg up, don’t get left behind in the dawning American
streets paved with gold dreams” but for now just a hang your hat dwelling,
small, too small for three growing boys with hearty appetites and desires to
match even then, warm, free-flow oil spigot warm, no hint of madness, or crazes
only of sadness, brother kinship sadness, sadness and not understanding of time
marching, relentlessly marching as he, that older brother he, went off to foreign
places, foreign elementary school reading, ‘riting, ‘rithmetic places and, he,
the nose flattened against the window brother, is left to ponder his own place
in those kind of places, those foreign-sounding places, when his time comes. If
he has a time, has the time for the time of his time, in this red scare (but
what knows he of big red scare Cold War doing heard on some gloomy radio and
later seen on some gloomy black and white small television, only brother
scares), cold war, cold nose, dust particles floating aimlessly in the clogging
still air night.
More.
A cloudless day, a cloudless blasted eternal, infernal Korean War day,
talk of peace, merciless truce peace and talk of uncles, cold war, cold feet,
cold bite, coming home in the air, hot, hot end of June day laying, face up on
freshly mown grass near fellowship carved-out fields, fields for slides and
swings, diamonded baseball, no, friendlier softball fields the houses are too
close, mixed in with thoughts of gimps, glues, cooper-plated portraits of
wildly-maned horses, of sweet shaded elms, starting, now that he too, that
nose-flattened brother, has been to foreign places, strange boxed rooms filled
with the wax and wane of learning, simple learning, in the time of his time, to
find his own place in the sun but wondering, constantly wondering, what means
this, what means that, and why all the changes, slow changes, fast changes,
blip changes, but changes.
Nighttime fears, red-flagged
Stalin-named fears, red bomb aimed right at his head unnamed shelter blast
fears, named, vaguely named, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg hated stalinite jews
killed fears [laughing thoughts fifty years later of Allan’s one million
Trotskyites mushrooming on American negro streets, sorry brother, off by almost
a million], jews killed our catholic lord fears, and what did they do wrong to
get the chair, the ‘lectric chair just like Frank, did they cause somebody like
Cora to be killed, anyway fears against the cubed glass glistening flagless
flag-pole rattling dark asphalt school yard night. Alone, and, and, alone with
fears, and avoidance, clean, clear stand alone avoidance of old times sailors,
tars, sailors’ homes AND deaths in barely readable fine- marked granite-grey
lonely seaside graveyards looking out on ocean homelands and lost booty. Dead,
and the idea of dead, the mystery of dead, and of sea sailor dead on mains,
later stream thoughts of bitch proctoresses, some unnamed faraway crush teacher
who crossed my path and such, in lonely what did he do wrong anyway prison
cells, smoking, reading, writing of the mystery of why dinosaurs die and other
laments. Dead.
Endless walks, endless one way sea
street water rat-infested fear seawall walks, rocks, shells, ocean water-logged
debris strewn every which way, fetid marsh smells, swaying grasses in light
breezes to the right, mephitic swamps oozing mud splat stinks to the left
making hard the way, the path, the symbolic life path okay, to uptown drug
stores, some forgotten chain-name drug store, passing perfumes, lacquers, counter
drugs, ailments cured, hurts fixed and all under a dollar, trinkets ten cents
baubles, gee-gads, strictly gee-gads, grabbing, two-handed grabbing,
heist-stolen valentines, a metaphor in the making for future conned hearts
without the valentines, ribbon and bow ruby-red valentine night bushel, signed,
hot blood-signed, weary-feet signed, if only she, about five candidates she,
later called two blondes, two brunettes, and a red-head, sticks all, no womanly
shape to tear a boy-man up, would give a look his way, his look, his newly
acquired state of the minute Elvis-imitation look, on endless sea streets, the
white-flecked splash inside his head would be quiet. Man emerging out of the
ooze, and hope.
Still more. Walks, endless waiting bus
stop, old late, forever late, story of a young boy’s life late, diesel-fueled,
choking fumed non-stop bus stop walks, no golden age car for jet moves in
American Dream wide-fin, high tech automatic drive nights, walks, walks up
crooked cheap, low-rent, fifty-years not fix rutted pavement streets, deeply
gouged, one-lane snow-drift hassles, you get the picture, pass trees are green,
coded, secretly coded even fifty rutted street years later, endless trees are
green super-secret-coded except for face blush waiting, waiting against boyish
infinite time, infinite first blush of innocent manhood, boyhood times, gone
now. For what? For one look, one look, and not a quick no-nonsense, no dice
look, no time for ragamuffin boys either that would elude him, elude him
forever. Such is life in lowly spots, lowly, lowly spots. And no dance, no
coded trees are green dance, either, no high school confidential (hell
elementary school either, man), handy man, breathless, Jerry Lee freak-out, at
least no potato sack stick dance with coded name trees are green brunette. That
will come, brother, that will come. But when?
