Goodbye Open Mic Nyte; What’s Next?

Your humble host speaks at Open Mic Nyte earlier this year.
Your humble host speaks at Open Mic Nyte earlier this year.

I am saddened to report that Open Mic Nyte, which I have attended since June 2017, has suspended performances.

We saw this coming when its long-time home, Mojo’s Coffee, closed in October 2018. The Grandview hosted us for a while, which was unassailably generous, but the space wasn’t quite conducive to our scene. Another factor that contributed to this was that many of the musicians who performed at Open Mic moved to Sessions, a new live music and alehouse venue, which hosted performances on the same night just down the street.

Sterling Jacobs organized Open Mic Nyte for the last couple of years. When he read something, anything could happen.
Sterling Jacobs organized Open Mic Nyte for the last couple of years. When he read something, anything could happen.

Sterling Jacobs, a friend for decades, organized the event, and though he has been a poetry rock star, attendance has been faltering. Sterling said in a video that he hopes to keep it going via Facebook, but it’s definitely not the same, not a scene. Besides, my writing is overwhelmingly here at richardbarron.net, not on social media.

We had some great times at Open Mic Nyte, and I feel like I expressed myself well. I always looked forward to it. I met some great people, and reconnected with some old friends.

I hope to find another frequent open microphone event where I can read soon.

Open Mic Nyte often filled Mojo's Coffee, shown here in July 2017.
Open Mic Nyte often filled Mojo’s Coffee, shown here in July 2017.

Manifest of Mary’s 24th Century Weaponry

This is from the Bl@k Bük.  It was written by a long-time friend of mine.

Manifest of Mary’s 24th Century Weaponry

by M7/Rectal Infectant

Personal defense…

  • Mood wand
  • Spider gun
  • The constipater
  • Nut hook
  • Sonic buttplug
  • Dung sabre
  • Point ‘n vomit
  • Vomit box
  • Beavisator
  • Halitosis projector
  • Dangerously infected semen
  • Wash plug in ureter
  • Julio Iglesiator
  • Crystalline toilet paper

Small Meleé…

  • Es carne el diablo
  • Tri-directional fuckstream
  • Ass packet
  • Big rock materializer
  • Neck-mounted howitzer
  • Massive chigger attack vector
  • Rectum? Damn near kill’d em!
  • Anti-nucleic jizz rag device
  • Inner fetus
  • Dohicky dick hickey
  • Insertable calculator
  • Bucket full of assholes
  • Pap smear slip-up

Mass destruction…

  • Magna ream
  • Ad agency
  • Cylinder of death
  • Nerdlinger
  • Television
  • Tater smack
  • Fat blocker
  • Blat focker
  • Quantum hurl trough
  • Democratic National Convention
  • Major League Baseball

Shopping List for American Jee-Hodd

Editor’s note: I read this at Open Mic Nyte recently, and I felt is deserved a wider audience. It was written by a long-time friend of mine in one of the notebooks we share.

Shopping List for My American Jee-Hodd

(In American, it’s pronounced “She Hot!”)

by M7/Virgil Woodpuff

  • Wood putty
  • Barbed wire
  • 1984
  • Blonde-haired American hookers
  • TRS-80
  • Five miles of coaxial cable
  • Velvet pinwheel
  • 1968 Chevy Camaro – CHERRY FUCKIN’ RED
  • Two dozen goat-skin condoms
  • Passed-over cheap Israeli combat boots
  • Inflatable McDonald’s (makes its own sauce)
  • Particle accelerator
  • Song #2
  • Arc of the Convenience Store
  • Post-modern expletives
  • Jesus fish bumper stickers
  • Undefined threats
  • Idol of the Meat God
  • Blankets infected with lust for material posessions
  • ULTIMATE WEAPON = AMERICAN TELEVISION

 

At Right Angles

Editor’s note: I read this at Open Mic Nyte recently, and I felt is deserved a wider audience. It was written by a long-time friend of mine in one of the notebooks we share.

At Right Angles 

by M7/Rectal Infectant

My pet kangaroo gently bounces in front of me – ears atwitch. I lustily attack her brownie and she farts off into the azure distance somewhere. I mount her ghostly afterimage and slobber all over the back of her neck. Her poltergeistly marsupial climax timpanied at the end with a massive kick of her rabbit/clown feet. I double over in grief, semen dripping from my defeated unit like absinth dripping from Lord Byron’s lips (or like the condensation from a rickety mid-August Oklahoma window mounted air conditioner.)

“Fuck you, Kangaroo!” I groan as I fumble through her ghost pouch for the “off” switch. After seeing my hand pass through the insubstantial pet, I settle for the 24th century super- Quaalude I fish out of my vest pocket.

After a bit, I am calmed and there are no kangaroos about – ghostly or otherwise. Yet I still feel the clammy clutch of her chocolate roo vagina. 45º crooked perspective… loamy earth surrounds… tumbling grains of sand.sugar.salt…

Matching her bounce this time, I hold tight to her ridiculous ears as she farts off into the azure else. The supersonic breeze buffets my erection, but I had taken special adhesive precautions the night before.

The ghostly image was left alone in my room to gleelessly masturbate to the Hoover.

The Luxurious Blue Notebook, Part 2

Cry on my shoulder.

This above all: to thine own self be true.

I just want something I can never have.

Fantasies are opiate of the imaginative.

What image best describes self-involved bleak despair?
What image best describes self-involved bleak despair?

Far away.

Then, it was over.

The secret of life, therefore, is this: when faced with the truth, accept it.

Right now I’ve got fear, pain, and boredom. These are good ones, because they can get so real, so sharp, so clear. ~Journal, July 1985

This mortal pain.

I have no choice.

Every feeling you have is really about yourself.

“You’re good company.” ~M

If you can’t stand the headaches, get out of your head.

Who are you? Actually, I already know, so the question becomes: do you know who you are? Is that an imperative?

I strive for order. I yearn for chaos.

I am not the body you see before you, nor am I the soul inside me. I am all the things I’ve said and done, and all the things I failed to say and do.

Revenge can only make us weak.

And why did you leave at all?

Don’t confuse comfort with happiness.

Don’t resist change. It’s the only thing you’ll always have.

And the pain never dims.

“Nuclear war would have a ‘purifying’ effect on the world.” ~Negative Guy

I deserve to be happy.

Confess that I’m weak. The pain of confession. The starvation of weakness.

Do you ever miss me?

Rainbow of darkness.

Your drama is so incomplete, so infantile. Even if it was complete, it’s still drama.

If you believe the second coming of Christ is imminent, why are you saving for your kids’ college?

I leaned my head on the hard wood, closed my eyes and let the music penetrate my most subtle defenses.

The people are a mess, but the dog is straight up.
The people are a mess, but the dog is straight up.

“This is the price you pay for being a superior person.” ~V to my sister

How would I have loved her? I ask as a surrogate for ever loving again.

Time does fly.

I led her by the hand through her apology.

My hello is goodbye.

“Military whiskey of the house.” ~Dream fragment

I shiver to think how I was violated.

“Shadows wash the room.” ~S&G lyric

Stunted sexuality = repressed creativity.

Have the strength to be happy.

Without a basic understanding of beauty, one can never be happy.

I am expected, but not awaited.

I’d rather be disillusioned than live with my illusions.

“Overall, humanity is a community of suffering.” ~The Modehrus

All I see is your face, and I’ll see your face again.

I can write anything I want as long as I unwrite it.
I can write anything I want as long as I unwrite it.

I’m not afraid.

I’m living at the edge of the world.

The music of love doesn’t play in my ears.

We rise to the levels of strength and bravery that our lives demand.

Part of me waits.

Your life is completely different than mine by virtue of seeing your face in the mirror instead of mine.

Instead of I should, I will.

In the midst of rain, I see ghosts.

All’s fear in love and war.

If you don’t understand freedom, you don’t need it.

Love hasn’t served me especially well, but thought always has.

If only you could have known me when this was my room.
If only you could have known me when this was my room.

Walking across a big, dark room in a house you don’t know, are you scared? Sure you are. My life is walking across that room.

How strong am I?

What you are thinking is what you are becoming.

Order is chaos in a tuxedo.

Time can only take you down the road so far, and then there’s a fork.

It’s such a bitter lie.

I you don’t try to drag me down to your level, I promise not to try to drag you up to mine.

This is my confession.

My mind is made up with hospital corners.

Poetry doesn’t come to me. I come to it.

The beauty of enough is that it’s never enough.

I have blurred visions. Blurred by what? The telephone line. Honesty. Your presence. The realness. History. The smell of winter. Ghosts. The sky on fire. Silence.

There’s nothing “brutal” about honesty.

I’ll be remembered by everyone who matters.

I find it too much … me.

Some things you never get over, and love takes even longer than that.

Swimming in an ocean of hurt.

If who you are is pain, then feeling it with all your heart.

My life is a poem about longing.

The once bright arc between us is, tonight, a silence.

Ignorance is abyss.

Addiction is not disease. Addiction is weakness choice. My addiction, my weakness, my impotence.

I am admired, but not desired.

I don’t need anyone when I’m lonely. They don’t help, anyway.

So much pain. So little time.

I’m nobody you want to know.
I’m a nobody you want to know.

The ring of truth is always there to be heard.

I am revealed.

What kind of ego do I have?
What kind of ego do I have?

The Rabbit Hole

Eastern cottontail says, "If you thought Richard wasn't going to have a rabbit picture handy, you need to re-read the chapter."
Eastern cottontail says, “If you thought Richard wasn’t going to have a rabbit picture handy, you need to re-read the chapter.”

Last semester a photography student of mine told me that she visited this site and took a trip “down the rabbit hole,” meaning she got involved and lost in the content. It was very flattering to me to have someone say that. I try to be as entertaining as I can and as poignant as I can. The internet can be unforgiving, particularly when you tell a truth some people don’t want to hear. I appreciate any approbation offered.

Here’s a little history. In 1978, I started a journal for English class in tenth grade. I wrote in full-sized spiral notebooks for 20 years. After that I switched to smaller hardback volumes. In 2007, I started a blogger.com page. Within a year I migrated to my own web site, and have administered it using WordPress since then. That gradually replaced writing in longhand.

Interestingly, I bought a number of hardback blank journals in the early 2000s that remain unused. I have toyed with the notion of giving them away, but we live in a world of such plenteous paper and so little demand that I expect anyone who would take them wouldn’t use them.

That leaves keeping them for either a special project or some kind of handwritten journal reboot, neither of which is likely in the internet age; I am much more comfortable at the keyboard these days than I am with a pen or a pencil.

An Open Mic Nyte buddy of mine, Timothy, calls them his notebooks “codex” books, which is an elegant name for the same thing. Another OMN friend, next door neighbor Jenn, keeps journal notes all the time. Ideas?

There are two empty 8.5x11-inch notebooks and 11 8x5-inch books in this stack. I want to do something with them. Their potential tasks me.
There are two empty 8.5×11-inch notebooks and 11 8×5-inch books in this stack. I want to do something with them. Their potential tasks me.

Shooting Blanks

Fiction Mirrors Reality
“What do you care what I think anyway? I don’t even count, right? I could disappear forever and it wouldn’t make any difference. I might as well not even exist at this school, remember? And you… don’t like me anyway.” ~John Bender, The Breakfast Club
We Were Young
“When you grow up. your heart dies.” ~Allison Reynolds, The Breakfast Club
Sometimes it can feel this way.
Sometimes it can feel this way.

As I read an old journal – my first journal – as research for another blog entry, I found that it led me to think about my writing. When I was 15, I was so proud of my journal. My journal was everything to me. But it was nothing. It was just me recycling M*A*S*H jokes, stealing Charlie Brown quotes, and being obsessed with waifish girls in my class. I wanted so much to be doing something creative, but it was just masturbation.

 

December 23, 1978
I spent a lot of time out behind the house today. (We have a creek and a dump.) I was constantly thinking about – no, no I wasn’t really thinking of anything. I was just thinking. I came to no real conclusions.

Somehow this epiphany extended to the present, and at the moment I am feeling that every word I’ve ever written has been a jumbled, better-spelled, better-grammared version of those first whiny spiral-bound entries from tenth grade.

January 14, 1979
I’ve been thinking lately. In what do I excel? Am I totally useless? No. I have three outstanding abilities. Firstly, I am a good orator, seeing that I got first place at Cameron [speech contest]. Secondly, my hobby. I am a pretty fair photographer. Lastly, and probably most important to me, I am a highly prolific writer. This paragraph may sound conceited, but I must occasionally remind myself that I am not totally untalented and worthless.

I tried to quench this deserted thirst by re-reading some of my blog entries and short stories, but that was just shooting blanks. Maybe I really am a bad writer. The only writing I’ve ever actually gotten published is in Ada Magazine, and that wasn’t much of an accomplishment since I am the editor. By this time in 1979, after a school year of journal writing, I fantasized that I would end up writing novels.

January 14, 1979
I feel surrealistically sad right now. I feel so much as if I am going to die. But of course, it is only a feeling. Or perhaps, a hope? After all, what’s there to live for? A few novels, maybe one of my photos on a magazine cover, an award for best oratory? Maybe nothing, maybe everything.

The journal entries themselves from that period seem – at least from my probably too-close, too-critical perspective – much more self-involved, self-indulgent, and self-piteous than I imagine other 15-year-olds’ thoughts would be.

January 30, 1979

I just don’t understand. Why? Why am I the one and only Richard R. Barron? The totally untalented and superfluous RRB? The great unsung hero of absolutely nothing of any importance? I really should call X; she hardly knows that I exist. All of my long nights spent in ambivalence, all that pain and suffering was for nothing at all. Then again, maybe not.

So here I am watching a late night documentary about mind control. I don’t think my brain could be washed or mind could be controlled.

And there seemed to be so many violent thoughts; I often used the word “revenge.” I know I never had violent fantasies at the time, so it might be that I was relatively inarticulate. Maybe I just wanted justice, or maybe I just wanted to be heard. “Revenge” is a loud word to write, but no one seemed to hear it.

April 27, 1979
I feel like crying. I want to die. Everything has suddenly gone wrong. Everyone is starting to hate me. Worst of all, I am starting to hate myself. My entire emotional structure is collapsing. Time lingers on and brings back memories. So much has happened inside me since last summer. A good deal has changed just within a few days. I am alone, but I am not lonely. I am at peace, but there is much unrest. I know I exist and yet I do not understand why.  I am just a shadow on the wall. I am nothing.

I could vanish from the face of the Earth right now and no one would know.

I effect no one’s life and play no significant role in any society. Who cares? Who DOES care? No one. No one will ever care about or for me. I am totally inadequate and superfluous.

But what about the long run? Is it possible that I could significantly influence the future of the world? Perhaps there is a definite reason to remain part of life on Earth.

For me, these spiral-nound notebooks were my very heart and soul converted to words, but when I was young, the words were completely inadequate.
For me, these spiral-bound notebooks were my very heart and soul converted to words, but when I was young, the words were completely inadequate.

Another thing I did in junior high and high school was sneaking out of the house late at night. I don’t know what other kids did when they snuck out; maybe it was to get high, drink, and screw, or all three. In Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Jennifer Jason Leigh sneaks out to have sex with a college kid. I snuck out to explore. A buddy and I would meet up somewhere – a park or the golf course – and go from there, finding and exploring stuff like construction sites, vacant lots, storage areas, whatever. We always did it when it was super cold outside, and I always wore my dad’s surplus army jacket. The next day we made maps of what we did.

I wonder how many kids snuck out late at night, and what they did. Abby and I were guardians of her nephew for a few years during his teen years, and I always wondered if he snuck out. As far as I know, my parents never knew I snuck out, and I was never aware that he snuck out.

May 4, 1979

I have come a conclusion. I am totally and absolutely worthless. It’s not really all that bad that no one else cares about you once you get used to it. It’s just that I really don’t care any longer. I need a way out and I am desperate. No one even really likes me. I am simply an outcast, a loner, an oddball in a great crown of normal, happy people.

What would really happen if I killed myself? What would REALLY happen? I would, in a way, have my long-sought-after justice. Justice, indeed, my friend, justice.

Life goes on. I must continue regardless of the world’s meaninglessness.

Like most kids, or even most people whose perspective becomes myopic and self-centered, I thought of my life as miserable and difficult. I honestly had no idea how good it was; carefree, full of potential, healthy. George Bernard Shaw pierced the heart of the matter when he said, “Youth is wasted on the young.”

May 5, 1979

My life is going very badly now. I am filled with pressures and anxieties. Learning to ignore problems… especially those unsolvable ones… is hardly a solution. Something is wrong… deep down inside, something is wrong. Is it just that I am very tired?? Am I losing my sanity??

One thing is for sure… those vast, untapped and long forgotten memories will soon return. Once again I will wish and hope and eventually be hurt, disillusioned and disappointed.

Nothing has gone right in a very long time. I must have a reprieve or I will go insane. Why is the world so deeply set against me?

All I can tell you now is that I feel like nothing in a world of something, and that something wants to push me deeper into oblivion.

One fairly impressive thing about all these crazy, sometimes seemingly dangerous, things I wrote in my journal: my English teacher completely respected its implied confidentiality, and made dozens of mostly helpful, understanding comments in the margins when he graded it. I’m not sure a teacher in the 21st century would be as understanding about my teen angst, but might instead regard me as a threat and report me to authorities, the result of which is to push such feelings and expressions deeper into the shadows.

May 10, 1979
I am losing control over my emotional status once again. My feelings have, as usual, suddenly and profoundly changed. I am again confused and somewhat afraid. I am falling apart. I am under a great deal of stress in all ways. I am so tired. No one really cares right now. I would try to care, but I tried to care one and failed. No longer is there poetic justice in the world. There is only work and bad feelings. No rest.

Another lesson I might take from these ramblings is the value of communicating clearly. Teenagers can’t really do it. Part of that is the Small World syndrome, a subset of wishful thinking, in which we believe the things closest to us are the only things in the world, and everyone else surely sees them.

At the end of the year, the English teacher hosted the infamous luncheon at his home that devolved into the famous “social pressure” conversation. It was an odd experience for me, since I spent more than a year presuming and assuming all kinds of unhappy fiction about how everyone felt about me. The luncheon laid out before me, to some extent, that there were other people in the world, and that despite their good looks and popular friends, these other people had feelings not entirely unlike my own.

Recently I've been putting Post-It notes on all the passages in my journal I perceived as significant. The result is that I have journals full of Post-It notes.
Recently I’ve been putting Post-It notes on all the passages in my journal I perceived as significant. The result is that I have journals full of Post-It notes.

“The Book”

The "Pool Party" drawing from "The Book"
The “Pool Party” drawing from “The Book”
Richard
Richard

When I was about 14 and my sister Nicole was about 11, we started writing and drawing in a spiral notebook that we kept under her bed. We wrote in it off and on for several years. It was an ideal fusion of the “Amy plus Bobby 2gether 4ever” type notes you see scribbled on an eighth grade girls’ notebook, and skill-lessly draw pictures of penises.

Nicole
Nicole

It included charts and graphs of people we hated or people we wanted to love. The charts were fill-in-the-blanks charts that requested basic information: age, date of birth, virginity status, hair color, eye color, height, phone number, school, grades, use of profanity, voice, and “molestee” for girls and “molester” for boys.

Our class schedules are in there, as are some hysterically funny drawings.

I don’t know if this is an insight into the minds of young adolescents, or a scathing indictment of how weird we were.

A Few Tidbits
Jenny’s bludges. -Richard

And my personality has never recovered. -Nicole

I’m so happy-sad! -Nicole

Sure, I hated him this morning. That’s when I didn’t know him. -Nicole, quoting Peggy

(In different handwritings)… Hot stuff. Stuff. Stuff. Hot stuff. Cold shit. Blotchey. Blotchey pen. Blotchie? No no no. Blotchey. -Richard and Nicole

Let’s be friends, okay? -Nicole

Let’s hear it for the real people. -Nicole

Freshenup gum! -Nicole

(Name of Nicole’s date)… Stupid! Dumb! Ugly! But at least he’s nice. -Richard

I wish he would get into me. -Nicole

(In large script handwriting)… The Crystal Chandelier -Nicole

What? What? What! That’s what I said. I said what! -Nicole

NO MORE PARTY LINE! -Nicole

Hatehatehatehatehatehatehate. Lovelovelovelovelovelovelovelove. -Richard

Clean pen. Clean clean pen. -Richard

Ursula. Stacey and Ronald. Bloo. -Nicole

"Names Page" from "The Book"
“Names Page” from “The Book”
End of Nicole's Letter to Angela
P.S. Remember our secret about why we were late getting back to the bus at the Spanish Club trip? Keep it a secret.

I have always wondered about that secret.

Nicole's List of First-Day-of-School Fears

No one will talk to me in the morning.

On the first day, I’m going to wear corduroy and I scared everyone will think I’m dressed wrong for the season.

My hair is straight on one side and curly on the other and I can’t get them to match.

My face is all broken out and my makeup fades too fast.

I’m three inches taller than my boyfriend.

The "Fox Page" from "The Book"
The “Fox Page” from “The Book”
Nicole in the morning
Nicole in the morning

There is at least one “make a face” game in it, which Nicole and I developed during long drives to see our grandparents in Missouri. In it, we each took a turn adding a feature to a face, with emphasis on making it as funny or grotesque as possible.

There is a certain chaos about “The Book” that I find compelling, yet am unable to reproduce in latter-day efforts.

The cover to the spiral-bound book was lost many years ago, so I don’t know where it actually begins and ends. There is an A thru Z comparison of my handwriting and my sisters, so I treat that as the cover.

Apparently I was into a girl named Peggy at the time, but I only recall ever seeing her once. (Updated May 2018 to add that I recall it was Peggy Crockett, the girl I hugged under the streetlight in the summer of 1978.)

The biggest surprise about the book is that it made our parent’s move from Lawton, Oklahoma to Palm Coast, Florida in 1987. I would have thought they would have thrown it out.

As far as I know, this in the only surviving example of "Make a Face," a game my sister Nicole and I played, usually on long car rides. We took turns adding an element, trying to make it more shocking and funny than the last.
As far as I know, this in the only surviving example of “Make a Face,” a game my sister Nicole and I played, usually on long car rides. We took turns adding an element, trying to make it more shocking and funny than the last.

The Luxurious Blue Notebook, Part 1

Raise the blue flag and begin the end.
Raise the blue flag and begin the end.

I don’t want what you have. I want who you are.

What do you expect from me? Isn’t it enough that I insist on putting myself on your front porch, wimpering like a wet, hungry puppy?

The quiet cool of this night has surrounded me, isolated me, captured me, holding me in this envelope of solitude, and is rolling me away into a silent escape of dreams.

I laugh myself to sleep.

Who do you think I think I am?

Merely hating people doesn’t make your superior to them.

I pour the filth of my soul onto your doorstep, and you cleanse me by merely witnessing my suffering.

Ticking Away
Time flies, far above, silently, casting no shadow. One day it’s gone.

I had a feeling that was made pure in the moment I held her.

All those in favor, signify by suffering.

Truer than Beauty
Nothing has ever hurt me more than, “She is gone.”

There is so much inside of me that never speaks.

Never forget the pain, because it will never forget you.

Wishes are just beautiful complaints.

Why do I miss you so much? Why are you gone?

You must make a friend of pain, or one day you will have no friends at all.

I don’t have to explain myself to you, or even to me.

Like This
Clouds like mountains
Mountains like dreams
Dreams like water
Water like clouds

IF is the word in the middle of LIFE.

Is fear of death really fear of loneliness?

Insecurities are your heart’s bad advice.

The ground will always hold me up when nothing else will.

I have more pencils than enemies.

You don’t deserve me, and I certainly don’t deserve you.

Cold world. Bundle up.

Beauty is the most seductive deception.

My life is a work of fiction.

I never had a nightmare I didn’t like.

You are free to do as you are told.

Pain is the perfect pet. You never need to feed it because you can feed it everything you have and it will still be hungry.

I taste tears, or maybe they taste me before they devour me.

What's wrong with this picture? Nothing, I guess.
What’s wrong with this picture? Nothing, I guess.

The Twenty Transition

Forget Facebook. THIS is how you journal.
Forget Facebook. THIS is how you journal.

In September 1998, my journal (sometimes lightheartedly referred to as “Lord Byron” from a name I gave it in high school) turned 20. I thought of marking the occasion in several different ways. One somewhat radical concept I had involved writing the next 20 years in the margins of the first 20 years, which were all handwritten in huge Mead spiral notebooks. It had a conceptual high art feel to it, but my friends talked me out of it.

Also Ran
A woman I dated in the 1980s also wrote a journal in Mead notebooks, but insisted on writing a pun associated with the word “Mead” next to it on the cover, like “Mead and Podadoes.”
I was reading a lot of Albert Camus in the late 1990s, and I'm sure his writing influenced my own. This is me reading "The Plague."
I was reading a lot of Albert Camus in the late 1990s, and I’m sure his writing influenced my own. This is me reading “The Plague.”

It was around this time that I was frequenting book stores. Remember those? Borders and Barnes & Noble were in their heyday, and had whole sections of blank journals. Some of the journals were fairly plain, while others were clad in the finest Italian leather. Some had faint designs on their inside pages, while others were entirely blank. My pages of choice were simple ruled paper, so I could just write. All of them were dimensionally smaller than the college-rule spirals, which I stuck with for the first 20 years because that was what I had when I started writing the journal in tenth grade.

It was on September 5, 1998 that I made the switch. In addition to smaller paper, I abbreviated the date, which I had always written out in the Mead books.

Upon looking over the transitional period, I began to discover that I was really writing well during that period. At least I thought I was.

February 25, 1998
I wonder if this journal is what sets me apart from the millions who toil like Sisyphus every day, pointlessly churning out paperwork or rubber dogshit or the culture of excess and disease. Or is it my photography? What sets me above?
I have always been a list maker, from those first journal days in 1978, to this very day.
I have always been a list maker, from those first journal days in 1978, to this very day.
March 14, 1998

I desire to be brilliant. Ready? GO!

Cynicism is not the answer. Who is happy? Not the cynic. By definition, happiness is the goal. But the definition of happiness eludes us. To believe one’s self to be happy but in actuality being destructive, ignorant, lazy, stupid, or not using one’s potential is not happiness, just the illusion of happiness.

These are the hardcover journal books to which I switched in 1998. I continued to write in them until about 2008, when my handwritten product was replaced by typewritten and online product.
These are the hardcover journal books to which I switched in 1998. I continued to write in them until about 2008, when my handwritten product was replaced by typewritten and online product.
May 11, 1998

The biggest imagination gap: self-image. So many people look and act like complete idiots and believe they are the coolest thing since ice cream. How can you think you look good in that ball cap, that moo moo, that pair of urine-soaked golf pants?

LOOK AT YOURSELF!

Then there were the lists.

Write It Down

  • The only happy teenagers are the stupid ones.
  • I am the sky, and I must go home.
  • What I wouldn’t give to write this page in my own blood.
  • I would snap you like a twig.
  • There but for the grace of not being a flipping idiot go I.
  • I feel that I can write much more honestly now that I have a document shredder for my notes.
  • Sometimes I feel like I need my anger the way I need my next breath.
  • “That was very sexy.” -T, after watching me lick salt from my margarita glass.
  • Never in my life have I been so good at concealing my feelings.

I have written a lot of words over the years. Most of it is drivel. In fact, almost all of it is drivel. Occasionally, however, there is a pearl.

This is the Richard who filled up one notebook after another in 1998.
This is the Richard who filled up one notebook after another in 1998.

21 Years: Pinewood Crap Merchants

Journal, June 23, 1992

“Do you feel it when I hold you? -Me
“Sometimes.” -Emma

21 years ago today I drove to New Mexico to be with a woman who claimed she’d been sexually abused as a child and as a result was spending a month at a treatment center. Those close to me know the real places and players, but the names have been changed. We begin with my drive to the Pinewood Treatment Center in the Albuquerque, New Mexico area.

Years later during my travels in the American west, I swung by "Pinewood" to find that for a while it was a drug and alcohol treatment center, then appeared to be abandoned.
Years later during my travels in the American west, I swung by “Pinewood” to find that for a while it was a drug and alcohol treatment center, then appeared to be abandoned.

Journal, Sunday, October 4, 1992:

6:35 am. The letter Emma read to my answering machine came in the mail yesterday. I haven’t opened it and don’t know if I will. Thinking about it, I feel so angry I am suddenly wide awake.

7:29 am. “Batesville Casket Company. Drive Safely.” Ha, ha.

11:00 am. Dangerously close to Emma.

Afternoon: we are together again, looking into each other’s eyes. She had doubts of me even coming to see her. But there I was, suddenly holding her close.

Journal, Monday, October 5, 1992:

I feel sad this morning, awaking from nightmares about her. Her voice plays over and over in my head: “I need you in my life and I love you,” and, “I am moving away as soon as I get home.”

What will become of us? I can’t ask her to stay, and I won’t go with her. {Sidebar: this became a recurring theme in my love life until I got married.} We’ll have no time to discover who we are together. All I can do is let her go.

I came to the airport, bought a sectional (a type of aeronautical chart), sat on the hood of my car and watched the jets fly, listening to them on the scanner. When I can’t fly, being near aviation soothes me.

Blue notebook, Monday, October 5, 1992:

Worst case scenario: Emma will go insane and kill herself.

At this treatment center, which is a cluster of residential houses, I am joined by about ten “family program” participants here to visit a patient. We sit in a living room, in a large circle of couches. A counsellor places a box of tissue between each participant, presumably expecting us all to cry. Most of us are husbands and boyfriends, referred to as “S. O.” for significant other. There are also a couple of parents.

Two of our group claim to have been sexually abused.

“My father sexually abused me for 10 years.” -Charlie

Journal, Tuesday, October 6, 1992:

Albuquerque is visible in the distance in this view from Sandia Crest.
Albuquerque is visible in the distance in this view from Sandia Crest.

I’ve come to one of my favorite places, Sandia Peak, to see what nature has to offer my situation. I was given the sound of winter-like wind in the trees and the auburn sky turning dark.

Blue notebook, Tuesday, October 6, 1992:

“None of us are going to see things the same way after this,” someone says. I don’t exactly believe that.

“It becomes a swirling toilet of despair.” -Arye, recovering heroin addict

Five basic freedoms: perceptions, feelings, thoughts, desires, fantasies.

Journal, Wednesday, October 7, 1992:

Our tearful eyes as she told me she had to go away; I told her I would let her go. So many tears and it’s only 11 am.

Blue notebook, Wednesday, October 7, 1992:

Nightmare last night: Emma and I were forced to sleep in a graveyard.

One family member, a mom named “Putzie” felt convinced that if she told her daughter the truth about what went on in their family, her daughter would kill herself. I sort of talked her down, and she hugged me afterwards.

This program is not very polished.

Night: Putzie freaked out and disappeared into the desert. We searched. Four hours later, she returned, shivering and muttering incoherently.

Thursday, October 8, 1992:

Some part of me never really believed Emma loved me in the first place.

I drove eight hours home listening to baseball playoffs on the radio.

* * *

In the end, I felt the entire “sexual abuse treatment center” experience was suspect, and history has adjudicated that conclusion.

"My ex-girlfriend went to Pinewood and all I got was this shitty medallion." Yeah, as if. This medallion is my prize for sitting through what Andy Garcia described in "When a Man Loves a Woman" as, "a bunch of losers feeling sorry for themselves." The medallion is sitting on another token from the experience, the "God bag." You are supposed to write your problems down and put them in the bag, thus "giving them to God."
“My ex-girlfriend went to Pinewood and all I got was this shitty medallion.” Yeah, as if. This medallion is my prize for sitting through what Andy Garcia described in “When a Man Loves a Woman” as, “a bunch of losers feeling sorry for themselves.” The medallion is sitting on another token from the experience, the “God bag.” You are supposed to write your problems down and put them in the bag, thus “giving them to God.”

The Mad Dash of Destiny

It was 34 years ago today that Eisenhower High School English Teacher Gil Hernandez assigned my English II class to write in a journal three times a week.

Less that a year later I almost lost the damn thing.

Dad let me take his car to school. It was the Cadillac our family bought years earlier for our vacation to California, but as it got older, it became Dad’s everyday car. (It’s hard to fathom today that a car that guzzled fuel at a rate of 8 miles per gallon could be an “everyday” car.) Michael and I decided to hang out after school, so we got in this 5000-pound rolling house of a car and rumbled off down 53rd Street in the direction of my home.

Journal, November 2, 1979
Having to face adversity every day, my share has been dealt for today. A car ran over my journal. Fortunately there were no fatalities. Almost all of the pages survived, but the spiral part of the notebook is hopelessly crushed. Ironically, I only had today and tomorrow to enter and this book would have been full. How, you may be wondering, could my journal possibly be run over by a car? It fell off the roof, of course.

As we drove on, something didn’t seem right, and when I looked in the back seat, I didn’t see my journal. It dawned on my that I’d put it on the roof of the Cadillac while I unlocked the door, and left it there.

In something of a panic, we turned the boat car around and raced back toward the high school. We spotted the journal sitting forlornly in the middle of the road in the very busy intersection of 53rd and Gore. In my mind I began to formulate some kind of a plan to pull the car up to it when the light turned green and grab it through the open door as we passed it. But before my plan was concrete in my head or the light was close to turning green, Michael was out the door. He dashed like an idiot into traffic and grabbed the journal like a football, then dashed back to the car and got in.

Nearly losing the journal wasn’t nearly as embarrassing as many of the things I wrote in it.

Journal, April 28, 1979
My entire emotional structure is collapsing. Time lingers on and brings back memories. So much has happened to me since last summer. I remember. I remember all the days and nights of bitter, sad, angry, empty feelings. And I know, now, that absolutely no one cares about me. Right now I sit and write and no one on earth is thinking of me or remembering me. I am just a shadow on a wall. I am nothing.

I gotta go back in time and get this guy laid.

This is the journal volume as it appears today, with the steel spirals slightly unsquished by several straightening attempts with a needle-nosed pliers.
This is the journal volume as it appears today, with the steel spirals slightly unsquished by several straightening attempts with a needle-nosed pliers.

My Empire of Dirt

Another pile of dreck from the blue filigree notebook, marked for my reference in fuchsia and powder-blue Post-It notes. Sigh…

I want someone to tell it’s alright, even when it’s not.

“At least it’s intense.” -Kathy, 1986
“At least you know you’re alive.” -Ann (who is no longer alive), 2002

I look at pictures of us together and think, “did it really happen?” (Applies to everyone)

In his last dying days and suffering a brain tumor, V was asked if he saw people where he was going. He counted eight.

There’s no going back now. There’s nothing back there, anyway.

c 2001: Disappearance..
My problem is very obviously too much imagination when it comes to romance. That they have beautiful eyes is more about their mastery of mascara than the depth of love in their hearts. Their slender hands grow without any help from their concepts of right and wrong. The intoxication I feel when I smell their soft hair isn’t from inhaling their brilliant insights.

Then I find that even looking in the mirror is too much to bear.

I lent him a cent for lent
but now I relent
for the scent
is that the cent
I lent him for lent
has been spent
for lent   ~Dream fragment, 1993

As if any of you care, that’s it for the blue notebook.

“It’s all there, in shades of grey…”

There are words on every page.
There are words on every page.

In addition to the scores of blog entries here over the years, I’ve written dozens of notebooks full of journal entries, as well as the hilarious green and red notebooks full of stuff my friends and I thought was funny or ridiculous. I also kept a few “other” notebooks. Some of them were full of personal observations I hoped would lead to story or poem ideas, while others were just phrases or sentences I though were deep or meaningful. I quoted movies, I quoted friends, I quoted Camus and Nietzsche and Kafka. I was deep and pretentious, honest and phony, brilliant and idiotic, and all the while I was self-involved and myopic.

Since the early 1980s, I had a couple of extra spiral notebooks where I could carve out some of my inconclusive free-verse or jot single-line ideas. I also used them for shot lists of movies I never made, and outlining novels I never wrote. I really liked the hard cover notebooks that were popularly for sale at bookstores in the 1990s, so I switched to them from the old spirals.

As an aside, I was wondering the other day what I did with my free time back in the old days before the internet, and except for obsessive masturbation and the occasional video rental, writing in my journals and these notebooks must have been it.

Almost all of the things written here about women were written before I was married.

There is no chronology to these items. In fact, I usually just opened the book to a random page or a page that looked particularly empty.

Also of note: writing a lot of material doesn’t necessarily make any of it good.

  • Life is a song. Time is the voice.
  • Home is a moment.
  • Hell is the moment of ultimate regret.
  • “You don’t conquer fear. You learn to get excited by it.” –Gary Busey
  • It’s all there, in shades of grey.
  • “All is not lost, only misplaced.” -Unknown, quoted here from M. Z.
  • I have as much paper as I want. The day will never come when I say to myself that I’ve written too much.
  • My life is full of undocumented suffering.
  • “We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness.” ~1984
  • She had that damned black soul that got all over my fingers.
  • I feel happy on purpose, but often feel sad by default.
Prepare and Prevent
What do we mostly offer our children? Candy, sugar, fat, video games, television, the internet, violent movies, cigarettes, alcohol, bad advice, empty morality, hypocrisy, Mr. Self Destruct. What kid could possibly resist? Moral: don’t act so surprised.
  • Medicine is not candy. Food is not medicine.
  • I despise women who date and marry loser guys who are really good looking, but I fawn over really beautiful women.
  • Story idea: a man spends an entire winter cutting down a huge oak tree with his bare hands.
  • Is confession an action?
  • Unhappiness fuels the engine of passion.
  • Violate my tender place and witness the darkness.
  • Everyone else is so ridiculous. I wish I had a clearer picture of my own ridiculousness.
Spirit is Psyche
Don’t tell me who I should be. Don’t tell me that buying something will make me happy, that I’ll be loved, that I’ll be The One. In fact, don’t tell me anything. Give me the truth.
  • “I use hate as a weapon. Had I been strong, I never would have needed such a weapon.” ~Ann, from her journal
  • Fear: If I let this all out, the explosion of violence and rage will destroy me.
  • “Anger and sorrow frighten me because I fear losing control and becoming a raging maniac.” ~Letter from girlfriend, 1992
  • I look into their beautiful chestnut eyes and think about the bold, uncaring ingratitude their husbands will show them tonight.
  • Demanding that I demand nothing is a demand.
  • I don’t miss you. But I miss who I was when I was with you. Or thinking about you. Or missing you.
  • Story idea: “The Disk,” about a writer who has misplaced a computer disk full of intimate erotica she has written, and the search to find it through subtle dialog and observation.
  • Having others around me suffer helps because I think they deserve it.
  • Lots of people call me for advice to ignore.
  • My life is raw material for writing.
It Is Your Destiny
Wherever I am is where it seems like I was destined to be. When I am with someone, it seems natural, obvious, inevitable. It’s the same when I am alone. The truth is, though, that I am alone much more than I am with someone.
  • I am not insane, but I sometimes have insane fantasies.
  • If you castrated me today, would I care about anything in two weeks? How much of what I feel and desire is in my glands?
  • Today I walked venomously close to that place of dangerous insanity. My hate, all clad in white and red, led me by the hand.
  • Then there’s that intensely person moment, in the dark, shared with no one, when you finally say you’re sorry.
  • That day, I was her hero.
  • I’m lucky: I fantasize about violence that is so ridiculous that I could never actually do it. (K called this “utility tempered vengeance.”)

That brings us about a third of the way through the blue book with the gold filigree. More to come.

With these notebooks I have always tried to be a little messier, a little more chaotic, a little closer to the edge.
With these notebooks I have always tried to be a little messier, a little more chaotic, a little closer to the edge.

Seething with Contentment

“We shall come all over.” -Creedo of Cool Left-Wing Juggling Nihilist for Social Revolution, my 1986-88 girlfriend’s college club.

“I’d rather pop a boner in a nursing home.”

Hey, Hitler! Nobody likes you!

My approval rating skyrocketed after I said some nice things about an event elsewhere in the world.

“Talking to yourself is only bad if you’re telling yourself jokes you’ve never heard before.” -Stolen from someone who stole it from a Facebook friend.

“It doesnt matter who’s completely right or completely wrong, it’s the guy’s job to say sorry.”
“Then what does she do?”
“She gets to forgive you.” -Also stolen from Facebook

Misheard lyrics…
Actual lyric: “The damage accumulates.”
Misheard: “The dummy between your legs.”

I dreamed that Max the Chihuahua got lost at a rodeo. I eventually found him in a cubby hole next to a cattle stall, but by then I was all the way across town (it seemed like Norman, Oklahoma) and was late for Abby’s family reunion night tug-of-war.

A brighter future for all, whether the want it or not.
A brighter future for all, whether they want it or not.

X has decided that people who act like morons when being photographed are doing so because they are afraid that if they don’t, they will look like morons anyway because they really are morons.

I am getting old and I can prove it. I just set a wall clock to the “correct” time, since it appeared to be 6 hours off. Then I realized it was upside down in my hands. (Please visit me at the old folks home.)

Ever wonder why so many products bear the moniker “SX”? Simple: you can’t say “SX” without saying “sex.” Try it!

The original thatched hutch in Europe was invented by a Polish civil servant named Antonin Starsky. His invention is now known as the Starskian Hutch.

I was going to lock the bathroom door while I did my business, but then thought to myself, “What if I fall in?” (No, I am not kidding.)

If there is one thing I have learned in all my years, it’s that my goats know what to eat and what not to eat.

Brenda White Simpson: “You know Richard, Ive been meaning to tell you this for a long time. You are one of the funniest people Ive ever ‘met’. Thank You.”

A Hunger that Never Dies

The ornate brown and gold book has slicker pages than other notebooks I own, so the ink flowed more swiftly. Occasionally it would fly off the pages, and go places I regretted.

  • Is today that day I forgive the world?
  • Create an image with words instead of creating an image with suffering.
  • For me, the maxim is: If you can’t say something intelligent, don’t say anything at all.
  • Today my mind is buried deep inside my feelings.
  • I deny ever having been me.
  • Whisper my name. I call yours and you do not answer.
  • I would take humanity, the whole world, tenderly in my arms before I destroy it.
  • I am sorry for the awkward way I loved you. For years you filled up my heart. (You know who you are, even if you don’t know it’s you.)
  • I was once close to her. Now I am only close to this moment.
  • Sometimes I feel like I need my anger the way I need my next breath.
  • I cannot make sense of my dreams, even though they make perfect sense.
  • Who am I? Funny question, since I ask as though finding the answer would make a difference.
  • Even after she left me, she said she would never leave me. (about K, 1988.)
  • Sometimes I am like insect repellent, which is okay, since sometimes people are like insects.
  • Staring at myself in the mirror for a long time, I slowly seem to see someone else.
  • Ignorance is abyss.
  • You can’t look at something without changing it.
  • It’s impossible to hope for a moral society when 97% of the participants willingly murder their fellow mammals for pleasure.
  • You mostly want what you want because someone a little smarter and a lot richer told you to want it.
  • Get down behind me and kiss my path.
  • Who are you anyway, you humanity? Your grand plan is to consume and procreate, like flies. You add to that a culture of suffering and atrocities, and act like you are God’s gift to the earth.
  • Crying: never enough, always too much.
  • The darkest place on earth.
  • How can you see me as “sweet” when sometimes I can barely see myself as sane?
  • In this moment, I understand your denial. How else could you bear your existence?
  • “I think I hear the answer, but it is only the wind and the dark and the vast emptiness.” -Journal, 1979
  • The fork in the road: dreams or mirrors.
  • The last foxhole atheist.
  • Infidelity: the object for some is getting caught, because it punishes their partner for being such a disappointment.
  • I leave dark scars on your life.
  • Story idea: held in my hands, trembling, insane words written in my own handwriting, that I don’t remember writing.
  • The work of love’s axe on the frozen sea.
  • I am a totally superior person and a completely inferior man.
  • During a particularly dark vision, I stand up and walk around the room, but am unable to escape myself. As dark as it was in 1978, 1985, 1988, I think maybe it is darkest now, this moment, this vanishing point.
  • These bones are wearing out. Would you pay to live forever, or would you eventually pay to die?
  • Bomb me into the fucking stone age.
  • I never knew how to let her go. It doesn’t matter if she let me go or not: she’s gone.
  • Wallowing in the muddy sludge you get when you mix broken dreams with alcohol.
  • “Maybe I’m boring and don’t know it. How terrifying.” -Journal, 1980.
  • I want her to come home. That day will never come.
  • It’s not a sore spot. It’s a dark spot. It’s less about losing her, and more about going back to that lonely place.
  • …that darkest part of me, the cold, hungry, injured animal part of me, understands the terrorist, the murderer, the despot.
  • I feel fragile, like old yellow paper.
  • Nobody is as lonely as I am. Not even me.
  • How can women love men who spit in public, but not love me?
  • Just what I need: another black-souled woman for my collection.
  • My wildest sin is dreaming. My worst mistake was caring.
  • Real men don’t let bumper stickers think for them.
  • How could I have held their hands, and let them go? Your hands.
  • I love like a woman, but I hate like a wild animal.
  • What do I want? I want to keep you warm.
  • I’d rather live a dramatic life, as long as it’s good drama.
  • Tears are an admission.
  • When asked for one word to describe me, Whitney was split between “intense” and “passionate.”
  • STOP! In large crowds, I find myself calculating how many cluster bombs it would take to kill them all. I have to stop that.

Thus the end. In many ways, I am relieved.

Scenes from Apartment 11

Here are some profound excerpts from the ornate brown and gold notebook. The first words in this book are, “A black paradise.”

  • I know I am in love when she and I stare into the sky.
  • Specious conclusion: that you deserve a second chance just because you screwed up the first one.
  • I was wrong to think we were part of each other.
  • Write more, think more, be more.
  • The kindness of winter: its cruelty pushed away all other cruelty.
  • Going a little crazy? Give me something to do.
  • An artist creates his own moral Universe.
  • Letting it be quiet.
  • Perception of blackness is a surrogate for perception of nothingness.
  • Women become an abstraction.
  • Validity of despair: only if it is tied to something creative.
  • There are so many ugly people in the world, in so many senses of the word ugly.
  • Don’t waste time justifying yourself to those who can’t justify themselves.
  • Certain shameful things give us those feelings because they so deeply, secretly excite us.
  • Has every moment been like this? I am refining my vision of destruction.
  • The fundamental solution to the core problems of humanity: to act properly as an individual.
  • Objectivity: the impossible objective.
  • The future is your only choice.
  • Bachelorhood: the freedom to joylessly masturbate to the uninspired pornography of your imagination.
  • “Richard,” she said, “you must be so lonely.”
  • You can’t believe in God based on what you lack.
  • Always just tell me the truth.
  • There is nothing more beautiful than tears.
  • It may be an insane place, but it is mine alone.
  • Possibly the best thing about my apartment: you’re not here.
  • I don’t want your apology; I just want you to shut the fuck up.
  • What sets me apart from the millions who toil like Sysyphus every day, pointlessly churning out paperwork or rubber dogshit or the culture of disease and excess? What sets me above?
  • Only nature seems fair, because even when it destroys you, it does so without judgement.
  • Christianity’s most arrogant assumption: that God needs us.
  • I spit, and hear no splash in the bottomless pit of your life.
  • The biggest crime is failing to face the truth, to say, “Here I am.”
  • Time can only take you so far down the road, and then there is a fork.
  • “No talking to imaginary people.” -Sign in New Orleans restaurant The Hummingbird, circa 1991.
  • Time is the illusion.
  • Words slip away, but an act of affection speaks louder.
  • Midnight is not the enemy.
  • My vision for the ascendancy of man is one in which the masses are able to stop acting like children, which 99% of them do 99% of the time now, and finally behave as adults in every sense. Adults don’t need their fears.
  • My friends are not the enemy.
  • When the night settles around me, nothing can touch me.
  • How dark can it get?
  • Your dreams know who you are.
  • A hurt I cannot name: words are not sufficient for this pain.
  • I am not the enemy.
  • Have the strength to be happy.
  • No matter how much they sympathize, they can’t feel it with you, or for you. You must feel it alone.
  • There is a big difference between letting yourself feel sad and making yourself feel sad.
  • Confusion is not a feeling.
  • Women are not the enemy.
  • I don’t have to get what I need. I am what I need.
  • You run home to your spiritual mommy.
  • You are the enemy.

There. Now I can sleep.

Notes that Don’t Sing

Before blogging, there was journaling. It was fun, but only one person at a time could share it. The advantage was that it could be more intimate. The disadvantage was that it would sit in the dark. Here, then, are some choice excerpts from something dark.

Possible subtitle: dripping with cynicism.

  • If you ask for it, you deserve it.
  • I don’t despise who you are. I despise who you believe you are.
  • Your lies are of no interest to me, even if they are only lies to yourself.
  • The tree of life obscures the target. Cut it down.
  • Responsibility automatically comes to those who are aware.
  • Somehow we come to believe that suffering will make us important.
  • Humanity might not be the place for greatness.
  • Fly away. I see you in the distance.
  • I have no right to say that I am lonely. I only have the right to be lonely.
  • You are out of excuses.
  • “It never worked.” -K, about our two years together.
  • Pure and simple vs complex and subtle.
  • I let the moment fill me with what is essential.
  • Despite the small people around me, I remain at large.
  • Why would I ever expect you to understand this?
  • “I’m not afraid of this. I know I should be.” -M, about a relationship with me.
  • I am Erebus.
  • It feels like digging a hole.
  • She’s like me: dirty, impure, raging, real.
  • “I’m not smart enough to be an atheist.” -Negative Guy
  • Women love young, fat guys because they look like babies, and women love babies.
  • I am more complex than this. I am more complex than you can imagine.
  • Hope and fear stand in their corners, blame and guilt their coaches. The bell rings.

The end of the black and silver notebook.

Snotmosis

Wow! It makes a really cool noise when I whack this notebook on my steering wheel!

Myiasis = infestation with maggots.

“Government pork is lower than dog vomit.” -D

“Am I sharp and pointy and heavy?” -R

“My modus operandi is nothing but a diarrhea-ic thought process.” -D

Boulevaardvark.

If you don’t try to drag me down to your level,
I promise not to try to haul you up to mine.

Abbrevurrito = small Mexican snack

Free-range Janitors Association

“If you poke into something hard, back up! You may be in the wrong hole.” -T

My apartment is so small you couldn’t raise veal in here.

-Bagmire
-Christmosis
-Snotwater

Beer on chili, farts really silly.

“She’s just like him, only she doesn’t have a dick!” -D’s friend

Carefully vomit.

“The search for the absolute always ends in hot, futile tears.” -D

“If the world ends, what about all those people who live underground? Under the earth,
you’ve got movement and motion everywhere. What would happen if gravity stops working?
I pray every night that it doesn’t.” -a friend’s mom (“Is she institutionalized?” -T  “No, she’s dead.” -R)

The Notepad of Destiny

As the year 2008 comes to a close, I thought I would amuse the readers of the Giant Muh with a few key gripes from the notebook with the squished spiral that I keep in the seatback pocket of my car (so I can complain on the road).

  1. The Viagra/Cialis dual purpose: fat men who can’t get it up, both because they are fat, and because their wives are fat. If I had a fat, ugly wife, and was a fat ugly man, I could imagine needing drugs to help my “special purpose.”
  2. Lately I have been pretty annoyed that wieners aren’t made out of animal wieners. Isn’t that some kind of flagrant false advertising?
  3. 9 a.m. Wednesday. (I’m not sure if this was a complaint, or just an appointment.)
  4. When I was a senior in high school, the guys I hung out with had expensive stereo systems in their (dad’s) cars. One day I noticed a button on one of the stereos marked HEAD.”Hey,” I asked, “what does ‘HEAD’ mean?” One of them replied, “It controls equalization!” I then asked, “What does that mean?” He replied, louder and less patiently, “It controls equalization!!” Ass jacket.
  5. There don’t seem to be any fat people in Moab, Utah.
  6. On my last trip out west, I saw more than one hitchhiker with wheeled luggage. Need I even comment on this?

Somniloquy

In college I had a roommate one semester who talked in his sleep almost every night. Being a night crawler, I heard most of it, and wrote down the good ones:

“Space Monk, wanna sharpen my knife?”

“I said I want some pie!”

“Put a little foam on it so the kids can play.”

“Bill, I don’t know anyone. Give the pad to Ray Roberts.”

“Can you get those ladies to sh*t? Who gives a sh*t?”

“If she doesn’t get in there fast, tell her to f*ck off, goddamit. Good!”

“My mother has a wolfpoint.”

“You bastard! You bloody bastard!”

The Party Line

Telephone keypad like ours in high school
Telephone keypad like ours in high school

I swear to you, I am not making this up.

When my sister and I were teenagers, about 1978, we lived in Lawton, Oklahoma. She and I kept a notebook, which we just called “The Book,” full of all the funny stuff we thought up, all the gossip we heard, all the complaints we had about our teachers, etc. One entry, in Nicole’s handwriting, was sprawled with anguish across an entire page. It said, “NO MORE PARTY LINE!”

It was a flaw in the phone system at Southwestern Bell. I don’t know if it was just in Lawton, or all through the system, but the way it worked was…

  • Dial your own number
  • Click the switchhook and listen for busy signal
  • Hang up
  • Your phone would ring in a couple of seconds
  • You pick it up and…

You heard two busy signals in quick succession, followed by about one second of silence, then another two busy signals, another silence, etc. The thing was that everyone else in town who did the same thing heard that sequence, and in the silence in between, could hear each other.

It was the ancestor of the chat room. Typically on a day during summer vacation, which was the best time since your parents were at work, a “conversation” would sound something like…

“What’s your” buzz-buzz “name?”
“Where do” buzz-buzz “go to” buzz-buzz “school?”
“What do” buzz-buzz “you look like?”
“Can I” buzz-buzz “have your” buzz buzz “number?”

I mostly didn’t talk, but just listened. It was better than Gong Show reruns (mostly), and during the heat of the day, it was more fun than going outside.

The Party Line.

Possible Plans for Thanksgiving

  • Pray and fast
  • Fetal/fecal/fatal position
  • Elvis movie marathon
  • Wish I were still in college/high school/junior high/grade school/kindergarten/womb
  • Get head stuck in honey pot
  • Act like I give a crap
  • I’d rather have a pre-frontal lobotomy than a free bottle in front of me
  • See the writing on the (bathroom) wall
  • Listen to Duran Duran until I am unconscious
  • Await my destiny (or make it myself from crushed butterfly wings and real maple syrup)

    Feel the need.
    Feel the need.

Let’s Play!

Okay, let’s play “What Would God Do?”

  • Make Eskimo Pie
  • Frogs frogs frogs
  • Daytime TV
  • Elephantiasis of the nuts
  • President Bushton
  • Karl eating ribs
  • “This is not meat loaf! It is kabab!”
  • Seven year coma for guy who loved “Family Ties” but missed every episode
  • Unexplained emergency dookie
  • Strip down to bra and panties for a tickle fight

True story: I was in a friend’s home with their dog. A man came to the door saying he represented a church. The dog was quiet until the man said, “We’re trying to encourage Bible reading.” At that point, the dog acted like he would have killed him.

You decide.

Actual Name of My Godfather: Dick Spray

Good news! We are not like our fathers.

The biology is obvious: take good genes, subtract cigarettes, alcohol and baloney salad. Add the internet, clear soda and “Family Ties.” Subtract Korea and Viet Nam. Add brown rice and three months experimenting with weed. Subtract Gulf War Syndrome. Add motor skills and a national championship. Subtract rubber dog doo. Add leather underpants. !!!

It all makes perfect sense
It all makes perfect sense

Tinfoil Hat to Deflect CIA Control Rays

  1. Percentage of people at the Kent State Massacre who were actually CIA operatives or extraterrestrials: 95.
  2. Percentage of CIA operatives who are actually extraterrestrials: 95.
  3. Percentage of this morning’s stool sample that was actually CIA operatives, extraterrestrials, leather, or Quake III Arena railguns: 102.

Fun fact: It has been widely debunked that “tin foil” hats (which are actually made of aluminum) do not reflect or absorb mind control rays from United Nations transmission towers or New World Order satellites. Such mind control devices use neutron pulse technology, and thus can only be deflected by hats impregnated with boron.

(Human manure is one of the rare wastes that can contain more material than it actually does. In science, it is referred to as Superstring High Intensity Turds, or SH!T.)

The Minimus Letters 7, Part 4

By Minimus 7 / M7

dadblastit,

Guitar-picking, sandal wearing hippie gets run over by tractor-trailer rig driven by reverse Okie (parents moved to CA during the dust bowl, he brought the family back to OK during the oil boom).

Gather the cadres, Che’ has escaped.

An unshaven Big Dick McGillicutty enters the disco.

Perspectives shift rapidly as Stacy pulls the first lever.

The audience went nuts.  No one had ever seen a head come apart like that before.

Just think, the same scene repeated millions of times all over the world.  Smoker takes first puff of the morning.  Immediately must run to the bathroom due to explosive diarrhea.  From then on, every slight inhalation of smoke causes severe runs.

Somehow, overnight, without anyone noticing, an unassailable 400-foot-tall obsidian phallus is installed on the North Oval.  No one knows how it got there, and despite all efforts, no one can remove it.

Even the prudishly Victorian attempt to place a canvas fig leaf over it with helicopters ended in disaster when the canvas fig leaf and the helicopters were mysteriously transformed into 60 tons of bologna salad.  Fertility religions begin popping up all over Norman.

Every new charismatic fertility religion leader claims to understand the true meaning of “the big black dick” as it is known.

nerdlinger wept,

 

consarnit.

> I believe we wrote “Wh**l*ck–what a hack.  -Karl Marx.”

> >What DID we put in that darned cat?

As always, your memory has proved superior.

I’m definitely off on Monday.

We’ll have to go over to Wh**l*ck’s and desecrate his cat again.

Possibilities:

I am not a cougar.

Cook me.  Eat half of me tonight and take the rest of me home for lunch tomorrow.

Fill me with arm pus.

Intentionally left blank because Wh**l*ck is a pussy.

“Swallow my face, please.”–Jaques Derrida

what a fag,

d.

possible titles for my first book:

  • The Cruciflex Home Exerciser:  A Manual.
  • Big ‘n Gay
  • The Jethrine Integument
  • Belch:  The Throat Fart
  • Enhugement of the Fisticons!!
  • Crabby Old Bastard Mock Fuck
  • The Future:  When Monsters Roam the Earth
  • My Ass Hurts

d.

MACHINE HURT MAKES GIRL CAT NO FUCK OTHER BOY

by DM

barb-ward rearing faces

fear our workaday integuments

and the great hoax mainlines the now

shoot him down!

he is but a clearer of weeds

he does not reveal

why I am me and not

someone else

head preserved for all to see,

Uncle Dreck became ossified

and he crumbled

in his pool of coffin

peeling ourselves away

from the

hot

vinyl

bucket seat of the real

Is this a failure?
Is this a failure?

no cage is strong enough

to hold our bliss

indulging in friendly clever extremes

my writhing cinnamon girl

displays her threat

to the farty old man

too loudly making

farty old man

point

we are surrounded by

the sound of cicadas cruising for chicks

and the banality of penile fakery

adding merit to madness

as we wreck the cherries

and dysfunct the projectiles

while my writhing cinnamon girl

takes my hand and Uncle Dreck

leads the way into our

unending wheel of joy

sane?  yes, please?!

my exclamation points wobble and

shimmer in the fractal heat

   each nodule glows fast

   to the floor of an arid

   brain pan

    suddenly, the smell of

     microwave puttered

     bop corn.

the hole of corn, erupting,

   the spiders pouring out,

   a furry horde.

     spilling over each other

       maize wave

           after wave

     spreading the seeds

       into the pan

         ppopping…

     the heat….

       muffled….

   stench of rancid oil.

d

 

1-

washed along my rancid distaste

   and flicked until numb

I sported my tendencies and

   waited for her to smile

feeling her ice, I opened

   my flagon

   and poured it into the sea

2-

words hurt me

just like that

  wasp that buried himself

   ass-deep in my arm

    when I was at a

     scornful picnic

but what the sane man does is to recreate the same old universe every time.  for what could we do without our embedded challenges and our worthy enemies?  why–there would be nothing left to get upset about. how could we be righteous or hostile or submissive or human if we could really re-make the universe every moment?

  The upshot–and the dirty secret of modern life is that it is ALL MY FAULT.  I caused the Vietnam War.  I thought it up and did it.

I killed all of my dead relatives.

I refuse to bring them back to life because in every moment I remake

myself into yet another identical uncaring bastard.

I could fix all of the broken hearts.

I just choose not to.

All my fault.

  But everyone else can’t blame me because it’s all their fault.

There are no accidents.  There is no fate.  We do it to ourselves

every day.

r,

The Plaid Café is not cuisine, the Plaid Café is the annihilation of culture. The middle class bourgeoisie can do naught but rejoice as they eat their americo/euro post-haute cuisine swill.  They celebrate that death of culture which must occur because of the assimilation of the EDGE’s most vital and salient nodes.  They celebrate because they cannot create.  If the bourgeoisie cannot create, then they will kill that which they can never understand.  The Plaid Cafe symbolically encloses the rapture felt at the moment of this culture murder. essense of mint,

d.

r,

whore.

Big, big, big as the foul sky and putrefaction drips onto the plain.

bison graze.

multiple guts rumble out a message in methane and the Pope makes his faggoty little curtsy before he slurps up the juices and such.

runes written in semen on a white bison’s back avatar of native hope

used like a Shake ‘n Bake bag about america,

ringed and tinged with fuckn pop

popn fuck

fun pop

I see a seamless now

where we all think the same

over here

and to get untogether with the crowd

means death

the very means to our greatness

(the one person)

covered in a mass of common thought

but first,

we flaunt our glimmer of god

glimmer god

flim flam

until every

iota is

main

streamed

not main

lined

not main

tained

simply sold

for pennies on the cheap

and we will finally understand

what Sam meant when he screamed

“Life fucks you even after you’re dead!”

every

one

of

us

will

be

=

to

dead

and life will still be fucking us.

a scar is upon you and everything you stand for,

d.

 

Prove to me that any positive action can be taken.  The mere attempt traps one within the sticky invisible web of “faith.”

yaya,

The visual feast that scrolled up and down I-35 last weekend left me beflubbered. Starting slightly north of the Dallas metroplexus, there were an astonishing variety and amount of gorgeous wildflowers.  Bluebonnets and NDN paintbrushes were most prominent.  Of course, cruising along the interstate through the communities of Norman, Ardmore, Gainesville, and the d/fw extra-urban sprawl left me hearing the clear, deep, slow death knell for humanity…..

This was mostly because of the architecture.  Everyplace now looks the same.  It’s all SLASH AND BURN ARCHITECTURE.  Denny’s are the same everywhere.  The ugly over-arches all.  The only interesting man- made sites visible from the hi-way was an old courthouse in Gainesville and some quirky man-made domes south of Dallas on I-35E.

I found many of the old grain elevators and factories more interesting than the McArchitecture that makes up our commercial existence in this age.

On our way back, we took I-35W and we were slapped in the face with two gargantuan consolidations of asphalt and concrete–both devoted to our bloody-kneed worship of speedy transport (the god Mercury grows fat and happy with adulation in this age)– The Texas Motor Speedway and a starkly horrible commercial airport that I had never seen before.  The upper capsule of the airport’s control tower seemed to be suspended in mid-air by a neutral protuberance of concrete.

The architectural impossibility of this CONTROL tower echoed the utter impossibility of our continued survival within this slash and burn sprawl.

Again and again I had to remind myself to “look at the pretty flowers”  and “see the gathering clouds”…..

Perhaps we Texhomans are simply too backwards and trashy to deserve any edifices that beg to be savored. In an age such as this, has artistic endeavour ever been so important?

Christ, Bitch, don’t you ever wash that thing?!

smallberries.

 

“Give yourself the permission to be unconcerned, rather than let a lack of imagination leave you behaving like a small-minded self-defeating loser.” –Ralph Pettman

Lack of imagination. Perhaps our societies biggest challenge? We do not have to be actors on the stage. We could be the directors, or, best of all, the playwrights.

d.

FLOGGING THE PSYCHLONS

-by DM

–nut–

truth

has a big

smelly

crotch

–sack–

lies

are the innard

juices

upon which society

is greased

The Minimus 7 Letters, Part 3

by Minimus 7 / M7

shrift,

Should I send these in?

daft cooters

3.8 billion years of ennui

duck my sick

brutish odors

uncle clyde and the fluff girls

it’s the fart that counts

two dicks ferguson

lava twat chung

rectilinear smile

any excuse for trephination

vacu-peen

unsolicited enemas

jactitations of the saints

circulator of funk

cluster fuck event horizon

Two that aren’t mine, but rule anyway:

“Negative vibe merchant.”–neil

“Enormous falsie basket.”–william s. burroughs

well,

end of stick.

 

eke,

I like the word frozen in its standard sense and in the sense of frozen…a sort of neo-African Buddhist movement.

So how come A’s so damned funny lately?

On the interzone internet, I found a concordance for NAKED LUNCH.

Every word in the book was listed and the page numbers were referenced.  One could click on the page number and it would appear since the whole book is located in cyberspace now.  As you might guess, I found all of this very fucking admirable—thumbs up all around.

I also read an essay in which the author thought that those who don’t appreciate NAKED LUNCH simply aren’t able to get past all of the sex and drugs.  Personally, I think that many people simply are not able to understand a book with an absent plot line.  Of course, the upcoming generation will find NL perfectly readable as their minds will be wired in such a way as to make short unconnected bursts of information usable.  Essentially, NAKED LUNCH is a hypertext document.  The “links” exist in the psyche of the reader.

One thing that has always interested me is that the human brain hasn’t really changed in many thousands of years, but the human mind has gone through many large shifts.  For example, right now we are wired to thrive within a bludgeoning sphere of information while remaining steadfastly unaffected by nuance.  In large measure, we determine our own wiring.  It’s ironic, since so many people are so unhappy with their wiring–especially the addiction to drama.

This wind is so strong.  All of my cardboard caricatures are getting blown over.

Personally, I prefer the straw man fallacy to the ad hominem.  The beauty of straw man is that when you set up a fake argument (which is easy to knock over) as a person’s real argument, they are often so stupid as to think they are actually defeated when you haven’t engaged the real issue at all. (By the way, don’t try this with A.)

Then again, intellectually bruising the weak lost its charm long ago. And within each square on the grid, we’ll place a different form of cultural blindness.  We’ll concentrate the most virulent forms in the center and that’s where we’ll drop the bomb.

After considering it in my mind, I have decided that Spanish is my favorite language.  It is quite pretty when spoken or written well. It is more efficient than Germanic languages.  It is relatively easy to learn.  Even though I have studied East Asian languages, I do not like the “music” of them.  I do not find Japanese or Mandarin aesthetically pleasing and I find the difficulties in using the writing of these languages to be immodern and ridiculous in the extreme.  One symbol for every different word–as if!  I like the phonetic Korean symbology, as it seems to be an elegant solution.

Also, in Spanish, much information can be conveyed very quickly once one of those hot chicas get going.

“Words are a virus.”–Burroughs

perhaps this end will never come,

dangle.

 

no good food here joe

Cautiously pulling into Peenpeen after a long night of running from the law, Cappy Dick felt relatively sure that the revenuers would never look for him in this god-forsaken spot on Hwy. 39.

Peenpeen was the kind of town where all of the dogs were skinny and all of the women were fat.  But, it lacked streetlights and people knew how to keep their mouths shut.  It was a perfect hidey hole for Cappy Dick.

One could even get a decent meal in Peenpeen at the no good food here joe cafe.  In the phone book which Peenpeen shared with 5 other pissant little Oklahoma towns, the no good food here joe cafe is simply listed as “Cafe, Hwy. 39, Peenpeen.”  At one time, a Korean immigrant (illegal) had been the fry cook and proprietor of the cafe.

The place got it’s unusual moniker because when Kim saw a customer he didn’t like, he would grab him by the collar and shuffle him out of the restaurant while screaming “No good food here, Joe!” in his highly accented speech.  Kim called everyone, male or female, Joe.

In fact, the no good food here joe cafe had the best food in the whole state.  Kim grew all of his own produce and he even raised his own foul for his excellent fried chicken and his astonishingly good moo goo gai pan.  He had a wife who people rarely saw because she was always in the kitchen washing dishes.  One day, a roughneck who was seated at the counter eating the cafe’s incredible lamb and couscous referred to the Kims as “that little gook and his little gook wife.”  A huge metallic clatter emanated from the darkened recesses of the kitchen, as if a pot had hit the cement floor.  In a flash, the beaproned Mrs. Kim leapt over the lunch counter like an antelope.  As she hit the floor behind the hapless roughneck, she placed her menacingly sharp butcher knife against his right kidney.

As the point of the knife ushered him out of the front door, Mrs. Kim spat out “No good food here, Joe!”  Mr. Kim laughed and laughed and laughed.  (So hard that kimchee came out of his nose, actually)

These days, the Kims’ daughter runs the place with her arranged-marriage-fresh-off-the-plane hubby.  She speaks perfect English and calls everyone in town by their real names.  The food is still spectacular, but in these calmer times, post oil bust, it’s quite unusual to witness knifeplay in the no good food here joe cafe.

“Words are a virus.”–Burroughs

“…and the cure kills the patient, Joe.”–Martin

 

plook,

I may get to eliminate a yankee today.  All in all, people are good…but not him.

According to a web site I consulted, you are a swine if you believe the following:

-people suck

-nothing is forever

-there is no god

Being a swine is a good thing because at least you are not fooling yourself.  Also on this site are such articles as “Why Pornography is a Positive Influence on Society.”

Also seen: working with a computer is nothing more than sitting on you ass while watching TV and typing.  (babysue.com)

We should have a cooperative website.  We could have a story a day and a poem a day.  We could rag on everybody and piss people off.  We could be all cynical and wise about the state of our trashy old pop culture.  We could laud to high heaven those few things that we really do like.  We could perpetuate the tyranny of information.

More and more I realize that Burroughs was right–“Buddhism is not for America.”  We just want to tear things down too much.  We never want to leave things BE.

I recommend www.fadetoblack.com. The bits about cults and their beliefs, celebrity memberships, etc. were especially good.  Also funny was their rating of the stupidity of talk show audiences (scientifically determined).  All talk show scripts examined were shown to have a language usage level no higher than 2nd grade.

anyway, bite,

big bad culture demons

 

clep.

non-adherent::noun–person who does not subscribe to any single doctrine, philosophy, or course of action.  Is able to manipulate disparate cultural elements at will.  Can reproduce in the normal mammalian fashion or can hijack the DNA of others towards the non- adherent’s own ends.  Each neuron in a non-adherent’s brain is a melding of the qualities of primate neurons and incurable retroviruses.  Non-adherents can only be distinguished from average humans by behavior, not by appearance.  Non-adherents are considered very dangerous and should be shunned at all costs.  In close proximity, they can control your mind.

Websters New Dictionary of Cryptotaxonomy, 2nd ed.

Like the dic says, these buggers can be distinguished by their behaviors, so we have collected poetry, essays, and piles of words that we suspect were created by non-adherents.  Though they may have no coherent shared philosophy or thrust, you may sense a certain thread in this work, as if these words are carried upon a wave or a tune which has been buried deep in the back of your head from the beginning.  Sources from which these works are taken include crappy little avant-garde newsletters, scribblings found in the back of Gideon Bibles, student poetry reviews from small private colleges, graffiti collected by our roving experts, poetry readings from coffee houses worldwide, mysterious mass mailings which seem to appear from nowhere with no discernable postmarks, dream journals obtained during burglaries of non-adherents’ lairs, and shopping lists found in grocery store parking lots.  When the authors are unknown we have given them appropriate non-adherent names.

–The Watchers  May, 1998

THE WHITES MUST SUFFER

by Tycho Mondorzez

Grief is food.

We must thank the whites of this world for feeding us so much.

But, I’M QUITE FULL WHITEY!

Close the kitchen now,

    or we’ll burn the fucker down.

Graffiti on a Prison Wall

by Tycho Mondorzez

I saw that crooked cross tattood on your arm so i had my posse hold you down face down now i found your ass how you gonna try ‘n keep me outta there TODAY?

(Tycho was executed by firing squad in 1986, but not before passing his lethal DNA collection onto some other twisted hate fucker.–ed.)

untitled shopping list

by Felice Porter

feral obnoxious hacksaw

tripwires of the obvious

ovoid hypocrisy

tepid meanderings thru many aisles (green or brown)

something to clean a butt with

tri-phased puke gun

fleshly dilemma

canister of hell

(found by a Watcher in a suburban grocery store parking lot, the above was written on hotel stationary from a very swank place in Copenhagen.– ed.)

The Phoney

by rectal infectant

floating along a fragrant river

on my palate of bouyant weeds

  i sense a shattering state of natural

   discord

navigating by hologram, i escape

the clutching tide

  to learn the fate of my

   ever excitable

    neighbor

i steered using the lowest volume

my paddling was quite direct

  yet, unhurried

   finally i came upon

    the scene

it was simply a goose

pursued by a sap with

  his pants around his ankles

   erection in tow

    bobbing head

nothing interesting

ever happens

  on this river

   i sighed as i casually

    directed the lens

     and pressed [RECORD]

“If you call my home again, you will learn by experience what the inside of your colon looks like.”–message left by rectal infectant on the answering machine of a large midwestern telemarketing firm

(The Watchers have never been able to positively identify rectal infectant, so this nom de plume is of our choosing.  We can identify his work by the common thematics and structures.  The only way rectal infectant’s poems have reached the public are through mass mailings.  Sometimes a thousand random people throughout the country will receive his “gift.”  Sometimes every household in a small town will get a sheaf of scribblings stuffed in the mailbox.  The Watchers are 92% sure that the telemarketing firm message was left by our people’s poet.)

One Last Score

by Sarah Looper

I saw you recoil in shock as I released the dull blade of my sigh.  I have you hanging on my every mood, don’t I?  You are always scared that I might disapprove or be unhappy or pay attention to some other poor loser.  Take heart!  For now I’ll continue to control you by gesture and innuendo.  As long as this game pushes away the dullness, then I’ll revel in your pathetic tantrums and your ridiculous demands.

But, don’t fool yourself.  I neither like you nor respect you in any way.

dream journal entry

by Sarah Looper

I saw my father waving to me from the deck of the ocean liner as it pulled out of the harbor and I just had to laugh because that big gay fucker stole my vibrator and now I’ll never get it back.

Sponges vs. Swordfish

by Sarah Looper

Quick

Take up

Your new head

Before someone else does

After you screw it on

Call me, I’ll have a look

I can’t wait to point and laugh

Yes, you’ll be angry at me

But I can’t help it

You are so stupid

Just your face

Makes me

Smile

Conversation with Cherry

by Sarah Looper

You’re new in town?

You don’t say!

Just moved out of your parent’s house?

Well I’ll be!

You’re originally from Peenpeen, Oklahoma?

Tell me all about it!

You’re a confused girl right now?

I’ve been there sister!

But you know you have a crush on Lisa Loeb?

Well who doesn’t!

You think I look like Lisa Loeb?

Wow! I’ve never heard that before!

You sorta have no place to stay?

Well, good luck with that!

You can’t wait for me to drag you home and cram my fist between your legs?

I’LL GET THE CAR!

(So many of Sarah Looper’s works are included here because she is quite infamous in the Pocatello, ID lesbian grande artiste cafe’ poetry open mike scene.  She has extensive “contact” with the public and The Watchers are highly concerned that many innocent humans will become infected.–ed.)

Haiku #16

by Miminus 7

splendid! or did she…

i see, it wasn’t triumph

puke issues from you

Haiku #47

by Miminus 7

hello little girl!

you didn’t have to rack me!

I’m no pedophile!

Haiku #446

by Miminus 7

sitting here for days

i waited for you to look

my smile has melted

(Miminus 7 is the most well known of the non-adherents, even though the general public has no knowledge of the non-adherent “movement.” Miminus 7 can be seen weekly on the “Miminus 7 Happy Family Show” on Bravo.  Bafflingly, this hour of total boredom and stupidity is currently Bravo’s highest rated program.–ed.)

printed on the back of Nusrat CD:

For the martyrs of the daggers of submission the unseen brings new life every morning. by experimenting with Burroughs style cut up technique I derive: for the dagger of the life of submission the unseen brings new martyrs every morning for the dagger of the life of the unseen the martyrs bring new submission every morning for the morning of the life of the unseen the martyrs bring new daggers every morning for the unseen of the martyrs submission brings new life to every dagger for the life of the dagger of the unseen every morning brings new martyrs for the unseen morning of the dagger martyrs bring every life for the submission of martyrs unseen daggers bring new life every morning for the morning of the unseen daggers bring the submission of every martyr for the new to the unseen of life morning brings the dagger of martyr’s submission for the dagger of the martyrs every morning brings the submission of the unseen life

Conclusion:  The original sentence was specifically formulated by someone to be treated in this fashion.  This is a meta-statement containing dozens of interlocking layers of meaning and subtlety.

Once again, face value is only a small part of the story.

Homage to Miminus 7

by rectal infectant

Quit copying me, you dick!

(written in an unidentified substance on the side of Miminus 7’s house.–ed.)

Shimmer of Fate

by Calendria Dey

I was already stretched beyond all belief

but still, I kept getting tauter,

and wider

Feasting, filling, fueling, fisting,

I ascended the stairs of mourning and

tearfully proclaimed my nonchalance

Beasts of hope nipped at my heels

but I paid them no mind as I

continued climbing

Tearing at the sheets of water I stepped into a sort of darkness with

the roar of gravity in the background and I left it all behind all

the tortures all the boredom all of the death I had passed through

the baptismal curtain and, for that heated moment, I was clean

because I had been ripped free from the annulus of fate.

Then all of the memories came back

my chin fell against my chest

I tumbled over the rail

(Calendria Dey was one of the first artists to be identified by The Watchers as a part of the modern non-adherent movement (as opposed to the Renaissance Non-Adherent Movement.)–ed.)

THE SURFACE TENSION OF REALITY AND THE HORROR OF CULTURAL GENETICS

OR:  WHY I WRITE THIS SHIT

by The Bind

    The other day a colleague of mine at the tofu factory asked me what I was always scribbling in my notebook.  So, I let him read my stuff for a while.  He looked through many of my poems, my essays, my sketches, my fragments.  Typically, he looked up from my journal eventually and said “I don’t get it.”  Of course, many writers have had the experience of opening their secret vaults to a confidante only to be slapped in the face by their blindnesses.

    I suppose that there are two sorts of writers.  There are those who write for some segment of the public and there are those that give nary a fuck what the minions of the human DNA overlords might think.  More clearly:  some write for no reason and some write because they are word whores.

    Word whores are those who sell their art to the public.  There is nothing inherently wrong with this, but one must understand the nature of this culture.  Our culture of late 20th century america is nothing but a complex of distinct yet interconnected viruses.  Any material or information that is injected into this culture is immediately taken up by the organism and incorporated within its bulk.  But, being viral in nature, this culture can only create by hijacking the mechanism of healthy creatures.  So, any words that are injected into the system are immediately taken apart, examined, interpreted, and USED by the elements of our viral culture.  Once your art is “out there” you will never get it back in the same form because those fuckers will rip it apart, steal anything that might be useful and heave it onto the trash heap where it will lie shivering and bleeding from the anus.

    So, I don’t publish.

    Then, why write?

    I write so that there will be a treasure trove of cultural genetic material in this world that has not been exploited by the virus.  I write to preserve a core of reality that does not conform to the smooth surface as dictated by the masses.  By creating a form of untainted genetic reality, perhaps we can one day restore to humanity a sense of dignity, self worth, and individual determination.

    All of this begs a question.

    Am I not a part of the virus too?

    .

    .

    .

    One is part of the virus only by conscious choice, blissful ignorance, or blithe apathy.  Since none of those apply to me, I term myself a non-participant in this culture.  I do not adhere.  I do not steal cultural genetic material.

    I just write.

    (This could be considered the only description or critique of non-adherent thought actually written by a non-adherent.  Both The Bind and Calendria Dey were active in the late 1960’s and formed the core of early non-adherent thought.  Both used extensive viral imagery in their work and the only reason we get to read any of this is through sheer chance as neither author ever sought publication.  By 1975, some non-adherents were attempting to publish on a small scale.

Though they accepted The Bind’s assertions about the viral nature of our culture (even if they had never read any of his work), they chose to form “magic bullets” or “inoculations” from their art.  Rather than trying to create an untainted treasure trove as Calendria Dey and The Bind did, their goal was to inject their work into the public forum on a small scale, using the culture’s greed for fresh information to hasten its downfall.–ed.)

Nautica Palais

by Everett Kinski

I was out in the middle of the ocean anyway so I just dove in and swam strait down until I reached the bottom and My Dick was in the water, you know I mean all of me was in the water…way under the water, but anyway my dick was in the water too.

Then I just sucked up all of the water in the ocean with my dick I sucked it all up, all the briny water, the fish, the whales, the green sludge, the boats, the nets, the submarines, EVERYTHING But I didn’t get any bigger because I am some sort of hyperspace pelvic box and EVERYTHING will fit in there just fine.

Anyway, I had taken this big hit and I just sat there for a while with my dick dragging in the newly exposed salty mud with a few tiny shrimp shyly exploring my hairy nut sack with their delicate antenna.

After I supposed that the oceans of the world had circulated around in that endless place enough I opened the gate of my loins and just took the biggest piss ever and within a few minutes EVERYTHING was back to normal with little men on little boats and plankton and sharks and reefs and all that.

Floating, Aching…

by Everett Kinski

Covered in thick velvet ropes, I found you so inviting, yet, as I approached you stared me down and forced me to slowly back away.

Anchored, Resilient!

by Everett Kinski

Spent after the longest of nights when you found the ease to request all that you had been denied before.

(Everett Kinski could be considered the most mainstream of the non-adherent artists up until 1988.  He was an adjunct professor at a small private college in Oregon at a time when most non-adherents were dishwashers or pizza delivery drivers.  But, in June of 1988, Kinski abruptly quit his job, hitch-hiked to Seattle and set himself on fire at the grand opening of a brand new Starbuck’s.  All of his work except for the above was lost with him.–ed.)

Fear Ray

by Claudia Lee

Everybody in the bank grew silent as I walked in via the very tall doors. All of the business of the world came to a halt and all heads swiveled on their swivelnecks to catch me in the frame of vision.

At once, the patrons and the bankers started to shimmer, to shake imperceptibly and I heard many gasps and sobs.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said

“I forgot to turn off my Fear Ray.”

A simple click and all was forgotten as the hubbub resumed and I took my place in line.

Sammy the Idiot

by Claudia Lee

I often got frustrated with Sammy but I always convinced myself to forgive because Sammy was an idiot and it just wasn’t his fault by any meaning of that loaded term.

Exasperated at the

    broken dishes

    dashed hopes

    shattered promises

    emptied accounts

    inbred relatives

    professional wrestling

    low-rider trucks

    and inappropriate urination,

I started to get mean and I eventually tricked Sammy into killing himself but I convinced myself to forgive because I am a psychopath and it just wasn’t my fault by any meaning of that loaded term.

Yo Soy Gringa

by Claudia Lee

We were so terribly in love that it was painful in the belly when we were apart. I would cling to you like a bramble when you wanted to step away for a moment, but gradually we began to trust that our benign little universe would smash us together again after a short absence.

Even if you were only gone for a few minutes I started to fantasize about how I would greet you when you walked back through the door.

It was often fun….naughty.

One afternoon you begged me to go to the lake with your buddies so that we could all have a grand time cooking weenies and getting high.

When I expressed my disinterest in the plan, you called me a bitch and slammed the door on your way out.

The spell was broken.

Oh, I continued to play along like I still cared.  I accepted your tearful beer/pot apology when you finally got home that night.  We still did it.

Over the ensuing couple of weeks, you felt like everything was JUST FINE.

Then, late one night, while your chest was rising up and down so deeply, I leaned over you and (as I thought “Maybe I am a bitch but that doesn’t mean you have to say so”) smashed your angelic face with a dark red brick over and over and over until you didn’t look so lovely at all any more.

I hopped a plane and seamlessly blended in to the urban sprawl of La Paz for a few years.

My Spanish is now perfect.

(The above marked the end of a period of very “angry” poems by this author.  Although all of the events were fictional, one can easily see the underlying hate of this work.  Below, you will find the beginning of a body of transcendent musings which move beyond the dichotomies of love/hate, alive/dead, etc.  No one is sure what triggered the change in Claudia Lee’s work.–ed.)

the sky is so wide

by Claudia Lee

there was nothing better to do

(as if there ever IS)

so i ran along the earth

so that the world could get used

to my running

maybe even get

a little complacent

and then

rather than just running along the ground

i changed my angle a bit

so that

my feet started to clutch the air

(traction is so important)

and while the world was not looking

Tommy Tickledick sells his soul.
Tommy Tickledick sells his soul.

i started to dash into the air

and i ran around in the sky

and there was nothing that the

world could do about it

because

i knew how to make it happen now

and i was going to run straight up

into the sky

anytime i felt like it

and i felt like it all

of the

time

because i wanted to sniff

lightning ozone

and braid rainbows

and chase hawks

and get dizzy

from being so

high

 

red

by Claudia Lee

yes, i see your masque

of hate

but it doesn’t matter

because i know that

you are beautiful

underneath

because

so am i

even your violence,

your thrashing,

your pores clogged with filth,

your boils

will all fall away with a flicker

once you forget

to be angry

 

jobsac,

You must be empty to do the miraculous.

You must be miraculous to do the empty.

There is hope for the youth of this nation.

Last night I rode with Yvonne and Alison to OKC and back.  We also visited Yvonne’s brother David. In his room, he had Ayn Rand’s book about capitalism, the Tao Te Ching, and a Kafka collection.  I told Y and A about the insult intensifyers and they think that this is incredibly funny.  Now I can’t get them to stop doing it.  I also told them about the carrot coming out of the ground with “Mars, Bringer of War” as the soundtrack.  They thought that this was hilarious.  We had an impromptu haiku competition on I-35.

I told them that it would be fun to throw a hand grenade into the pickup bed of an asshole driver.  Yvonne said that that idea was demented.  I said, “No, demented would be forcing him off of the road so that he had a slight accident–maybe a bit of a concussion–then you drag his bloody but alive body out of his truck and……..”

They got the point.

We complained about the Baptists a lot, too. My throat is still a bit raw from laughing.

I told them to come to Sunday dinner some time.  I’m sure that they would enjoy reading the green book. There has been a lot of stuff on the aikido list lately about what to do about knife-weilding attackers or people who can punch and kick really well.  Your idea about just running like a sumbitch the moment trouble is apparent shows your correct assessment of the modern landscape and proper self-defense.  I hereby promote you to the rank of pussy willow!  Flee with honor!  (Or at least flee with your life).

These dingbats actually believe that they are going to face down a knife fighter or a karate champ.  If worse came to worse and my exit were blocked, I would try to make the bad guy stumble or trip and then I would flee like a squirrel.  I would like to know the statistics about how many people are cut or shot as they run away.

padweip.

strube,

Countess Melanie certainly didn’t belong in Peenpeen, but there was nobody around to tell her to leave.

God, I would love to face down my moral dilemmas and kick them right in the nuts. I can well imagine their little yellow and grey bodies writhing on the turf as they claw at their throats to get to their testicles….cause I would kick HARD.

This morning, the alarm interrupted an incredibly droll dream I was having about stacking plastic food containers and putting them in the cabinet.

A2 is off to San Antonio.  She borrowed A’s boots and cowgirl hat because she’s going to a ho-down.  Remember what you said about A2’s facile willingness to accept “forced entertainment?”  If you were going to a business meeting in another town where you would hang out with a bunch of strangers, would you ever take boots and a hat so that you could fit right in at the HO DOWN?  Spot the looney.

I have noticed that middle aged female students here at OU are usually stressed out and bitchy.  Maybe it’s because nobody wants them.  Older university students usually think anyone without a PhD who isn’t currently in college is an idiot.  Academia….as if.

It would be so great to just quit when the baby comes.  Maybe we could make that work, I don’t know.

sparkling against the blackness of the evening my own star struggles through the gassy miasma of deep space

acuff.

 

waxy buildup,

“And, alas, my dear Gustav, I lie here on my deathbed, coughing my freaking lungs out, and you have never even given me a proper blow job.”–Kafka’s last words.

“Emily Dickinson….what a hack!”–Jack Ruby’s last words.

“I want to take the wishes of all those hopeless morons out there and transform them into a mystical fantasy forest.  And I’ll have a little cottage in the middle of the forest, and that’s where our innocence will live.  And then I’ll walk through the forest with a flamethrower and I’ll burn every single wish to the ground.  And then I’ll burn the cottage of innocence, too.  THAT would be heaven to me.”–Mother Theresa’s last words.

ah aint reedin’

stubborn mildew.

 

spugnitious,

Surrounded by petulant losers, Franz slowly stuffed his handkerchief back into his breast pocket. The deliberateness of the motion sent the room full of stale Victorian Euro-trash into a fit of desperation.

An imperceptible vibration roused the Mugwumps.

“Oh FUCK, not again!” thought Franz.

In one frenetic moment the room became un-together and the ripping and screaming began.

Gallows were erected in every corner.

Bayonets were fixed.

Franz wept.

The Mugwumps opened their cello cases and produced an array of 24th century weaponry designed to control the bodily functions of others at a range of up to three miles. They had the HeartSplode 2000. They had the Orgasmaflux. They had the Vomiculator. They had four types of hamstring pullers. Cruciflex Home Exercisers were liberally distributed. Franz erected a shield and serpentined into the drawing room. Mildly narcotic secretions dripped from the chandeliers. Forty Brownshirts, all decked out in pink peignoir and black strap-on regalia, emerged from the kitchen. The Stooges began throwing pies.

Disgusted by the spectacle, Franz released the dobermans.

skoom.

The Minimus 7 Letters, Part 2

by Mimimus 7 / M7

grackle,

“I offer nothing but confusion.”–throwing muses

“Spank me!”–kafka

time after time we face a certain esprit d’etat when it comes to our illustrious holidays.  this state of being includes generous quantities of mysticism and cynicism and schism.  never forget that the surface is all there is to it.

“This world never gave me a chance, so I have become a chancre on this sorry world’s wilted penis.”–sartre

Today is the big holiday celebration at Goddard.  We call it a winter party or something equally innocuous so as not to offend anyone (most especially The Witness, who thinks we’re all pagans (I’m proud to be one)).  I hope I don’t get a double enema.  I gave out little bottles of lotion as gifts.  We were at Wal-Mart last night and at least 6 different types of massager (vibrator) were displayed prominently throughout the store as gift ideas.  By our check out line was a display of wet/dry massagers.  Fun in the tub, ladies!  Merry

Orgasmas!

“Winter Wonderland” is playing in our office.  I insert my own lyrics, of course.

mickey.

petard,

lark.

 

ex,

A and I were talking at lunch today about how T just doesn’t seem happy anymore.  I also asserted that Anne’s attempts to get attention simply drive her male friends farther away from her. We all emotionally screwed up joe. Wracked with guilt maybe joe? Lonely and afraid to admit joe? Merry Christmas joe? Dark cloud of dispair hang over group head joe? Maybe not happy till spring joe.

M+T situation explode soon joe.

None of us seem to have any major diseases.

We all have nice places to live.

We all have cars which are capable of taking us all over the Americas.

We are all well insured.

None of us have spouses that regularly send us to the ER.

None of us is likely to watch a child starve in front of us.

We can all read rather well.

We all have access to the miracles of technology.

We rarely seem to work more than forty hours per week.

I guess humans will just create anything to be unhappy about.  What a bunch of whining ingrates we seem to be.

More vapid entertainment so you can create new things to be un-happy about!

One of the main tenets of Western Zen practice is that one should assiduously eliminate all drama from one’s life.

I never wanted to live a thirtysomething episode.

nihlism is better than nothing, i guess,

pro.

 

frankensponge,

Today at work we had the mr. sun coloring contest.  Mine is best, of course, even though I did not draw the bunny of death on the surface of the sun.  No Enterprise neither.

My phrase for the day:  Maximally insignificant.

me cold yesterday, bundle up too much today, get hot

Another good phrase:  Miraculously unworthy.

For sol’s sake, e-mail or call A about your new car!  She wonders aloud every day why you haven’t let us know anything yet. We got our new car stereo yesterday.  It seems like a good deal. Nice sound, good price, etc.

We had our mr. sun coloring contest “to encourage the sun to come out.”  This is the basis for all religion.  All else is elaboration atop this concept.

Just think, so many people get unhappy or dead because of this silliness. If we had our coloring contest 3 or 4 times this year and the sun really did come out every time, a mythology would arise–the power of superstition would appear.  If some bastard came along and led the masses of us at just the right time…..that’s how it all begins.

Later, when the coloring contest failed to work, it would be because “mr. sun is angry.” Those who color best and seem to consistantly bring the sun (though they are probably just good weather forecasters, sitting down to color just before the fog clears) would form the priesthood.

Those who refused to color would be the heretics.  All of the true believers would bitch and moan that if only everyone would color mr. sun like the SUNBOOK says, the world would be just fine and mr. fog would be vanquished once and for all, sundammit! put it in your sung,

count buttula.

 

fir,

This morning I rolled out of bed and said “buh” with such force that car alarms were set off four miles away.

“I will let you down”–sugar ray, from LE JOUVENCEL–the exploits of Jean de Bueil, comrade of Joan d’Arc:

“Those who are not noble by descent are noble by the profession of arms they follow, which is noble in itself.  I tell you that as soon as a man-at-arms has a helmet on his head, he is noble, noble enough to fight a king.  Arms ennoble a man, whoever he may be.”

This was all before guns, of course.

Are guns ennobling?

Is ANY weapon ennobling?

If so, then nobility is quite cheap nowadays.

In de Bueil’s time, a broadsword and helmet would cost the equivalent of $12,000 in today’s currency.  So, Billy Bob de Chacon wasn’t going to le Wal Mart and buying a weapon for the equivalent of a week’s pay, as he does today.

Broadswords don’t kill people, people kill people.

At least in that time, it wasn’t so easy.  First, you had to catch them, then you had to hack them down.  So maybe it was a bit ennobling.  Probably, to kill somebody with a broadsword you had to be relatively sober, unlike today where guns and booze/drugs are a very deadly combination.

When I was 12, I had loaded weapons pointed at me twice.  I was lucky to survive.  I didn’t see the wielder as noble. Peasant in shit fields looks up just in time to see member of the King’s Constabulary run his wife through with a hand and a half sword.  Peasant’s last thought as sword turns on him:  “How noble he is!”

I guess the perception on nobility has everything to do with which side of the blade you are facing.

imipramine,

hollyhock.

 

rim,

File along the facade of the beach.  Propagate facile misunderstandings and hurtful dalliances.  Push it all down in some sort of horrid backhanded fashion.

Quickly now!  Bring this drama to its crashing end!

The accusations, the tears, the dust of the future swept outside.

Of course, it couldn’t end with a bang.  It only gets fretfully whittled away by whimper after whimper after whimper.  A house divided by whimpers and by grunts of stolen ecstasy cannot stand.

Another shard of hell on earth–when lovers decide to destroy each other.

Adultress and Cuckold sittin’ in a tree, H-I-S-S-I-N-G.

As I’ve said before, I never wanted to live an episode of thirtysomething….nor do I want to watch anyone else live that episode.

sadbuttrue,

lip.

 

mimetic,

almost maroon, really….

Some days, I feel as if I might pass out from the sheer exuberance of our (b)anal celebrations, little celebrations each day poking up through the mesh our higher dream downtrodden, forbidden, taboo out of the mud, came a great shout it became louder as mire was cleared from the shouter’s mouth a sputter… then, clearly “Pick me up!”

I eagerly waded into the filth to rescue my forgotten hero.  Across the slog I flew. Soon, I came upon that familiar face his mailman’s uniform was barely recognizable under the mud but, yes, it was Charlie, my imaginary friend, who I had not seen for 25 years

“Get me outta here!” he cried.

I pulled his hollow body out of the sucking filth; he was lighter than ever…. I threw him over my shoulder and worked my way to the nearest dry patch

I murmured “my treasure” as I hosed him off. Soon, he was sparkling–as mud clings only loosely to imagination.

“Let’s get to work, kid!” he said as he donned his postman’s hat.

The above was Canto #53 from Miminus Seven’s masterwork,

"I want it, I want it, I want it, I want it (you can't have it)"
“I want it, I want it, I want it, I want it (you can’t have it)”

SHARDS OF HELL.

In M7’s poem, Charlie the imaginary friend simultaneously represents the inner child and the superego.  M7 finds both concepts to be savage and deplorable. How can one person have all of these complexes or personalities within them?  It smacks of demonic posession!  M7 lumps Freud and

Jung in with the “witch doctors” of Sierra Leone.  Both groups, psychoanalysts and witch doctors, have their useless talismans.

One gets the feeling that by rescuing the imaginary friend from the muck, one has actually disinterred Satan. SHARDS OF HELL has stylistic similarities to Tom Waits’ brilliant BONE MACHINE, which could easily be entitled SHARDS OF HELL itself.

Vignettes from BONE MACHINE include a man who everybody fears, a man who attempts suicide, the murderous cover-ups of a rural town, a parolee who drives out west to star in movies, a drunk who proclaims, “Jesus gonna be here soon”, a man who swears he’ll leave his hometown but he never does, and an affair with a wanton woman.

Thus, every track is about someone’s personal hell.

Satan…..as if.

Knowledge is a pitfall, bring your grappling hook.

hell, hell, i hate that smell, everyone there has something to sell

hell, hell, downward i fell, forevermore i have this story to tell

hell, hell, i can hear the bell…as i fall farther i begin to yell

Even the tiniest speck of dust can make a big man sneeze.

Someday, my words will get out into the world and trash the whole immune system.  When anyone asks “What is your writing style?”  I will say, “RETROVIRUS!”

Burn!

“Satan always likes to have some turds laying around.”–bahthed

eidos.

 

stabber,

the naked butt of doctor 13 is broken     it has a crack in it

I would like to get a business license from the plutocratical bureaucracy and open a shoppe which is designed from the beginning to fail.  The store would be called  UNFILTERED MONKEY EXCREMENT and I would practice truth in advertising.

New grocery store product sticker:  NOW ASBESTOS FREE!! I also want to get stickers which say FAT FREE and put them exclusively on non-food items like bug spray and diapers.

“The contemporary economy must be stopped.  We must push this anti-christ into space before it devours every decent one of us.” -Trillian Drood, address to Rotarian Club of Overland Park, Kansas.

“Every product or service that is the result of your influence is a petal in the great sunflower of our eventual destruction.  Death, as it were, is created by each one of us, every day, by our busy little monkey hands and our busy little monkey minds.” -Trillian Drood,  ON THE CUSP OF DERANGEMENT, pg 842.

“The problem, you see, boils down to money.  Until you recognize that, you are all a bunch of fucking idiots.” -Trillian Drood, Letter to UN Security Council.

“I know of no scholar of religion that has made this point before, but have you ever considered that every major religious movement since the time of Rama has insisted that the adept remove himself or herself from the clutches of the local economy?  Buddhist monks still travel with no possessions nor pockets in which to store possessions. The Hindu devotee feels compelled to burn herself upon a pyre if she comes into physical contact with money.  When you hear the word “monk” does wealth come to mind?  The early Christians were encouraged to give all of their possessions to the poor.  They wanted to travel as lightly as possible so that their ascent would be all the more rapid.  Now, two thousand years later, money IS God.  We are all inexorably tied to the production of wealth and we are all committed to dragging the few innocents who are left down with us.” -Trillian Drood, PAINFUL SYMMETRY:  THE AGONY OF WEALTH, pg. 1207.

“In my previous work, I had decried the human qualities of greed, fear, and insecurity as they relate to our modern world economy.  I have blamed us for every heresy from the destruction of the rainforests to the inescapable ennui of modern urban existence.

These evils still exist, but I have now reformed my thinking.  The problem is not within humanity itself, but in the evil reality of money.  I have stumbled upon a truth that is so pervasive as to be transparent as air.  THE TRUTH:  Money itself is the evil and we are but its servants.  Humanity is but the vector for money/wealth/economy which is a SPECIES UNTO ITSELF.  Money is as alive as you or me.  Money is evil.  We are but its all-too-grateful pawns.  We have been duped and it is high time we rise up and slay the dragon.”–Trillian Drood, THE ELIMINATRIX, from the introduction.

“Junk meets trash in a chemical kiss, TV poison tastes like this.” -Jesus and Mary Chain.

nipper.

 

debris,

“He worships god with acid.”–dad can dance {“Dead” Can Dance}

Many questions come to mind recently.

Can a technology or an idea be inherently evil?

        examples:  guns, communism, computers, TV

Are we being systematically numbed and dumbed by the extant media?

Are symbol and reality equivalent?

Are idea and execution equivalent?

What is the relevance of art?

Does the term “reality” have any inherent dialogical value?

Is anything not subjective?

Do the answers to questions matter more than the honest process of developing answers?

Is life bad for us? in the best tradition of a grandiose corpse,

rubble.

 

blither,

There is no cause for a snit.

We were forewarned, but we simply don’t remember it once we are born.

Lately my life has been one depressing theater of mucous transport.

I’m thick…I mean sick.

“I wanna die just like JFK.  I wanna die on a sunny day.” -jesus/mary/chain

My coworker has been playing her radio lately.  I don’t know what station she plays, but that Bette Midler “Hero” song is on about once every two hours.  They have lots and lots of Chicago as well.  suck.

If only the drunk old hermit by the lake would remain a hermit, then everything would be OK.

It was a store much like any other.  Fritz was constantly glazing his donut in the back room.  The dinging often interrupted him.

Lately…many visions of pulling pins and casually tossing grenades through open car windows.

Shrapnel only hurts if you are convinced of your own concreteness.

spyook!

grimble.

 

glom,

Ingrates, one and all.  They tussle with the gristle.  While they chew away, they have their eyes closed so that they don’t get grease in the eye.  Because their eyes are closed, they are blind and stupid.  Because they have gristle clasped in their teeth, their words come out twisted and unintelligible.

They try me.

Never pontificate for real, OK?  It should always just be a big joke.

You know about photography, but I never hear you go on and on about it.  For the amateurish or the dilettante, they live to talk about a bunch of stuff that they have never REALLY experienced.  But, a guy like you, who has done it, who KNOWS the perfect shutter speed for shooting horrible accidents on an overcast January morning…you have done it, no need to ramble on.  As Lao Tsu  states again and again in Tao Te Ching, those who can’t DO, speak about it and those who DO keep their fucking mouths shut.

Chattering away like a squirrel monkey,

accrete.

 

amazulu,

“Ashes to ashes, funk to funky, Vyv is now a video head and Neil’s wearing a dress because some really serious negative vibe merchant boarded up his bedroom.  Only pop music can save them now.” –The Young Ones

My, my, but every single episode of The Young Ones was totally brilliant.  Even just reading the scripts on the internet is a riot. I am constantly at war with non-team players.  Fuck them.  From an evolutionary standpoint, the non-team player gets run down by the pack of wolves.  The alpha male gets to do the non-team player up the ass as the alpha female rips the ntp’s throat out.

Wolves are just like that sometimes.

More bad music all day.  Much Kenny G.  Much Chicago.  Much Air Supply.  Every single fucking song off of Dirty Dancing.  Every day, the same 40 or 50 songs.  How can my cute little co-worker be so shallow?  Perhaps it’s time for Loudass Martin’s Memorial Nine Inch Nails Marathon Blow-Out.  My god, the music on this station is horrible.  How can such bad art propagate?  Shouldn’t the weak fall by the wayside?

The bad thing about money is that it allows the shallow and the weak to influence the course of evolution.  Wealth does not equal fitness!

I’ve been in a kick-ass mood lately.  I’ve just been hoping for some buttwipe to mouth off to me.  I want to throw consequences to the wind and cause some damage.

Many people think that the martial arts-especially aikido-foster a peaceful attitude.  It is true that good training will actually reduce the aggressiveness of most people.  This is simply because we recognize that the taunts of nebbishes are small kimchi and small kimchi is not worth sweating over (unless it has been buried in the back yard for too long).

But, few of us are pacifists.  I can’t imagine many of the high- ranking practitioners I know backing down from a fight.  They don’t pick fights, but when pushed, they will wreck the buttwipe and his ugly dog, too.

The REAL deal is that we learn to ethically maim and slaughter and then return to a semblance of normal life without any PTSD or Vietnam Vet syndrome, etc.

Did I tell you that my Dad got a DUI after pulling onto hwy. 99 even though another person’s vehicle was occupying the space he was trying to pull in to?  He might be jailed for a while.  What a hack.  Just like that fucking Möbius.

When I bitch and moan about drunks and alcoholism and driving, etc., if someone complains that I don’t understand, or that I should be more compassionate,…..well….fuck them too.

umpteen and broomshankar, comrade,

the damned.

 

prynne,

Are our cycles not maddening?  Should our struggle be to escape these cycles, or to decorate them and shore them up as one would an old house? Is the function of art to pry us loose from the everydayness or to wallpaper over the rougher spots in our old drafty house?

Will people still buy blank paper journals 50 years from now? I think that much of art in the last few decades has been focused on prying humans loose from the everydayness….of expanding boundaries, etc.  Unfortunately, much of this has devolved into whining a la Andy Worhol, Robert Smith, Anne Rice, Trent Reznor.

I believe that we need to stop trying to find ourselves!  Here we are!  It doesn’t take decades to figure this out.  I am tired of art–pop or otherwise–which is nothing but a snapshot of the inside of the artist’s mind.  Of course I realize that it can be no other way.

All art must be subjective…the artist can only produce from his or her OWN viewpoint.

But, art has devolved to the point where the artist puts inner thoughts and feelings into the medium and then DARES the audience or the consumer to try and figure it out.  It seems that the modern artist is the equivalent of the teenager who sits sobbing in her room, crying “You just don’t understand me!”

Perhaps there are many who are expressive about a larger section of humanity or of the universe but these artists are simply not popular–not seen, not heard, not considered, dying unknown, only to be discovered a century later and declared a clarion call of the new order which will also eventually become twisted, stale, and annoying.

In modern architecture, edifices are built to be appreciated while driving on the freeway at 70 mph.  Of course, on a human scale, close up, these buildings are supremely ugly.  I contend that almost everything else in our society is built to be enjoyed in the car or from the car at 70 mph.

2 things:

“Specialization is for insects.”–Robert Heinlein (sp?)

I just read in the book you bought me about a gas station in Iowa that has a tiny corn patch between the gas pumps.  They grow corn there every year, on a space the size of an ironing board.  People come from miles around to see it.  A grillion acres of corn all around and people are attracted to this *representation* of an Iowa corn field in an odd location.  This is certainly high art.

I think that we have seriously underestimated the importance of lifeSTYLE.

“The more the technique of painting improves, the weaker our eyes get.  The instrument damages the organs.”–Kafka, by janouch

huey.

 

spung,

            PERMANENT LUNCH

Found in a bog down by my new home

    a source

It may be slimy, but I think

    that the micronutrients make

    all of the

    retching worthwhile

Best of all,

    it’s Cruelty Free!

(Except for the consumer

who is treated

rather cruelly indeed)

#########**************)))))))))(((((((((((@@@@@@@@@@###########

“It wasn’t designed to cut human flesh.”–a thought I had about 10 minutes ago as I gazed at an X-acto knife in that art supply shop next to Misal of India.

Perhaps if we typed up all the junk that spews out of our heads and hands, photocopied it, and sent it to random addresses around the world, a greater good would be served.

The world is my scapegoat.  I shall not flaunt.

The problem is that most people want money for what they produce.

Whatever happened to creating for the greater glory of god\s?

A grand exposition of what the power of the ego is woefully incapable of accomplishing.  (my current definition of modern culture)

Grand ideas are rarely fueled by full stomachs.  This is why the most powerful and relevant work arises from the second and third world, or the backwaters and ghettos of the industrialized West.  Also, the immigrant/outsider living within the belly of a country like the US can do great things because he or she is hungry and at a skewed angle from the flow of the herd.

K. didn’t “belong” in Praha.

N. didn’t “belong” in Switzerland.

Adams didn’t “belong” in New Mexico.

Conrad didn’t “belong” in Africa or W. Europe.

London didn’t “belong” in Alaska.

Hemingway didn’t “belong” in Spain.

Burroughs didn’t “belong” in New York or Tangiers or….Interzone.

Jews will often become great because they don’t “belong” more often than any other people.

I have often found it strange that, as a whole, Vietnam vets didn’t fare better as artists, poets, philosophers, prognosticators, priests.  Perhaps we concentrated too much on the Americanization of Vietnam and too little on the Vietnamization of GI JOE.  Of course, the average vet probably saw no reason to learn a damn thing from the natives.  One would think that a significant number of them would have integrated some portion of the experience into a creative venue. But, they have been encouraged so much to forget.

A sparkle of faith. If one thinks that one’s output if bad because nobody seems to like it, then it is time to withdraw. If one does not care who likes, who hates it is time to forge ahead.

apply pressure,

glint.

 

nuthatch,

…on the other hand, those arts which are indigenous or home grown are often considered as well.  Even though the “rooted” artist may not have travelled to exotic lands, this does not mean that the artist in his or her own gravity well is not a wanderer.  When we move beyond the level of clan culture (where everyone is an artist) to civilization (where artists are separated), we find that the artist undertakes certain vices or disciplines to enact a separation between the artist and the society at large.

Thus, we have the birth of subculture.  Artistic subculture feeds upon the energy, the funds, and the leftovers of the culture at large.  In the 19th and 20th centuries, artistic subcultures are aligned against, yet dependant upon, the bourgeoisie.

In the more “primitive” culture, the artist will undergo certain disciplines or rites which will allow him or her to enter the artistic mindset.  In the more “advanced” culture, within the bosom of modern civilization, the artist will undergo sexual practices and patterns of drug and alcohol use which will forever separate him or her from society at large.  All of this can be done without ever leaving home.

HA!

In fact, everything that we undertake is for the purpose of furthering our illusions.

So why DO anything?

I suppose that illusion is just our birthright.

Well, it’s Jesus Awareness Week, and boy are my arms tired!

it’s a free concert now

Perhaps TV is the equivalent of dropping one’s trousers, bending over at the waist, and spreading one’s cheeks apart.

herbert,

warbler.

 

nleek,

frottage:  rubbing up against somebody (usually in a crowd) as a means of obtaining sexual pleasure.  A person displaying this sexual deviation is called a frotteur. proctalgia:  pain in the rectum or anus.  In proctalgia fugax severe pain suddenly affects the rectum and may last for minutes or hours; attacks may be days or months apart.  There is no structural disease and the pain is probably due to muscle spasm.  Relief is sometimes obtained from a bowel movement, inserting a finger into the rectum, or from a hot bath. logorrhea:  a rapid flow of voluble speech, often with incoherence, such as encountered in mania.

so much can go wrong,

phlenn.

 

flatucles,

A brand new DAWN….another spin on the axis.

Frozen Hippie Man slowly eases out of his Microbus.

I am infatuated by F.H.M. now.  I can’t stop thinking about him, picturing him, piercing the density of hash-addled consciousness, fingering his hemp sandals, tuning his guitar, combing his beard…..

Frozen Hippie Man has created a very tasty cannabis granola for breakfast.

Frozen Hippie Man owns a bong made from the hollowed-out skull of an 18th century Tibetan Lama.

Frozen Hippie Man owns an original script of THE TRIP signed by Peter Fonda.

Frozen Hippie Man calls everyone “man” whether they are male or female, human or not.

Frozen Hippie Man spent the Reagan years in Copenhagen.

“Jimi Hendrix pissed on that.”–Neil, The Young Ones

pootius rex.

 

pletsch,

Frozen Hippie Man wasn’t at Woodstock, but he thinks he was.

Frozen Hippie Man was in Chicago during the 1968 Democratic Convention.  He doesn’t remember being clubbed in the head by a mounted policeman, but he does remember the exact taste and smell of the weed he scored off of a Black Panther trying to raise enough bread for bus fare back to Pittsburgh, MAN.

Frozen Hippie Man was a roadie for BTO.

When Frozen Hippie Man was a film student at Cal Berkeley, he did a paper on the differences in perception between watching THE BICYCLE THIEF while stoned on hash versus watching it while tripping on LSD.

Frozen Hippie Man tried cocaine, once.  He found it “way too, like, un-mellow, man.”

Frozen Hippie Man is this nation’s most important repository of cannabis brownie recipes.

Frozen Hippie Man remembers every detail of each of the 8,497 places he has ever stashed his weed.

Frozen Hippie Man is a lactose-intolerant vegetarian.

Frozen Hippie Man has gotten his ass kicked many times in his life, but he makes up for it by screwing a lot of skanks who would do nearly anything for a joint.

Frozen Hippie Man never wears a condom.

In a certain light, Frozen Hippie Man bears a striking resemblance to Jesus Christ.

Frozen Hippie Man was the lighting director for the 1977 production of HAIR staged in Bozeman, Montana.

—-You know, this is getting depressing.  I’m making up this character who is a complete loser but he’s had a more interesting life than I have!

schtupp.

The Minimus 7 Letters, Part 1

By Minimus 7 / M7

shteb,

replicants all around me, where is Deckard when we need him?

tongue of silver, heart of pain

I have escaped my fear of MEANING.  It was about time.  It is so difficult to lose the fear of a thing which doesn’t even exist.

Existence implies effect….except when you watch TV…..then you leave nary a ripple……remote controlled nirvana……extinction with the stab of a {POWER} key.

Mercury may have been debunked as a cure for syphilis but one must admit that the mercury poisoning takes the mind off of the lesions.

I held the squirrel to my ear but I did not hear the ocean.

I am weary of serving this society.

Make new friends, but keep the old one is silver and the other gold; pile up friends around your feet because we can never have too many friends so don’t lose old friends, but seek new ones too!  we must be surrounded by as many people as possible until we have to take up the axe and just start swinging because too many friends just pisses a guy off, you know?!!!  the song implies NO limit to the number of friends!  what shallow cunt penned this idiocy?

i have to get out of here,

hugh japrick.

 

wag,

What the hell does cotton-eyed mean?  It sounds frankly disgusting. Perhaps cotton-eyed Joe is a hillbilly code word for the male pee hole (meatus).

the fiddle, the banjo, the washboard, the shotgun, glistening puddles of inbred gore

Lucky me, Nerdlinger has called me twice today.  He is just as charming on the phone as he is in person.

There are somewhere near 1 million aikido practitioners in the world. According to an article I read the other day, there are only about 15,000 jodo practitioners in the world.  I found this shocking as I thought that there were more.  Also, I’m sure that the great majority of these 15,000 actually have aikido, karate-do, or kendo as their main art.

The reason that this number disturbs me is that I instantly formulated the following list of categories which include more than 15,000 people in the US alone:

  • charismatic snake handlers
  • private owners of one or more grenade launchers
  • people who have had sex with an animal in the last week
  • people in jail for killing with their bare hands
  • doctors who specialize in cosmetic surgery
  • homeless bemedalled veterans

Now, I would love to take these homeless bemedalled vets and teach them jodo.  Maybe they won’t get roughed up in the parks and alleys of America if they can shove a four foot length of oak up some punk’s ass.  (Officer, it’s just my walking stick!)  As a colleague of Joan of Arc said, arms automatically ennoble a man to where they will fight even a king!

It’s OK to have a low number of people doing jo.  I don’t think it’s in any danger of fading away.  But, it sure doesn’t hold the average person’s interest as aikido does.  Aikido lends itself to fantasies of taking out five thugs in some parking lot.  Jodo is so close to real combat (psychologically) that no fantasies are necessary.  Old martial arts (koryu) did not necessarily develop training methods which were intended to expose the student to a wide range of battlefield scenarios.  They did, however, develop specific ways of psychologically preparing the warrior for close-quarters combat.  Let me tell you, having a big piece of wood hurtling at my face only to stop a centimeter from my eye provides a big pucker factor. Plus the times I have actually been hit have only been light accidental taps–and they hurt like hell!

So, this psychological factor of facing naked danger in every practice tends to discourage the faint of heart.  What a rush, though!

“Those guys are fags!”–Jeff Spicoli

In my case, I’m not sure which particular guys those may be, but generally, they are the ones who are always going on about combat reality and street fighting although they would wet their pants upon seeing a fist clenched in anger or a large man with a knife.  In other words, dilettantes, dabblers, and blowhards. The true way is the way which cannot be spoken.

twist.

spilt,

As I was walking back from lunch, a big noise erupted out of the sky and lo and behold there was a B-1 bomber flying overhead.  It was travelling West–on it’s way to wipe Hawaii off of the map, I’m sure.

Yesterday I rode right past Nerdlinger as I biked home.  He was walking toward me, definitely saw me and did not say anything or make move one when I said hello.  He completely dissed me!  Then, about 40 minutes later, I was lying on my living room floor reading Pascal Krieger’s outstanding jodo book when the cordless next to me rang.  I picked it up and the voice said, “Hello David, it’s me.”  I expected him to tell me how he didn’t recognize me in my sunglasses or some such, but he didn’t mention snubbing me at all.

Instead, he said, “Are you busy?”  I said, “Yes, why?”  He said, “I just wanted to talk to somebody about my relationship with M, other than her, of course.”  I should have said “what relationship?” but instead I said, “Well, A and I are about to leave for OKC, so I won’t be able to talk with you.”

Of course, the above can’t convey the shakiness in his 8th grade demeanor or the long uncomfortable pauses he insists on inserting into phone conversations.  I’m getting very tired of him.  I’m beginning to entertain cruel fantasies.  I invite them into my hotel room and get them drunk so that they will reveal their terrible secrets.

He’s like a limping, confused baby antelope on the savannah.  He lies down and hangs his slobbering head.  I am a black fuzzy spider.  I climb to the top of a grass blade and leap two feet onto the antelope’s neck.  I sink my fangs in, injecting an unknown-to-science venom which combines the best attributes of Botulism, Rift Valley Fever, and Colon Blow Disease.  I do this not to feed upon him, for I prefer snails.  I do this as a part of the planetary immune system.

The foreign entity was spotted and I was sent by the grocer to deliver the bill.  The buzzards are circling.

acitore,

split.

 

tonus,

“I’m going all the way down, I’m leaving today.”–nin

A called me Tuesday night, after her surgery.  She said it went well and the most uncomfortable part was the tickle as they would brush past her eyelashes.  I got a message from N last night that she had talked to A after the day-after check-up.  N said that A’s vision tests at 20/20 now!

This is going to be weird.  I’m expecting her to walk up to me in the airport, squint, and then say, “I thought you were better looking.”

I guess I have lost part of my relationship identity as “the good-sighted one.”  No more hilarious mistakes like “chicken bouquet.”

And, you are right, it is quite awesome when one considers that we can just “fix” a person’s vision now.  Later, I’m sure that the cost of the procedure will fall and many more people will take advantage of it.  A is going to bring us before and after topographical maps of her cornea.

I get the feeling that my subconscious is chewing on some sort of important information and that at some point a nugget of wisdom will shuffle out onto the dimly-lit stage of my consciousness without fanfare.  I have a recurring visual and somatic image of a whipping type of sword cut that begins behind the head combined with a simultaneous lowering of the body by bending the knees.  It just started up a couple of days ago, and I feel/see it several hundred times a day.  I have copied the action physically, but I haven’t gotten rid of the spectre.

It is interesting to note that most medieval schools of Japanese martial arts were started when the founder retired to a shinto temple until he had a vision or a revelation which showed him the central principle of the school. In some cases, warriors went up on a mountain and received instruction from Tengu, or mountain goblins. In the case of the old system that we are involved in, the Shinto Muso Ryu, the founder, Gonnosuke Muso, went up a mountain to a temple and ensconced himself there for 36 days.  He then had a vision where an angelic youth gave him a message about the end of a log, which he interpreted to be an instruction regarding the jo-a four foot staff.

The exact message is unclear and can be interpreted in several different ways.  In any case, this recurring feeling/vision which I have been having could be interpreted as a vision from beyond if I were in the medieval mindset.  The problem is, what the hell does it mean?  I think it has something to do with the hips and gravity.  The fun part is, after I start my own martial tradition, I get to travel around and prove its worth through training sessions and duels with warriors of other traditions–this is called MUSHA SHUGYO.

Though they rub their legs together, it is still called singing.

rictus.

 

druse,

fallopian and wandering

a lusty finger

a flick of dried mucus

there stood the dream

outlined in purple

there was no escaping it

my viewpoints were a-titter

a chattering bird,

a pontificating monkey

and a moist beaver

walk into the bar

all heads smash to the floor

from the rapid decompression

caused by the complete evacuation

of any sanity from the room

a round of mescaline

on the house.

lapdog of proletariat,

shi’a.

 

smash,

gutless isotopes and wandering jews do not a subculture make

“Step inside.  Surprise!  Lies!”–nin

no surprise at all to me, Trent.  i guess it rhymes ok, though

Enormous dogs taking a dump with bright red erection, by anonymous.
Enormous dogs taking a dump with bright red erection, by anonymous.

Well, since so many have made such a tremendous pretense of knowing what they are talking about, now we can’t tell who the wise people are.  I think that they all got fed up and went back to Geidi Prime.

SUTRA OF THE FLESH VALLEY

by Buttmaster Ingrid

I sing the body fantastic

    no room for error

    a delicate operation

There is no perversion

    all flesh is equal

    only the accelerated fist is rabid

There is no Law

    sentient rules are by nature shallow

    only the wind way abides

There is no disgust

    who can be embarassed once dead?

    the water mingles freely with the Earth and the Sky

There is no preference

    all orifices are equal

    all flesh may quiver

Multiple portals abound

    holes are meant to be filled

    the body is rife with protrusion

Of course, in the original dialect of the 38th Dynasty, it is quite a bit more beautiful and lyrical.

When we were driving home last night, we ran into many bugs.  A said, “all these bugs commiting suicide….country bugs will never make it to the city.”

whatmore,

grab.

 

cuttlefish,

“And I didn’t even need to stop.  I just kept on going.”–hendrix

Herbert had no preconceptions about the details of his demise. The only fact that he needed to entertain was that he was definitely going to die and that it was definitely going to be painful.

When he had awoken in his small pink cell on this ubiquitous spring morning, he had no idea whether this was, in fact, to be the day.  Prisoners never knew when their numbers were up.  They only realized that they were doomed.

Herbert had been dragged out of bed about three weeks before by the leather-clad JP–the Joy Police.  Some of their full-length leather jumpsuits were teal, some were canary, all were festive.  The member of the JP who stood over Herbert’s bed as he groggily sat up happened to be wearing a lime green jumpsuit with wide epaulets.

“Good Morning!” the cheery bastard lisped nellily.  Then Herbert had a large sack thrown over his head and he woke up in his brightly lit pink cell. Little had happened since then.

He got three meals a day, two showers a week, and all of the TV he wanted–in fact the huge screen in his cell could not be turned off or muted, though Herbert could switch the channels.  Herbert had not received a hearing or trial of any kind, though every citizen knew that the Joy Police never packed anyone off to detention unless ordered to do so by BS, