Sublimate sex
don't get irate
turn passion to hobby,
collecting sensual stamps
playing pleasure bingo
be free to live abstinently
because relationships
trap and
smother and
We won't Be
'cause
You don't know Me
So I'll tend to my garden
and grow my sexual other
Monday, August 30, 2010
A Great Generation
He had been hacked and forgotten about like the tumble weeds scraping by he was nothing of importance in the snake eyes of these shadowy strangers that loiter around. He had nothing to offer these selfish serpents that make the town so sick. A hospital ward of kinds, surrounded by people yet left alone to your own struggles.
In the middle of the dusty street that ran through the desert boomtown sat a harpsichord. Its existence was inexplicable not only in this strange stetting but by its obsolescence in modern music. None of the drifters of the town paid much attention to the instrument as it slowly decayed and fell apart. He liked to play it though. He enjoyed sitting in the middle of town as all the people watched suspiciously. Some made scared small talk but only one other person played the harpsichord as well—the Tavern Keeper. She sauntered across the street in the bright light of the mid-day sun. The years serving brutes at the tavern had been hard on her as she had grown older. He loved her as everyone in the town did. She constantly served the sinners and the liars and gave it to them with a smile; always giving. She looked beautiful as she walked over to him.
"Why sit here all alone and play this sad instrument?"
"I like it" he said with a smile "and besides you play too. Why do you stick around such a depressing instrument?"
"Well, just because it's sad doesn't mean it doesn't need friends. Are you sad?" She asked
"No. Not really."
"Because you know its true misery loves company. I come and play when I feel sad. Harpsichord and I share our sadness. That's why I ask. And your face looks so pale! Why don't you come inside for some warm strudel?"
"Thank you but I am fine."
"You should stop playing." She told him.
"Well then I would like to hear you play. You are so good."
"That is because I have had much practice." He stood up to allow her to sit when both their ears were caught by the sound of a motorcycle rolling towards town. The folks on the street heard it too. The town stopped, turned, and stared at the new arrival. Atop sat a dashing young man in a leather flyboy jacket and knee-high aviator boots, dark sunglasses, and smooth hair. The Tavern Keepers eyes lit up and running toward the man she screamed "My love!" The two embraced and you could see they were happy. Together they walked towards the tavern as the numerous town folk on the street closed in around them and stalked them into the building.
He followed inside the familiar tavern. On the walls hung numerous knick-knacks, letters, and pictures mostly of a young couple. With them in the photos were a growing family,friends, and favorite patrons as each item was a monument in the Tavern Keeper's life. The young motorcyclist was nowhere to be seen inside; just the local's familiar shifting glances that are best avoided. Except there sat an old man wearing suspenders with wiry grey hair and reading glasses smiling benevolently at the Tavern Keeper as she worked. She often looked over at him to return his smile. Not only she looked at him but the crowd that had followed the biker in stared at the old man unflinching steadily sipping their drinks.
He decided to sit with this old man and see what he was about. "Mind if I take this seat?" he asked the old man.
"If you really want to you can." He did sit and soon heard someone spitting and felt his back get wet. He turned around and saw a figure staring despicably at him. He ignored it and return to the old man. "I have never seen you around here before."
"I have always been here."
"Really? Why have I not seen you?"
"Sometimes it best not to be seen." As the old man's gaze uneasily swept the encroaching crowd.
"Why are you here now?"
"I have always been here. I guess you were too busy to notice me. And why I am here now is for my love." Raising his hand towardsthe Tavern Keeper who was walking towards him brimming with a smile, but she was stopped short by a make-up caked woman demanding vodka, and soon a crowd gathered around the bar demanding alcohol. She looked uneasily at the old man as she rushed to finish serving the ceaseless hoard of rude patrons.
"So, you know the Tavern Keeper? She is a good friend of mine I think she would have said something about you."
"A good friend?" the old man inquired "how do you know my wife?"
"Your wife...? Well, often we both play tha tharpsichord that is sitting out in the street."
"Oh, so you're that boy."
"She has mentioned me?"
"Yes, you've taken up playing the harpsichord as your little hobby. It's your little thing that makes you special. Just got to be different, everybody has got to be different, which makes you all the same."
"Are you saying I'm just like all these people?"Just then a grizzled man shouted from the adjoining table "Hey! I play the banjo asshole! What makes you so fucking special?" The grizzled man sat back in his chair as his compatriots sneered and nodded approvingly. The tension settled and he turned back to the old man who answered him,
"I think you're exactly like these people. Your selfish and self absorbed and don't have any idea what you are doing."
"Oh yeah and you gather all this because I play the harpsichord? Where the hell do you get off saying that old man? You don't have any hobbies?"
"Actually I do" The old man reached into a bag and pulled out a series of models. All handcrafted and painted painstakingly to perfection. "This here is the U.S.S Missouri. The battleship I served on in the war." A terrible hiss started to rise from the surrounding tables. The people were staring with furrowed brows, gaping mouths, all hissing at them. Over the heads of the mob he caught the eyes of the Tavern Keeper stricken with worry and panic.
On the deck of the battleship were little men with numbers on them. The old man explained, "Each number corresponds with a name onthis list" which he held in his had "they where my friends, my comrades, my brothers. We were a great generation and I will never forget them." The crowd's hisses escalated to a roar of shouting and insults. The dregs stood from their seats and began to circle the old man's table.
"Stop it! Stop it! What is wrong with all of you! What more do you need!" The Tavern Keeper screamed and ran of the tavern into the street and sat at the old harpsichord weeping.
"After the war we all worked together and we built great things. We built this nation. We built a better tomorrow. If we hadn'thave done it who would have? Like this..." pointing to a vastly complicated model of an oil refinery. Like the battleship numbers were found all over it, but instead of corresponding names was a list of towns and businesses where all the parts of thel refinery came from and who built them. This seemed to anger the crowd even more than the battleship and the taunts grew louder and they began to spit on him. "I just do know what happened to people. I don't know any of them. I almost feel responsible for this sorry generation, having brought it a world it doesn't deserve. Everybody is so selfish they let the world rot around them." The surrounding mob flew into a rage. A beer bottle was thrown and cracked upon the old mans head. Blood streamed down his face. He looked stunned then sullen and sighed remorsefully, "We all did whatwe though was right..." A brute of a man then stormed up and grabbed him by the neck and dragged him into the mob.
Then a frenzied shriek tore through the room, "The Tavern Keeper is dead! Dead on her dead husband's old harpsichord! She's dead!"The people in the tavern quickly ran out the door or just checked the windows to confirm this report then began to tear everything off the walls and steal the liquor. Walking out the doors of the tavern he stood on the porch and looked at the harpsichord with the Tavern Keeper's body strewn over it as a group of thieves stripped off her jewelry and clothing. Coming out the tavern the young motorcyclist stepped beside him and lit a cigarette. He asked the motorcyclist,
"Why did you come here?"
"Had to go somewhere. No place better. No place worse. Looking for a different time I guess"
"Are you staying?"
"No. Not this time. I'm just gonna keep on going."
"Why are you always moving? Why not stay somewhere if it's all the same." Looking over at the Tavern Keeper's body as they tore her apart limb by limb he replied,
"If I have to be alone, I'd rather be all alone."Walking to the motorcycle he saw what was left of the old man being thrown atop the harpsichord now set aflame for a pyre. Kick-starting engine on with a roar he departed on a desert road and was never seen again.
In the middle of the dusty street that ran through the desert boomtown sat a harpsichord. Its existence was inexplicable not only in this strange stetting but by its obsolescence in modern music. None of the drifters of the town paid much attention to the instrument as it slowly decayed and fell apart. He liked to play it though. He enjoyed sitting in the middle of town as all the people watched suspiciously. Some made scared small talk but only one other person played the harpsichord as well—the Tavern Keeper. She sauntered across the street in the bright light of the mid-day sun. The years serving brutes at the tavern had been hard on her as she had grown older. He loved her as everyone in the town did. She constantly served the sinners and the liars and gave it to them with a smile; always giving. She looked beautiful as she walked over to him.
"Why sit here all alone and play this sad instrument?"
"I like it" he said with a smile "and besides you play too. Why do you stick around such a depressing instrument?"
"Well, just because it's sad doesn't mean it doesn't need friends. Are you sad?" She asked
"No. Not really."
"Because you know its true misery loves company. I come and play when I feel sad. Harpsichord and I share our sadness. That's why I ask. And your face looks so pale! Why don't you come inside for some warm strudel?"
"Thank you but I am fine."
"You should stop playing." She told him.
"Well then I would like to hear you play. You are so good."
"That is because I have had much practice." He stood up to allow her to sit when both their ears were caught by the sound of a motorcycle rolling towards town. The folks on the street heard it too. The town stopped, turned, and stared at the new arrival. Atop sat a dashing young man in a leather flyboy jacket and knee-high aviator boots, dark sunglasses, and smooth hair. The Tavern Keepers eyes lit up and running toward the man she screamed "My love!" The two embraced and you could see they were happy. Together they walked towards the tavern as the numerous town folk on the street closed in around them and stalked them into the building.
He followed inside the familiar tavern. On the walls hung numerous knick-knacks, letters, and pictures mostly of a young couple. With them in the photos were a growing family,friends, and favorite patrons as each item was a monument in the Tavern Keeper's life. The young motorcyclist was nowhere to be seen inside; just the local's familiar shifting glances that are best avoided. Except there sat an old man wearing suspenders with wiry grey hair and reading glasses smiling benevolently at the Tavern Keeper as she worked. She often looked over at him to return his smile. Not only she looked at him but the crowd that had followed the biker in stared at the old man unflinching steadily sipping their drinks.
He decided to sit with this old man and see what he was about. "Mind if I take this seat?" he asked the old man.
"If you really want to you can." He did sit and soon heard someone spitting and felt his back get wet. He turned around and saw a figure staring despicably at him. He ignored it and return to the old man. "I have never seen you around here before."
"I have always been here."
"Really? Why have I not seen you?"
"Sometimes it best not to be seen." As the old man's gaze uneasily swept the encroaching crowd.
"Why are you here now?"
"I have always been here. I guess you were too busy to notice me. And why I am here now is for my love." Raising his hand towardsthe Tavern Keeper who was walking towards him brimming with a smile, but she was stopped short by a make-up caked woman demanding vodka, and soon a crowd gathered around the bar demanding alcohol. She looked uneasily at the old man as she rushed to finish serving the ceaseless hoard of rude patrons.
"So, you know the Tavern Keeper? She is a good friend of mine I think she would have said something about you."
"A good friend?" the old man inquired "how do you know my wife?"
"Your wife...? Well, often we both play tha tharpsichord that is sitting out in the street."
"Oh, so you're that boy."
"She has mentioned me?"
"Yes, you've taken up playing the harpsichord as your little hobby. It's your little thing that makes you special. Just got to be different, everybody has got to be different, which makes you all the same."
"Are you saying I'm just like all these people?"Just then a grizzled man shouted from the adjoining table "Hey! I play the banjo asshole! What makes you so fucking special?" The grizzled man sat back in his chair as his compatriots sneered and nodded approvingly. The tension settled and he turned back to the old man who answered him,
"I think you're exactly like these people. Your selfish and self absorbed and don't have any idea what you are doing."
"Oh yeah and you gather all this because I play the harpsichord? Where the hell do you get off saying that old man? You don't have any hobbies?"
"Actually I do" The old man reached into a bag and pulled out a series of models. All handcrafted and painted painstakingly to perfection. "This here is the U.S.S Missouri. The battleship I served on in the war." A terrible hiss started to rise from the surrounding tables. The people were staring with furrowed brows, gaping mouths, all hissing at them. Over the heads of the mob he caught the eyes of the Tavern Keeper stricken with worry and panic.
On the deck of the battleship were little men with numbers on them. The old man explained, "Each number corresponds with a name onthis list" which he held in his had "they where my friends, my comrades, my brothers. We were a great generation and I will never forget them." The crowd's hisses escalated to a roar of shouting and insults. The dregs stood from their seats and began to circle the old man's table.
"Stop it! Stop it! What is wrong with all of you! What more do you need!" The Tavern Keeper screamed and ran of the tavern into the street and sat at the old harpsichord weeping.
"After the war we all worked together and we built great things. We built this nation. We built a better tomorrow. If we hadn'thave done it who would have? Like this..." pointing to a vastly complicated model of an oil refinery. Like the battleship numbers were found all over it, but instead of corresponding names was a list of towns and businesses where all the parts of thel refinery came from and who built them. This seemed to anger the crowd even more than the battleship and the taunts grew louder and they began to spit on him. "I just do know what happened to people. I don't know any of them. I almost feel responsible for this sorry generation, having brought it a world it doesn't deserve. Everybody is so selfish they let the world rot around them." The surrounding mob flew into a rage. A beer bottle was thrown and cracked upon the old mans head. Blood streamed down his face. He looked stunned then sullen and sighed remorsefully, "We all did whatwe though was right..." A brute of a man then stormed up and grabbed him by the neck and dragged him into the mob.
Then a frenzied shriek tore through the room, "The Tavern Keeper is dead! Dead on her dead husband's old harpsichord! She's dead!"The people in the tavern quickly ran out the door or just checked the windows to confirm this report then began to tear everything off the walls and steal the liquor. Walking out the doors of the tavern he stood on the porch and looked at the harpsichord with the Tavern Keeper's body strewn over it as a group of thieves stripped off her jewelry and clothing. Coming out the tavern the young motorcyclist stepped beside him and lit a cigarette. He asked the motorcyclist,
"Why did you come here?"
"Had to go somewhere. No place better. No place worse. Looking for a different time I guess"
"Are you staying?"
"No. Not this time. I'm just gonna keep on going."
"Why are you always moving? Why not stay somewhere if it's all the same." Looking over at the Tavern Keeper's body as they tore her apart limb by limb he replied,
"If I have to be alone, I'd rather be all alone."Walking to the motorcycle he saw what was left of the old man being thrown atop the harpsichord now set aflame for a pyre. Kick-starting engine on with a roar he departed on a desert road and was never seen again.
Poem Trois
Growing old is a lonely thing
Long gone song Smells like Teen Bing Crosby Spirit
A denial
or a Creedence Clearwater Revival?
‘Cause I’m Stuck in Lodi
Again
Party, Escape, lust and hommies
Again
Netflix, beer, $ and casual acquaintances
Again
Is a life not so close to mine
A denial that means to an end?
And in the lost spaces
And when we, you and me,
Are gone
Croon a Cobain Christmas for me
Even if irrelevant
Even if it’s a denial
Just don’t be gone too long
‘Cause growing old is a lonely thing
Long gone song Smells like Teen Bing Crosby Spirit
A denial
or a Creedence Clearwater Revival?
‘Cause I’m Stuck in Lodi
Again
Party, Escape, lust and hommies
Again
Netflix, beer, $ and casual acquaintances
Again
Is a life not so close to mine
A denial that means to an end?
And in the lost spaces
And when we, you and me,
Are gone
Croon a Cobain Christmas for me
Even if irrelevant
Even if it’s a denial
Just don’t be gone too long
‘Cause growing old is a lonely thing
Down the Kern
When you get arrested in town and nobody posts bail you go to the Kern County Jail in Bakersfield. It’s a one and a half our drive out of the High Desert up to the Sierra Nevada mountains and into the Kern River Valley. In this mountain valley sits Lake Isabella which releases the lower half of the Kern River Down a dangerous and narrow canyon into Bakersfield where the river is used to water the Central Valley crops.
The road to the county jail runs down this steep canyon and, besides being a long and unnecessary trip, is an exceeding dangerous one as the single lane road twists and turns edging beside the powerful river. The river at this time is at full swell. A raging torrent that crashes down ten thousand feet in a few hundred miles. Nothing can stop the flow to the valley bottom, not even the withering dams of Isabella can hold it back.I’m going to the jail again to pick up a friend I know. My car pulls up at release time, the gates open, the car door shuts and we head back home to the desert.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Oh, just visiting my room again.”
“You're getting to know it pretty well?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Why do you keep going back there?”
“Where else am I going to go?”
“Stay at home. Its gotta be better than being there.”
“Well you have never been there.”
“Well you got to do something. You can just keep going back there.”
“All I ever wanted to do is create. Make my mark on the world. You know, remember your grandpa?”
I do remember the last time I saw him in the hospital. Not the house in the desert. Not in his home where he lived for fifty years surrounded in the by the art of his life. He was surrounded by whitewalls, nurses, tubes and death and dying.
The house sat out in the desert plains. A place so scorched anything could find death if it choose to lie outside exposed in the empty span. As we drove past the scrub brush and rocks he sat next to me in his hospital gown with the oxygen tube under his nose and I asked my grandpa,
“How did you live such a long happy life?”
“Well, I just lived and as life goes on you build up a life and the things and places in that life make you happy. But, as I sit here in this hospital room with my house gone, family missing, my wife dead, and with all those things in my life absent in this hospital ward, I guess I regret never having something all my own to have when everything else is gone. I wish I had painted guitars.”
“Really? Paint guitars?”
“Yes, I always played them and I always thought to create one that looks as special as it sounds. Make it true. Make it everything you thought it could be.”
“Well grandpa I play guitar too, maybe I’ll have to paint one for you.”
“That would be great. Do you still know that painter? I think we are passing his house now.”
Rising out of the desert into the Sierras the view is spectacular. You can see for miles behind you going up the grade and just imagine all the things that were there. His house sat on the side of the road near the top. I remember spending days there getting high and playing video games. But, I really remember where I met him at work, in that dingy burger joint, hour after hour, working our sweat into those machines while getting minimum wage. The stainless steel, the fryer, the steam table, the makers of my livelihood and the reason for our association. We would small talk over the grill. He was older than me and painted guitars in his spare time. It was his passion and you would have never known it from looking at him in that burger shack. The car revs up as we leave the desert climbing over the peak into the valley.
“So how’s the guitar art going?” I asked him.
“Oh, I sold one a couple days ago to this high school kid. He though it was pretty rad. But, mostly just working at the big burger.”
“You still working there? You must be running that place.”
“Yeah, I am manager.”
“Well good for you man.”
“I guess.” He shrugged.
“What it doesn’t pay well enough?’
“No, its good pay. Its just I have been there for years. I paint all these exotic places and things and try to be all creative and shit. But, I realize that that shack is more me than anything, well, than anything else. Might as well paint fries on my Strat.”
“Your art is great man! You are doing great.”
“But it’s not me. I wish I had taken the time to develop myself and learn about my place in the world. You know, like how you did when you went to school.”
Going into the valley it is green. It is not usually green, usually the hills are a tan brown covered in dead grass with crags of granite jutting out intermittently. It is green now because Isabella is full. It’s a reservoir and the snow melt from the Kern has filled up behind the dams and pours over the spillways. The result is an artificial green in this mountain valley that will dissipate after flood stage has passed. Looking at the uncommon green hills feels like looking at someone else that you thought you knew.
Like when I would sit there in class looking up at the professor. Usually they were old, some were foreign, and none looked like me. They all fit well with the desks, fluorescence, and the whiteboards and looking at them you would think the students were one and everything else was the other. I never really saw the other students and I never really saw the teacher. What I did see was a different myself. Looking at myself on that podium I was studying myself to learn what I should be.
Sitting in the passenger seat looking out as road left the valley and entered the river gorge I asked myself, “How did those guitar and painting classes work out for you?” As I drove the question made me uncomfortable.
“I’m still painting guitars. Sometimes.” I said to myself.
“Still selling them to high school kids?”
“I sold one to a plumber the other day.”
“Wow, good for you. Is that your full time job then?”
“No I still work at the burger shack. I’m a manager.”
“Well I guess no demand for masterpiece instrumentation eh?”
“Someday they will be my livelihood.”
“No they won’t. Nobody needs a guitar with the fucking Mona Lisa on it. You play a guitar idiot. You just wanted to be special. You wanted people to look at you and say ‘that boy sure is something.’ But, they won’t remember your painted guitars; they won’t care about what you created. So resign your self to the things, people and places that make the art of your life. Or, I guess you can hold your guitar tight when you are alone on your death bed.”
A good teacher will tell you things you don’t want to hear. It’s at this moment facing such a stark reality that the classroom clears, the lights dim and only the sunlight shines in through blinds. I sit alone at my desk. And in a room full of people I see only one person sitting across the classroom. I see you.
The river pounds, it roars, it crushes anything in its path. The crags are coated in whitewater, the banks are loose and eroding quickly, and many uprooted things ride the torrent. The river is so full and powerful it hugs dangerously close to the canyon road and flows all the way down to the central valley’s bottom; right past the county jail.
“So why did you come get out again?” You ask.
“Because you needed me to” I said
“I don’t need you.”
“I just don’t want to see you going back there again and again.”
“Well you have never been there so what do you know?”
“I know one day you will never come back.”
“Well I always got you to come and get me.”
“I don’t know why I do.”
“Because you love me. Because you need me.”
“I don’t need you.”
“Then why did you come to Bakersfield? Why didn’t you just stay in your room?”
“Before I left my house today I was in my room. I looked at my brushes, my paint, my guitars and I saw nothing. The vanilla lotion, the fruity candles, the soft blue sheets and everything else smelled of you. I had been through so many rooms with so many people and never did I feel as alone as I did in my room today.”
Bakersfield Californian- Current Issue-Pg.8-Police Log:
939am: A single driver lost control of his vehicle on Hwy 178 south of Isabella and drove into the Kern River. The river was at such a high flow the vehicle was carried all the way down the canyon into downtown Bakersfield.
Last Retreat
Much like a stuffed deer
you hang
on the wall
Still climbing that limb we shook all night long
we were young free frolicking fucking in that forest
I never wanted to leave
So the axe cut and the hammer pounded
and made our forest home
The Sap still bleeds from the timber
and you stick your hand on it
then your calf
then your waist
and your face
until
you hang
I try to knock you down with a broomstick but you cry,
you cry doves that now nest on the ground
and if I could build a forest for you
I would
you hang
on the wall
Still climbing that limb we shook all night long
we were young free frolicking fucking in that forest
I never wanted to leave
So the axe cut and the hammer pounded
and made our forest home
The Sap still bleeds from the timber
and you stick your hand on it
then your calf
then your waist
and your face
until
you hang
I try to knock you down with a broomstick but you cry,
you cry doves that now nest on the ground
and if I could build a forest for you
I would
The Plunge
One of my forward right legs has been acting up for quite a while now. I fear it has something to do with the hydraulic cylinders, they have been bad before and I have been warned that they might be in need of fixing, but as long as my rig was moving fine I really paid no heed to this advice. Now I wish I had, I’m becoming a little scared. As I look down at the glowing red hot lava that boils and churns so far below me I am grateful for this great machine that keeps me high above it, so high the ocean of fire that surly exudes a blistering bellow of heat reaches me as an obscure breeze that always whiffs through my hair. With the innumerable spindly legs, that like a spider holds my platform above, my home above, the machine waddles its way through the vast seas of savage flame one prick at a time. For the machine is always moving, changing position, it must, for even though the sophistication of our technology is unparalleled, the strongest alloys cannot stand for long inside such heat, so therefore the machine must elegantly dance across the heated plains by keeping each leg inside the liquid for only a short span before removing it, cooling it, and moving elsewhere. Upon these complicated creations of our own design we each move on our own path through the landscape that varies only in its perception of cruelty, for each person their own craft carries them, always separated it would seem if not for our communication devices that connects us to one and all. These personal platforms also operate every device needed to support the life of a single human; just as the countless legs all converge to keep this single human afloat the many systems work together to keep one alive at such heights. I can’t understand what we would do, or what we used to do if there ever was a time, without this elaborate network of support that sustains my person.
Yes indeed the leg is not working properly, its acting very sluggish, oh—wait. Oh no. It has stopped! What disaster! What will I do? To my radio I go “help me! Can any one help me! Can anyone hear me? Hello!” “Yes we hear you” a voice responds, “we have many others to help, you will have to wait.” Wait I will for what else can I do? I am incapable of any action myself; I was never trained in mechanical hydraulic science. So I will wait for mercy with only hope by my side. Ahhh! What was that great jolt? Oh no, Oh no! The leg has broken! My rig is swaying! Oh the other legs are compensating but it causes them to bend in ways I have never seen them move before, and they are staying down longer in the fire. Oh how much they depended on that one leg, I hope they can do their duties without it. Look at that one—I have never seen a leg in that shape before. Ahhhhhh! I must grab hold on to some thing my machine tilts and I am slipping; the other leg must have broke! The wind grows stronger, why, the wind would get stronger only if I where going down. I am going down! Deathly fear strikes me, it initiates instinct, a frantic survival instinct that lies buried in the core of my human nature having never been called forth until these moments preceding a my inescapable death. I flee to the phone, “SAVE ME! SOMEBODY!” a voice speaks back, “how can we save you?” Then the greatest noise ever to reach my ears is sounded, my machine of life topples, and I am flung headlong into cremation.
Upon entering the sea the cool sensation that met me was to my dismay. I gently drifted down through ocean and open my eyes to undersurface of the liquid. Looking up through the green tranquility I could see other machines picking there way above with their metal legs piercing the surface, striking down through the liquid with great disturbance as if they were spears harming the pervading tranquility with there strikes. Looking up at the black shadows cast by the machines that fell ominously through the green water I have never seen a more sinister sight in my life. As I looked around elsewhere I saw life everywhere! I could not believe all the creatures that grew among the banks and cliffs of the underwater seascape and flew through the water with majestic ease. I then noticed first the phone I still held in my hand from the plunge was dissolving away, along with my ring, and all other metals that I had adorned on my person until I was bare, leaving my flesh unscathed. I could feel my decent slow as a current seized me and gently bore me off in its flow. I tried to direct myself but I couldn’t, I just tumbled about at the whim of the currents, never have I had to use such skill, never had I thought I would need to. Then as I drifted I could see a thing coming towards me, I soon recognized it to be a man, a man who could swim. As he approached the first thing I noticed was the savageness about him, a wild look that could only be refined by the chaos of nature, it startled me and I began to flounder in the water in efforts to propel myself away. Then he seized me, with nothing but tenderness though, and held me in front of his face so our eyes met each other. I looked into his eyes I saw sadness, they mourned for something, as the grief they expressed seem not to well up from inside but pour out unto that which they gazed. Holding both my shoulders he removed one hand traversed between them, then placed two fingers on my forehead, moving them down slowly with a light touch until he came to the center of my chest, at which he laid out his palm outspread upon and with a solemn nod gave me a gentle thrust into the abyss. Ever since I have been drifting.
Yes indeed the leg is not working properly, its acting very sluggish, oh—wait. Oh no. It has stopped! What disaster! What will I do? To my radio I go “help me! Can any one help me! Can anyone hear me? Hello!” “Yes we hear you” a voice responds, “we have many others to help, you will have to wait.” Wait I will for what else can I do? I am incapable of any action myself; I was never trained in mechanical hydraulic science. So I will wait for mercy with only hope by my side. Ahhh! What was that great jolt? Oh no, Oh no! The leg has broken! My rig is swaying! Oh the other legs are compensating but it causes them to bend in ways I have never seen them move before, and they are staying down longer in the fire. Oh how much they depended on that one leg, I hope they can do their duties without it. Look at that one—I have never seen a leg in that shape before. Ahhhhhh! I must grab hold on to some thing my machine tilts and I am slipping; the other leg must have broke! The wind grows stronger, why, the wind would get stronger only if I where going down. I am going down! Deathly fear strikes me, it initiates instinct, a frantic survival instinct that lies buried in the core of my human nature having never been called forth until these moments preceding a my inescapable death. I flee to the phone, “SAVE ME! SOMEBODY!” a voice speaks back, “how can we save you?” Then the greatest noise ever to reach my ears is sounded, my machine of life topples, and I am flung headlong into cremation.
Upon entering the sea the cool sensation that met me was to my dismay. I gently drifted down through ocean and open my eyes to undersurface of the liquid. Looking up through the green tranquility I could see other machines picking there way above with their metal legs piercing the surface, striking down through the liquid with great disturbance as if they were spears harming the pervading tranquility with there strikes. Looking up at the black shadows cast by the machines that fell ominously through the green water I have never seen a more sinister sight in my life. As I looked around elsewhere I saw life everywhere! I could not believe all the creatures that grew among the banks and cliffs of the underwater seascape and flew through the water with majestic ease. I then noticed first the phone I still held in my hand from the plunge was dissolving away, along with my ring, and all other metals that I had adorned on my person until I was bare, leaving my flesh unscathed. I could feel my decent slow as a current seized me and gently bore me off in its flow. I tried to direct myself but I couldn’t, I just tumbled about at the whim of the currents, never have I had to use such skill, never had I thought I would need to. Then as I drifted I could see a thing coming towards me, I soon recognized it to be a man, a man who could swim. As he approached the first thing I noticed was the savageness about him, a wild look that could only be refined by the chaos of nature, it startled me and I began to flounder in the water in efforts to propel myself away. Then he seized me, with nothing but tenderness though, and held me in front of his face so our eyes met each other. I looked into his eyes I saw sadness, they mourned for something, as the grief they expressed seem not to well up from inside but pour out unto that which they gazed. Holding both my shoulders he removed one hand traversed between them, then placed two fingers on my forehead, moving them down slowly with a light touch until he came to the center of my chest, at which he laid out his palm outspread upon and with a solemn nod gave me a gentle thrust into the abyss. Ever since I have been drifting.
Idle Local
Brick wall mortared
smooth built across
a path lined
on either side
with thorn thickets
sun dried to
brittle sharp spears
Casual Hiker sits,
shorts thorn slit
and with sneakers
that upon bricks
slip, there stopped
by a wall
Idle hands draw
fingers through the
dirt etching in
an X without
an O which
alone is unable
to play Tic-tac-toe
Trails bringing travelers,
whose khaki manicures
disagree with such
a harsh obstruction,
join in games
and carelessly play
waiting for the
mortar to crumble
and the wall
to fall away
smooth built across
a path lined
on either side
with thorn thickets
sun dried to
brittle sharp spears
Casual Hiker sits,
shorts thorn slit
and with sneakers
that upon bricks
slip, there stopped
by a wall
Idle hands draw
fingers through the
dirt etching in
an X without
an O which
alone is unable
to play Tic-tac-toe
Trails bringing travelers,
whose khaki manicures
disagree with such
a harsh obstruction,
join in games
and carelessly play
waiting for the
mortar to crumble
and the wall
to fall away
Disjointed Happenings
Calvin came home this morning disturbed. Things have been missing for quite a while now he was sure of it. Now it was the clock. He didn’t know when it was taken but now does not know when to sleep. He has been wandering for days it seems in search of his right hand which had gone missing before the clock. It was useful to him, he could drive his stick shift speedster like a racer, but without a right hand he sold his shifting sports car to buy one with automatic transmission.
The remote in hand.
…and tonight in south central a man with*//zz//*the flavor of nutmeg goes with just about*//zz//*you Ricardo! I’m leaving you*//zz//*with 30ft left on the green he strokes and
misses*//zz//*the amazing power of Zam! its just unbelievable! and if it doesn’t work for you we’ll give you your*//zz//*forecast for this week is looking sun—*//zz//*god, gives us hope, pray for us lord, give us*//zz//*a new power-stroke V8 that combines power and*//zz//*the 1930’s for $1000…on Jackal Island in 1913 this group of*//zz//*crocodiles! Look at the size of them! They could tear a man to pieces…
Opening the refrigerator door unleashes a light that cuts through the dim glow darkness emitted by the television. It also reflects off the water pooled on his floor. When did the sink go missing? He had just washed his hands. However the hose coming through the kitchen window must be there as a result of the sinks absence. Inside the fridge a limited selection:
bologna
whipped cream
cheese—American variety
carbonated beverages
lettuce gone rotten
milk
condiments
funjions
He would need to go shopping.
…paper or plastic bags*//zz//*the number one or the number*//zz//*five fifty five is your total*//zz//*large or small*//zz//*available in 4 varieties that*//zz//*WALK/DONTWALK *//zz//*to our valued customers*//zz//*and customization is included*//zz//*for here or to go*//zz//* and on sale for a limited time only*//zz//*your total comes to*//zz//*new diet cola option*//zz//*that will be plus tax*//zz//*gratuity included…
Calvin is walking home with his purchases in his arms. Through the park he decides to stop and rest on a bench. The park is slow, he likes that, he likes slow. He remembers when the leaves where green and yellow, golden, and brazen orange lying now a flaky brown. Some ruffians appear on the path passing the bench. Calvin notices they are missing their ears. He is startled, stands awkwardly and walks away. A group of transients without ears? What are they up to? His turtle wax is missing! They must have taken it! He runs back in the other direction to catch the earless thieves and comes to a street. His turtle wax is nowhere to be seen, he turns to ask a man talking on the phone if he had seen the bums—but he has no ears either! Why would you have a phone if you had no ears? Things don’t make sense, Calvin wants things fixed, to be put together, he needs help.
The doctor looms in the door. An old gray white man with a court room smile and a congressional handshake greets Calvin. The doctor reminds him of his high school government teacher, or maybe it was his manager at the burger shack he worked at.
“I’m falling apart doc”
…your getting old*//zz//*have these, it will help*//zz//*we’ll take care of you*//zz//*come back in a week*//zz//*feeling better? no? *//zz//*we’ll run some test*//zz//*we’ll start the regiment tomorrow*//zz//*any side effects?*//zz//*here these will help you*//zz//*no progress*//zz//*x-rays revealed a*//zz//*we’ll have to remove it from you*//zz//*it shouldn’t hurt and you wont need it*//zz//*still broken you say?*//zz//*we have done all we can for you*//zz//*must be psychological*//zz//*maybe you should take a trip, get out of here*//zz//*anyplace you want to go?*//zz//*how about Washington*//zz//*you can see all the monuments…
He sits on a train eastbound to the capital. The wheels are missing but it seems to keep moving and doesn’t concern him. He’s going to see monuments in Washington. Arrival is anticipated, he wants the ride to stop. It keeps going and going and going and he wonders if it will ever come to an
The remote in hand.
…and tonight in south central a man with*//zz//*the flavor of nutmeg goes with just about*//zz//*you Ricardo! I’m leaving you*//zz//*with 30ft left on the green he strokes and
misses*//zz//*the amazing power of Zam! its just unbelievable! and if it doesn’t work for you we’ll give you your*//zz//*forecast for this week is looking sun—*//zz//*god, gives us hope, pray for us lord, give us*//zz//*a new power-stroke V8 that combines power and*//zz//*the 1930’s for $1000…on Jackal Island in 1913 this group of*//zz//*crocodiles! Look at the size of them! They could tear a man to pieces…
Opening the refrigerator door unleashes a light that cuts through the dim glow darkness emitted by the television. It also reflects off the water pooled on his floor. When did the sink go missing? He had just washed his hands. However the hose coming through the kitchen window must be there as a result of the sinks absence. Inside the fridge a limited selection:
bologna
whipped cream
cheese—American variety
carbonated beverages
lettuce gone rotten
milk
condiments
funjions
He would need to go shopping.
…paper or plastic bags*//zz//*the number one or the number*//zz//*five fifty five is your total*//zz//*large or small*//zz//*available in 4 varieties that*//zz//*WALK/DONTWALK *//zz//*to our valued customers*//zz//*and customization is included*//zz//*for here or to go*//zz//* and on sale for a limited time only*//zz//*your total comes to*//zz//*new diet cola option*//zz//*that will be plus tax*//zz//*gratuity included…
Calvin is walking home with his purchases in his arms. Through the park he decides to stop and rest on a bench. The park is slow, he likes that, he likes slow. He remembers when the leaves where green and yellow, golden, and brazen orange lying now a flaky brown. Some ruffians appear on the path passing the bench. Calvin notices they are missing their ears. He is startled, stands awkwardly and walks away. A group of transients without ears? What are they up to? His turtle wax is missing! They must have taken it! He runs back in the other direction to catch the earless thieves and comes to a street. His turtle wax is nowhere to be seen, he turns to ask a man talking on the phone if he had seen the bums—but he has no ears either! Why would you have a phone if you had no ears? Things don’t make sense, Calvin wants things fixed, to be put together, he needs help.