City square, any-town America, his American
city square, filled with no trespassing-
police take notice signs meant his eyes, his sneak-thief eyes on the hunt for
trinkets, the first in a long line of trinkets to dazzle some forlorn damsel,
not so different from Frank, Frank from the movies when he got his wanting habits
on, his chaste wanting habits which would build to those lust wants that drove
Frank to the big step, no standing either, no standing in front of low-slung
granite buildings everywhere, bank vault exterior solid buildings, granite
steps leading to granite doors leading to granite gee-gad counters, hated, no
name hated, low-head hated, waiting slyly, standing back on heels, going in
furtively, coming out ditto, presto coming out with a gold nugget jewel, no
carats, fools’ gold didn’t you know that was your station, no russkie Sputnik
panel glitter for his efforts such is the way of young lumped-up crime, no value,
no look for value, just grab, grab hard, grab fast, grab to get yours before
the getting is over, or before the dark, dark night comes, the dark
pitched-night when the world no longer is young, and dreamed dreams make no
more sense that this bodily theft. Those damn trinket thefts would do him in,
if he was not careful.
First interlude: A bridge too far, an
unarched, unsteeled, unspanned, unnerved bridge too far. One speed bicycle boy,
Schwinn maybe, or low-sling English racer that was all the rage, dungarees before
they became jeans and sleek, rolled up against dog bites and geared meshes,
churning through endless heated, sweated, no handkerchief streets, names, all
the parts of ships, names, all the seven seas, names, all the fishes of the
seas, names, all the fauna of the sea, names. Twelve-year old hard churned
miles to go before sleep, searching for the wombic home, for the old friends,
the old drifter, grifter, midnight shifter petty larceny friends, that’s all it
was, petty and maybe larceny, hard against the named ships, hard against the
named seas, hard against the named fishes, hard against the named fauna, hard
against the unnamed angst, hard against those changes that kind of hit one
sideways all at once like some mack the knife smack devilish thing.
Then back to business, back to trinket
worries (and sprouting up like no tomorrow, underarms stenches, daily lathers, acrid
mouth, unkempt, cow-licked hair sans Wild Root solutions worries before he even
got out the door). Si, lindo, lindos, beautiful, beautifuls, not some spanish
exotic though, maybe later, just some junior league dream fuss though, some
future cheerleader football dame though (smelling of Raymond Chandler influences
and Bogie growls), some sweated night pastry crust and he, too slip-shot, too,
well, just too lonely, too lonesome, too long-toothed before his time to do
more than endless walks along endless atlantic streets to summon up the courage
to glance, glance right at windows, non-exotic atlantic cheerleader windows.
Such is the new decade a-borning, a-borning but not for him, no jack swagger,
or bobby goof as they run the table on old tricky dick or some tired imitation
of him. Me, I’ll take exotics, or lindos, if they every cross my path, my
lonely only path.
Moving on. Sweated dust bowl nights,
not the sweated exotic atlantic cheerleader glance nights but something else,
something not endless walked about, something done, or with the promise of
done, for something inside, for some sense of worth in the this moldy white tee
shirt, mildewy white shorts, who knows what diseased sneakers, Chuck Taylor
sneakers, pushing the red-faced Irish winds, harder, harder around the oval,
watch tick in hand, looking, looking I guess for immortality, immortality even
then. Later, in bobby darin times or percy faith times, who knows, sitting,
sitting high against the lion-guarded pyramid statute front door dream, common
dreams, common tokyo dreams, all gone asunder, all gone asunder, on this
curious fact, no wind, Irish or otherwise. Stopped short. Who would have
figured that one?
Main street walked, main street public
telephone booth cheap talk walked searching for some Diana, greek goddess,
wandering wholesale on the atlantic streets. Diana, blonde Diana,
cashmere-sweatered, white tennis –shoed Diana, million later Dianas although
not with tennis shoes, really gym shoes fit for old ladies to do their rant,
their lonely rant against the wind. Seeking, or rather courage-seeking, nickel
and dime courage as it turns out; nickel and dime courage when home provided no
sanctuary for snuggle-eared delights. Maybe a date, a small-time after school
soda split sitting at the counter Doc’s drugstore date, or slice of pizza and a
coke date at Balducci’s with a few nickels juke-boxed in playing our song, our
future song, a Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall
song, and dreams of I Want To Wanted sifting
the hot afternoon air, maybe just a swirl at midnight drift, maybe a view of
local lore car parked submarine races and mysteries unfurled, ah, to dream, no
more than to dream, walking down friendly aisles, arm and arm along with myriad
other arm and arm walkers on senior errands. No way, no way and then red-face,
alas, red-faced no known even forty years later. Wow.
Multi-colored jacket worn, red and
black, black and red, some combination reflecting old time glories, or promises
of glory, cigarette, Winston small-filtered, natch, no romantic Bogie
tobacco-lipped unfiltered blends, hanging from off the lip at some jagged
angle, a cup of coffee, if coffee was the drink, in hand, a glad hand either
way, look right, look left, a gentle nod, a hard stare, a gentle snarl if such
a thing is possible beyond the page. Move out the act onto Boston fresh-mown
streets. Finally, that one minute, no, not fifteen, not fifteen at all, and not
necessary of the fame game, local fame, always local fame but fame, and then
the abyss on non-fame, non- recognition and no more snarls, gentle or
otherwise. A tough life lesson learned, very tough. And not yet twenty.
Drunk, whisky drunk, whisky rotgut
whisky drunk, in some bayside, altantic bayside, not childhood atlantic bayside
though, no way, no shawlie way, bar. Name, nameless, no legion. Some staggered
midnight vista street, legs weak from lack of work, brain weak, push on, push
on, find some fellaheen relieve for that unsatisfied bulge, that gnawing at the
brain or really at the root of the thing. A topsy-turvy time, murder, death,
the death of death, the death of fame, murder, killing murder, and then
resolve, wrong resolve and henceforth the only out, war, war to the finish,
although who could have known that then. Who could have known that Tet, Lyndon,
Bobby, Hubert, tricky dick war-circus all hell broke loose thing then, or
wanted to.
Shaved-head, close anyway, too close to
distinguish that head and ten-thousand, no on hundred-thousand other heads, all
shave-headed. I fall down to the earth, spitting mud-flecked red clay,
spitting, dust, spitting, spitting out the stars over Alabama that portent no
good, no earthy good. Except this-if this is not murder, if this is not to
slay, then what is? And the die is cast, not truthfully cast, not pure warrior
in the night cast but cast. Wild dreams, senseless wild dreams follow, follow
in succession. The days of rage, rage against the light, and then the glimmer of
the light.
Second interlude: The great Mandela
cries, cries to the high heavens, for revenge against the son’s hurt, now that
the son has found his way, a strange way but a way. And a certain swagger comes
to his feet in the high heaven black Madonna of a night. No cigarette hanging off
the lip now, not Winston filter-tipped seductions, no need, and no rest except
the rest of waiting, waiting on the days to pass until the next coming, and the
next coming after that. Ah, sweet Mandela, turn for me, turn for me and mine
just a little. Free at last but with a very, very sneaking feeling that this is
a road less traveled for a reason, and not for ancient robert frost to guide
you… Just look at blooded Kent State, or better, blooded Jackson State. Christ.
Return. Bloodless bloodied streets, may
day tear down the government days, tears, tear-gas exploding, people running
this way and that coming out of a half-induced daze, a crazed half-induced daze
that mere good- will, mere righteousness would right the wrongs of this wicked
old world. But stop. Out of the bloodless fury, out of the miscalculated night
a strange bird, no peace dove and no flame-flecked phoenix but a bird, maybe
the owl of Minerva comes a better sense that this new world a-bornin’ will take
some doing, some serious doing. More serious that some wispy-bearded,
pony-tailed beat, beat down, beat around, beat up young stalwart acting in
god’s place can even dream of.
Chill chilly nights south of the
border, endless Kennebunkports, Bar Harbors, Calais, Monktons, Peggy’s Coves,
Charlottetowns, Montreals, Ann Arbors, Neolas, Denvers by moonlight, Boulders
echos, Dinosaurs dies, salted lakes, Winnemuccas’ flats, golden-gated bridges,
malibus, Joshua Trees, pueblos, embarcaderos, and flies. Enough to last a
life-time, thank you. Enough of Bunsen burners, Coleman stoves, wrapped
blankets, second-hand sweated army sleeping bags, and minute pegged pup tents
too. And enough too of granolas, oatmeals, desiccated stews, oregano weed,
mushroomed delights, peyote seeds, and the shamanic ghosts dancing off against
apache (no, not helicopters, real injuns) ancient cavern walls. And enough of
short-wave radio beam tricky dick slaughters south of the border in deep fall
nights. Enough, okay.
Third Interlude: He said struggle. He
said push back. He said stay with your people. He said it would not be easy. He
said you have lost the strand that bound you to your people. He said you must
find that strand. He said that strand will lead you away from you acting in
god’s place ways. He said look for a sign. He said the sign would be this-when
your enemies part ways and let you through then you will enter the golden age.
He said it would not be easy. He said it again and again. He said struggle. He
said it in 1848, he said it in 1917, he said it in 1973. Whee, an old guy, huh.
Greyhound bus station men’s wash room
stinking to high heaven of seven hundred pees, six hundred laved washings, five
hundred wayward unnamed, unnamable smells, mainly rank. Out the door, walk the
streets, walk the streets until, until noon, until five, until lights out.
Plan, plan, plan, plain paper bag in hand holding, well, holding life, plan for
the next minute, no, the next ten seconds until the deadly impulses subside.
Then look, look hard, for safe harbors, lonely desolate un-peopled bridges,
some gerald ford-bored antic newspaper-strewn bench against the clotted hobo
night snores. Desolation row, no way home.
A smoky sunless bar, urban style right
in the middle of high Harvard civilization, belting out some misty time Hank
Williams tune, maybe Cold, Cold Heart
from father home times. Order another deadened drink, slightly benny-addled,
then in walks a vision. A million times in walks a vision, but in white this
time. Signifying? Signifying adventure, dream one-night stands, lost walks in
loaded woods, endless stretch beaches, moonless nights, serious caresses, and
maybe, just maybe some cosmic connection to wear away the days, the long days
ahead. Yah, that seems right, right against the oil-beggared time, right.
Lashed against the high end double
seawall, bearded, slightly graying against the forlorn time, a vision in white
not enough to keep the wolves of time away, the wolves of feckless petty
larceny times reappear, reappear with a vengeance against the super-rational
night sky and big globs of ancient hurts fester against some unknown enemy,
unnamed, or hiding out in a canyon under an assumed name. Then night, the
promise of night, a night run up some seawall laden streets, some Grenada night
or maybe Lebanon sky boom night, and thoughts of finite, sweet flinty finite
haunt his dreams, haunt his sleep. Wrong number, brother. Yah, wrong number, as
usual.
Fourth Interlude: White truce flags
neatly placed in right pocket. Folded aging arms showing the first signs of
wear-down, unfolded. One more time, one more war-weary dastardly fight against
Persian Gulf oil-driven time, against a bigger opponent, and then the joys of
retreat and taking out those white flags again and normalcy. The first round
begins. He holds his own, a little wobbly. Second round he runs into a series
of upper-cuts that drive him to the floor. Out. Awake later, seven minutes,
hours, eons later he takes out the white flags now red with his own blood. He
clutches them in his weary hands. The other guy he said struggle, struggle. Yah,
easy for you to say.
Desperately clutching his new white
flags, his 9/11 white flags, exchanged years ago for bloodied red ones, white
flags proudly worn for a while now, he wipes his brow of the sweat accumulated
from the fear he has been living with for the past few months. Now ancient arms
folded, hard-folded against the rainless night, raining, he carefully turns
right, left, careful of every move as the crowd comes forward. Not a crowd, no,
a horde, a beastly horde, and this is no time to stick out with white flags (or
red, for that matter). He jumps out of the way, the horde passes brushing him
lightly, not aware, not apparently aware of the white flags. Good. What did
that other guy say, oh yes, struggle.
One more battle, one more, please one
more, one fight against the greed party night. He chains himself, well not
really chains, but more like ties himself to the black wrought-iron fence in
front of the big white house with his white handkerchief. Another guy does the
same, except he uses some plastic hand-cuff-like stuff. A couple of women just
stand there, hard against that ebony fence, can you believe it, just stand
there. More, milling around, disorderly in a way, someone starts om-ing, om-ing
out of Allen Ginsberg Howl nights, or
at least Jack Kerouac Big Sur
splashes. The scene is complete, or almost complete. Now, for once he knows,
knows for sure, that it wasn’t Ms. Cora (now no anachronism) whom he needed to
worry about, and that his child dream was a different thing altogether. But
who, just a child, could have known that then.
No comments:
Post a Comment