The shallow island of self waters level.

The storm wanders the vast sphere of the sky’s current horizon, carapace at random to bolts of light, seeking purposes people find themselves within, unable to see the perfection inherent here, or there, as their cases may be. Darts of sky’s manic release crash among us, sending the sensitive, and unwary flying. That night I boarded a large yacht equipt for excesses beyond my imagining, of what daily life contains for us; and I wonder ... is the outside relative to the in, as the other way around suggests? The hosts sound as hollow shells when you rap them; an echo bouncing back ... in perfect camouflage? How else do you field the playing masses, minus the fence to deter, the audience from killing the refs, and detaining the teams, squeezing the stars for autographs, while shredding their jerseys for souvenirs? At once, inured, and possessive to tales history perseveres to reorder, these industrialists blanch at the notion they are not superior to those who mark a different, less logical path. The sycophants shadow their witless social tact, assuming the shoe-in will occur, if they put the host at ease, laughing where laughter isn’t. The appetite of those successes is rather sublime, and difficult to measure ... the cost exceeds the gain, in many respects. Yet those respects, are blighted by ignorance social adherents progress, simply by following minus thinking thoroughly the issues morals discuss.

Anyway, the appetizers were excellent, anterior to the view, which excelled no matter what you stood upon. The booze fowled tongues to truthfulness as the stars glittered; I turned to the man next to me, and said : can you believe how beautiful the varnish is on this boat?! He proceeds to illuminate just what it takes to reach such perfection. The owner paid the premiere maven of the art, to apply the last coat. He meditates, and strips naked in a dust free environment, wielding a hand cut, hundred dollar brush. My in. I ask the owner, how he heard about this character ... and what drove him to such excess. He looks me straight in the eye; there’s an interesting flame kindling there. Why do you ask, he cons me, as I con myself through him. Breaking the shallow ice the sycophants skate, I venture ... Well, is there anything else we’re here for? I see the night’s jewels in that vanish. It lends a depth to the mirror life thirsts for. And his eyes’ center burst into a searing fire; a couple taking liberties with personal space, moved unconsciously to the railing. You don’t say, he stamped on my brain, like keys of an old manual typewriter.

Objects are nothing unless they’re illuminated by love. Fear is also a form of love; the loss of what we’re attached to mutates into energies surroundings absorb, as does the anticipation of reward. What seemed to be his accountant, or lawyer yanked hymen from virgin away; some business deal via cell phone, demands an attention to find obsession’s overt call anew, through less-coupled double-entendres of individuals floating effortlessly on light-streaked lakes. Someone hands me a mixed drink and I cuss inertially ... out of habit. Ah love, you tour it briefly, and it’s ripped away. Can I read over your shoulder? I guess so. It’s challenging to wire yourself from a self-occupied place. The spectator makes it all the more difficult, as they remind us what we’re doing, judging what comes up, or out, if you’re lucky enough to read it, before crossing it out. Are you gay, he asks me. Huh? Like the yacht owner’s call, I am copiously jarred from my pervasive thought, I was just about to worship into reality. I look at him, somewhat vacantly. How did you ... then I get it. I donno. What made you think it?
An interesting discussion ensues, and I leave the wiser, to the benefit of the interruption he provisioned us in.

Tweezered and plucked for brillance.

How do I greatgrandfatherclause our mutual puniness to the human illusion of order? I like to think about leaves, and winds on hire for hair blowing, streaking lawlessly though sylvian streets on a motorcycle; but the pay is lousy, in fact, it’s reverse pay, as it costs you dearly ($$) to escape the everything we’ve reacted against i.e. created. Scatter is sacred. It’s the seeking of non-scatter, which is cyclically vice-versa.
Well, that’s pretty straightforward.
You’re doing too many things.
Duh. Life reeks of brevity.
It’s better to do a few things, and suffer less for them.

Where (and why) do our brains latch on to life rings like this? Sometimes, to be certain, success is measured by an absence, or preponderance of suffering, other times, who really cares? Why carry a bottle of water fording some treacherous river, if you know the river’s pristine to drink? I aspire to find the middle ground, where either is natural, and this fellow is not inclined to; his resultant blade bleeding me. Sometimes, a person is scattered. Occasionally they’re are fixed there. States are insistent upon their opposites to exist, and flower proudly.

I’ll take that into consideration; but I have another approach to life, which you amass to failed attempts which elicit nothing. Nothing is the end result of all endeavor. Your successes will soon dim, and your advances will obfuscate them. The petered notoriety in the legacy of your inventions, will soon fill the minds of computers crushed by bulldozers, in slag heaps. Your order will scatter, as surely as ashes will, when the urns are upended to winds of our choosing. I see spotlights sending snow-blind wayfarers to a tunnel shining their same, and I must enforce my own paradigm by sending you there, to appreciate the dangers of seeking light, rather than appreciating exposed feet stumbling through self-imposed darkness.

Well said, I think.

Everyone sees flaws in transparencies right away. Project images on a screen, and their depth dies, sequestering them to lesser scrutiny. It endemic; you can’t compete with information we choose to validate from one less dimension. Being open, you are open to attack, as ‘proponents’ devise better ways to destroy that which threatens those secure in their castled selves. Order is tantamount with defense, while chaos favors infamy and invasion. The security of your existent routine demean the mores which threaten it, for mind severs reason from risk, hiding the long-ago tryst; an unholy alliance between them is a silence broken occasionally and covered quickly again.

Is it really so dramatic?

Attend a native American Peyote ceremony as a participant, to gain perspective, to assimilate fully, rather than push away... your visions as anomalies, as flickering glitches in trustworthy, highly-proven systems... It is developmentally paralyzing to the level of paradigm playing pieces ... in two dimensions ... One must be higher. One must be lower. There can not be unity in our world; tension keeps us stuck in ...
What?
Good question.
The correction fluid spills on the table, leaving a snow drift permanently affixed to the well-fondled wood. I considered what a disaster it could be if you’d purchased this toxic solvent to get high, if you loved the table, the paper, or needed to fix mistakes for a vital report. A combination of all this and more, intrigues me. What frame of mind precludes the label: disaster? The happy coincidence of art mentality? The damned if you do or don’t resignation state? The quantum foam perception of matter serves dividends, when objects alter their forms. Just nothing vibrating, don’t be so plussed! We now eavesdrop, as there’s no other choice. "Apparently he had a crush on me, but all he could talk about was guns." I love that line, following a diabolical spin designed for a man at the game, tabled next to me—about hairy legs, and how this poor redneck sod knew nothing about women. The vexing complexity overwhelmed us; as potent mates veered and out; I saw she’d be fat not far from thirty, she somehow knew it, wrought her craft perfectly, weeding mavericks and dimwits out. Correction fluid is amazing stuff. It bonds with molecular tenacity when upended in direct relationship to where it should not be. The girl walks out with a bank clerk, or a well-heeled slave of the hallowed appearance of money minus the power to wield it for pleasure, and I unkindly watch her shirt hike, to see the stretch marks of diet maintenance food binging. With sadistic told you so, the years accelerate a film of her decline, dredging has-beens from sad-wish condom clubs, feeling powerless, like the other sods ineptly floundering with subjects such as guns, when they’d like to be in her shoes, desired by half the half of anyplace she goes. That girl’s a bitch, the feisty tablemate declares. Or, your pent-up side is jealous of the enactment of your dreams,

I (almost) decline to say.

Statute of Variations.

Can you write about your education?
No. That’s far too large a question. It would take weeks.
How about your current profession?
That’s a rough one as well.
Should be easy.

Numerous, broad-reaching forms of nature meet art, to weight synchronicity in silent, gut-wrenching journalism. This is the photographer’s calling, whose established or unknown masters release shutters at exact moments with limited time or resources for error. We are the tenders of theory’s strings, removing the corners or frames to imagine from. We tend not to focus on an individual’s style or strength, but a picture’s emotional content, its end result, and how its geometry add subject matter moves us. Like any art form, photography is a corkscrew of falsity and turns, as few realize what part of it is forged and what is really life, freed of compositional constraints. So few are truly biased to the unpredictable, connoisseurs favor the (illusion of the) unposed in moody, difficult settings, captured on low-latitude films with unforgiving devices.

"Capturing" evanescence, shadows (the illusion of) "truth", but demands collaboration in many artistic realms, primarily through a bewildering array of half-completed, glacially moving works, it plies us towards and away from. Each image attracts and repels the melt of our (brittle) end moraine, in turbulent calving of ice faces, and (peace in) comparison with others.
Those who appreciate the subtly have suffered by the hand of it; nobody knows a slap of love, until the sting of red fingers marks them so. People ask me questions without realizing pain lengthens and shortens answers, insomuch as they languish in the tedious malaise of words. In a visual realm, the artist takes his life in her hands, and full of fear, cuts his heart out, while she screams.