The doctor looms in the door. An old gray white man with a court room smile and a congressional handshake greets Calvin. The doctor reminds him of his high school government teacher, or maybe it was his manager at the burger shack he worked at.
“I’m falling apart doc”
…your getting old*//zz//*have these, it will help*//zz//*we’ll take care of you*//zz//*come back in a week*//zz//*feeling better? no? *//zz//*we’ll run some test*//zz//*we’ll start the regiment tomorrow*//zz//*any side effects?*//zz//*here these will help you*//zz//*no progress*//zz//*x-rays revealed a*//zz//*we’ll have to remove it from you*//zz//*it shouldn’t hurt and you wont need it*//zz//*still broken you say?*//zz//*we have done all we can for you*//zz//*must be psychological*//zz//*maybe you should take a trip, get out of here*//zz//*anyplace you want to go?*//zz//*how about Washington*//zz//*you can see all the monuments…
He sits on a train eastbound to the capital. The wheels are missing but it seems to keep moving and doesn’t concern him. He’s going to see monuments in Washington. Arrival is anticipated, he wants the ride to stop. It keeps going and going and going and he wonders if it will ever come to an
Holbach Hopscotch
Hallow man where can you be?
I’m the tree in the forest, lightning has stricken me.
You are so empty how can that be?
Great energies have coalesced and chosen this tree.
Why you while the rest stay green?
I was perhaps standing where I shouldn’t have been.
If rooted in spot how can one choose?
If I had never been created beauty I would never loose.
So better a stump of black and grey?
I have always been here I could not walk away.
But aren’t you a man, could you not leave?
To have choice where one stands? You’ve been deceived.
---The words of a lie an owl once told me.
I’m the tree in the forest, lightning has stricken me.
You are so empty how can that be?
Great energies have coalesced and chosen this tree.
Why you while the rest stay green?
I was perhaps standing where I shouldn’t have been.
If rooted in spot how can one choose?
If I had never been created beauty I would never loose.
So better a stump of black and grey?
I have always been here I could not walk away.
But aren’t you a man, could you not leave?
To have choice where one stands? You’ve been deceived.
---The words of a lie an owl once told me.
The Freak-out
Today was the freak-out. I ate my head and asked for seconds, it was so delicious how the flavor of intellect lingered on my tongue. My friend found a parade on his kitchen floor, there were balloons a thousand feet tall and a marching band from Michigan playing a Yankee Doodle dandy. There were the Shriners in there little cars, a fire-truck with spotted Dalmatian and all, with a beauty queen bringing up the rear, they all died in a flood when my friend spilt his beer. All and all I think everyone got a little something from the freak-out though I don’t know how much they liked it, but I had a blast. I tell you, I hope they do it again.
I woke up on Saturday with a stark raving lunatic at my door, it was Burt—that nutcase, neighbor for two plus years, a record for my block. Oh yeah, forgot to mention I am A. Fig Newton, the “A” stands for Alabaster and the block I live in is quite mechanical, and to tell some of the secrets I know I believe there is a robot family due east ten doors down the hall.
So, Burt comes to my metal door and with a clank of his fist sounds the alarm for me to wake about twenty –three minutes before my clock was to do the same. “Open up you old freak, you jelly bean! Open! Open open! Open! Open open open, …OPEN!!! Come on lassie I got me something to show-show, ho, a ho, a ho ho ho a ho ho! You will like, a guarantee on that my lazy lummox. Now do be a dear and retract this barrier from your causeway…” he would have kept going into the night had I not opened the door for him, that nutcase. “There doing a freak-out today, isn’t that great!?”
“What is a freak-out?” I asked.
“I don’t now but it sounds like a blast, I’m going, aren’t you? Everyone’s going to be there, I’m sure, a freak-out I mean, who wouldn’t?”
“What is a freak-out?” I asked again.
“Ah shit! Gimme a break! Just read this Mr. Travec.”
He handed me a flier that looked, as lemans may say ‘awesome.’ I was dazzled by the swirling kaleidoscope of texture infused upon the background of this psycadellically founded mind maze. I could see a drummer drumming on out into the air and penguin’s swimming about a luminescent border of lascivious green, while kites of fantastic giants of long gone myth swayed in the air above a picnic of furry hares and varmints enjoying crumpets, to say the least I was mystified. “Looks like a good-trip who is putting it on?” I asked.
“The Psychosupro Cool Corp. Some grand entrepreneur has taken it upon himself, to commit his life to guys like us, to ensure that we, can freak the fuck out-man it’s going to be so fuckin cool man you better be in man you and me man.”
“And what exactly is done at a freak out?” I asked—with curiosity.
“Oh man, oh man! I don’t know man but I’m pretty sure, don’t quote me, but I believe they are going to blow our minds man, isn’t that great! Look here on the ad, ‘A goodtime is to be had by all, see you on the other side.’ If that isn’t an invitation to a stoner picnic I don’t know what is man.”
“Is it legal?”
“I don’t know, and since when did you start to care? And plus if there putting up all these goomie posters every where my guess is that many fellow goomers are going to be attracted, and they can’t arrest all of us!”
“True, you want to get stoned before we head off?” I inquired.
“Most defiantly.” He affirmed.
My car is large, boat-like would describe it adequately, a blue behemoth of the eighties; a car I am quite fond of. This vehicle was to carry us to 411 Bluetooth Boulevard, were the freak-out was to commence. We had to walk up a block to the storefront because there was no parking around and when we arrived a line was found to extend far along the sidewalk, so we waited. Freaks of all types could be found in this queue, from the gritty and gruesome to the down right loopy, indeed it was a linear formation of freaks alike. One had a beard that nearly enveloped his body, another with piercings jutting out of every fold of her face, one with dogs, another with spots, all with sunglasses and strange hats. We looked the same alike with our retro clothing, retro in that Burt and I wore particularly old clothes that we had made old ourselves, I happened to wearing my old gym clothes from high-school and Burt was in fashion to embarrassing to mention. Seeing the freaks surrounding me, I felt secure and a little exited about this event Burt had stumbled upon, the anticipation was killing me.
“What’s it gonna be?” Burt asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Is it gonna be good, is it gonna be crazy, what do you think?”
“I dunno.”
“Come on, com’on! I’m asking, I’m just asking! I’m a just a wonderen what ya make of it.” That’s when the bulbous Star Trek fanatic to our front overheard Burt’s inquisition and crept into the conversation,
“You guys don’t know what is happening here? Didn’t you go to the website, it’s on the flyer there?” referring to the one in my hand.
“Uh, no.” I said.
“Well, it’s big news man, I hear there putting out some turbograde, a lot better than the suprograde which is the original formulation, and the fact it’s being held in the middle of the city, it’s going to be a trip.” He explained to us.
Confusedly I asked, “Has there been other freak-outs?”
“Oh wow, you guys are real newbies to the freak-out scene, this is going to blow your mind. Yeah, I was at the first one, it was way out in the boons in the mountains, a lot of people freaked out and got lost in the woods, and that wasn’t turbograde, it’s supposed to be a whole nother animal.”
“What do we do, man! What do we do when we get to the end of the line?” Burt blurted with child-like excitement.
“Oh yeah, they give us some heavy drugs and send us on our way, it’s given in vials that self-destruct in two-hours so you got to get were your goin’ quick, because you ain't goin’ anywhere once you start to freak.” The beauty of what he said.
“Oh oh oh oh, oooh. No. Really? Oh yeah, yeah! That’s great!” Burt almost buckled over into a seizure.
“Really? They give us drugs? What’s the hold up?” I asked.
“Paperwork man, you got a stack to finish before they’ll sell it to you, liability and stuff like that.”
“Is it worth the paperwork and the price?”
“Oh yeah, expensive but the suprograde sent me screamin’, and this turbograde, well, you know.” With that we began to shuffle through the line like excited children waiting to ride a thrill of the drug-induced kind.
We finally made it to the store after a long wait and steadily drifted inside. What we entered was a waiting room. We had to wait some more as we drudge through the red velvet ropes that held us contained single file. The whole scene reminded me of a bank, for at the end of the red velvet ropes were several teller windows, encased in bars and glass with only a little chute on the counter in which to exchange currency and product, which many people were doing. It was the longest time I had remembered standing up in recent memory, but at last Burt and I made it to a window of which behind a squat oriental lady sat.
“How much, how much!” Burt enthusiastically demanded.
“Fifty dollars, one dose per person, one-hundred for both of you.” She answered.
Burt pulled a bill out of his wallet and slid it under. “Well what’s the hold-up? Here’s a hundred piece, now gimme some turbograde!”
“Your total comes to one-hundred and seventy-eight dollars and ninety three cents.”
“What! What! You said one hundred, I heard you, I heard you say one hundred dollars for both of us, what is this shenanigan!” He seemed quite agitated, more than his usual state of continual agitation.
“That was the price before tax.”
“That’s one hell of a tax.” I put forth.
“We are under a special taxation bracket, I can’t do anything about it.”
“But we waited, we waited for so long, didn’t we Fig? And now this, this governmental preponderance has stop me, it cannot be, it cannot.” Despair could entirely explain Burt’s efforts; I could not let him suffer.
“I got the rest Burt, we are going to freak-out.” And he almost did so right there and then. I thought it to be a worthwhile purchase because of the sheer number of people there paying the same price for the same thing, and I hardly could imagine the spherical Trekie in line possessing more wealth than I. So, I paid the price, but not after filling out a stack of liability forms of every kind, being the most I had ever written in recent memory.
The stuff was given-out in little computerized vials, with little circuits and this and that all about it, I guess it was part of the self-destruct mechanism but I’m no scientist. Burt and I decided the best place to trip would be at the park; plenty open space and few people to be bothered by what may happen to us. I parked my car and in it we consumed the contents of the vial, which immediately there after, we left my vehicle to take a stroll around the park to wait for the effects to come in to play. We did not have to wait long.
“My crooked spine! It is so crooked and, and fuzzy, look at me I’m a damn hunchback, and I’m s-slipping tooo…” Burt’s words became unintelligible jargon of irritating sound as the symphony of nature surrounded me and blended into a single tone that penetrated my skull and vibrated my brain. Euphoria could defiantly describe the feeling from my shoulders down to my feet, while all that resting neck up was completely disconnected, eyes receding into my gray matter, words spoken in alien tongue, and smells of untold sources seeping into the blitzed mass of my brain, of which was a mess of irrationality—totally and completely. I had forgotten about Burt standing next to me yet his words had lingered in my mind, and when I turned to look at him I looked at a small decrepit Burt hunched and exuberated, the little man spoke, “Follow me! Follow me little bean, we are to wonder to those tree’s you see over there and who know, maybe we will find something there.”
“But what if somebody else had already found it, and then we will have walked for nothing.”
The little man spoke, “We are nothing, you and I, and over there everything that is to be found is for nothing. Just follow me jelly bean, you have a tendency for being wrong, while I shall never lead you astray from this way, ha ha!” With that the little hunchback took my hand and we frolicked over to the arboretum, into a ghastly sphere of green leaves and brown branches. Upon entering the cool shade my senses were given new life, I could feel my eyes dilate bigger and bigger in the dark mist of the trees as a fantasyland began to sprout before my eyes. Flowers of golden hue with ambrosial vines burst from the ground up far above my head into the dark teal of the leaves above setting them ablaze with radiance. The grass patch were I had stood with tree’s above had filled in completely with shrub, brush, grass, and leaves, vines, and flowers, contained by the standing massive trees. The beauty around me was too much to see, my eyes began to water and tears dribbled down off my chin and formed a sea, a place I had been before with marine air filling the sails of ships cruising the horizon. Everything I had seen there had became everything I loved, it pulled me in and left me breathless. That’s when I noticed Burt was gone, and not just him but the whole park, as the foliage had taken over the grassy fields and it continued to grow and became more and more until it had almost surrounded everything and slowly began closing in on me. The beautiful leaves wee too much to be seen and I feared that nature just might at that time and place swallow me up and consummate me to the dirt. So, I ran through the corridors of life, as vines and shrub manifested all about. There was no way out I could see, it was a maze of green, I just ran were plants were not hoping to find open spaces in front of me. Somewhere between the tennis courts that were over grown and the small creek beside, among the many plants and trees I found a little nook were a little old lady sat at a table looking in a book and doing so quite happily. She saw me as soon as I saw her and what a kind grandmotherly face she had, with dignified lines and sullen blue eyes.
“Hello there Fig, are you enjoying the trees and leaves, or how about that freak-out, is it worth what you paid? Come here, sit here and talk with me, I always enjoy the companionship of good company.” So I walked to her side, sat on the grass next to her chair and look up and stared.
“What are you looking at?” I asked.
“Oh, just some old memories of times gone by, would you care to see?” With that she handed an old photo album containing many pictures to me. I found among them a lady in a long skirt holding sax, the picture was black and white, she was among ensemble of musicians her being in the spotlight.
“What is this?” I asked of her.
“Oh, that was myself when I was young, playing the jazz back when jazz was the scene. Oh yes, how the big band set us to swing, playing that rhythm and blues down in New Orleans. I’ll never forget the swingin voodoo magic the place had.”
“And what of this?” Holding a picture of a small man sprinting at speed on a horse.
“That is my cousin Bob, and what a jockey he was, this is a picture of him crossing the winning line in the illustrious Kentucky Derby. My husband and I place one hundred for him to win, the pay-off was one to ten and netted us a grand! What a place to be, what a sight to see.”
A man in uniform was in view next, “what of this solider, who was he.”
“My son is who that would be and what a fine man he is. He went and fought in a forsaken war, dodged bullets and mortars, flying explosive and suicide cars. He live through it and with a story told, came back to his wife and kids and is living to be quite old. I was just glad he made it through having given him two decades of tender care and a life-time of support.”
Many pictures I viewed and she told me of what they were, I could not remember all she said having this stringently intoxicating substance flowing around in my head. As I looked and listen the wall to my left faded away, crumbled to pieces and all the wild vegetation began to recede. There behind it all a wild man stood, twisted, decrepit, a creature in fixation possessing a sort of demented demure. As soon as I caught site of it the kind lady did too, her kind blue eyes stared at him like a deer in distress, and a pale flat hue spread across her face. I looked away and she was gone but the engrossed creature that was Burt remained where he was on an open lawn in light of the sun. I walked up to him and the closer I got the more the vibration pulsing through my head began to fragment my vision, everything hummed and lacked definite contrast, the outlines of objects scribbled and fine details distorted and out of shape. I approached him and all I could see was a man out of place opened up and disassembled, wearing a red shirt that matched the color of his head glowing luminescent and crimson. Memory had not gone away from me and I could remember what the words on the shirt had said, “Slippery Dicks’ Halfway Inn.” Below two polar bears copulating in front of an igloo. What an idiot he appeared to be as I stared at him and looked how pathetic he seemed, all broken up and “tripping,” what a nutcase, how insane.
“What are you looking at?! Can you not see that your you and I am me!” He shouted and it thundered loud creating an earthquake in my head, shaking the world and leaving me near brain-dead.
“W…What, …what, stop!” I mumbled
“Oh, don’t play with me boy, take a step back and watch your self and look around, there is more here than there is to be seen, and sometimes it can get real mean.” I fell to my knees and held the ground to try and keep it still as all around the trees, the birds, the cars, the people were all descending upon me, contorting my reason and pressing my perception to a fanatical degree. I was locked up frozen unable to be, I fell backwards and what did I see? The great blue sky as blue as can be, not a cloud in the sky that could be seen as though a great azule dome had been placed over me. Nothing was blurred as I could now see a great span opaque and neutral, surrounding where my vision spanned, comforting me and leaving a resonating calm throughout the land. There I stayed until Burt walked over and said to me, “Fig you think we can leave? I’m so tired of talking to these trees, there such a fucking bore. Change! A Change we are in dire need of. Lets take flight.
Lets leave this place. Come on, your good to drive I can see it, or hell you can let me if you want. But now is time for action. Now is the time to leave!”
“Okay.” I stood up and all was calm, placid and tranquil. I had no problems moving off the ground and across the park, my head was focused as Burt led me on. We had trouble finding my car for we had wander quite a ways away, but finally were came upon my blue Chevrolet, a beast of a car, a monstrous mechanical sleigh that was to carry us somewhere. The drug had not gone away and in fact was in full affect but this did not prevent me from starting the car and driving dazed and confusedly, you could say my judgment was absent. Burt sat to my right and had a ridiculous grin on his face as though he was enjoying something to an immense degree.
“What is it that bring such pleasure to your face my friend.” I asked of him
“The wind! How crisp, how cool, how clear! And how it moves and how everything moves! Here one moment then gone, a constant fresh breeze is in front of my face.”
“This is why you wanted to drive.”
“No not at all, but what a wonderful side effect off going to a place we don’t know that we’re going to yet.”
“Were are we going anyway?” I asked
“Just drive my man and let this brutish vehicle lead us to where it may, enjoy the air and look around, everything is liquid and flows all around us.” I leaned back in my seat and sunk right in. I was not driving, the car just moved and the cool breeze that delighted Burt entranced me in a mellow haze, all around me things were streaming, leaving behind long colorful shadows as though everything had comets tails, creating a tunnel of emulsified color that I leisurely rolled through. Nothing could describe the serene feeling I had as we cruised about, and it made me think of Burt a bit wiser, how he knew how the exploit joy for all it worth in this world of ours. I could have stayed there forever rolling along city streets, it just didn’t matter to me, or to Burt either I supposed as were drove on for what seemed like hours, so languidly dazzled. Then all the sudden my car stopped, essentially in the middle of the street but not being a busy street I left it be, and just like that our magic carpet ride had ended underneath a “tow-away” parking sign. I determined the reason my car ceased to move was an acute shortage of gasoline of which I was supposed fill up on, had I not spent all my money on this drug that was coursing through my veins.
“What do we do now?” I asked.
“I don’t know, don’t look at me I wasn’t driving.”
“You wanted to drive. But you never said where, where did you want to go?” I asked
“I wanted to go the same place you wanted to go.”
“Where did I want to go?”
“Oh, oh so your telling me that we drove around all this time and ran your car out of gas because you didn’t know were to go in the first place.”
“How was I supposed to know?”
“You’re driving!”
“But, you wanted…”
“Lets not just sit here like idiots now lets take some action here.” Burt then proceeded to exit the vehicle and I shortly thereafter followed him. As I stepped off the asphalt up on to the sidewalk the burly moans of a humpback whale could be heard.
“Ooouaaahhhh! Aaaaahhh! Oooauooohhh! Wooooo!” I turned around and from the curb spotted a man of gigantic proportion speeding excessively down the street in a square black Mercedes Benz convertible. “Hey be careful now, your car is in the middle of the street! Aaahhh haaa ha wooo!” As he yelled this to us he flashed at us his hand with four fingers split to form a fat Vulcan “V.” “I think I know that guy.” Burt informed me.
I turned away from the street. We had stopped in front of a store, a fashion store, and I peered up and viewed the bright red sign that hung above, “The Something Cool Clothing Company.” Burt noticed me starring and started to do the same, we both sat there for a while not knowing what to make about this store in front of us. “Let’s go in.” and with that Burt entered the store. I stood there a moment not sure to follow, I mean the store was upscale and fancy the type I would never go in, or need to, I knew it was not a store for guys like me, or Burt for that matter. But, the allure soon suckered me through the doors, I had to see what the store held inside and so I followed Burt. By the time I had entered Burt had already fixated himself on some clothing upon the racks. What had caught his eye was a flat black suit, sharp and sleek, the kind of suit a wealthy sophisto would dawn to an opera. At that time a sales attendant came up to us to offer us assistance, a lovely lady with a wonderful plastic smile stuck on her face.
“Can I, uh, help you gentlemen?”
Burt turned with slant eyes and informed the woman. “Not in the least. I can dress myself thank you very kindly, I will not be in need of your services. Carry on now.” The lady stood for a moment opened her mouth slightly and then proceeded to turn around and let us continue. Burt rushed off to the dressing room to dawn his new apparel while I meandered over to the morning wear, were I found the most luxurious flannel robe, with a blue and red plaid design on the outside and warm fluffy fleece on the inside. I lynched it around my waist and headed off to the shoe section. Once arrived I soon found to my pleasure that the shoe section was furnished with padded chairs, rather that those stools and benches they have at retail stores, no indeed these were sitting chairs that asked you kick off you shoes and slip on a pair of woolen slippers, which I did promptly. All I needed was a solid wood pipe to puff leisurely some sophisticated tobacco and one happened to be in my hand, lit and ready for smoking. At that time Burt came out of the dressing room and trotted over to where I sat. The suit made him look, not classy but something close to it, “Look at me! Don’t I look swank? Tonight I walk the town and hit the clubs, I’m rolling!” He then started dancing very obnoxiously providing his own music, I think it was the tango, it succeeded in making a scene.
“Excuse me sir, could you go easy on the suits? There very expensive and we don’t want wrinkles in them.” The smiling lady walked over and asked.
“Do not tell me what to do or how to do it.” Burt answered.
“Sir do you, uh, intend on purchasing anything?”
“Nothing of the sorts, but don’t I look swank?” Burt sardonic speech was wearing down on the clerk.
“No, and if you are not going to purchase anything I will have to ask you to leave. So please place the suit back, it doesn’t fit you anyways.”
Burt twitched is head sideways suddenly then back, “How dare you try to tell me what I am doing and how to go about it! And the nerve to criticize my fashion sense! Out! Out of my sight unkind wretch!” Burt’s volume had risen to levels slightly above the threshold for what is considered pleasant and I think it startled the lady, as she stepped back and then hurried to her counter and picked up the phone. Burt ran off the other direction and I picked up a newspaper that had suddenly appeared beside my chair. I turned to the travel and leisure section and read about a lovely little town somewhere in Europe that was the feature of the article. It turns out the place has many beautiful forests around it rich in flora and fauna, a beautiful northern sunset, and it showed a place were travelers could view whales from the shore. It sounded like a lovely place I thought maybe I would travel there sometime, I don’t know when. I then turned to the television listings to find my favorite show’s start time and as I scanned the pages Burt trotted out in decadent apparel. He had put on a lavish red overcoat, which underneath he wore some sort of frilly blouse that puffed out on his chest, and around his neck a mink fur scarf, and a crown was seen upon his head.
“I am the King and I am master of everything.” He then turned to address the other people in the store. “Hail me for I am the King, I am not daunted by anything! In here I rule!” Once again his voice had reached unpleasant decibels and took an almost threatening tone, but no employee in the store moved to address him but instead stared at him, with such strange eyes. Burt then felt free to start a kingly parade around the store, I sat quite merrily watching the whole scene realizing how much fun and adventure I had had on this trip and how the king’s leadership had been so key. Then the cops came in.
“What’s the problem here?” A burly black cop asked as soon as he walked through the door. All of the employees, in unison, lifted their arms and pointed to the man marching to the sound of his own band. “All right buddy get the heck out of here, and take off those clothes, you understand?”
“I am the King, do not tell me what to do or how to do it.”
“You damn freak-out fruit, you’re lucky you doped up today, or else I would have got authoritarian on your ass! Now you get out or I’ll get you out.”
Burt had not a trace of yellow on his back, “You’ll do right to call me sir when you address me.”
“All right! Lets go buddy!” and with that the cop proceeded to stomp up to Burt and grab him by his frilly blouse. Now, Burt is no fighter, he has nothing to put out other than the words from his mouth, once you have broke those he folds like a waffle. So the cop began removing Burt’s clothes with force as Burt wriggled out of them with determination,
“Stop! Stop you can’t …can’t do that! Me! I am the King, the master of everything!”
“Your nothing!” And Burt was muscled out of the store kicking and screaming triumphantly. The employees the came up to me and told me I had to also leave, which I found rather unnecessary but I didn’t care to make a scene, that was Burt’s thing, but I did ash my pipe on their carpet. I came out and saw Burt freaking-out at the back of the cop who was walking away after exiling him from the store; I also saw my car being towed away. The man was just getting into his truck after having lifted my car and I caught him at the door.
“Please sir stop! Please don’t take my car I’ll move it! Just stop!” He looked at me with mechanical eyes and shut the door, the truck’s engine clanked then hummed and rolled away with my blue Chevrolet. Burt’s rage was then turned towards the fleeing tow-truck having seen it being towed also, and we stood there alone in the street.
“Those damn crooks! You good for nothin brutes… and thieves! How dare they… and then towing away! The nerve, the… we shouldn’t be here Fig were not wanted in these parts.”
“Yeah.” I just stood there.
“Well what are we goin to do Fig? Just don’t stand there.”
“I don’t know.”
“Well come on, we can’t just be here.”
“Yeah.”
“Wait, this is our street! We just have to walk a few blocks that way and then were home.”
“Okay.”
“You alright Fig?”
“I think so.” We began walking back to our apartment block and it was a strait shot to it, as strait as could be. The sidewalk was a geometric path and my surrounding was marked with rigidity, everything defined, square, and streamline. The people who walk with us on the sidewalk walk in step and we are a locked configuration moving down the line. Everything is predictable and at the same time everything is known, for the first time that day I am not caught off guard, and a feel plugged in to my surroundings. We entered the dark stairwell to the building and headed up the cold corridors to our apartments. I think back on the day that has passed and only can remember it in brief absurdity, the things I’ve seen and thought flee from me in most part, there being so many things forgotten, so many things lost. I wonder of the things remembered, about what I had though, wondering what it meant, wondering why I would have such thoughts. I think I might have gained something from the trip today, by buying that hallucinogenic substitute for living made for deadbeats like me, but what I can’t really say. We reached our doors and bid each other a due, with a metal clank I entered through mine into my living room. The things I had seen and things I had done lingered on my tongue, and I couldn’t believe it had been legal—I couldn’t believe none of it was real. I then turned on the television and there I sat when I heard Burt yell through the wall,
“Fig! There’s a parade in my kitchen!”
I woke up on Saturday with a stark raving lunatic at my door, it was Burt—that nutcase, neighbor for two plus years, a record for my block. Oh yeah, forgot to mention I am A. Fig Newton, the “A” stands for Alabaster and the block I live in is quite mechanical, and to tell some of the secrets I know I believe there is a robot family due east ten doors down the hall.
So, Burt comes to my metal door and with a clank of his fist sounds the alarm for me to wake about twenty –three minutes before my clock was to do the same. “Open up you old freak, you jelly bean! Open! Open open! Open! Open open open, …OPEN!!! Come on lassie I got me something to show-show, ho, a ho, a ho ho ho a ho ho! You will like, a guarantee on that my lazy lummox. Now do be a dear and retract this barrier from your causeway…” he would have kept going into the night had I not opened the door for him, that nutcase. “There doing a freak-out today, isn’t that great!?”
“What is a freak-out?” I asked.
“I don’t now but it sounds like a blast, I’m going, aren’t you? Everyone’s going to be there, I’m sure, a freak-out I mean, who wouldn’t?”
“What is a freak-out?” I asked again.
“Ah shit! Gimme a break! Just read this Mr. Travec.”
He handed me a flier that looked, as lemans may say ‘awesome.’ I was dazzled by the swirling kaleidoscope of texture infused upon the background of this psycadellically founded mind maze. I could see a drummer drumming on out into the air and penguin’s swimming about a luminescent border of lascivious green, while kites of fantastic giants of long gone myth swayed in the air above a picnic of furry hares and varmints enjoying crumpets, to say the least I was mystified. “Looks like a good-trip who is putting it on?” I asked.
“The Psychosupro Cool Corp. Some grand entrepreneur has taken it upon himself, to commit his life to guys like us, to ensure that we, can freak the fuck out-man it’s going to be so fuckin cool man you better be in man you and me man.”
“And what exactly is done at a freak out?” I asked—with curiosity.
“Oh man, oh man! I don’t know man but I’m pretty sure, don’t quote me, but I believe they are going to blow our minds man, isn’t that great! Look here on the ad, ‘A goodtime is to be had by all, see you on the other side.’ If that isn’t an invitation to a stoner picnic I don’t know what is man.”
“Is it legal?”
“I don’t know, and since when did you start to care? And plus if there putting up all these goomie posters every where my guess is that many fellow goomers are going to be attracted, and they can’t arrest all of us!”
“True, you want to get stoned before we head off?” I inquired.
“Most defiantly.” He affirmed.
My car is large, boat-like would describe it adequately, a blue behemoth of the eighties; a car I am quite fond of. This vehicle was to carry us to 411 Bluetooth Boulevard, were the freak-out was to commence. We had to walk up a block to the storefront because there was no parking around and when we arrived a line was found to extend far along the sidewalk, so we waited. Freaks of all types could be found in this queue, from the gritty and gruesome to the down right loopy, indeed it was a linear formation of freaks alike. One had a beard that nearly enveloped his body, another with piercings jutting out of every fold of her face, one with dogs, another with spots, all with sunglasses and strange hats. We looked the same alike with our retro clothing, retro in that Burt and I wore particularly old clothes that we had made old ourselves, I happened to wearing my old gym clothes from high-school and Burt was in fashion to embarrassing to mention. Seeing the freaks surrounding me, I felt secure and a little exited about this event Burt had stumbled upon, the anticipation was killing me.
“What’s it gonna be?” Burt asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Is it gonna be good, is it gonna be crazy, what do you think?”
“I dunno.”
“Come on, com’on! I’m asking, I’m just asking! I’m a just a wonderen what ya make of it.” That’s when the bulbous Star Trek fanatic to our front overheard Burt’s inquisition and crept into the conversation,
“You guys don’t know what is happening here? Didn’t you go to the website, it’s on the flyer there?” referring to the one in my hand.
“Uh, no.” I said.
“Well, it’s big news man, I hear there putting out some turbograde, a lot better than the suprograde which is the original formulation, and the fact it’s being held in the middle of the city, it’s going to be a trip.” He explained to us.
Confusedly I asked, “Has there been other freak-outs?”
“Oh wow, you guys are real newbies to the freak-out scene, this is going to blow your mind. Yeah, I was at the first one, it was way out in the boons in the mountains, a lot of people freaked out and got lost in the woods, and that wasn’t turbograde, it’s supposed to be a whole nother animal.”
“What do we do, man! What do we do when we get to the end of the line?” Burt blurted with child-like excitement.
“Oh yeah, they give us some heavy drugs and send us on our way, it’s given in vials that self-destruct in two-hours so you got to get were your goin’ quick, because you ain't goin’ anywhere once you start to freak.” The beauty of what he said.
“Oh oh oh oh, oooh. No. Really? Oh yeah, yeah! That’s great!” Burt almost buckled over into a seizure.
“Really? They give us drugs? What’s the hold up?” I asked.
“Paperwork man, you got a stack to finish before they’ll sell it to you, liability and stuff like that.”
“Is it worth the paperwork and the price?”
“Oh yeah, expensive but the suprograde sent me screamin’, and this turbograde, well, you know.” With that we began to shuffle through the line like excited children waiting to ride a thrill of the drug-induced kind.
We finally made it to the store after a long wait and steadily drifted inside. What we entered was a waiting room. We had to wait some more as we drudge through the red velvet ropes that held us contained single file. The whole scene reminded me of a bank, for at the end of the red velvet ropes were several teller windows, encased in bars and glass with only a little chute on the counter in which to exchange currency and product, which many people were doing. It was the longest time I had remembered standing up in recent memory, but at last Burt and I made it to a window of which behind a squat oriental lady sat.
“How much, how much!” Burt enthusiastically demanded.
“Fifty dollars, one dose per person, one-hundred for both of you.” She answered.
Burt pulled a bill out of his wallet and slid it under. “Well what’s the hold-up? Here’s a hundred piece, now gimme some turbograde!”
“Your total comes to one-hundred and seventy-eight dollars and ninety three cents.”
“What! What! You said one hundred, I heard you, I heard you say one hundred dollars for both of us, what is this shenanigan!” He seemed quite agitated, more than his usual state of continual agitation.
“That was the price before tax.”
“That’s one hell of a tax.” I put forth.
“We are under a special taxation bracket, I can’t do anything about it.”
“But we waited, we waited for so long, didn’t we Fig? And now this, this governmental preponderance has stop me, it cannot be, it cannot.” Despair could entirely explain Burt’s efforts; I could not let him suffer.
“I got the rest Burt, we are going to freak-out.” And he almost did so right there and then. I thought it to be a worthwhile purchase because of the sheer number of people there paying the same price for the same thing, and I hardly could imagine the spherical Trekie in line possessing more wealth than I. So, I paid the price, but not after filling out a stack of liability forms of every kind, being the most I had ever written in recent memory.
The stuff was given-out in little computerized vials, with little circuits and this and that all about it, I guess it was part of the self-destruct mechanism but I’m no scientist. Burt and I decided the best place to trip would be at the park; plenty open space and few people to be bothered by what may happen to us. I parked my car and in it we consumed the contents of the vial, which immediately there after, we left my vehicle to take a stroll around the park to wait for the effects to come in to play. We did not have to wait long.
“My crooked spine! It is so crooked and, and fuzzy, look at me I’m a damn hunchback, and I’m s-slipping tooo…” Burt’s words became unintelligible jargon of irritating sound as the symphony of nature surrounded me and blended into a single tone that penetrated my skull and vibrated my brain. Euphoria could defiantly describe the feeling from my shoulders down to my feet, while all that resting neck up was completely disconnected, eyes receding into my gray matter, words spoken in alien tongue, and smells of untold sources seeping into the blitzed mass of my brain, of which was a mess of irrationality—totally and completely. I had forgotten about Burt standing next to me yet his words had lingered in my mind, and when I turned to look at him I looked at a small decrepit Burt hunched and exuberated, the little man spoke, “Follow me! Follow me little bean, we are to wonder to those tree’s you see over there and who know, maybe we will find something there.”
“But what if somebody else had already found it, and then we will have walked for nothing.”
The little man spoke, “We are nothing, you and I, and over there everything that is to be found is for nothing. Just follow me jelly bean, you have a tendency for being wrong, while I shall never lead you astray from this way, ha ha!” With that the little hunchback took my hand and we frolicked over to the arboretum, into a ghastly sphere of green leaves and brown branches. Upon entering the cool shade my senses were given new life, I could feel my eyes dilate bigger and bigger in the dark mist of the trees as a fantasyland began to sprout before my eyes. Flowers of golden hue with ambrosial vines burst from the ground up far above my head into the dark teal of the leaves above setting them ablaze with radiance. The grass patch were I had stood with tree’s above had filled in completely with shrub, brush, grass, and leaves, vines, and flowers, contained by the standing massive trees. The beauty around me was too much to see, my eyes began to water and tears dribbled down off my chin and formed a sea, a place I had been before with marine air filling the sails of ships cruising the horizon. Everything I had seen there had became everything I loved, it pulled me in and left me breathless. That’s when I noticed Burt was gone, and not just him but the whole park, as the foliage had taken over the grassy fields and it continued to grow and became more and more until it had almost surrounded everything and slowly began closing in on me. The beautiful leaves wee too much to be seen and I feared that nature just might at that time and place swallow me up and consummate me to the dirt. So, I ran through the corridors of life, as vines and shrub manifested all about. There was no way out I could see, it was a maze of green, I just ran were plants were not hoping to find open spaces in front of me. Somewhere between the tennis courts that were over grown and the small creek beside, among the many plants and trees I found a little nook were a little old lady sat at a table looking in a book and doing so quite happily. She saw me as soon as I saw her and what a kind grandmotherly face she had, with dignified lines and sullen blue eyes.
