People in a month (a short prose piece)
Should I not write some philosophy?
For I have thought on many things, on many levels.
Like, drying water is not an easy thing to do.
My thoughts evaporate and pour down again, too.
These are the paradoxes, the questions,
The rhetorical statements; my bizarre logical progressions.
Which lie behind the story of my mastery of sessions.
And yet my stuff is not nearly developed as I would like,
But, still, the content is somewhat superb.
I can get whole groups of people laughing,
Or crying, enraged, agreeing, all at my bidding.
Yet seemingly out of my control.
My gaze at times appears odd,
Possibly altering the course, or misdirecting at the source;
Like the pool ball careening across the table.
Then the thoughts that occur to me are:
Do people who pee in sinks wash their hands in toilet bowls?
Do people who put out cigarettes in dinner plates use ashtrays for desert?
There are two so very interesting paradoxes.
Or what of potatoes, what right do they have?
To wait till they get up to the machine,
Before they fill out their deposit slips?
What of practical reality? And others?
Like where does Irene get the rationale,
To deny showing someone proof over something,
For which she cannot be held accountable for?
She paid her rent, she has receipts; Case Closed!
Some people think not through to the consequences,
And the hoopla of their acts; it takes me to show them.
These are the people who can’t identify the causes,
For such perfidy and hypocritical bullshit as the likes of Bertram A Scott.
The man complains hotly of intransigence and moral turpitude,
Of the superpower in seeming to fight bigotry.
Then proceeds to be hyper about playing gays.
It all reminds me a bit of Adolf Hitler having problems
Dealing with a black destroying the German on the field of sports.
‘Tis so strange really, the total mind warp needed is amazing.
It becomes virtually impossible to fathom.
It is like imagining nothing, so totally nothing.
It is bizarre that such a cacophony of idiocy,
Could exit from inside a skull.
If one accords a plus one to good attributes
And a negative one to bad ones
Then some people cancel each other out.
One of the most annoying things in life,
Is not being able to capture all those exchanges,
And comments one makes in detail and exactness,
During the course of a day in life;
So one can sit and read them later.
Like the things I’d say to Bob or Harold or Dennis,
When I work with them, and what of Kathie Koucher?
That must have been some incredible material; so lost, so gone.
‘Tis unfortunate with photos, too; ’tis fairly annoying,
And then there are some of the progressions I make,
When someone tries to make a snappy comment.
Like Donny this morning, speaking, all of a sudden,
About men getting pregnant, he asks “Can men have a baby?”
I say, “Yes, of course.” He startles. “No, no, only a women!”
“Oh, your father never had a child, huh?”
Which got Pedro running at the mouth;
And Walter, Carmen and Kish; they have fun inseparably.
Laughing with me in thinking about my escapades,
They’ll tell me I’m crazy, I tell them they love it.
Then go home and tell their friends, “He’s just strange.”
And Tom with not understanding “Fredro,”
“Where did they get the Ro?”
“Tom, what’s Fred’s wife named,” I ask?
“Rose. ” “Well, there you go, Fred Rose.”
“Wow, I didn’t realize that,” he’ll say,
Geez, no wonder I think some people are real potatoes.
Some of the these folks, they can’t think.
I do not in any way think that they are stupid;
It is just a matter of attitude.
There are some qualities which add to their knowledge.
The facts, the reasoning, the thinking, explaining,
So many things they forget,
So many things they ignore.
At times I find some of them filled,
With a strict sense of justice.
A fine balance between right and wrong,.
Even if that balance rests on a basic premise.
Continual personal conduct so totally,
In contravention to idealistic precepts just given.
When discussing things, like politics,
They are extremely sharp, if not knowing all the facts.
Or rather they know them, but cannot readily call them forward.
It is my recall, and presentation, timing, that is the basis for my raps.
Which is Fredro’s word for it; for those songs that are mainly filled,
With speaking in rhythmic rhymes; I call them talkies.
I seem to have no problems in making people laugh;
Or yell, or band together, or work for me.
Though there are always those who are harder to tame.
But they come around anyway, eventually.
My brother Charles; the same thing.
Looks a bit hyper wanting to be in control,
With power yearnings; yet disorganized in thought,
In presentation, in timing and content missing.
Little imaginative groups or throw rug type comments.
You give someone something to stand on,
Build up his theories, while underlying yours,
Then just rip out the very thing,
That their opinions or statements rest upon.
With mine taking the void; laying down solid.
And they wonder why I can have a handful,
Or more people, in total rapture.
I can even get those shy recalcitrant types,
To spill forth their guts; empty their minds.
And I make little old ladies melt,
And whither away in charmed embarrassment.
Toby calls me arrogant! Ah yes, but I am so good at it.
Luther says “Who gave you the right?”
“Well, I only order people around when they do what I say.”
He says he’ll have to come to the beach with me,
I say “I’d love it, but they won’t let nonresidents in.”
“‘Tis private,” I have to inform him.
“So I’ll buy a place,” he says; alas, they don’t sell to blacks.
Now, Pathmark was a bizarre place.
Pee Wee had fun with me;
He called me Fag, I called him Nigger.
The assemble crowd tensed; we snickered.
But he got more fucked up towards the end; more violent.
He thought that I was a real card; and said so.
Multari, never quite comprehended it; puzzled away.
But possibly wanting something akin to it.
They were the two best friendships there.
Yet, all the blacks and Puerto Ricans had a blast with me;
All fun and games; but the whites were generally antagonistic.
Fred was hostile, on the surface friendly, ah, but behind.
I thought he was hot; he the vegetable man.
And Anne the lady at the meat counter;
What a banana, extremely hostile towards the world.
I’ve never been one to get along with meat ladies.
‘Cept Bobbie at King Kullen, what a charmer;
She thought that I had piano fingers.
Little did I know how that would work out.
Red, he was the paper man drunk;
Fine old man despondent and lost, but no where near beaten.
Pops, arthritic idiot, more argumentative than a badger.
Coffee boy Tony; a meat man, crazy dude, too into cleavers.
He was a closet fag; would have been more receptive alone.
Schivone, the mouth; told me “You have to be on speed.”
Well, if a box of Entemann’s chocolate chip cookies,
And lots of Sunkist soda is speed, so be it.
Plus this strange ability to go fast, and accurate.
Richie the security guy, a bonzo brain:
“Hi, can I panic before I think?”
Or “Maybe I’ll speak before I know what to say.”
“Can I made an asshole out of myself?”
Still, they all conform to the standard Richie motif of action:
No careful thought when entering a sarcasm exchange, and I win.
Mano, his brother, what a tush; great little thing,
‘Twas putty in my hands in discussions.
That’s a great little “carflash;” a little car he described it.
But not meaning to be small, it was.
I had a blast with them all.
And Ray the manager, lost in the world;
He was real easy to handle, like a puppy dog.
I had them amazed and flipped out and forever hysterical.
They hardly knew which way was up.
Their whole mind trip was blasted into orbit about the moon.
For all my impertinence, pushiness, sarcasm,
Outlandish behavior; they loved me.
They enjoyed it; were awed by it.
They were easily flabbergasted and charmed;
They’ll tell their friends about me years from now.
Occasionally I have questions,
As to whether to bring the writing,
Into flavors of different penmanship.
But then I get back into my track, blasting open the day.
And going to Rochester, that was fun.
Marc was interesting, too; yet strange, no hard on.
Him I really liked, but calling sick into work was real fun,
From a phone booth on a Pennsylvania highway.
Then a booth outside of a Monroe Street bar, Friars.
Met a hot boy, too; sat on the steps and talked.
He said he was straight; just like all the guys in the gay bar.
There was a firehouse on the corner;
That had sand colored bricks; and men just as solid.
Its parking lot slightly L-shaped, and brightly lit;
Inviting another month’s wandering through life.
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