Shouldn’t it?
Perhaps. Depends.
On what?
Exactly.
Ah, that’s uh ... pretty dense.
You asked.

There’s what you do support-wise, and the goad to take the leap into the next level, where support is erroneous behavior. Relationships mirror mirrors we lose our images within, until the in-venerable I shimmers everywhere, normalizing a universe of its making, with the intrinsic flaws each individual brings as flowery gifts into the world. The loss of perspective is life’s blindness; we grope to the ghoulish guideposts looming from an endless array of sandstorms swept up inside us. Reference points recede into a trackless mire of gray, where incidents reflect our beliefs like outdated web pages.

It’s a simple question. (Or I assumed it was?)
What do you do? Right? What is it?
Yes. You know, how do you keep the wolves at bay?
How do I support myself.
What’s your occupation?
As opposed to my passion.
Indeed.
I don’t have one.
Frustration
is amusing
when the recipient understands
him/her self enough
to embrace the chaos of not knowing.
You know what your problem is?
What? ( I hate it when people will that upon me.)
You’re too scattered.
Compared to what? The universe?
[compared to]

Myself, for instance.

How do I great-grandfather-clause our mutual puniness into the human illusion of order? I like to think about leaves, and winds on hire for hair blowing, when you streak lawlessly though sylvian streets on a motorcycle; but the pay is lousy for that, in fact, it’s reverse pay, as it costs you dearly monetarily to escape the everything we’ve reacted against i.e. created. Scatter is the seeking of non-scatter, which is cyclically vice-versa.

Quote unquotes us [some what in]-finitely

The eagerly-sought death of artisans’ works at the hands of imposters and con me, shows a culture how far it’s fallen, that the poultry brains of its citizens worship what they’re paid, and told to. That developers would with alacrity, bulldoze history to eradicate a fresco of what’s real, and replace it with the illusion of what’s history, sounds the depths of our values, quite effectively. Cheap prefab versions of quality reek their pathetic facade, next to crumbling originality; truth must be punished with permanent obscurity, reducing its recognizable coherency to archeological digs, or better still, dust for winds’ teasing. Then again, truth is worthless unless it sings blue from the hallowed lungs of those who wield it, sparking those who’ve never heard it consciously before.


Mmmm; so . . .


I think of the dead musicians, and sculptors, the inventors whose brainstorms were ignored, or more likely, stolen for breakthroughs savvy, but unspirited businessmen plundered, and I’m sickened by the invisibility ‘actual articles’ warrant in a deadened sensory awareness with which, we inhabit our worlds. This tension specializes the few to the many, as they walk the gambit of falsity perpetrated upon. Quote: A certain Charles Manson madness pervades the place, most unsurprising he laid low, with a bunch of red-necks here. One gets the impression multiple bodies habited overgrown, shallow graves ... young rape victims and crooked swindlers, copper seekers and drug dealers, ordinary citizens rising at night to fill your sky with hallucinatory faces, and your dreams with demented journeys to the underworld. The remote lodge, powered by an ancient Pelton wheel and fed by wire-wrapped logs, burnt to the ground in the seventies, once its pathway was purged of violent shotgun-toting guards, who lived in a ragged teepee. And so on, unquote. It was soggy, and difficult to read, stained with moss and riddled with small holes, as if buckshot had penetrated history, from beyond or before it was written. Funny how metaphors heir way to our pockets, so we’ll yank them out
with our keys.

And so it Begins.

2.


Made for explosive situations. Kevlar. Things which are veteran to some, and breakthrough to others. The mad rampage of instruments in Billy’s head, as he cites his angry versions of self, crouched in apparition, rain slicker open, inviting the sea. The same alley where ... (but the dog departed) and the fish small and headless lingers, for those who seek/goad the release of time. I watch billy become sequentially drenched by passing flourished rains, individual drops spatter on pavement wearing rainbows of fossil fuel use, fracturing into small bits, as we will. Stunning women who’ve thought excessively over their facets, trundle by laden with shopping bags, turning with pity meets horror to Billy, whose rants awaken them. I wonder how much the streaks in her hair (coloring) cost, and if they deigned its fade to the coming tan, from the savage electric salon. One almost thought, here’s the real goddess, straight from the wilds of a tropical paradise. A disorienting stretch of minutes ensued, where each person’s appearance spoke the ravings of multiple personality disorders. Billy was the crooked, stretched madhouse mirror alms paid conscious entrance to.


What protects us: the moats we dig and fortify in subsequent walls, with slits for sniping the siege engines of people’s greed ... you are protecting, what I want. I don’t’ even know what it is. Life is a prefabricated silence the soul struggles to shout across, attempting to awaken the heat of the passion suffering feels as we force ourselves upon the stakes fires’ din to kindle us in. It has stopped raining, compared to rain of the instant before, and billy receives two dollars for his troubles, or general state of exposure. His selves gather at the fire monies elicit, and congeal into a heartfelt smile, followed by a damp cig–arette, to spatter them again.


How many pieces of him are angry they’re wet?


Pies divine their appreciators by the number of slices they serve, if they’re a asset to the taste buds. How many wives will Don Giovanni wet? It was seven to two in the afternoon, and all the mental giants dreamed of, was a coffee, and a paper to fear, filled with impossible stories. Smokers shortened their lifetimes outside, twenty paces from Billy’s diagnosis the world is fucked, breathing slowly in, and out. The whole place was disgruntled, and die-hard, gird in weapons to alarm others, and broken within themselves, thirsting with freedom and adventures. Hey you. "What?" Did that guy say something to me? "Don’ know; meybee ..." Meanwhile, steaming Billy hit three jackpots in prey, with his best craziness ... "That’s the suffering of profit." As authenticity is the act of artists frog-stepping their roles into life. "I seriously doubt he thinks he’s doing well." Neither did the suffering artists who later generations glorified, in their stubborn efforts to resist the comfort of the known. [Artists–shmartists.] An artist is anyone with a vision beyond the known, who attempts to manifest it; this alleyway between high buildings, is inhabited by persons of all disciplines and opportunistic occasions or concerns. The dirt Billy’s lying in, is the river’s offering. It is truly the magic occult of ‘the delta’, where those driven by profit vainly attempt a harness of the divine; damning is moating; effect minus versa breeds vice in paychecks’ garnered; suffering collides strife with physical idioms, as it of the ‘I’ suffocates a very-metaphor reality, we term ‘our world’. "That’s nice, did you manufacture that beforehand, or dish it out writhing for me?" The latter I think; but knowing little of time travel, I could have been quoting.

Train Wreck

The bliss of time. The saga of time, the past time invokes—his Christ emptiness wrote my tale, in unpronounceable cooings. Seconds tick minutes when we’re engaged in passion, a state which includes suffering,but who cares? Consider the maelstrom of sound a rock star enjoys. In earlier eras, a musical preference would have been narcotica, procedural, or natural, hardly posing you as 'odd'. ‘The church’, whatever church is, naturally blanches at lyrics. Anything is termed profane, by minds which issue it The sheer pointlessness of change, in a time-defined world, normalized and redefined bewildering arrays of suffering, as passion shifts from the flesh, to the existential. Passion veers through burning hoops, into quiescence, brewing carnal desire in monks, locked to their secular cages. The rules swing and bang like the gates winds tease, as we attempt delicate ballet, predicating its ‘grace’ upon whims we snigger about. Suffering sizes realism and grants us compassion for yokes we seek to keep.

Two freshly-impregnated twenty-somethings rub their tiny but burgeoning bellies, and talk about the state of the sated dissatisfaction of their peers. I listen with interest, to avoid the throb in my ankle, recently sprained, and tender to certain thoughts. They stopped nine words into a two breath sentence, to gawk a bunch of semi-reformed meth-heads led by a Fat Albert look alike, as they sloped by, shagged and enervated, looking for something intangible, mustering their focus en-mass. People moved, in the strewn alleyway, letting the motley band’s energy ooze past them. After a moment, she resumed, as if nothing had happened, and I bumped my foot against a table leg, hearing myself almost yelp with pain; but calculatedly coughed instead. This is the ankle I sprained in almost identical circumstances a year ago, driving me to write a novel about the phenomenon, as I used to think this level of synchronicity was weird. Time exacts our displeasure into a need to understand; I’m sure even far-sighted physicists considered the quantum realms inexpressively bizarre; and they still do. Weirdness becomes normalized in nascent layers of established reality, while scientists shrug, slowly parsing their don’t know, to know.