“Hello there Fig, are you enjoying the trees and leaves, or how about that freak-out, is it worth what you paid? Come here, sit here and talk with me, I always enjoy the companionship of good company.” So I walked to her side, sat on the grass next to her chair and look up and stared.
“What are you looking at?” I asked.
“Oh, just some old memories of times gone by, would you care to see?” With that she handed an old photo album containing many pictures to me. I found among them a lady in a long skirt holding sax, the picture was black and white, she was among ensemble of musicians her being in the spotlight.
“What is this?” I asked of her.
“Oh, that was myself when I was young, playing the jazz back when jazz was the scene. Oh yes, how the big band set us to swing, playing that rhythm and blues down in New Orleans. I’ll never forget the swingin voodoo magic the place had.”
“And what of this?” Holding a picture of a small man sprinting at speed on a horse.
“That is my cousin Bob, and what a jockey he was, this is a picture of him crossing the winning line in the illustrious Kentucky Derby. My husband and I place one hundred for him to win, the pay-off was one to ten and netted us a grand! What a place to be, what a sight to see.”
A man in uniform was in view next, “what of this solider, who was he.”
“My son is who that would be and what a fine man he is. He went and fought in a forsaken war, dodged bullets and mortars, flying explosive and suicide cars. He live through it and with a story told, came back to his wife and kids and is living to be quite old. I was just glad he made it through having given him two decades of tender care and a life-time of support.”
Many pictures I viewed and she told me of what they were, I could not remember all she said having this stringently intoxicating substance flowing around in my head. As I looked and listen the wall to my left faded away, crumbled to pieces and all the wild vegetation began to recede. There behind it all a wild man stood, twisted, decrepit, a creature in fixation possessing a sort of demented demure. As soon as I caught site of it the kind lady did too, her kind blue eyes stared at him like a deer in distress, and a pale flat hue spread across her face. I looked away and she was gone but the engrossed creature that was Burt remained where he was on an open lawn in light of the sun. I walked up to him and the closer I got the more the vibration pulsing through my head began to fragment my vision, everything hummed and lacked definite contrast, the outlines of objects scribbled and fine details distorted and out of shape. I approached him and all I could see was a man out of place opened up and disassembled, wearing a red shirt that matched the color of his head glowing luminescent and crimson. Memory had not gone away from me and I could remember what the words on the shirt had said, “Slippery Dicks’ Halfway Inn.” Below two polar bears copulating in front of an igloo. What an idiot he appeared to be as I stared at him and looked how pathetic he seemed, all broken up and “tripping,” what a nutcase, how insane.
“What are you looking at?! Can you not see that your you and I am me!” He shouted and it thundered loud creating an earthquake in my head, shaking the world and leaving me near brain-dead.
“W…What, …what, stop!” I mumbled
“Oh, don’t play with me boy, take a step back and watch your self and look around, there is more here than there is to be seen, and sometimes it can get real mean.” I fell to my knees and held the ground to try and keep it still as all around the trees, the birds, the cars, the people were all descending upon me, contorting my reason and pressing my perception to a fanatical degree. I was locked up frozen unable to be, I fell backwards and what did I see? The great blue sky as blue as can be, not a cloud in the sky that could be seen as though a great azule dome had been placed over me. Nothing was blurred as I could now see a great span opaque and neutral, surrounding where my vision spanned, comforting me and leaving a resonating calm throughout the land. There I stayed until Burt walked over and said to me, “Fig you think we can leave? I’m so tired of talking to these trees, there such a fucking bore. Change! A Change we are in dire need of. Lets take flight.
Lets leave this place. Come on, your good to drive I can see it, or hell you can let me if you want. But now is time for action. Now is the time to leave!”
“Okay.” I stood up and all was calm, placid and tranquil. I had no problems moving off the ground and across the park, my head was focused as Burt led me on. We had trouble finding my car for we had wander quite a ways away, but finally were came upon my blue Chevrolet, a beast of a car, a monstrous mechanical sleigh that was to carry us somewhere. The drug had not gone away and in fact was in full affect but this did not prevent me from starting the car and driving dazed and confusedly, you could say my judgment was absent. Burt sat to my right and had a ridiculous grin on his face as though he was enjoying something to an immense degree.
“What is it that bring such pleasure to your face my friend.” I asked of him
“The wind! How crisp, how cool, how clear! And how it moves and how everything moves! Here one moment then gone, a constant fresh breeze is in front of my face.”
“This is why you wanted to drive.”
“No not at all, but what a wonderful side effect off going to a place we don’t know that we’re going to yet.”
“Were are we going anyway?” I asked
“Just drive my man and let this brutish vehicle lead us to where it may, enjoy the air and look around, everything is liquid and flows all around us.” I leaned back in my seat and sunk right in. I was not driving, the car just moved and the cool breeze that delighted Burt entranced me in a mellow haze, all around me things were streaming, leaving behind long colorful shadows as though everything had comets tails, creating a tunnel of emulsified color that I leisurely rolled through. Nothing could describe the serene feeling I had as we cruised about, and it made me think of Burt a bit wiser, how he knew how the exploit joy for all it worth in this world of ours. I could have stayed there forever rolling along city streets, it just didn’t matter to me, or to Burt either I supposed as were drove on for what seemed like hours, so languidly dazzled. Then all the sudden my car stopped, essentially in the middle of the street but not being a busy street I left it be, and just like that our magic carpet ride had ended underneath a “tow-away” parking sign. I determined the reason my car ceased to move was an acute shortage of gasoline of which I was supposed fill up on, had I not spent all my money on this drug that was coursing through my veins.
“What do we do now?” I asked.
“I don’t know, don’t look at me I wasn’t driving.”
“You wanted to drive. But you never said where, where did you want to go?” I asked
“I wanted to go the same place you wanted to go.”
“Where did I want to go?”
“Oh, oh so your telling me that we drove around all this time and ran your car out of gas because you didn’t know were to go in the first place.”
“How was I supposed to know?”
“You’re driving!”
“But, you wanted…”
“Lets not just sit here like idiots now lets take some action here.” Burt then proceeded to exit the vehicle and I shortly thereafter followed him. As I stepped off the asphalt up on to the sidewalk the burly moans of a humpback whale could be heard.
“Ooouaaahhhh! Aaaaahhh! Oooauooohhh! Wooooo!” I turned around and from the curb spotted a man of gigantic proportion speeding excessively down the street in a square black Mercedes Benz convertible. “Hey be careful now, your car is in the middle of the street! Aaahhh haaa ha wooo!” As he yelled this to us he flashed at us his hand with four fingers split to form a fat Vulcan “V.” “I think I know that guy.” Burt informed me.
I turned away from the street. We had stopped in front of a store, a fashion store, and I peered up and viewed the bright red sign that hung above, “The Something Cool Clothing Company.” Burt noticed me starring and started to do the same, we both sat there for a while not knowing what to make about this store in front of us. “Let’s go in.” and with that Burt entered the store. I stood there a moment not sure to follow, I mean the store was upscale and fancy the type I would never go in, or need to, I knew it was not a store for guys like me, or Burt for that matter. But, the allure soon suckered me through the doors, I had to see what the store held inside and so I followed Burt. By the time I had entered Burt had already fixated himself on some clothing upon the racks. What had caught his eye was a flat black suit, sharp and sleek, the kind of suit a wealthy sophisto would dawn to an opera. At that time a sales attendant came up to us to offer us assistance, a lovely lady with a wonderful plastic smile stuck on her face.
“Can I, uh, help you gentlemen?”
Burt turned with slant eyes and informed the woman. “Not in the least. I can dress myself thank you very kindly, I will not be in need of your services. Carry on now.” The lady stood for a moment opened her mouth slightly and then proceeded to turn around and let us continue. Burt rushed off to the dressing room to dawn his new apparel while I meandered over to the morning wear, were I found the most luxurious flannel robe, with a blue and red plaid design on the outside and warm fluffy fleece on the inside. I lynched it around my waist and headed off to the shoe section. Once arrived I soon found to my pleasure that the shoe section was furnished with padded chairs, rather that those stools and benches they have at retail stores, no indeed these were sitting chairs that asked you kick off you shoes and slip on a pair of woolen slippers, which I did promptly. All I needed was a solid wood pipe to puff leisurely some sophisticated tobacco and one happened to be in my hand, lit and ready for smoking. At that time Burt came out of the dressing room and trotted over to where I sat. The suit made him look, not classy but something close to it, “Look at me! Don’t I look swank? Tonight I walk the town and hit the clubs, I’m rolling!” He then started dancing very obnoxiously providing his own music, I think it was the tango, it succeeded in making a scene.
“Excuse me sir, could you go easy on the suits? There very expensive and we don’t want wrinkles in them.” The smiling lady walked over and asked.
“Do not tell me what to do or how to do it.” Burt answered.
“Sir do you, uh, intend on purchasing anything?”
“Nothing of the sorts, but don’t I look swank?” Burt sardonic speech was wearing down on the clerk.
“No, and if you are not going to purchase anything I will have to ask you to leave. So please place the suit back, it doesn’t fit you anyways.”
Burt twitched is head sideways suddenly then back, “How dare you try to tell me what I am doing and how to go about it! And the nerve to criticize my fashion sense! Out! Out of my sight unkind wretch!” Burt’s volume had risen to levels slightly above the threshold for what is considered pleasant and I think it startled the lady, as she stepped back and then hurried to her counter and picked up the phone. Burt ran off the other direction and I picked up a newspaper that had suddenly appeared beside my chair. I turned to the travel and leisure section and read about a lovely little town somewhere in Europe that was the feature of the article. It turns out the place has many beautiful forests around it rich in flora and fauna, a beautiful northern sunset, and it showed a place were travelers could view whales from the shore. It sounded like a lovely place I thought maybe I would travel there sometime, I don’t know when. I then turned to the television listings to find my favorite show’s start time and as I scanned the pages Burt trotted out in decadent apparel. He had put on a lavish red overcoat, which underneath he wore some sort of frilly blouse that puffed out on his chest, and around his neck a mink fur scarf, and a crown was seen upon his head.
“I am the King and I am master of everything.” He then turned to address the other people in the store. “Hail me for I am the King, I am not daunted by anything! In here I rule!” Once again his voice had reached unpleasant decibels and took an almost threatening tone, but no employee in the store moved to address him but instead stared at him, with such strange eyes. Burt then felt free to start a kingly parade around the store, I sat quite merrily watching the whole scene realizing how much fun and adventure I had had on this trip and how the king’s leadership had been so key. Then the cops came in.
“What’s the problem here?” A burly black cop asked as soon as he walked through the door. All of the employees, in unison, lifted their arms and pointed to the man marching to the sound of his own band. “All right buddy get the heck out of here, and take off those clothes, you understand?”
“I am the King, do not tell me what to do or how to do it.”
“You damn freak-out fruit, you’re lucky you doped up today, or else I would have got authoritarian on your ass! Now you get out or I’ll get you out.”
Burt had not a trace of yellow on his back, “You’ll do right to call me sir when you address me.”
“All right! Lets go buddy!” and with that the cop proceeded to stomp up to Burt and grab him by his frilly blouse. Now, Burt is no fighter, he has nothing to put out other than the words from his mouth, once you have broke those he folds like a waffle. So the cop began removing Burt’s clothes with force as Burt wriggled out of them with determination,
“Stop! Stop you can’t …can’t do that! Me! I am the King, the master of everything!”
“Your nothing!” And Burt was muscled out of the store kicking and screaming triumphantly. The employees the came up to me and told me I had to also leave, which I found rather unnecessary but I didn’t care to make a scene, that was Burt’s thing, but I did ash my pipe on their carpet. I came out and saw Burt freaking-out at the back of the cop who was walking away after exiling him from the store; I also saw my car being towed away. The man was just getting into his truck after having lifted my car and I caught him at the door.
“Please sir stop! Please don’t take my car I’ll move it! Just stop!” He looked at me with mechanical eyes and shut the door, the truck’s engine clanked then hummed and rolled away with my blue Chevrolet. Burt’s rage was then turned towards the fleeing tow-truck having seen it being towed also, and we stood there alone in the street.
“Those damn crooks! You good for nothin brutes… and thieves! How dare they… and then towing away! The nerve, the… we shouldn’t be here Fig were not wanted in these parts.”
“Yeah.” I just stood there.
“Well what are we goin to do Fig? Just don’t stand there.”
“I don’t know.”
“Well come on, we can’t just be here.”
“Yeah.”
“Wait, this is our street! We just have to walk a few blocks that way and then were home.”
“Okay.”
“You alright Fig?”
“I think so.” We began walking back to our apartment block and it was a strait shot to it, as strait as could be. The sidewalk was a geometric path and my surrounding was marked with rigidity, everything defined, square, and streamline. The people who walk with us on the sidewalk walk in step and we are a locked configuration moving down the line. Everything is predictable and at the same time everything is known, for the first time that day I am not caught off guard, and a feel plugged in to my surroundings. We entered the dark stairwell to the building and headed up the cold corridors to our apartments. I think back on the day that has passed and only can remember it in brief absurdity, the things I’ve seen and thought flee from me in most part, there being so many things forgotten, so many things lost. I wonder of the things remembered, about what I had though, wondering what it meant, wondering why I would have such thoughts. I think I might have gained something from the trip today, by buying that hallucinogenic substitute for living made for deadbeats like me, but what I can’t really say. We reached our doors and bid each other a due, with a metal clank I entered through mine into my living room. The things I had seen and things I had done lingered on my tongue, and I couldn’t believe it had been legal—I couldn’t believe none of it was real. I then turned on the television and there I sat when I heard Burt yell through the wall,
“Fig! There’s a parade in my kitchen!”
The Good Old Days
What is the time?
Am I here or should have I been there?
Oh the day when I did not wear shackles
Was there ever such a day?
What is the time here?
Oh surly there was a time when heads were not filled with Iron
Shackled to the feet so we do not go any where quickly
Who did this to me?
When did this happen?
Oh I am just an old man and I can no longer lift my head
I just drag it with my eyes very close to the street
Ah how I wish to see a young man again who can still holds his head up high
What does he see?
Where is he going?
Oh this metal holds such little memory
My thoughts are heavy and hard to move
If I could see anything besides pebbles and bugs I doubt I would remember it
There is such little room for memory, they filled it all up
Who did this to me?
Why did they do this to me?
Oh it’s so hard to lift your head now days
And even if you could it still shackles your feet
Any thing you see ahead would be reached only after a long struggle
Ah…but nobody seems to go any where these days
Everything we need lies in front of our faces
What do I need?
Why do I need it?
What a horrible time it is.
Oh how I wish it were the good old days again
Oh how I wish to be in that place again
When it wasn’t like this, a place where I could look up
Was there ever another time than this one?
Where am I?
What is the time?
Am I here or should have I been there?
Oh the day when I did not wear shackles
Was there ever such a day?
What is the time here?
Oh surly there was a time when heads were not filled with Iron
Shackled to the feet so we do not go any where quickly
Who did this to me?
When did this happen?
Oh I am just an old man and I can no longer lift my head
I just drag it with my eyes very close to the street
Ah how I wish to see a young man again who can still holds his head up high
What does he see?
Where is he going?
Oh this metal holds such little memory
My thoughts are heavy and hard to move
If I could see anything besides pebbles and bugs I doubt I would remember it
There is such little room for memory, they filled it all up
Who did this to me?
Why did they do this to me?
Oh it’s so hard to lift your head now days
And even if you could it still shackles your feet
Any thing you see ahead would be reached only after a long struggle
Ah…but nobody seems to go any where these days
Everything we need lies in front of our faces
What do I need?
Why do I need it?
What a horrible time it is.
Oh how I wish it were the good old days again
Oh how I wish to be in that place again
When it wasn’t like this, a place where I could look up
Was there ever another time than this one?
Where am I?
What is the time?
Unconcerned
So yeah
I once had this friend
It really doesn’t matter why but we were out in the woods
Snow lay on the ground
Its too bad he didn’t come back from the forest
I kind of miss him
Even though there was nothing I could do
He
Was
By Wolves Eaten
We all parish
He by tooth
O
Well
As we walked among trunks
The pack swarmed around
He panicked
I don’t know why
The situation was unavoidable
Wolves are great hunters
They perform a unified kill
They
Descend
Upon us
I did Not Care
Apathetic
They could eat me if they want
He fought them with his fists
I am passed out of the circumference as the kill circle closes in on my struggling friend
He shouldn’t have fought/He should have known it DIDN’T matter what he did
Doomed
Teeth clamp Each canine Until he One Another Open I watch
Into Clenches Is Mauls Rips Him His
Flesh Limb Immobilized Throat Stomach Up Dismantling
I am left untouched as the wolves walk away with full bellies
It’s a shame I guess
I would have found my consumption\
Interesting A
Change
At
Least
I once had this friend
It really doesn’t matter why but we were out in the woods
Snow lay on the ground
Its too bad he didn’t come back from the forest
I kind of miss him
Even though there was nothing I could do
He
Was
By Wolves Eaten
We all parish
He by tooth
O
Well
As we walked among trunks
The pack swarmed around
He panicked
I don’t know why
The situation was unavoidable
Wolves are great hunters
They perform a unified kill
They
Descend
Upon us
I did Not Care
Apathetic
They could eat me if they want
He fought them with his fists
I am passed out of the circumference as the kill circle closes in on my struggling friend
He shouldn’t have fought/He should have known it DIDN’T matter what he did
Doomed
Teeth clamp Each canine Until he One Another Open I watch
Into Clenches Is Mauls Rips Him His
Flesh Limb Immobilized Throat Stomach Up Dismantling
I am left untouched as the wolves walk away with full bellies
It’s a shame I guess
I would have found my consumption\
Interesting A
Change
At
Least
The Harmony of Livley Music
There was quickness to his step that made him seem to bounce as he left out the studio’s door. He moved down the city streets faster today because he was in fact on the verge of something new. Prancing along in his tapered slacks that had tucked into them, around a growing pot belly, a white button down shirt adorned with a thin black tie, he carried in his hand a clarinet case.
Why he was so happy was because today as he sat in the recital hall in practice with his fellow orchestra members a revelation dawned on him; the perfect cadence. He had been trying for so long to come up with one, and today as he was changing his reed the flutist that was playing in the front row let out a brief series of notes that stuck in his mind, and when elaborated upon gave the impetus for the cadence he had been seeking for so long. For those of you not familiar with the style of sonata-allegro form, one cannot overlook the importance of a good cadence. For classical pieces all start with an exposition of some sort, a signature melody that is repeated throughout the piece. This will be a simple melody, and though it may change keys or instrumentation, the theme remains the same and is played all the way through twice. Then after the repetition of the exposition the development played, and it is the grandest part of the piece, for the composer stops playing the main theme and begins to experiment with all the possibilities of the music. Here a departure is made, the unexpected is sought, and it is in this part of the piece where the zenith of musical potential is achieved. Only the most skillful composers dare write the most elaborate developments, the kinds that challenge the very rules of harmony and leave the ear astounded. But before that can be achieved the exposition must be bridged, and that requires a good cadence.
Because it so happened that Norman was writing a symphony, a personal project of his that he had been working on for a very long time, and he had been undecided on how to approach the development of his first movement. Though, he had written other musical pieces he considered them sub-par, short, and simple works. So, he began to work on a piece that would be his finest expression. The process took much longer than he had expected, the notes came slowly and his commitment to perfection made the composing arduous, but he was convinced that this one piece would be the greatest thing he had ever done, that it would be his life’s manifestation encapsulated in notes.
Now, here he was with the perfect cadence that would lead to the excitement of the development. For he had been mulling over exposition for quite a while, modulating keys, modifying the instrumentation, essentially making the same song sound different, and now he was moving on to the unknown of the development. A new path was turning and he felt a breeze of change strike him in the face. Maybe he would take leave and go some place exotic, like Zimbabwe, to create the right atmosphere to write the most stunning development.
He is so exited with the possibilities of this new phase that he decides to go and buy flowers for his wife, so to have something to mark the occasion when he told her the news. As he walks into the flower shop he greets the shop-owner, a lady he has become acquainted with from his regular visits.
“How are you this lovely day?”
She recognizes him and a warm smile spreads as her eyes grow soft, “Why, I’m doing lovely Norman, thank you for asking. Are you here to pick up flowers for your pretty wife?”
“Yes, it’s a celebration.”
“It always is with you,” the smile grows, “will it be the roses?”
“No, I will take the tulips this time.”
“I’m sure she will love them. You do all the right things Norman. Maybe you could teach my husband how to be a gentleman.”
A forced laugh is mustered by Norman, “I just do what I always have done.” He thanks her for the flowers and continues home.
The cadence still flutters around in his head and he is lost in the dream that is his symphony, playing the exposition over and over in his head as he had thousands of times before, but now with the cadence added on the end it became complete, ready for the next stage. His footsteps make notes and he walks in music, for life is playing for him only in the exquisite tones of trumpets and French horns. For him the train’s whine is an oboe and its pounding the rhythm section both united in a merry joining of tones and percussions of the machine’s orchestra. Here he draws his inspirations, interpreting the world into flutes and violas, not to forget the bassoons, for anything can be translated as one sees proper. And this is why his symphony would be the grandest, for it would take all of the mast disjunctions of the earth and unite it in one beautiful harmony of woodwinds sighs and brass thunder. Oh!
Entranced he reaches a street corner and waits for the light, but as he stands there the placid musical perfection that swirls in his head is disturbed by a new sound.
He recognizes it immediately as his spine becomes agitated and he crunches his head into his shoulder, the sound of distortion, as a convertible pulls beside him blasting hard rock. He detests the music, the simple songs, the lack of instruments, the people who played them. He hates the lyrics and the singers, they just scream or whine about what they hate and what they love; no match for the vocals of a tenor. But most of all he hates the distortion of the guitar. The gritty undefined noise of squared sound waves that roar out of electrified amplifiers sounded dreadful, savage, mostly agitating as the guitarist bended the strings and trashed with abandon. There was no art in this type of music, no effort was given in creating a perfect structure of notes to create a most beautiful harmony, instead three cords where bashed upon at random while a madman screams and wails with unadulterated passion. He looks over too see a foursome of leather clad punks sitting in the car, their heads methodically nodding with the rhythm. As he turns his head to look at them the girl in the passenger seat with the Mohawk and gaping lip ring turns to look at him. She eyes him from head to toe then back again, then her eyes wince, her mouth bursts open wide, her head turns forward as the car speeds away, and laughter drowned out by the loud music is never heard.
He reaches his house and upon entering finds his wife sitting in her chair looking out the window listening to music. She slowly turns to him, “why, you brought me flowers.”
“Yes it’s a celebration, it’s a new beginning. Aren’t you exited?”
“Oh…yes, what is it we are celebrating?”
“A cadence, my exposition has ended, its time to move on to new material. I was thinking we could celebrate with a trip.”
“Oh that sounds lovely I haven’t left the house…in awhile, maybe we could visit my parents, they would like it.”
“Well, I was thinking somewhere exotic, somewhere where I would truly be inspired, and create my great development, I was thinking Africa, what do you think?”
“Oh…that’s so far a way, you are always going so far away…maybe we could stay around here, you know…and maybe, catch up, you know…they would love too see you.”
“How can I be creative there? Don’t you love traveling? It will be great—
“NO! no! I don’t want to go to Europe or Asia or Africa! I want you here! I want you to be here not somewhere far away, Please stay here…” sobbing lightly
“What has gotten into you? Why are you so hysterical? What’s wrong my dear?”
“I’m a lonely old woman! cant you see how lonely I am? Or do I have to write you symphony to tell you that? What do you think Norman? WHAT DO YOU THINK!? Do you think, I’m happy?”
“Well…yes I—“
“I’M NOT! I am dying in here, in these wall, in this silence. I wish the piano would talk to me when you don’t! I bet it could find the time to visit its in laws once in a while, especially when they’re old and dying! Just like I am, just like last weeks roses… its always the same slow dullness…” withering into despair.
“…so…you don’t want to go to Zimbabwe?” he asks honestly.
She stiffens suddenly with a caustic stare, “I’m going to my parents Norman.”
“You are?...for how long?”
“A long time.”
“Are you coming back?”
“Doubtful.”
“Wait!...Do you want me to come, please—?”
“I don’t want you—“ as the door slams. He stands motionless and realizes that Wolfgang’s Requiem was playing in the background the whole time.
He calmly goes over to the piano where the sheet-music of his symphony rests and changes the final chord written on the last page from an F to an D minor. He then sits in his sitting chair that has upholstery which projects out and boxes in his head. He listens to the music and as the development comes on with its sudden rises and falls, its crescendos, vibratos, and trills, an unexpected sound resonates in his ears.
Why he was so happy was because today as he sat in the recital hall in practice with his fellow orchestra members a revelation dawned on him; the perfect cadence. He had been trying for so long to come up with one, and today as he was changing his reed the flutist that was playing in the front row let out a brief series of notes that stuck in his mind, and when elaborated upon gave the impetus for the cadence he had been seeking for so long. For those of you not familiar with the style of sonata-allegro form, one cannot overlook the importance of a good cadence. For classical pieces all start with an exposition of some sort, a signature melody that is repeated throughout the piece. This will be a simple melody, and though it may change keys or instrumentation, the theme remains the same and is played all the way through twice. Then after the repetition of the exposition the development played, and it is the grandest part of the piece, for the composer stops playing the main theme and begins to experiment with all the possibilities of the music. Here a departure is made, the unexpected is sought, and it is in this part of the piece where the zenith of musical potential is achieved. Only the most skillful composers dare write the most elaborate developments, the kinds that challenge the very rules of harmony and leave the ear astounded. But before that can be achieved the exposition must be bridged, and that requires a good cadence.
Because it so happened that Norman was writing a symphony, a personal project of his that he had been working on for a very long time, and he had been undecided on how to approach the development of his first movement. Though, he had written other musical pieces he considered them sub-par, short, and simple works. So, he began to work on a piece that would be his finest expression. The process took much longer than he had expected, the notes came slowly and his commitment to perfection made the composing arduous, but he was convinced that this one piece would be the greatest thing he had ever done, that it would be his life’s manifestation encapsulated in notes.
Now, here he was with the perfect cadence that would lead to the excitement of the development. For he had been mulling over exposition for quite a while, modulating keys, modifying the instrumentation, essentially making the same song sound different, and now he was moving on to the unknown of the development. A new path was turning and he felt a breeze of change strike him in the face. Maybe he would take leave and go some place exotic, like Zimbabwe, to create the right atmosphere to write the most stunning development.
He is so exited with the possibilities of this new phase that he decides to go and buy flowers for his wife, so to have something to mark the occasion when he told her the news. As he walks into the flower shop he greets the shop-owner, a lady he has become acquainted with from his regular visits.
“How are you this lovely day?”
She recognizes him and a warm smile spreads as her eyes grow soft, “Why, I’m doing lovely Norman, thank you for asking. Are you here to pick up flowers for your pretty wife?”
“Yes, it’s a celebration.”
“It always is with you,” the smile grows, “will it be the roses?”
“No, I will take the tulips this time.”
“I’m sure she will love them. You do all the right things Norman. Maybe you could teach my husband how to be a gentleman.”
A forced laugh is mustered by Norman, “I just do what I always have done.” He thanks her for the flowers and continues home.
The cadence still flutters around in his head and he is lost in the dream that is his symphony, playing the exposition over and over in his head as he had thousands of times before, but now with the cadence added on the end it became complete, ready for the next stage. His footsteps make notes and he walks in music, for life is playing for him only in the exquisite tones of trumpets and French horns. For him the train’s whine is an oboe and its pounding the rhythm section both united in a merry joining of tones and percussions of the machine’s orchestra. Here he draws his inspirations, interpreting the world into flutes and violas, not to forget the bassoons, for anything can be translated as one sees proper. And this is why his symphony would be the grandest, for it would take all of the mast disjunctions of the earth and unite it in one beautiful harmony of woodwinds sighs and brass thunder. Oh!
Entranced he reaches a street corner and waits for the light, but as he stands there the placid musical perfection that swirls in his head is disturbed by a new sound.
He recognizes it immediately as his spine becomes agitated and he crunches his head into his shoulder, the sound of distortion, as a convertible pulls beside him blasting hard rock. He detests the music, the simple songs, the lack of instruments, the people who played them. He hates the lyrics and the singers, they just scream or whine about what they hate and what they love; no match for the vocals of a tenor. But most of all he hates the distortion of the guitar. The gritty undefined noise of squared sound waves that roar out of electrified amplifiers sounded dreadful, savage, mostly agitating as the guitarist bended the strings and trashed with abandon. There was no art in this type of music, no effort was given in creating a perfect structure of notes to create a most beautiful harmony, instead three cords where bashed upon at random while a madman screams and wails with unadulterated passion. He looks over too see a foursome of leather clad punks sitting in the car, their heads methodically nodding with the rhythm. As he turns his head to look at them the girl in the passenger seat with the Mohawk and gaping lip ring turns to look at him. She eyes him from head to toe then back again, then her eyes wince, her mouth bursts open wide, her head turns forward as the car speeds away, and laughter drowned out by the loud music is never heard.
He reaches his house and upon entering finds his wife sitting in her chair looking out the window listening to music. She slowly turns to him, “why, you brought me flowers.”
“Yes it’s a celebration, it’s a new beginning. Aren’t you exited?”
“Oh…yes, what is it we are celebrating?”
“A cadence, my exposition has ended, its time to move on to new material. I was thinking we could celebrate with a trip.”
“Oh that sounds lovely I haven’t left the house…in awhile, maybe we could visit my parents, they would like it.”
“Well, I was thinking somewhere exotic, somewhere where I would truly be inspired, and create my great development, I was thinking Africa, what do you think?”
“Oh…that’s so far a way, you are always going so far away…maybe we could stay around here, you know…and maybe, catch up, you know…they would love too see you.”
“How can I be creative there? Don’t you love traveling? It will be great—
“NO! no! I don’t want to go to Europe or Asia or Africa! I want you here! I want you to be here not somewhere far away, Please stay here…” sobbing lightly
“What has gotten into you? Why are you so hysterical? What’s wrong my dear?”
“I’m a lonely old woman! cant you see how lonely I am? Or do I have to write you symphony to tell you that? What do you think Norman? WHAT DO YOU THINK!? Do you think, I’m happy?”
“Well…yes I—“
“I’M NOT! I am dying in here, in these wall, in this silence. I wish the piano would talk to me when you don’t! I bet it could find the time to visit its in laws once in a while, especially when they’re old and dying! Just like I am, just like last weeks roses… its always the same slow dullness…” withering into despair.
“…so…you don’t want to go to Zimbabwe?” he asks honestly.
She stiffens suddenly with a caustic stare, “I’m going to my parents Norman.”
“You are?...for how long?”
“A long time.”
“Are you coming back?”
“Doubtful.”
“Wait!...Do you want me to come, please—?”
“I don’t want you—“ as the door slams. He stands motionless and realizes that Wolfgang’s Requiem was playing in the background the whole time.
He calmly goes over to the piano where the sheet-music of his symphony rests and changes the final chord written on the last page from an F to an D minor. He then sits in his sitting chair that has upholstery which projects out and boxes in his head. He listens to the music and as the development comes on with its sudden rises and falls, its crescendos, vibratos, and trills, an unexpected sound resonates in his ears.
JOKERUS
MAN ON SCENE OLD JESTER
PASTPRESENT FOOLS JOKE
PSYCHOLOGICALLY AS
FOLKS ARE NOW JOKES TOLD
ARTICLELESS AND SILLY
SLIGHLY SADDER THAN
ABSURD FOLLOWERS FLOCK
TO COMMON BIRDS BUT
NO RHYME
SING SONG SLAVE
METER REPRESSING SYLLABIC INDIVIDUALITY
IS INHUMANE TO DUMB UNSPOKEN LIPS
OR THOSE BABBLING RHYTHMICALLY..bump...bump...bumpbump
LAUGH.
FOR PEOPLE ARE PUNCHLINES
AS RED CARPET POETS COMPOSE
FOR TABLOID PROSE
AND LIVES THERE WRITTEN
WORTHLESS WORDS
PASTPRESENT FOOLS JOKE
PSYCHOLOGICALLY AS
FOLKS ARE NOW JOKES TOLD
ARTICLELESS AND SILLY
SLIGHLY SADDER THAN
ABSURD FOLLOWERS FLOCK
TO COMMON BIRDS BUT
NO RHYME
SING SONG SLAVE
METER REPRESSING SYLLABIC INDIVIDUALITY
IS INHUMANE TO DUMB UNSPOKEN LIPS
OR THOSE BABBLING RHYTHMICALLY..bump...bump...bumpbump
LAUGH.
FOR PEOPLE ARE PUNCHLINES
AS RED CARPET POETS COMPOSE
FOR TABLOID PROSE
AND LIVES THERE WRITTEN
WORTHLESS WORDS
Hunger
Profane hunger of
our saints, our saints
hold sterling forknife
strung with silk handkerchief
while criminally wholesale
self-satisfying warehoused
currency pools power in bile acid
Our saints, their plates
We fill
ad fork,
architect porcelain.
We scream they swallow
and screams
now somber sighs,
faintly resonate
from a gaping esophagus
our saints, our saints
hold sterling forknife
strung with silk handkerchief
while criminally wholesale
self-satisfying warehoused
currency pools power in bile acid
Our saints, their plates
We fill
ad fork,
architect porcelain.
We scream they swallow
and screams
now somber sighs,
faintly resonate
from a gaping esophagus
Lecture
Numb lump mass
soaking in a chattering
liquid, a sea of talk
belching from blokes
and webster, their
salty words dry my mind
soaking in a chattering
liquid, a sea of talk
belching from blokes
and webster, their
salty words dry my mind
Epiphanic
All things fall apart
An end
A beginning
A fall
A start
No such thing as sinning
Nihilist vision
Hope apparition
Truth begot
In the design envisioned
“I can see!”
Photons blind
as with sight given
“I can feel!”
So does your dinner
“I Know.”
Hahahaha!
Do you know what the tree thinks?
“No”
Well then you wont grow.
That that is natural
Flows in chaos
Like a mighty mountain
Flattened by a gentle breeze
we fade
Accept it with ease
A fight is not worth giving when
fate has already decided your decision
And may the dirt consummate me
and may others find
this life of mine forgiven
for,
A million pieces is my soul’s division
An end
A beginning
A fall
A start
No such thing as sinning
Nihilist vision
Hope apparition
Truth begot
In the design envisioned
“I can see!”
Photons blind
as with sight given
“I can feel!”
So does your dinner
“I Know.”
Hahahaha!
Do you know what the tree thinks?
“No”
Well then you wont grow.
That that is natural
Flows in chaos
Like a mighty mountain
Flattened by a gentle breeze
we fade
Accept it with ease
A fight is not worth giving when
fate has already decided your decision
And may the dirt consummate me
and may others find
this life of mine forgiven
for,
A million pieces is my soul’s division
T's th' nam'
I T Failed
I
T
Failed
leads me
I
affirmed to a
loss
known
and forlornly
acceptable
Cease
Cease
struggle to project
slight lull in the
sense I detect
Quit I say
do not explain
quickly because
a time is never a time
again
my own sought
something,
extracurricular hysteria
but a stony bust
knowledgeably hard
rebuffed I, T—an F
& I now
Flounder w/
dreams rebuked
having to
wander
an
absence
I
T
Failed
leads me
I
affirmed to a
loss
known
and forlornly
acceptable
Cease
Cease
struggle to project
slight lull in the
sense I detect
Quit I say
do not explain
quickly because
a time is never a time
again
my own sought
something,
extracurricular hysteria
but a stony bust
knowledgeably hard
rebuffed I, T—an F
& I now
Flounder w/
dreams rebuked
having to
wander
an
absence
Letter Number
A dialectic formula creates
organic organization in its fractals
fusion of arithmetic and soul
an end to a blind time
start understand
in between letters
scratchy
but numbers fit
no mortar necessary
joining #i with letter9
its no easy task
free morphing
speech
question arises
organicity chaotic?
not in numerals
not yet?
does:
# + Q
language – random = (organic)
or does it loose something
natured humane
*===============================*
CANLETTERS&NUMBERSBECONJUGAL
8521851293091+80932420918=18932406301
organic organization in its fractals
fusion of arithmetic and soul
an end to a blind time
start understand
in between letters
scratchy
but numbers fit
no mortar necessary
joining #i with letter9
its no easy task
free morphing
speech
question arises
organicity chaotic?
not in numerals
not yet?
does:
# + Q
language – random = (organic)
or does it loose something
natured humane
*===============================*
CANLETTERS&NUMBERSBECONJUGAL
8521851293091+80932420918=18932406301
Linkage
To bring to a
close a schism
of absurdity a
reasonable bridge must be
built
think
carefully about your
materials,
will it be
stone or wood?
do you give regards to either’s feelings?
or how is the span?
will vast sea pass under a thin shadow?
perhaps,
but what is absurd about
a gap?
is there issue with
separation,
a space between?
if so what
floods of
isolation
fell to create
an island of me?
to ashore
a mainstay of land a
distance is
deprivation spanned.
for sanctuary
depravity,
rolling over
dead pine on
dug dirt
foundation,
stuck into a schism
bridging absurdity
so trucks may bring
reason over
a fabrication
close a schism
of absurdity a
reasonable bridge must be
built
think
carefully about your
materials,
will it be
stone or wood?
do you give regards to either’s feelings?
or how is the span?
will vast sea pass under a thin shadow?
perhaps,
but what is absurd about
a gap?
is there issue with
separation,
a space between?
if so what
floods of
isolation
fell to create
an island of me?
to ashore
a mainstay of land a
distance is
deprivation spanned.
for sanctuary
depravity,
rolling over
dead pine on
dug dirt
foundation,
stuck into a schism
bridging absurdity
so trucks may bring
reason over
a fabrication
Call Me Mr. Fudd
Seems like somethings never change
Same time same way
Chasing that fucking wabbit
All fucking day
He so cleaver
and I so lame
the sport of chase
made into a game
If i had something else I'd pursue it
But nothing compares to this hunt
Because he pisses me off so much
Scwewy rabbit I'm fucking Elmer Fudd
And one day I'm going to blow your fucking head off
Same time same way
Chasing that fucking wabbit
All fucking day
He so cleaver
and I so lame
the sport of chase
made into a game
If i had something else I'd pursue it
But nothing compares to this hunt
Because he pisses me off so much
Scwewy rabbit I'm fucking Elmer Fudd
And one day I'm going to blow your fucking head off
Old Soul Window
Inside I see
breath and
heave and
exhale
I ran
blood pumped
and I
sailed on legs like a
gun on ground a
bullet through sand
and now I'm
old and tired,
need you to
wheel me and now
around we move
Inside I hear
ticking
but the peephole in
I lose
with each fear
each pain the window in
slides
down
down
down
Until my head
lies on the ground
breath and
heave and
exhale
I ran
blood pumped
and I
sailed on legs like a
gun on ground a
bullet through sand
and now I'm
old and tired,
need you to
wheel me and now
around we move
Inside I hear
ticking
but the peephole in
I lose
with each fear
each pain the window in
slides
down
down
down
Until my head
lies on the ground
Going Left
I am a Killjoy Man
With Blasphemy and Hammer in hand
The bed soaked in cold sweat
I arise, my intentions are set
Mechanical Murder Madness I take to the street
My hammer is not hard or mean
For in fact it remains unseen
I am a liberator stocking the feeble
The true enemy of all good people
Callously Crashing the Cranium of timid fools
AH!
They scream as I come out of nowhere unseen and smite them dead
AH!
They scream like Dionysus seizing Pentheus head
AH!
They scream as the hammer falls hard and lets out the Red
The weak silly peon lay bashed and battered
Have no sympathy for he did not matter
For a new man is then resurrected
His weakness deceased, his mind corrected
Bold and Born Brave a new soldier has been made
For only once our convictions are killed
Do we realize the scope of the battlefield
There’s a war that to the blind remains unseen
Fighting to live in a world that more resembles our dreams
An Evil Enormous Enemy we battle to free the earth’s treasure
He picks up a sickle, I my hammer, and we will make an army together
With Blasphemy and Hammer in hand
The bed soaked in cold sweat
I arise, my intentions are set
Mechanical Murder Madness I take to the street
My hammer is not hard or mean
For in fact it remains unseen
I am a liberator stocking the feeble
The true enemy of all good people
Callously Crashing the Cranium of timid fools
AH!
They scream as I come out of nowhere unseen and smite them dead
AH!
They scream like Dionysus seizing Pentheus head
AH!
They scream as the hammer falls hard and lets out the Red
The weak silly peon lay bashed and battered
Have no sympathy for he did not matter
For a new man is then resurrected
His weakness deceased, his mind corrected
Bold and Born Brave a new soldier has been made
For only once our convictions are killed
Do we realize the scope of the battlefield
There’s a war that to the blind remains unseen
Fighting to live in a world that more resembles our dreams
An Evil Enormous Enemy we battle to free the earth’s treasure
He picks up a sickle, I my hammer, and we will make an army together
A Kind Boulder
That is a very long hill to fall down. A steep muddy path that snakes up the cragged hillside and continues up infinitely into the black void that is the ceiling of Tartarus. I know every piece of this hillside, each step, every obstacle that must be avoided when tumbling down. The hill is so huge if I did not know the safest route down it would surely mean fragmentation. The top will never be reached, and I’m quite sure that there is no summit on this hill, so I must study carefully every foot advanced up this hill, to note every danger that will affect my descent down. For that is my duty to fall down this hill, his is to bring me back up, we both carry out our tasks to our fullest potentials.
Here he comes down the hill to pick me up again. He has been at this for a very long time, he never stops, I have never seen him sleep or eat. How heavy his eyes must be, how his gut must burn at every waking moment. He moves around me, aligns with the hill and starts to push with all of his strength.
I don’t know why he pushes me up every time. I always expect him to stop, drop to the ground in dead exhaustion. But, he never stops, and when he first starts the ascent he looks at me with a fierce face, entranced in determination. He looks like he has something to prove, I can tell that his heaving muscles are fuelled by anger coursing through his veins.
If I had his job I would have quit long ago. My job is simple, I simply must roll down a hill, remembering the numerous hazards that are along the way, but he must remember all the same hazards and use every bit of his strength to fulfill his duty. We both are ordained by mighty Hades to perform this odd task eternally, I don’t understand its function but I will do it unquestioning if is the will of the gods for me to do so.
The sight of his face begins to disquiet me more and more the farther he progresses up the grade. Stamina drains from him. His determined face is disheartened as his once rigid eyebrows slump off to the side of his eye and his mouth stretches towards his ears. His eyes maddened by anger glow with crimson rage. He grunts and puffs and howls as though he were a head of Cerberus.
He has never spoken to me; in fact he has never spoken. At all times his face is solidified, contorted, maddened, and eventually broken. It amazes me how he on every effort he makes further progress up the endless slope. How he can believe that there to be an end? Will he find some trick to push without rest? He destroys himself every time tries, his face looks like it is about to break, burst open from every bulging vein, crack from chin to cranium, wither up as he blows his last muggy breath against my surface. He will drop me soon. I must prepare for the roll down.
“Damn you Hermes. Damn you for grabbing my right bicep, flinging me into the air to drag me away from sweet Corinth into this hellish pit! What did I do to be committed to such punishment? I know in my life above I was not a purely good man: those poor travelers I killed, how I wish to restore to my brother the throne I stole, and my poor niece….Ahg! The grief!
But that is not what I have been banished here for. No. I have been banished here for being cleverer than almighty Zeus! Because I proved him to be no better than I! He calls me immoral, that I am in defiance of the god! Yet he expects to rape my sister and get away with it without anyone knowing about it! He thought the threat of locking me in the underworld would buy my silence, but I fear no petty threats, especially from a degenerate like him! For when he threw me into this pit before, it was here I found the vileness of all that is godly; the souls of the dead drifting in Styx. As I looked into the gloom green stream I saw young men with lances shoved through their torsos wearing proud armor of mortal glory; for bronze has no glimmer in the river of death. Then the maidens, the young and old with slashing of swords torn across their prone bodies, sailors without breath, and horrible sickness that leaves all deformed.
I would once again despoil the sick pleasure of the gods. Using only my cunningness I locked dastardly Thanatos in his own chains; and in his absence death ceased. I fled to the world above to find it without hatred or disease, an immortal paradise on earth! Only to be spotted upon my return by barbarous Ares and killed on the spot, for he had already freed Hades; and the joy of bloodshed could not be relinquished by the god of war. I knew Hades would not be fooled again so I was then clever enough to trick his wife into releasing me, so that I could see my own beloved wife again and be at home and live without the gods! At that happy reunion, you damnable Hermes, dragged me away with the beats of your absurd foot-wings.
All you gods love to watch us suffer in life and death. There is no redemption in your eyes! There is only submission, and I will not submit to such vile gods, gods that are no more righteous than the lowliest humans. So, I will push this damnable rock forever until your savage humor is placated and you no longer are amused by my suffering. Against all you powers, through all pain I will push this rock farther and farther up this hill and there is nothing such pitiful gods could do to stop me.”
He ceases to move and stands there shaking refusing to release me. I now understand why he will not cease, because manifested in me is all the powers that seek to crush him. That is why he toils and I roll along the ground, he has the weight of cruel earth against him that seeks to hold him down. I have been with this man for a long time. His suffering does not lie about the gods—they must be unjust. I must find a new way down…
I had nicked and shattered my edges as I rolled boundlessly across the broken earth, leaving the fate of my shape in the hands of the fall. He comes down to see a smaller boulder, one now small enough to sit on, and as he sits his perspiration drips and gleams on the side of my newly exposed shale.
Here he comes down the hill to pick me up again. He has been at this for a very long time, he never stops, I have never seen him sleep or eat. How heavy his eyes must be, how his gut must burn at every waking moment. He moves around me, aligns with the hill and starts to push with all of his strength.
I don’t know why he pushes me up every time. I always expect him to stop, drop to the ground in dead exhaustion. But, he never stops, and when he first starts the ascent he looks at me with a fierce face, entranced in determination. He looks like he has something to prove, I can tell that his heaving muscles are fuelled by anger coursing through his veins.
If I had his job I would have quit long ago. My job is simple, I simply must roll down a hill, remembering the numerous hazards that are along the way, but he must remember all the same hazards and use every bit of his strength to fulfill his duty. We both are ordained by mighty Hades to perform this odd task eternally, I don’t understand its function but I will do it unquestioning if is the will of the gods for me to do so.
The sight of his face begins to disquiet me more and more the farther he progresses up the grade. Stamina drains from him. His determined face is disheartened as his once rigid eyebrows slump off to the side of his eye and his mouth stretches towards his ears. His eyes maddened by anger glow with crimson rage. He grunts and puffs and howls as though he were a head of Cerberus.
He has never spoken to me; in fact he has never spoken. At all times his face is solidified, contorted, maddened, and eventually broken. It amazes me how he on every effort he makes further progress up the endless slope. How he can believe that there to be an end? Will he find some trick to push without rest? He destroys himself every time tries, his face looks like it is about to break, burst open from every bulging vein, crack from chin to cranium, wither up as he blows his last muggy breath against my surface. He will drop me soon. I must prepare for the roll down.
“Damn you Hermes. Damn you for grabbing my right bicep, flinging me into the air to drag me away from sweet Corinth into this hellish pit! What did I do to be committed to such punishment? I know in my life above I was not a purely good man: those poor travelers I killed, how I wish to restore to my brother the throne I stole, and my poor niece….Ahg! The grief!
But that is not what I have been banished here for. No. I have been banished here for being cleverer than almighty Zeus! Because I proved him to be no better than I! He calls me immoral, that I am in defiance of the god! Yet he expects to rape my sister and get away with it without anyone knowing about it! He thought the threat of locking me in the underworld would buy my silence, but I fear no petty threats, especially from a degenerate like him! For when he threw me into this pit before, it was here I found the vileness of all that is godly; the souls of the dead drifting in Styx. As I looked into the gloom green stream I saw young men with lances shoved through their torsos wearing proud armor of mortal glory; for bronze has no glimmer in the river of death. Then the maidens, the young and old with slashing of swords torn across their prone bodies, sailors without breath, and horrible sickness that leaves all deformed.
I would once again despoil the sick pleasure of the gods. Using only my cunningness I locked dastardly Thanatos in his own chains; and in his absence death ceased. I fled to the world above to find it without hatred or disease, an immortal paradise on earth! Only to be spotted upon my return by barbarous Ares and killed on the spot, for he had already freed Hades; and the joy of bloodshed could not be relinquished by the god of war. I knew Hades would not be fooled again so I was then clever enough to trick his wife into releasing me, so that I could see my own beloved wife again and be at home and live without the gods! At that happy reunion, you damnable Hermes, dragged me away with the beats of your absurd foot-wings.
All you gods love to watch us suffer in life and death. There is no redemption in your eyes! There is only submission, and I will not submit to such vile gods, gods that are no more righteous than the lowliest humans. So, I will push this damnable rock forever until your savage humor is placated and you no longer are amused by my suffering. Against all you powers, through all pain I will push this rock farther and farther up this hill and there is nothing such pitiful gods could do to stop me.”
He ceases to move and stands there shaking refusing to release me. I now understand why he will not cease, because manifested in me is all the powers that seek to crush him. That is why he toils and I roll along the ground, he has the weight of cruel earth against him that seeks to hold him down. I have been with this man for a long time. His suffering does not lie about the gods—they must be unjust. I must find a new way down…
I had nicked and shattered my edges as I rolled boundlessly across the broken earth, leaving the fate of my shape in the hands of the fall. He comes down to see a smaller boulder, one now small enough to sit on, and as he sits his perspiration drips and gleams on the side of my newly exposed shale.
Incorrect Sonnet
The static roars above all else around
Ten seconds is too long for me to think
The dull glowing light with stereo sound
My eyes become scratchy the world must blink.
My thoughts flicker like a rusty circuit
How is it that I can be so confused?
Memories are wicks that should be kept lit
The things most precious are the things I loose.
Creation is a thing devoid to me
A sustained long effort for all things great
My thoughts are too choppy to form a stream
Channel changing constantly is my fate
I guess I live on a televised stage
The youth are privileged with minds of old age
Ten seconds is too long for me to think
The dull glowing light with stereo sound
My eyes become scratchy the world must blink.
My thoughts flicker like a rusty circuit
How is it that I can be so confused?
Memories are wicks that should be kept lit
The things most precious are the things I loose.
Creation is a thing devoid to me
A sustained long effort for all things great
My thoughts are too choppy to form a stream
Channel changing constantly is my fate
I guess I live on a televised stage
The youth are privileged with minds of old age
41 Thing
#1
In one word
a thing said
will wells
through mud
and if he hears
a stream
will flows
#2
Stab in
and pull juice.
if coolly
stroked
it’ll curdle.
#3
Flannel keeps comfort
‘cause plaid scares cold
#4
Somber sentences
lull a mind
to creep
-where?
#5
Fiddling
fills in
gaps
time leaves
vacant
#6
To wish
dangerous
to dream
sleep
too bad
nightmares
don’t
bear grief
#7
Use get hours
Eat bet dares
#8
We ride on
small ponies,
some break
under our glut,
poor pony
#9
Caution to
those who mull
time is
explicit in speed.
surfaces are all 1 has
to perceive
#10
Lonely little mole
burrowed dirt keeps
blind little varmint
little life
Grounded
#11
a regale
yawn you
earnest
#12
a.path—
#13
sleep
with mines
and
children to
dance
in trenches.
let the tirade of
grey white men
sedate sensibility,
sleep
a barbed wire blanket
#14
Sick hatchet flew
cool cold
#15
Barely capable
of holding label
rather acquire
,in the pen,
dent tricks
#16
Whine! squeal! guitar
DISTOrTION & A#
fissure vox man!
#17
Questioning is
requisite to create
remembrance
#18
Nod my
handsome man
your worries will
rest and not be strife
for U.R.U.
#19
Effort puts
out spends our
strength unsure
#20
Oh heavens see
em make em
mad denying
gosh
#21
I know I know
be timid and let regret
this Time
its expected
#22
I
feel
hollow
like a
tree stricken with
lightning at
random
#23
Stop before you
get stuck
and go when non-gluey or
get stapled
#24
I hate
it it it for
you see three uc3.
their distinction
infuriates me
#24
Save Darfur
is what it said
a cry just
made of words
#25
Never
told
always
revealed
truth
#26
Lewd can’t be
used by you or by
me being bawdy as it is
#27
You still
read
that
makes me laugh
#28
Absurdity
bound
by flesh
#29
Don’t commit
rhyme crime kids,
poetic policemen
will pounce with
crushing boots…grr
#30
Lust progressing requiem
#31
Mour
ning time
in the
win
dow
#32
So hard
so drag
a char
a shad
#33
symposiums of
sound shapes
new lexicon
#34
I’ll tell
ya quick
beforya
ferget
#35
Which
side
is my
face?
#36
Don’t
fault myself in
failure of all
things
matterable
forgiven is my
irrelevance
#37
Slanderpraise
my fickle
tongue
wags
#38
True is that,
thought best
thought first
#39
Change
the
channel and
navigate
another
river
#40
Look at how
small
it is—“what?...cant
understand when over it”
can you?
#41
xli ex-el eye
here a frag-
ment to go on,
to roll blips
for a long time
in short spaces,
tends to an end
for fear of longevity
In one word
a thing said
will wells
through mud
and if he hears
a stream
will flows
#2
Stab in
and pull juice.
if coolly
stroked
it’ll curdle.
#3
Flannel keeps comfort
‘cause plaid scares cold
#4
Somber sentences
lull a mind
to creep
-where?
#5
Fiddling
fills in
gaps
time leaves
vacant
#6
To wish
dangerous
to dream
sleep
too bad
nightmares
don’t
bear grief
#7
Use get hours
Eat bet dares
#8
We ride on
small ponies,
some break
under our glut,
poor pony
#9
Caution to
those who mull
time is
explicit in speed.
surfaces are all 1 has
to perceive
#10
Lonely little mole
burrowed dirt keeps
blind little varmint
little life
Grounded
#11
a regale
yawn you
earnest
#12
a.path—
#13
sleep
with mines
and
children to
dance
in trenches.
let the tirade of
grey white men
sedate sensibility,
sleep
a barbed wire blanket
#14
Sick hatchet flew
cool cold
#15
Barely capable
of holding label
rather acquire
,in the pen,
dent tricks
#16
Whine! squeal! guitar
DISTOrTION & A#
fissure vox man!
#17
Questioning is
requisite to create
remembrance
#18
Nod my
handsome man
your worries will
rest and not be strife
for U.R.U.
#19
Effort puts
out spends our
strength unsure
#20
Oh heavens see
em make em
mad denying
gosh
#21
I know I know
be timid and let regret
this Time
its expected
#22
I
feel
hollow
like a
tree stricken with
lightning at
random
#23
Stop before you
get stuck
and go when non-gluey or
get stapled
#24
I hate
it it it for
you see three uc3.
their distinction
infuriates me
#24
Save Darfur
is what it said
a cry just
made of words
#25
Never
told
always
revealed
truth
#26
Lewd can’t be
used by you or by
me being bawdy as it is
#27
You still
read
that
makes me laugh
#28
Absurdity
bound
by flesh
#29
Don’t commit
rhyme crime kids,
poetic policemen
will pounce with
crushing boots…grr
#30
Lust progressing requiem
#31
Mour
ning time
in the
win
dow
#32
So hard
so drag
a char
a shad
#33
symposiums of
sound shapes
new lexicon
#34
I’ll tell
ya quick
beforya
ferget
#35
Which
side
is my
face?
#36
Don’t
fault myself in
failure of all
things
matterable
forgiven is my
irrelevance
#37
Slanderpraise
my fickle
tongue
wags
#38
True is that,
thought best
thought first
#39
Change
the
channel and
navigate
another
river
#40
Look at how
small
it is—“what?...cant
understand when over it”
can you?
#41
xli ex-el eye
here a frag-
ment to go on,
to roll blips
for a long time
in short spaces,
tends to an end
for fear of longevity
Poem Du
I am what I am
"whats that you say?"
What am I am I?
"you don't make much sense"
It is what it is
"Is it what you want?"
What is it i want?
Too infinite than the
answer taught
accept the check
and swear
to live.
as infamy swells
"EGO"
lives become pompous
we self assess
"Neminem Scio"
You son of a bitch
"I just lay in a grave"
One in which only you made
Shit--
Excuse
lye of life
followed
--but why?
It shall remain
"Shall you remain?"
Is it me?
"It is you"
says who
"Mr/Ms Chaos Truth"
Since when
Since thought began
"whats that you say?"
What am I am I?
"you don't make much sense"
It is what it is
"Is it what you want?"
What is it i want?
Too infinite than the
answer taught
accept the check
and swear
to live.
as infamy swells
"EGO"
lives become pompous
we self assess
"Neminem Scio"
You son of a bitch
"I just lay in a grave"
One in which only you made
Shit--
Excuse
lye of life
followed
--but why?
It shall remain
"Shall you remain?"
Is it me?
"It is you"
says who
"Mr/Ms Chaos Truth"
Since when
Since thought began
Pygmalion Walks
Pygmalion walks.
He walks far and to stars
His eyes see many great things
And he walks to find these great things
In far off places were people say
Glorious treasures of man
Lie in hide and wait.
He walks through the green shrub of the jungles thick shroud, nature envelopes him in bloom all around. Pygmalion walks with knife in hand hacking the vine, the leaf, the lush life of the land. He is modern man, man of the new, lives a life a bit better, where travel is extensive in use; to the forest depth he comes with a change of pace in mind, to view fauna and uncivilized lands. Among trees of century’s he stands, with machete in his hand, the nature all around too rich for him and the thick blood of a civilized man. “The bugs, the pests, the smells, and all of these creatures about, it is a step into a strange city where nature has taken control. Indeed no place for a man of culture like me, the human condition has no use for so many trees.” He sees the life all around as a green bog, a tangled mess of spices trying to survive, no order or place and lacking any intelligent aesthetic trait. It is Darwin awry, a mess, a step behind, the world before the human creative mind. “No place for a man like me, a change of pace is all I need, sometimes my life seems so dull to me. The view here, pretty, the air very clean, perhaps some natural medicine is to be found for an ailing soul like me.” Along he walks beneath a coconut tree and spotted great brown nuts among its’ leaves. Having no hunger, or room in his bag he sought to taste the meat the nut had, he shakes them from the tree with a walking stick in hand, jarring loose the coconuts far before nature had planned. He cracks one with great effort and tastes how sweet, leaves it broken among the others that had fallen at his feet to rot in the soil in the jungles heat. On he walks through the unbroken land to see what else the forest had to offer.
Pygmalion walks through natures green
But the intricate net it weaves lay unseen
He sought to find but he does not seek
He takes what he wants
He takes what is there
Removes from the jungle a piece in place,
Taken for pleasure and left for waste
He walks up to a solemn temple made of intricate stones, aligned for the heavens made by people who prayed and died long ago. In bony ash upon hallow ground, in front of the temple and winding all around, a mosaic of time that lives from the past of people who had painted and had passed, a beautiful picture from ancient minds. Pygmalion step over it with a little glance seeing how the tile was broken and cracked, and how all the dirt was encrusted within. He thought with his little voice in his head, “this mosaic ought to be cleaned and saved, the marvel of modern restoration can keep this in perfect appearance and keep it that way. Away from this dirt that lies all around and protected from the jungle that wears it down, this mosaic is worth saving and worth taking from this god-forsaken place.” The stone steps lay in front of him intertwined with vines, a possession of the jungle for a great span of time. He walks up the many steps with boots on his feet, rushing to up to the top, to be at the peak. Pygmalion finds a large circle on top and nothing beside, no shrine or sculpture, nor scripture or sacred stones, just a worn circle in the bright of the sun. “What a thing to see, what people with such a strange sense of creativity; it is surely something to be seen, to be put on display, pondered over; a looking glass to what has been. A little glimpse of people who could not make it to today, instead there civilization crumbled at the seems, leaving worn piles of rock to be remembered by, nothing that spectacular in my eyes.” He had walked in a circle of sacrifice, of worship, and full-fledged heavenly delight. What meaning it held, what meaning it holds, is only remembered by the worn circle engraved in the temple’s stone. Having reached the top and seen what he seen, he left the higher ground, down the temple into the jungle, to continue his walk around parts he had never been. His eyes see the ancient story this temple holds but his mind refuses to let the story be told, and his leather clad boots trample on.
Pygmalion walks on sacred stone
But he does not know
He walks and sees
The people, the knowledge, the beauty it holds
It dazzles his eyes with a great glow
But it is seen alone
Nothing is to be learned from people who died long ago
He walks into a village were homely people make home, live simple lives and remember what has been known. Here he comes to find food and rest, his walk having been exhausting to be said nothing less. The villagers simple houses stand, ensemble together in a communal plan; together the people have lived, worked, and passed a strong tie like family; a village strong and banded. Pygmalion finds a small cantina to eat were the local dish is the only cuisine, made from people who live off the land making the food they had made with their passed knowledge and their worn hands. He sits and orders a meal from a lady who asks, the wife of the man whose family the cantina had always passed. “A quaint village I have come across here, why there is no technology any where near. I wonder how the people get by without all the amazing things being made in the world by fellow human minds.” He sees a change from his home, a change from what he knows; he sees it a bit queer, a bit brutish and definitely too rugged without the modern conventions he has come to uphold. Pygmalion knows what he likes and loves what he knows however limited the knowledge he holds. The dish came out on a sizzling plate made of colorful vegetables and brown roasted meat with a strange sauce drenching it deep, and he eats. “What unkind food! How can this be digestible so spicy, so salty, so crude! It will surely rot my stomach when I sleep, and the taste is certainly not good. What people live here, in such a place, in such a way, it is the third world what else can I say?” He paid his meal and left in whole on the plate, a sight the humble wife’s eyes had never laid, except from people who come from the other place, who come to see but never make amends, and make her feel hurt and lowly, how they don’t care to understand. He walks on out the village with a scoff on his breath, seeing the world that lies below the rest. Though having a hardy bond and an essence true, the people of the jungle fair no importance in his eyes; they are not with the new.
Pygmalion walks through village streets
But there are people there too
Who have lived this life for a long time
Who know many things that are wise and true
But he cares not
He does not see whom
He just sees what is there and what is not new
Pygmalion walks but he does not see
He does not understand he does not believe
The lives lived and the knowledge passed
Lay enshrined in people who hold the past
There is something to be warned about the new
How it cuts the vine, desecrates the temple, and dishonors good food
How it blinds the holder from what has passed
And infatuates him with that he has
Pygmalion walks and his leather boots trample the land
Pygmalion walks with a stick painted red at its end.
He walks far and to stars
His eyes see many great things
And he walks to find these great things
In far off places were people say
Glorious treasures of man
Lie in hide and wait.
He walks through the green shrub of the jungles thick shroud, nature envelopes him in bloom all around. Pygmalion walks with knife in hand hacking the vine, the leaf, the lush life of the land. He is modern man, man of the new, lives a life a bit better, where travel is extensive in use; to the forest depth he comes with a change of pace in mind, to view fauna and uncivilized lands. Among trees of century’s he stands, with machete in his hand, the nature all around too rich for him and the thick blood of a civilized man. “The bugs, the pests, the smells, and all of these creatures about, it is a step into a strange city where nature has taken control. Indeed no place for a man of culture like me, the human condition has no use for so many trees.” He sees the life all around as a green bog, a tangled mess of spices trying to survive, no order or place and lacking any intelligent aesthetic trait. It is Darwin awry, a mess, a step behind, the world before the human creative mind. “No place for a man like me, a change of pace is all I need, sometimes my life seems so dull to me. The view here, pretty, the air very clean, perhaps some natural medicine is to be found for an ailing soul like me.” Along he walks beneath a coconut tree and spotted great brown nuts among its’ leaves. Having no hunger, or room in his bag he sought to taste the meat the nut had, he shakes them from the tree with a walking stick in hand, jarring loose the coconuts far before nature had planned. He cracks one with great effort and tastes how sweet, leaves it broken among the others that had fallen at his feet to rot in the soil in the jungles heat. On he walks through the unbroken land to see what else the forest had to offer.
Pygmalion walks through natures green
But the intricate net it weaves lay unseen
He sought to find but he does not seek
He takes what he wants
He takes what is there
Removes from the jungle a piece in place,
Taken for pleasure and left for waste
He walks up to a solemn temple made of intricate stones, aligned for the heavens made by people who prayed and died long ago. In bony ash upon hallow ground, in front of the temple and winding all around, a mosaic of time that lives from the past of people who had painted and had passed, a beautiful picture from ancient minds. Pygmalion step over it with a little glance seeing how the tile was broken and cracked, and how all the dirt was encrusted within. He thought with his little voice in his head, “this mosaic ought to be cleaned and saved, the marvel of modern restoration can keep this in perfect appearance and keep it that way. Away from this dirt that lies all around and protected from the jungle that wears it down, this mosaic is worth saving and worth taking from this god-forsaken place.” The stone steps lay in front of him intertwined with vines, a possession of the jungle for a great span of time. He walks up the many steps with boots on his feet, rushing to up to the top, to be at the peak. Pygmalion finds a large circle on top and nothing beside, no shrine or sculpture, nor scripture or sacred stones, just a worn circle in the bright of the sun. “What a thing to see, what people with such a strange sense of creativity; it is surely something to be seen, to be put on display, pondered over; a looking glass to what has been. A little glimpse of people who could not make it to today, instead there civilization crumbled at the seems, leaving worn piles of rock to be remembered by, nothing that spectacular in my eyes.” He had walked in a circle of sacrifice, of worship, and full-fledged heavenly delight. What meaning it held, what meaning it holds, is only remembered by the worn circle engraved in the temple’s stone. Having reached the top and seen what he seen, he left the higher ground, down the temple into the jungle, to continue his walk around parts he had never been. His eyes see the ancient story this temple holds but his mind refuses to let the story be told, and his leather clad boots trample on.
Pygmalion walks on sacred stone
But he does not know
He walks and sees
The people, the knowledge, the beauty it holds
It dazzles his eyes with a great glow
But it is seen alone
Nothing is to be learned from people who died long ago
He walks into a village were homely people make home, live simple lives and remember what has been known. Here he comes to find food and rest, his walk having been exhausting to be said nothing less. The villagers simple houses stand, ensemble together in a communal plan; together the people have lived, worked, and passed a strong tie like family; a village strong and banded. Pygmalion finds a small cantina to eat were the local dish is the only cuisine, made from people who live off the land making the food they had made with their passed knowledge and their worn hands. He sits and orders a meal from a lady who asks, the wife of the man whose family the cantina had always passed. “A quaint village I have come across here, why there is no technology any where near. I wonder how the people get by without all the amazing things being made in the world by fellow human minds.” He sees a change from his home, a change from what he knows; he sees it a bit queer, a bit brutish and definitely too rugged without the modern conventions he has come to uphold. Pygmalion knows what he likes and loves what he knows however limited the knowledge he holds. The dish came out on a sizzling plate made of colorful vegetables and brown roasted meat with a strange sauce drenching it deep, and he eats. “What unkind food! How can this be digestible so spicy, so salty, so crude! It will surely rot my stomach when I sleep, and the taste is certainly not good. What people live here, in such a place, in such a way, it is the third world what else can I say?” He paid his meal and left in whole on the plate, a sight the humble wife’s eyes had never laid, except from people who come from the other place, who come to see but never make amends, and make her feel hurt and lowly, how they don’t care to understand. He walks on out the village with a scoff on his breath, seeing the world that lies below the rest. Though having a hardy bond and an essence true, the people of the jungle fair no importance in his eyes; they are not with the new.
Pygmalion walks through village streets
But there are people there too
Who have lived this life for a long time
Who know many things that are wise and true
But he cares not
He does not see whom
He just sees what is there and what is not new
Pygmalion walks but he does not see
He does not understand he does not believe
The lives lived and the knowledge passed
Lay enshrined in people who hold the past
There is something to be warned about the new
How it cuts the vine, desecrates the temple, and dishonors good food
How it blinds the holder from what has passed
And infatuates him with that he has
Pygmalion walks and his leather boots trample the land
Pygmalion walks with a stick painted red at its end.
Random Parable 2
Confetti is little shiny plastic flakes that we through around at a celebration. Why we throw it at these moments of jubilation is inquisitive to the nature of happiness occurring at any moment of our lives. First look at the nature of celebrations themselves, they are not events that happen every day, they are often spaced few and far between. So to symbolize this sparse nature we scatter to the sky, up to the heavens where dreams reside, confetti, and simply watch as it glitters and slowly fall down out of sight to be trampled upon on the ground. These sparse glimmers are moments of happiness. We spend our whole lives seeking to find these moments we know exist because we see it everywhere. It shines off of so many people you see each day that are happy and like the sun shimmers in front of you the hopes of ascertaining that light. Yet when you reach out to grab it as it floats through the air, you can only grasp a few in anyone snatch. Yet those few shine so little when in the palm of your hand and worse you find that they are made of plastic, nothing of real value. And it falls so thick at times it fills your vision and you can no longer quite see where you are going, blinded by the innumerable plastic hopes that give you a reason to keep looking.
King Done Come
There are savages screaming isocracy in the insular state.
Vanquish the meager, sally the pale, only with magna cum laude
From a person who tries to no avail.
That they claim is very important- the savages- for their trust persons humble are required.
For one who scales the cause far be gone cares more whether it’s lost or won.
Selfless phenomenon, instiller of remembrance
That with bleak fortitude a sunbeam shines on the question of life’s deliverance.
It seems our standing curious and walking a shame
But breathing keeps occurring in spite because an answer reflects in the sight of them.
Savages be named by great blemishing beasts, that sit on the natural seed, swollen with a pestilence of festering greed. Savages squirm crushed in the brush by the rump of this seated right tiger.
No worry at all—the savages will move him with little pointed spears-a million of them- because they are small.
Vanquish the meager, sally the pale, only with magna cum laude
From a person who tries to no avail.
That they claim is very important- the savages- for their trust persons humble are required.
For one who scales the cause far be gone cares more whether it’s lost or won.
Selfless phenomenon, instiller of remembrance
That with bleak fortitude a sunbeam shines on the question of life’s deliverance.
It seems our standing curious and walking a shame
But breathing keeps occurring in spite because an answer reflects in the sight of them.
Savages be named by great blemishing beasts, that sit on the natural seed, swollen with a pestilence of festering greed. Savages squirm crushed in the brush by the rump of this seated right tiger.
No worry at all—the savages will move him with little pointed spears-a million of them- because they are small.
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