InDubiousBattle

Notes from Manhattan Rambling Woodrow waltzed into the village a very hip, but naive, phantom lost in the city of hustlers. Woodrow was no hustler, he was too cracked up on corn cobs to think that billy the kid actually shot and killed several dozen men. And when veteran Irish offered Woodrow the water of life, old Woodsaw took it with a lame eye to the west. The back alley apostles took to Woodrow, and tried to sow him up with a thread. Veteran Irish, the coin man of Mcdougal Street, remembered back to when he himself was young. He wanted to write a history of Celtic kings, but told himself "maybe when my teeth get better". So he spent his life begging dreams from suits and wasting his coin on laughing gas. Then there was Jack (The Ripper of Songs) who never said a sensible thing on his own, but could recite hamlet line for line and part for part. His wisdom was an old wisdom, that of collected minds. He always looked a little lost, but strangely at peace. Italian Asylum, his cantos lifting high above the arch of Washington square park, bringing sweet melodies to vestal virgins and paranoid hipster on the eve of their destruction. He had the wildest eye. You couldn't tell if he was looking at you, or through you. He spent his later years laying bricks on grand street and arguing philosophy with a storm drain. Lastly, the favored Muslim Marks with his red Taqiyah, his hammer and sickle tied closely to his breath. He had the greatest gift the human soul could offer, the gift of Tongues. He could talk to strangers in their own personal language. He learned this in the state insane asylum, and the wisdom shows on his bones. He explained to Woodrow that life is nothing but a vision fleshed out in photos, and the universe is whatever wild thing you can dream up. But Woodrow had never been out of his own nebula, he had no sense of time or space. The back alley apostles: Veteran Irish, Muslim marks, Jack (The ripper of songs), And Italian Asylum all stood and blew smoke rings up Woodchucks hind-quarters. It was only months later that it reached his skull. For months later Woodrow brushed out those visions of Johanna that led to his Brooklyn demise. But it wasn't just Venus that caught Woodrow in a flytrap. Woodpecker had a very hard time keeping things to the left. When Alice visited wonderland she must have been quite baffled....at least for several weeks. Then she probably got used to it. But Woodrow let the apple rot in one spot. He couldn't shoot the buffalo in his mind. He painted his heart yellow and conversed with glass eyed Indians and faded purple banjos, they hated the apostles. They had left the reservation long ago, and their bowl of chili wasn't that spectacular then either. Those thin crutches were too solid for Woodrow's narrow viewing lenses. He just couldn't see past them. So woody ate their grizzly pear and got choked up on Rockefeller's greed. The marshal of the pear told Woodrow that if he got too free they had an axe with his name on it. The Dillinger in woody wanted to say "Hey, sometimes you just gotta get A-HEAD, might as well be my own" But he bowed his chin and clicked his heels, which made him feel uneasy. Jehovah's poet with her cryptic pen and the Hat Saint of 6th street found Woodrow lying in a pool of madness. Confused and swallowed. He was bad off, and they knew it. They were able to wake him from his goat like trance. But even so, the seeds of destruction had already been planted in the dreams of man. They read his palm and told him spectacular lines about tarot card angels and spotlight Moses. The poet sang old battle hymns about misty eyed heroes and red blooded banshees. And Woodrow reminisced about his own great hero, the great historical bum. Woodrow followed Hat Saint to a wobbly meeting where they planned to celebrate the king of the beats. On the way Woody was mugged by shame and left shaken for days. When they arrived at the banquet Woody was welcomed by weary stares and cold coffee. Woodrow ordered a drink, but cold coffee couldn't speak yokel. What happened? This place was certainly not hip. I'm sure the Beat King would have been pissed. Here was Moloch(Slaver of minds) celebrating the words of free men!! All the while during these events, old man Pater and welfare sally were sending subliminal messages through satellite dreams, convincing Woodrow he wasn't in Kansas anymore. How could he ignore the back alley apostles plea? Kansas is not a place, it's a state of mind!! Don't have your thoughts fall on silly things like Helen of Troy! She is lame! She is blind! She has no vision! Forget fake Kansas! That's not where it's at! You got nothing there! Back there your wheels are wobbly! Your soul is dying! Your life is shorter! Your Vision Less clear!. But Woodrow came to the subway with one hand caught in the past. He had okie thoughts of Jean-less jaunty socially unhip tunes. He knew his name wasn't really Tom Joad. He had hoped to shed his skin and come out changed...and he did Woodrow sat in the park with drum drunk Johnnie and his busted guitar, drinking sweet nectar out of tin cans and cheap plastic bottles. The hole in his gut grew to a canyon. He knew he had to get his brain unhooked from his blindness. His eyes were too young and heavy. He was taking things too seriously, as all young men do.