Technology is moving faster than any generalist can keep up with; new editions of complex problems and software to solve them, slash our previous prowess to base antiquation. The narrow-scope specialist will thrive, wowing no-nothings and armchair generalists with torrents of complexity no typical life span will effectively probe, or ford, if it plans on diversifying. You think so? Maybe. Sounds like a trend. We clink berries over it, smiling faces splattered with juice, as the conversation turns ... I tell them about the alley, and the pregnant girls, how they thought the world was ruined, so they didn’t vote, and right after they said the system was fucked, a mangy dog paraded down the alley, a headless rancid fish peeking from its grizzled maw. They smell was excruciating ... I nearly gaged when it poked its head in the door. I wanted to say : You two over there : the universe is here with a connection; but who would get it? The simile of ‘Believe you me!’ separates the id from the superego, Shut up! Shoo that mutt outta here! I can’t handle reflection that loud. And so on. Dude. Can we change the topic? The rancid fish thing is ruining my berry high.

The lithium salt scum from the underground spring stained the shallow cavern, excavated to find copper for coming wars. In a state of controlled panic, I scribbled my name in its odd smell, and woke up, wondering if lawless types and Manson-mentality, seeks balance in places of calm ... like here for instance ... warm water, old growth, silence, and crazy medicine comes together to draw the whacked to specific land. Eventually, being dim-witted and glaringly messianic, ‘or’ egotistical, they shit in their newfound nest, as non-native souls to North America have. I hear good-hearts shlepped tons of trash out, when the ruffians were eventually mustered. Having destroyed everything, they moved on to destroy/heal everything all over again.

I’d tried to make a living without compromising, and the end result is driving me insane. Slowly but surely ... the details are overwhelming me ... the balance of struggle and suffering result in a twisted ankle, to slow down, and abnegate from the madness. Hundreds of emails and dozens of phone calls, schemes beyond reckoning to pay for what would hopefully fund schemes to pay for schemes’ larger schemes, constantly upgrading hardware to raise the variant bar of the shape of the schemes I dared to scheme. For years, all resources funneled towards art, and debt inferentially grew, as the balance of fun and work erased itself in a decades-long blur of tilling what’s barely arable. Ideas of ten times the resources of time and money to enact them haunted me; I was an unhappy ragamuffin of failed ploys and frustrated roundabouts, dead end shortcuts and found materials.

Old mining equipment litters our overgrowth, hidden by change and years. It dowses times past by existing, yet seldom does it occur to us, to restore it, display it as art, or use it again. That "technology" is old, and therefore, nascent to ideas we’ve bypassed, in favor of things which now exit, to be found, and not examined for secrets. We assume the choices of progress are inherently correct, by function of existence over versions which did not enjoy mass procurement, defined by producers’ greedy whims. Inside us are entire landscapes of reality refracting choices we make and made, underneath the greedy versions of ourselves, obsessed with recognition, and powers. Locked in the actual mirror, we are blind to the versionist theory of many Is embedded in a single over soul, which in turn is embedded in ... the danger zone ... thinking like that! Oh so they’d have

you believe.

Suffering is Life's-spice sprinkled generously.

In the second attack of Braille for lane control, the night parsed our muddled drunkenness to flowers’ opening, and relayed it’s abuse in blessings, as they laid the heap of rubble at the slate which constituted his marker, signaling his departure from the world. Scratched in evanescent chalk was a crude description of his sharp fear before the shrapnel which severed his leg, caused him to bleed to death. ‘Anotghe body for preditor Bush’, it read, in broken English, or apt spelling, underneath. It was a harsh vignette, of a harsher war, congesting us with visions which derailed dreams to nightmares. It’s weird she went there, to see that. Is it curiosity, or atonement for a collective wrong, which nobody seems empowered to do anything about? Meanwhile, the billion concocted details we ride through our ‘organized world’s confound us to confusion and distraction, shunting us from the scenarios which would awaken us. The cross-eyed quasi mongoloid was playing with his ear buds, which seemed to be shrieking death rock music; he was white as a sheet and clearly anxious about his coffee order, which even by Kant’s reckoning, was taking an inordinate amount of time. He turned to sate himself on my soul; his pupils were holes, stargazing time.

The panic of time. The saga of time, the history time invokes—his Buddha emptiness wrote my tale, in unpronounceable expletives. Minutes tick as seconds when you’re engaged in your passion, a state which suggests suffering. I consider the maelstrom of sound this fellow enjoys. In early eras, his musical preference would have made him a candidate for being roasted at the stake. ‘The church’, whatever church that might be, would blanch at those lyrics. The sheer pointlessness of chance, in time-defined events, normalizes and redefines suffering. It shifts from the flesh, to the existential. It veers through hoops, into quiescence, brewing like carnal desire in monks, locked in secular cages. The rules swing and bang like gates winds tease; we attempt to dance delicate ballet, predicating ‘grace’ upon the whims Gods snigger about. Suffering sizes passion to realism, and it gives us compassion for blades of that, which we cut, to keep their length ‘correct’.

Meaning well ... or is he?

The Second attack of Braille for Lane Control.

Check for missing pieces here. The loss equals the gain, of which nobody can quite concisely imagine beforehand. Three constitutes a crown of thorns, if you certify two as a correct number for a loving relationship. They swear specific versions of Bible on it, as if kids don’t count ... did you know my fucking Catholic doctor wouldn’t give me vitality pills?! He said I had to be married; I mean, is that a law, or what? I’d turn the bastard in if he wasn’t so generous with pain medication. God knows we need some help every now and again. I always try to talk to people, to be friends, but ... shit. It’s hopeless. Nobody wants to listen, you know? Doesn’t matter where you are ... It’s a world of talkers out there. I went to Mardi-Grass, an’ my bro, he loved it so much at the end of the event, I didn’t know if he hated it so much, he was crazy, or lived it so much, he was mad. Oww, I love that song ... American woman, now stay aw-aa-ayy ... but not really. I’m wondering why people get so sequestered, or dense, they’re unaware they’re talking too much, which forces me to revolve around the wrongs in their world. Finally he senses a rambling diatribe and redoubles his efforts to snare me. Was he ever aware I was doing something before he sat down? He is a shark, prowling the tables of everybody, looking for energy scraps.

"You attract whack-os like that, because you’re actually interested, and most folks are too socially inept or stultifyingly-mainstream to acknowledge these quirky souls, not to mention sordidly self-focused like him, they are bereft of curiosity concerning our amazing universe of others." The T-Vee flickered its mind control through a deep funk of (cheap) cigar haze, and I paused to view it’s intensity. Welcome to Lifestyles of the Fucked-up, Famous and Upwardly Obsessed ... how large and soulless can your gated community clear-cut castle be? Shallow mercenaries struggle for basely-obtained riches in prime-time consent, broadcasting sickening Hollywood perspectives of egotism to the otherwise-generous and caring masses, kindling each person’s ever-present frenzy of the inner rat brain, single-focused to secure the dwindling reasons to overeat, free of guilt. They gnaw their countless competitors until they weaken from deception, or blood loss; an end result in death or disfigurement of aesthetics and close communities, but I have to admit, this show is fascinating, in a way. Like a horror movie, or mushy insipid movie scene, where you’re forced to hide your eyes, but are equally compelled to peek though the web of fingers intertwined. ‘At least his kids seems normal.’ the guy next to us says of the final contestants, simply to rile his frail-looking lover, who in thin veneer covets that hyper-American lifestyle. ‘Yea. Hopefully they’ll rebel, and become environmental guerrillas, to atone for their parents’ consumer terrorist crimes.’ She slaps his elbow. ‘They’re not that bad. Look how they enhance the world, with their skills.’ I felt like I’d missed something, so I didn’t take offense ... maybe there is something to mammals on TV, displaying their nests and dens to others. Keep an opened mind, the Buddha might say. I like the leather couch. And his sports car looks fast. The sky over his house is beautiful, especially reflected into his fake lake that’s nearly as good as a real one. Wound around the idea o fwhat it looks like to the outside world, he rounds our heavy thoughts around ourselves; his wife thinks it’s a perfect place to raise kids ... in a serene sterility, devoid of actual nature, real community, or notable art? I feel sorry to watch this, I said. But it’s a pleasant sort of sorry, seeing my life is full, although it radiates frustrations and sorrows, when I force its works through small holes.

Termination Shock

It was four ten am, I’d finished the last piece for the show, and with eyes crossed, reached for the fixative, which clear coats the delicate elements of the collage. I shook the can for at least a minute, and daftly sprayed. The bow shock of my exhausted, mental heliosphere found a deeper ellipsoid, as the interstellar wind smashed its apparent chaos upon my canvas, in glaring bright silver spray paint. I let up on the nozzle, completely perplexed. Ten hours of work, gone in an instant. In a finale of the roving mind, I’d switched off, and absently grasped the wrong can, stood there doubled over in shock, ground up, paralyzed and raving inside ... hit the table with one mighty blow. The thin stem of a martini-glass leg punched through the oak hardwood floor; the table collapsed and spilled its wet contents onto ...


Termination Shock : The turbulent gray area where the velocity of our solar wind drops, as it feels the effects of the interstellar winds, which are, and swirl the forces of other stars. The band had been mobbed by girls, the producer told us; we nearly had to run, at several points. "Uh huh." I’m staring at my pants. The floor was a touchdown catastrophe ... do you know what time it is? I ask him. Uh, sorry. I keep forgetting the zone change. Doesn’t matter. I’m fucked anyway. You okay? Not particularly. Sorry to hear that. The phone rings all day for people who don’t exist who want to fill out surveys and buy useless things which become their own rocket science, and I’m meditating on the increasing palatability of dog food. Increases in animal meal technology are my new old age social security, seeing how art has backstabbed my happiness, and financial well-being. Well, that’s a drag. If it makes you feel better, I don’t have any money either. Yea, but you’re in Europe, partying every night, and surrounded by girls. He laughs; Yeeah man, sheet happens!


I’m so on edge, the slightest problem elicits thunderbolts. Breaking a shoelace is a shuttle disaster. Your backpack hooked on a doorhandle ... my god. Walking about at snapping point, zero money and security ditto, manic with ideas in a paucity of time or materials to finish them ... it’s a romantic torture without reprieve, slowly grinding us into dust from which we came. It’s a tension of extremes which swing the harmonics of alternating poles, vibrating under the current of things. He doesn’t sound the depths of the heliopause, where the boundary of an individual’s unique solar system becomes unclear. I think of all those trim, beautiful, boyishly-devastating, small-chested Parisian girls, and find solace in their imaginary arms. Crying shame, they’re wasted on those big-boobed porn-hungry sluts he’s repping. The crap is peeling the actual finish from the floor, as I carefully spatula my flunking grade up, and decorum keeps me from wondering if it might just be better now.


Since art is suffering, and passion is suffering, what isn’t surrounded by, or in a state of suffering? The weeds suffer when I pull them because I’m suffering trying to get a paycheck so I’ve become a gardener faux this week. The lawn suffered when I mowed it. The house owner suffered when they saw what I’d done to the floor, which made me suddenly suffer with the momentary add long range suffering of never doing anything correctly, or at least, to my ultimate satisfaction. Now I’m beholden to the generalized yoke of nonspecific suffering, radiating from all sentient, and non-consentient ‘un sentient’ entities. I’m glad for the tour updates, by one hand, and on the totally opposite other, I’m depressed by them. They highlight how I suffer, because I’ve felt those highs. I crave the heights I’ve experienced, contrasting them through the lens of my pants, and the hole in the floor, which was nearly a piece of art, I could have sold.


Why do you do art, if it makes you unhappy? Good question. It’s only the rude awakening after art, which is proven difficult to deal with. Like a one night ... no, that’s a bad simile. I never have those. Like love perhaps, if you must. In one night, it’s easy to be grateful, and grasp an event without judging it, no matter how wasted you were. It’s the repetition of pain which sears us, and ruins our innocence. Anyway, I’m thirty, and thirty is stultifying if passion in fact, invests you in misery. Don’t rain on my parade; I’m going blindly into the crucible, assuming I contain the essential essence of what will transcend this base metal world the masses hide in, or blithely inhabit. Well said. I like that sibilant flow to the tunnel light, as the goods train approaches. Don’t forget to throw yourself to the wall, right as rapture hits you. The transition can be bloody, and somewhat intense.


It’s good to know risks, and good to ignore them. I’m told I ride my bicycle like a maniac, but to me it seems normal. If I considered the pavement at 40mph, hurtling between crawling cars, I’d make a fatal mistake, sooner or later. Some people approach rock climbing, or insanely-strong drugs with this demeanor. I appreciate this sentiment, though I have great difficulty manifesting it. I trust I’ll be okay; safety equipment is for those who’re afraid they’ll go down. How droll; party’s over already?! It’s just getting interesting. That’s why I wear helmets. That’s why I don’t. Same argument elicits different thunders, and differing echos; depending on what fist hits whose table, the floor may or may not collapse. 1.) Trust and courage. 2.) Unnatural faith, and constant awareness. 3.) Acts of love forge the basis of self, which withstand lament better than suffering.

Letter to Mars.

Dear Mmmm,

I appreciate the long letter letting me in on your side. If I were in town right now, I'd be having this discussion with you in person, as it's obviously important, and as we know, email tends to remove what's truly essential between people. If I was wrong sending out that email, then so be it ... I am only trying to show you the group reasoning behind why I did it. A large apology is more important than two individuals’ petty issues.

Surely, you don’t think a challenge to solve a longstanding provocation, or grudge which affects a community, is a threat or reason to leave its fold. Your membership with our institution, on almost every level, is unassailable, and not a fragile affair one controversy could affect. I'm not saying you're wrong, or that you didn't feel unappreciated, or used, or that you weren't publicly embarrassed, or any of that.. All of us behave like a little kids in some tense circumstances, and likewise inhabit a lot of denial... I have little doubt there was a scene, perhaps on the level of Wwwwww’s birthday party, owing to his ego-driven need to give, which is pure and seamless only some of the time. I see you have extended the olive branch, and it's more or less up to Zzzzzz now, but look what it took for you to do that, so a slice of the community could witness the event. Other parties are now quite likely to throw the towel in, as you threaten to, rather than truly face what occurs in all messy group dynamics, are melding pots of what occurs in closer relationships too, and the end result of it, is, nobody will truly benefit for the sake of future learning and adventures beyond this. Let me attempt to speak my peace here, because I feel I haven't yet been heartfully heard. We do not evolve by accusation, but rather by understanding our mutual weaknesses, and openly, or publically embracing them.

Your rebuttal was reactionary, and thus, not in the best interest of either yourself, or the people you sent it to. Yyyyyy's forward was destructive, hard-core, and unapologetic, plus it suspiciously backed a certain sentiment you already had, so it was self-serving of you to forward it. I cop to living one's words, but I stood only to lose from that forward I sent, as I did NOT want to become involved, but was specifically asked to facilitate. That party energy had a motion to it that was going to come out one way or another, so I thought better now than later, and a neutral party makes the better messenger, where rival sides force cards to a table scrutinized for sleight of hand. I welcome your challenge I had other intentions, as I don't think I'm motive-free and am far from enlightened. I hope you’ll ferret a sentiment of know-better out of me, so let's talk in person about it (I'm interested); yet I don't see how I had/have anything but personal hassle to gain from this... thus my initial reluctance to even engage in it.

As I said in emails before, I am primarily interested in group dynamics where personalities clash, as every individual habits their own personal prejudices, which are seldom correct, yet they contribute substantially to a collective understanding. You think you were trashed, but as I'm sure you and others have noticed, Zzzzzz trashed himself in his apology. Our assembly is not one of idiots; we feel a pulse which lies beneath our pulse of superficial things, despite whatever "explanation" or 'official' line has been adopted. Those who are attempting to hide become flustered by exposure; if we have faith in our peers' intentions, their ability to lovingly embrace us is assured, and any realizations which elicit more sharing, deepen the bonds of everyone.

The kind of email you sent Xxxxx and Zzzzzz is the sort of sentiment the whole community should be aware of , so they can help facilitate healing on any occasions between you, them, and any recognizable versions of him/her/us that resemble the circumstances of such problems. This is truly vital stuff for us to grok, as it's the very thing which isn't occurring in our country... an honest disclosure of what's happening behind the headlines we've stopped believing in. Your wanting to make others see and feel as you, having been ignored instead of invited to perform ... what you did is on many levels, as childish as having a tantrum and breaking a record. That's important! People need to know you’re big enough to admit this, so they in a similar vein, can admit their faults in altercations with personalities which mirror certain aspects of themselves in challenging circumstances which proffer themselves for resolution

or warfare.

Let's face it, Zzzzzz can't fully apologize, or take criticism either helpful or negative, in any timely manner to save his life... it's truly unrealistic to expect him to do so, without being the paragon of what we'd actually expect of him ourselves ... and as you know, that's the kind of thinking which elicits global change. This concept is the backbone of why you send those political messages out. You're still sitting on a grudge of fifty bucks from how many years ago? And thus, he is too ... a problem which could have been cleaned up right away for the benefit of all of us ... But was it? In a timely manner, at the expense of our fragile egos or whatever it takes? Isn't this group worth it? Xxxxx is going to divide her allegiance to side with Zzzzzz, because that is the nature of relationships ... a loss of perspective meets love with its hat in hand. She girds herself to fight for underdogs, be they ER messes scraped from auto wrecks, or starving cats in roasting Louisiana cane fields ... it is her great special strength and occasionally her downfall; but I think you know this about her already. Zzzzzz’s inability to deal is magnified by her heartfelt desire to support and stand before him. That's why we have to be bigger than all of this, to re-foster love where suspicion, hedging, and judgment have secretly stolen in. And I'm talking about not one instance, but a living paradigm.

Truly, do you imagine

I like taking the heat for this, or perhaps I have nothing better to do than stir explosive chemicals for the sake of stirring? From up close, and from a distance, I see how damaging this whole affair has been (for years) and want it, and all future ones to emerge sufficiently to be solved with a useful precedent afterwards. This isn't about a few people covering up problems which ripple out to the masses, it's about sharing, and increasing the number of loving watchdogs finding the subtle shades of similar mis-communications in themselves, and throughout all of us. We need everybody looking, to carry the load of positive change into a better world.

And just for the record (in case you now think otherwise) I feel nothing but awe for everything you've done and given to the community ... this is not about my 'situation' with you, because I don't have one, except that I enjoy you, and consider you a co-conspirator in general creativity and fun. I would hope you would blow this whistle on me, challenging that which you energetically consider to impede a state of love. And I do NOT lavish this sort of attention on strangers. I admit I have higher expectations of your capacity to deal, and evolve socially than I do of others, but that's a product of my respect for you; and I don't think you would you want it another way. I apologize for going on and on about this, but I believe it is essential for any group to air its grievances in a useful and evolutionary way, to increase the level and quality of honesty we in turn gift to the outer world. In the esteemed contexts of music, art, love and dance to name a few, the group we inhabit has changed many people, and raised consciousness. Please accept this as a kind of distinguishment, as I have a billion things to do and an extreme shortage of time to further any of them; however, I think the topic of group-assisted loving to resolve and heal internal strife is important enough

to warrant our close attention.


Love, Rrrrr

Reality is profit drinking.

Regarding the Decorated General

This was fairly typical thinking during the 30's. A specialty of the Methodist church which must have considered the general a strange bedfellow. It and some like organizations sponsored a high school oratorical contest in Indianapolis, a center of isolationism. There must have been fifty contestants from each of the six or so high schools. How about that, I won. The pitch of my speech which I at least half way believed at the time was that WWI was pretty much sponsored by and primarily for the benefit of the du Pont company, the country's largest ammunition maker. And they did make bundles. So much so that they bought control of General Motors.
But I got to know the company pretty well. The first case I worked on after law school (1950) was the du Pont-General Motors case, an antitrust case in which the government successfully argued that du Pont must sell its GM shares. Our firm, famous as Dean Acheson's firm, defended du Pont. I got to know du Pont pretty well and wrote what they called a "definitive memo" , "Does du Pont control GM?" Think I wiggled, it obviously did on some things but never across the board. Sad the government won. I think that if du Pont had remained a major stockholder it would have sensed what the Japanese were doing to GM and would have straightened GM out. All the top GM men I met, and I interviewed a lot, were sort of mesmerized by GM's then power and totally unable to fathom that a train wreck was coming.

But back to du Pont. In spite of being an ammunition maker they were totally opposed to war and vigorously objected to our tentative pre-Pearl Harbor efforts to enter the war. For du Pont and I think any business war is quite limiting. Sure you can make lots of ammunition or if you are a banker make lots of loans, but it's all a one string thing. The strictures of war such that you can't grow your business in new and more profitable ways. Du Pont could not have commercialized nylon and probably couldn't even have developed it during wartime. Ammunition is profitable but nylon, wow! Bankers can't put together big profitable international deals during war time. So, although I have no doubt about the general's sincerity I think he's all wet on the reasons for war.

That's not to say that I think our wars are always for pure and holy purposes. A lot of people think that we are in Iraq today to protect our sources for oil. And depending on your viewpoint, that may not be the purest possible reason.

Bill Moore

Bill has a point there, however, I am reminded how so many of my friends conduct their personal affairs at work, the sure thing of a paycheck giving them license to further their stature at the expense of hands that feeds them. Like having a benefactor who pays you to email your friends, government contracts are the gravy train slop is funneled off, to fuel the dark careers of nylon, because it can. By the time each breakthrough is tested, it’s been investigated extensively in secret. Van Morrison plays on the radio and I wonder how much acid he heated in his neural junctions to see God the way he did. If he’d never played music, and instead, had fitted pipes ... chances are he’d be what?

We Drive with Insight in our Smiles

[Orcas Island]

We’re rounding the corner at breakneck speed, the serpentine double yellow glows our high intensity high beams, as edgy chemicals run down our throat backs, tweaking our brains. While passing a CD cover littered with lines of untested trypamines, signs blurred into nonsense, arraigned from white-tailed deer skittering across a blacktop psychically marred with carcasses of all those who didn’t succeed. The radio is a lifeguard’s megaphone, cartooning us with dialogue bubbles, petty emotions want to fill in, and the road weaves the car sensuously into questions dots underline, covering trees removed for straightness, whose roots deeply penetrate the ground. Deep, lush, greenery waves its auto-inspirited winds across terse shoulders, mowed ages-past, and the challenge of feeling hours evolving, let alone a transparent legacy of horse and buggies, wears on us. I slap myself gently, to say I have, in the process of staying awake, the speed we’ll approach imaginary moments is terrifying. Hendrix scores his sonic genius as the car hydroplanes the road’s rushing water, channeled by sad deforested hills. The whoosh of the tires sealing out fates, adorn us in solitude; we’re crammed into a small metal capsule, as numbers unwind to maps’ whims, and loud thoughts screech needles to records’ plasticity.


I type the word trypamine into the electronic dictionary, and it suggests strip-mine as an alert, or alternative. That’s funny; and it occurs to me the language is manipulated by those who publish the books, and the shadowy agencies which rebuke, reward, or regulate them. These English Oxfords are going to schools. Youth will be changed by what they contain; do not elaborate on mind-alterants, and jagged swear words. At birth, babies can hear all sounds of every language on earth, but the ability dims from the moment we’re repeatedly pointed at one; this openness actually atrophies, and dies, as the brain refocuses to the grosser subtly of what it needs to survive. The ‘perfect pitch’ of our birth in thoughts is lost, as years erode the belief we’re less happy than we wrecked our lives to be. [Luckily …]

We’re not actually adults, as far as brain development is concerned, until we’re 25 years of age. That’s why soldiers and churchgoers are recruited substantially earlier, when they’re still technically unformed. The moral judgment wiring isn’t fully operating, until our prefrontal cortex has matured; so imagine an idea that’s so complex, it takes twenty three years to flesh itself out; and even then, you’re at its starting line. In regards to non-egotistical operation in the world, most humans are cradle-borne to shallow epitaphs. We are functioning from the brain’s amylgada, reacting to early fears our higher functions ignore. The prefrontal cortex, where the [I ] self begins and ends, tells us others are separate from that which sees them. Mirrors are images selves frequent, as a reflection of not the thing itself. I provides a level of abstraction, few are desirous to optimize, to reach the religious state within oneself. Of course, all this focus on regions and structures addresses a storm of unpinpointable feelings, and is but simple modeling to relate complex, interconnected mysteriums brains are probing to digestible, intermediate shades of biological infinity.

Self realization:

The rigors of daily life in the under-activated, industrial countries rages; there are nine hundred messages in my email box, and I’m quantitatively fifty three hours short of sleep in a mere twenty day stretch of attempting to esprit fun while trying to somehow support myself. The largest rabble-rousers in life are hiding in our mirrors each morning, yet forgiving our enemies confuses them. The conundrums derived from our ongoing slattern of self, fuel the mission to express creatively, in most of life’s arenas. A generalization of what encounters whom, on this pathway of life, is a pleasant fairy tale; the real concentration camp is our mind; we fence the profound with wires which insight mangles, slipping the sacred’s savvy agents, plying us with [secret] microfiche, the double-agent bullshit, of who’s serving whom the dis of the in formation.

When you discover a loss of horizon, stop digging, for the hole is only going to get deeper, and harder to extricate your problem from.

A moment of rational repose.

General Smedley Butler was the Ollie North of the 1920's as well as the most decorated Marine of his day before he became an adamant anti-fascist. Words of wisodm from 1933:

War is just a racket.
A racket is best described, I believe, as something that is not what it seems to the majority of people. Only a small inside group knows what it is about. It is conducted for the benefit of the very few at the expense of the masses.

I believe in adequate defense at the coastline and nothing else. If a nation comes over here to fight, then we'll fight. The trouble with America is that when the dollar only earns 6 percent over here, then it gets restless and goes overseas to get 100 percent. Then the flag follows the dollar and the soldiers follow the flag.

I wouldn't go to war again as I have done to protect some lousy investment of the bankers. There are only two things we should fight for. One is the defense of our homes and the other is the Bill of Rights. War for any other reason is simply a racket.

There isn't a trick in the racketeering bag that the military gang is blind to. It has its "finger men" to point out enemies, its "muscle men" to destroy enemies, its "brain men" to plan war preparations, and a "Big Boss" Super-Nationalistic-Capitalism.

It may seem odd for me, a military man to adopt such a comparison. Truthfulness compels me to. I spent thirty- three years and four months in active military service as a member of this country's most agile military force, the Marine Corps. I served in all commissioned ranks from Second Lieutenant to Major-General. And during that period, I spent most of my time being a high class muscle- man for Big Business, for Wall Street and for the Bankers. In short, I was a racketeer, a gangster for capitalism.

I suspected I was just part of a racket at the time. Now I am sure of it. Like all the members of the military profession, I never had a thought of my own until I left the service. My mental faculties remained in suspended animation while I obeyed the orders of higher-ups. This is typical with everyone in the military service.

I helped make Mexico, especially Tampico, safe for American oil interests in 1914. I helped make Haiti and Cuba a decent place for the National City Bank boys to collect revenues in. I helped in the raping of half a dozen Central American republics for the benefits of Wall Street. The record of racketeering is long. I helped purify Nicaragua for the international banking house of Brown Brothers in 1909-1912. I brought light to the Dominican Republic for American sugar interests in 1916. In China I helped to see to it that Standard Oil went its way unmolested.

During those years, I had, as the boys in the back room would say, a swell racket. Looking back on it, I feel that I could have given Al Capone a few hints. The best he could do was to operate his racket in three districts. I operated on three continents.

So there you have it,

[I like] Ike said a few things, nobody sought to remember

as well.

90 hours in sanity.

It was a day of greenery and fog, a vast compendium of smells normally squelched by rush and exhaust, a fractured puzzle of senses attempting to conjoin, and convey what’s 'profound' I heard a song on the radio and started bawling; the flock of geese stopped calling each stroke of their wind well-muscled wings beat, and flight ceases overhead. They’ve normalized jack hammers, and pavement, for pavement’s sake alone. Vertical or horizontal, we’re numbed to it; monotony calms us into a frenzy within. Energy eats at our core, and dies are cast to replace what existed, when we wrenched the dies our partners gave us ongoing to the concussion our parents hit us with. In a short period of time, we’d become everything they aborted, with the additional trills of what they’d only dimly imagined. The crushing finality of what can be accomplished without wrecking balls, defeats their process, for ether dreads requirements which die under the yoke of ‘horrors’ and disfigurements; to the enlightened, all events are transitory; and complainers find solace in what they choose to manifest, and therefore attach to.

The evil in ordered societies.

The proto-stars of souls yet to manifest on this plane, shield the stunning polarities radiating from this reality its very care givers, who inhabit a sacred world of subtly, give. The beleaguered ensigns shipped to birth, unapologetically precess us to ruin, for the gravity of the issues humans rotate about, slowly increase, and incrementally tug us in. I wasted an entire day attempting to change a tiny corner of my existence, and moreover, wondered how many such wonton bowls existed, waiting to be drained, or filled. Hundreds of people stored these outside of themselves, all around me, every day, awaiting my bump, for dusting, or disruption. I saw the bait and the lure the strike secures, in an unconscious instinct hunger pales by, to secure what can easily be overturned.

In the manner of the crackly spark gap of early communication devices, and horror movies’ Jacob’s ladders, she had saggy tits, and squishy haunches spurting out of hip hugger pants. Her wire-reinforced cups fringed in black lace poked from a Danish milkmaid top, clinging oh-so loosely to the fine skin twenty-somethings often possess into their thirties, highlighting nearly off-shoulder straps screaming her perfect collarbone to dead gods, and jealous women alike. Her tall Norman Continence and flaming red hair dominated the romantic elements of the room, for a fine meal becomes the companion of a lifetime, when shared evenly with wit and mirth. Fainting attracts attention, but you’re auditioning unconscious behavior, so the tree fell, but did you hear it? The oppositions’ attach to each other, and forge our viability, or charm upon the world.

She had a scowl etched into the lines of her face, and I felt sorry for her ... managed by my troubling thought : If any niche is an edifice to use, would base survival seek mates via opposition’s miens? Is ‘beauty’ with a ‘frown’ the ultimate attractant to all those hell-bent on fixing people, or things? If only, to liberate the smile which I sense exists underneath! I’d lavish whatever it took, to radiate that (her) beauty upon the world. She had a bewitching quality to her; a challenge. Can you break my inner sorrow? Will you be the knight, or priestess, who wrenches the way from the dare, I pose to the world? An unhappiness which mysteriously persists, with windows to clearer places, to carry us along ... ten dollars she’s ... no, I take it back. The destructive demeanor of humans, is also a demiurge.


Studies show many children threatened by strangers, run towards their parents, in cases where they feel fulfilled or nurtured, and ran to the imaginary corner, for tracing the inherent required a dedicated resonance with the unknown, but the syllabus of the evening piled upon itself, starting with a loose plan to attend a lecture by a famous Danish accidental tourist, who found the narcotic of walking in metropolitan areas, and proceeded into an unplanned barrage of connections with inference, as it relates to ... as the divine stalked us every step of the way, asking us to pay attention to its innumerable signs conveying her frustration and hope, she mouthed the words of, as he spoke. I thought, this woman is a gem, or I should say, a work of art, while he related to us as kin, sharing strong allegories straight from the heart.

The naked greed of the developers, schooled in the institution of take care of yourself, and fuck everybody else, was sufficient to me to warrant a change of address. All the concerned citizens, in an era of portability, leave the toxic waste zones the narcissists create, extracting everything they can from situations designed to serve others, leaving nothing but a hungry rat pack, chewing one other’s tails. They too then migrate, to the migratory routes the selfless populate, to bed the innocents into their subterfuge, and bleed the wary of sight. Idiocies of public space, and planted greenery are for architects’ plans, a lying fodder to secure the job they’ll cut the accouterments from, as they never walk or sit on benches, do they? It’s occupancy which drives them, into the suburbs, for the newest version of their idea of success, in a thousand more square feet, and another garage, as if too much, isn’t enough. The idea is not to serve the people, it is to extravagantly serve themselves, breaking every rule they can, as it’s a game to do so, to increase their share of the grossly incurred plan they’ve perpetrated upon the land. People, the happiness of the social offer they represent, is the least of their concern. They think, will this look good ... for me?! How will it raise my standing? How much graft will I get away with? And you think I’m overstating the case? Our government harbors these souls, as compatriots. They have been raised without quality, compassion, or taste. They are out for themselves, and are filled with short-sighted moral agendas, which crush the institution they’ve allowed themselves to get rich by. No wonder the knowledgeable flee, or give up completely. They know the American system itself, has degenerated into backstabbing The People it professed.


You people are basically evil spirits, I tell the delegation, inspecting the site to be razed. You’ve decided long ago the bulldozers will win, and sit here in conference to appease the rules’ thinking otherwise, as you’ve no platform or organization to stand on, but naked greed. They didn’t like the admission, for it caught them out of the blue. Three people applauded, and the armed guard dropped his tense hand to the gun, which I noticed was cocked. I raised my hand and spoke : Why is that thug here? You’ve paid him because you’re aggrandizing a series of lies into truths which won’t stick. The question you have is, when will it unravel? Will we be scott free by then, to befuddle the next well-meaning citizens of their precious space? The guard you’ve paid shows us you don’t trust us, and why? What have we done to you? It’s a mirror you see, of your own sacrilege to those you process into ground up, dehumanized waste.


The gurgle of heat lightning seared the purple clouded majesty we sang about, as bombs burst in civilian enclaves seeking the mythical terror cells, increasingly hard to discover, as each blast swears more in. Luckily, this is the logical fodder of inert recordings, which never reach us. I gaze at the developers, and see them in general stripes, surveying fields of recruits fresh for the graveyard. It makes them very important, to have such powers. Missiles roll down Red brick Squares, in demonic rallies of taken minds, freed from their personal insight, to follow themselves, instead of those who are empty, and need followers to survive. These people are shells, whose only consonance is extracting money, for themselves, from those who should know better.


The guard escorted me out, and not one person thought loudly enough, to speak about it. I suppose this insight bothered the part of me, which hadn’t bit the hand they tried ... to feed us with. Are you people that full of ... but what’s the point? They remove what doesn’t work with the plan they’ve decided is right. If they were higher up, they’ve thought at night, they’d have people like me killed, for halting the process which clearly, is right. They maximize their following, and profit, in a tight spiral upward into the political sphere, for this is a training ground for lying adroitly, and sheep’s clothing themselves in lily white frocks.

The happiness intrinsic to the mysteries we certify to crave for release.

Nothing’s quite as it should be, or so it seems. Why are you so ... dissatisfied?! she grilled me. To be perfectly honest, you complain more than anyone I know. No shit?! Really? I’m embarrassed; [but that’s a sovereignty; if you don’t complain about the state of ‘reality’ and try to shift it, you may as well gospel accompany the goose-step with the problems themselves. Damn right I’m ungainly; battling denizens of ‘existence’ takes wit and courage not to mention a supernatural helping of humor. I exasperate myself on romances with imposing odds of enlightenment; trucks miss me by inches and I suppress my aghast ... try to learn for later from it. They were screaming at their occupant, one the phone for a reason, as I legally entered the intersection, and they blew the red. Never even hit the brakes; god damned bicyclist. It’s my fault, see? I should have seen it coming. There was no way to see, but I should have felt it, not just right before, but by a longshot, or a longer shot, late last week, or a month ago ... I missed every cue along the way, and you wonder why I’m hard on myself. I veered for no reason at the last second, and the car missed me. At least I’m still alive, if that’s a topic to jeer or rejoice, ignoring all the lessons which led to it. I ride life totally exposed to offer myself, like a sacrifice, to suffering. You are taking a fraction of the risks I am; so it seems like ... and your friends ... {happy family archetypes} face it, you don’t read the paper, because it makes you dreary, and depressed. If you’d seen people slashed with knives bleeding profusely, healing before your eyes, you’d think we’re inhabiting an unspeakable ignorance about our ability to be more than we’d imagine. You’d henceforth judge by meteor trail, not the miserable rabbit runs we follow to ... ] I had no idea I came across like that. Sorry for being a downer.


Earnestly, I wish I’d screamed yahoo! As the truck barely missed me; scraped another life from the lost and found lottery! But no, the ominous overwhelmed the joy quickly followed by anger. I thought it my civic duty to follow that truck and ... what? Make a big scene? Idiots SUV drivers on cell phones vs. fragile cyclists, the latter wins. Drag the dude or bitch from that environmentally-unfriendly capsule and ... funny I didn’t know the sex of the pilot, though I looked point-blank right at them. They, as ignorance on earth, burn me up. The me is only worried about itself; fortress onslaught against family and friends, let alone strangers ... ‘the enemy’: etc. There’s a catastrophe of depleted uranium ammunition in each mind, poisoning its own environment. Who cares rules the plant and animal world; I breathed healing and tried to relax past, the shock which embraced the beating heart of mystery’s system.


"Well, Bin Ladin said that one of his goals has been to bankrupt the USA... he surely seems to have managed ... to move us that direction, since we've re-allocated some half a trillion dollars, overall, to 9/11 related activities. Actually, what’s more alarming, is General Lebed's tale of the missing suitcase nukes (may he roast in peace) introduced another twist:—the KGB was purportedly planning to bring these ‘lost devices’ into Europe and the USA. If the US pisses ‘them’ off sufficiently, could be a Russian finger on the trigger; US then nukes Mecca etc, the oil fields go up in flames, and Russia and China suddenly have new spheres of influence round the world.."

And I’d heard that horrific rumor too ... that the them might be Osama, as third parties are needed in destruction’s coup, and the deepest tier of the perpetrators in any moral madness, must remain intact.


The mad conjunction of nows pushes us headlong to the edge, where the turbulent waters funnel down dark holes, and sheets of apparently placid expanse bend over hidden perpendiculars, spilling their liquidity in glassy fragments of tomorrow we’ll climb and blunder over. The midget transvestite is smoking a thin, elegant cigar, and leaning against a bike rack, watching the pudgy northern English legs walk by, bruised and welted by some unseemly object; he’s at eye level; and her years betray some innocent pats on the ass, mingled with over-mascaraed tear streaked eyes, as he inhales and holds the carcinogen in, feeling time wick thin, as the inner bell sounds, trembling him back to the battered door with no address. Bin Laudin wants to bankrupt a country which reprints its treasured buffalo nickel, it has to recall, because the animal we annihilated in ruthless slaughter for the sake of killing, is shown with a penis. What will the children think? The population is fully divorced from what fuels its hunger to eat. How more backstabbing can you be? Check the bloke next to you, and realize his own knife is in him, and yet, we persist in worry we’re next. By whose hand, the question to ask ... this blood on me? The quiet lunatic is raving to himself, recounting a lengthy prison stay, "... hope it wasn’t the third eye, know what I mean?" "If you’re up to it, and why not?" "When you’re up for twenty, any port in a storm feels just like home, I reckoned ... gettin’ the sea’s better’n fantasizin’ bout it. Any day; you ask me." I like that—any ole port in a storm. Nice metaphor; at which point, an ex girlfriend in a big trashed 4wd truck pulled in for gas, a tiny wiry number brimming with madness, her energy gyrated by genius, emptiness and self-destructive egotism, you just knew its splattered demonic mud job was her handiwork, and it bespoke hardened daring. She was Flowers, birds, LSD and solo ascents on word of mouth routes sane climbers abandoned. I watched the bruised tart recede, wondering how the classy midget saw her, then turned by and by, to my enigma of male and female. Though co-dependent, belligerent, destructive, and cray-zee, I have to admire her. She’s a work of art, prancing around in a state of passion, stirring the shit, and making the mundane interesting. A time bomb to date, but ... what the hell. She schools experts in explosives.


The lunatic, who was probably a determined Stanford researcher, stupefied by the intractability of any problem’s deeper levels, who dropped out and found a purpose selling exotic designer drugs, mumbled some nonsense, before getting quite agitated, and mentioning Hitler. I checked his face for ethnic cleansing, and detected speed rash, which had a slight coherence. There was a form of meth with Hitler’s moniker, in full pharmaceutical jargon and form. Detecting an audience, the tide of concert turns, and he tells me, the ‘Furor’ ordered he be cremated with the last twenty liters of gas in Berlin, afraid they’d [his dreaded enemies] would see his self-murdered corpse, and realize what happened all along. We both looked at the station, dispensing fuel to glutted Americans. The dull, base, political razors countries shag each other’s private parts with; ‘Can you imagine—

Twenty liters of fuel left ... in all of Berlin!?

We scour our reality, to conform to this thought. A capital city. A world power, which nearly extinguished free rule. Overfed humans squeezed environmental death into tanks, from tanks, to spend driving to stores. It would be termed petrol though, which is more poetic, the final twenty liters of Berlin fueling his funeral pyre, the fitting though melodramatic performance for the next act’s world, playwrights would mention. I’ll bet his attendants cheapened him, by pouring half that bounty on Eva, leaving the skull piece, with the hole in it, showing a late-breaking cower/dice. He appeased me with a loud guffaw. Did he really kill himself, the should-know-better speed-phreak asked. I rounded his corner; well, he did die in a struggle at the bunker, as the allies entered his city, and the refuted third Reich fell.


The drive for romantic love can be stronger than the will to live, researchers have discovered, as if they’d never read Romeo and Juliet, or the obituaries of jumpers, or jilted boyfriends, after they turned the guns of anger on themselves. The MRI brain scans of fervent early romantic activity suggest ... not unlike a drug craving, an all-encompassing hunger, or thirst ... which worsens if rejected ... you’d think these scientists never experienced raw soul-stripping emotion, to speak of it as regions and neurons. A native American with a fresh orange hospital bracelet was groveling around blocking the doorway people politely avoided; I draped him over the bench, his face barely dreaming, a nearly lifeless corpse of a human being, soul dimmed to a candle flicker. I’d seen him in alleys for decades, drinking increasingly-potent circuitry-smashing elixirs, but the end result was hearsay then. He’d never dreaded death by alcohol more, than the moment he forgot to fear it, winding him into this state.

The rampage of a rain-sodden existence hits---

Seems like, "evil" is often aligned in self-focus. "Good"— he says, considers a collective. We’re planting ideas like trees; my friend who’s a quiet genius of complex machinery and interconnected systems suggests, the motifs of mythological dilemmas funnel through our societies, extruding us into archetypes which adapt to the subtle cues of humans missing their plant nitrogen, or potassium to break their earthly boundaries, and penetrate each of our higher lives. A mobile bank of missiles a ludicrously-placed parade of dicks waiting to shoot offensively, their white-helmeted attendants ramrod straight, attending the vertical as charges attend concise angles of attack. I love the way he expands when he smokes, blowing rings farther than anyone would hope to I have to parlay the right thing to do through the egotistical maniacs, or else nothing will get done, and I’ll be the one who suffers. It’s a tricky business to shape these lumps into useful conductors, who’ll badger and crow our insight to others. These stubborn idiots take the limelight, because they’re human, and pathologically destined to derive strength from controlling others. It doesn’t matter I’ve been doing this job almost flawlessly for thirty years ... they think they know better, knowing little to nothing at all. They won’t hesitate to tell me an idiocy I’ll need to refute, at which point, they tell me I’m a control freak who needs to be taken down. If I left, this whole place would collapse, and no actual research would get done. The new administrators and overly-specialized professors have a deadly ignorance of real world issues. They couldn’t weld a broken rib in a gale to save their lives. No doubt, when I leave, doom will descend; and the question isn’t why, but when. For that reason, I’m staying a few years longer, to infect them with common sense.



"It’s a male problem in this society, that men have no responsibly." Rudy looks at the feminist spouting turnstile truth anything but quietly. And I suppose by shouting in a public place, you’re being responsible? I’m being equal. The paradigm shouts to me every day. Your flippancy shouts to me. The art on the wall shouts loudly. It’s a shout from start to finish, so I’m simply being here, and adjusting the color accordingly. I shake my head. What’s with you? Nothing.



I’ve come to equate art with suffering. So? That’s nothing new. The way, as Taoism suggests, is always down that path; what did you expect? I tried not to. I always listen to the one percent chance, and rule out the inevitable breech of reality it suggests. Anyway, who cares? So it’s fun, so it’s suffering. The latter is a prudence from the lure of expectations it’s meant to be anything else. What’s the problem? You’re not making a living at it? Duh. That’s the litmus of suffering, and success in this society. Living, per-se, isn’t it ... the problem is ... I don’t want to do anything else. Every scheduled event angers me; I curse at the slightest crush upon my time to engage more deeply with it; seldom am I exhausted, and must physically sleep. Every minute I wick from the limited hours I have, to basely support myself, angers the passion welling in me; I toil to try to expand my time, to suffer at the helm of that, which makes my existence miserable, because it is slowly bankrupting me. That’s a mess. You’re telling me.



Don’t be so hard on yourself. That’s easy to say; you’ve conveniently forgotten you don’t come from the future, and the past. The meld of ideas from the extremes into a height of a magic few acknowledge opening, is a mainstream suicide move. My pathetic accomplishments are flawed by the fear and ignorance I accost, to ascribe to. The reality we laud, is the one of animals, but less than that, one unconnected to the earth and sky. Were we aware of the teachings we’re constantly grinding to ash [to hide] we would be horrified. We strode by a early middle age crack fiend with his teenaged runaway girlfriend, as he wiped himself next to a dumpster. It’s disquieting how easily we run from etiquette, and self-respect, to who cares?! Wadded napkins littered his homemade toilet, as if he’d missed, and she pretends its vulnerably, business as usual. I think, girl ... how did you get into this? His tats are runes; I wander tissue scarred vied and shouting the piano keys of an abused, vagrant life ... a moment before Rudy’s listened to Tom say, I think a few people recover from broken hearts, they never know they had. Like what? Hard to imagine it’s transparent, that smashing to bits. As kids, he goes on ... our parents shatter our selfless love, in so many ways, its hard to count. Sexual abuse, abandonment, judgment, forcing foreign beliefs on us ... those are the recognizable cues. The preponderance of them are much more difficult to define. Children are subtle instruments and unformed bricks; the partner of ignorance and innocent natures breed the formation of saints and devils alike. Parents are crude instruments of recollection, of the process we were broken to ride. It’s not surprising we’re mad, and pass the madness one by one, on. Few actually reconstruct themselves, from their childhoods.



I like people who earnestly hide their neurotic tendencies on their sleeves, hoping with shuttering fear they’ll be seen. They attract me as flies blunder to flowers, dizzy on the pedals of roiling and riotous colors. They alternately slap, and reward me for appreciating what they covertly shout, afraid I’ll prove my worth, by looking deeper than they can. This process devolves to hatred see-swinging the irrationally-ecstatic, in rapidly-increasing ellipses. If the eulogy of this union is love, I’d be surprised, yet I persist in exploring its fringes, until the gravity of drama sucks me in, shields down. The fiery explosion warms those nearby, frozen by childhood scars. Lightning broke the instant I wrote that. Somebody dropped a glass, which clattered metallically, yet remained whole. Thunder pealed the occupants, and then, the double rainbow. I jostled a man with a laptop, so he’d look. Every woman who walks in the door is aware of people watching, and self-consciously adjusts her clothing, to either hide ‘fat’, or show off curvaceousness. Funny to watch; the cosmic judge is arbitrary, misled by endless variables, she/he threw the referee role to each of us, long ago.



The sun scorches our inability to stand up straight, and doubles us over. The years pile upon themselves. Notables fill ledgers yellowed by notables beneath them. Muses list us in ordered ranks death trumps the cards of; one era’s hero becomes the next one’s enemy. The few things which move us determinedly through life are fragile at best; we use our resources to keep them alive, to assist us. They are life’s fingers grasping the divine edge of destiny’s door. [Aman and a women amen.] The door shut to the street noise, unleashing a maelstrom of sound I’d missed.



My housemate : the empty shell men suffice, and exoskeleton of hard edged protection for the squishy insides, which don't
know what they want, or which direction to round to find themselves the popcorn kernel bursting from the inside,
confined by circumstances apparently out of control, in the form of agonizing limits to the expansion the soul thirsts

from and for, knowing the passion which needs to be satiated. In either case, it's all you can think about; the search,
and the discovery, if it's truly your own, are the same state of binge despair ecstacy and depravity. The loving kindness
of how we're good eclipses the animal state, when the fortress of the ego/id suicidal
grate is raised.

The Certainty of Crayola Crayons

I woke up with one shoe, and blue paint all over my hands—don’t ask me what happened. All I can say is, at least it wasn’t blood."
I joked with her about narrow escapes from saucers, and who knows what color vital fluids are in other regions of time and space.
"Don’t say that," she said. "You’re giving me the creeps. I had no recollection whatsoever of what went down, or with whom.

Blue paint ... I considered that. I love either explanation, diving from a gangplank amidst ball lightning as the Aurora Pulsejets are scrambled, or being locked in the trunk of a fetish artist, blasted on mickies, pain pills, wine and cocaine. While speaking to her, the radio spat interviews with sports fans, the latter five were couch surfers, one of which raced Indy cars with his father, and uttered this epithet: "I love the competitiveness of it... being able to crush your friends." And I drew my breath in. Just when the world seems as mad as it can be, you get an eleven year old perspective on things. And theater never seemed so shallow; one has to wonder vouchsafe about ancient Scottish Rite followers, fornicating to loud chants, coveting the orgasm state to fleece the mind of thought, to discover things.




It was a pretentious time of my life, where I touted adages, lies in the likes of: No matter how little there is in the fridge, a gourmet meal lies waiting there, as surely as Michelangelo’s David lay dormant in its original slab of marble. The trick exists in its parsimonious alchemical rendering, which dilettantes are blind to. Most chefs, and I use that term most loosely, are habituated to fresh ingredients, not macaroni and cheese in a box, where the latter’s a powder in orange. No amount of Zen will return two week old wine from ruin, unless you’re not long for this world, having mastered its finest lessons twice.




Associating pleasures with narcotics posed difficulties in quitting one, for its compliment seems intimately attached to it, suggesting both must be sacrificed . Because the feeling you receive from the pleasure is shaped by the intoxicant, the attachment to it is profound, as it threatens the sanctitude, or defining aspect, of the pleasure itself. If you’ve been using the drug recreationally for years, it has invaded your cause and effect to the point, it is part of a larger weave. Stopping it affects everything you most attach to. What we turn to is the noble glory a war veteran suffers when they recall momentous times, which stripped them of fundamental safeties and pleasures. They have been brought down to their naked souls, where survival instincts short-circuit. Here, you can release anything; the atomic bonds behind higher ideas collapse; all things are fleeting; moments become hours. I remember with surprise, learning the Latin of Passion is suffering—and there you have it. Misery is a product of the ground we rise from.


White pow(d)ers elicit black depressions. What did you expect, eternal enlightenment? You’re borrowing from something, to fuel another ... it’s a debt with interest, so choose your expenditures wisely. In its court, the bankruptcy clause is nullified. What you own and believe (same thing) is ground into raw material, and melted down into base ingots, for resale. You must begin again from zero. Being impatient people, this is impractical. Usually, as a stopgap, people turn to god, and grab the life ring of preordained dogma, the whole defends with its lives. I’m just warning you ... the I told you so won’t reach your brain stem, once the pat answers take hold.



a supremely overweight professorial type is alternating between The Epic of Unitarianism, and the Atlantic Monthly article on the US Armed Forces game plan to militarily subdue China, in the coming cold war, madly highlighting each in three neon colors accented by roller ball, clipped to his contractor-grade nylon web suspenders. Good god, the thinking usually goes ... has it come to this? I get the eery certainty, I’m living some Riemann1 hypothesis that’s slowly driving all the sane people mad, and frighteningly, vice-versa. Who on earth would covet the idea of a cold war with China? Are we so stupid, we’d elect another maniac as president? They bottle feed us the idea, before it’s reality, to make sure our subconscious is pacified with its repetition, that ill-lit foundation of sycophancy forges belief.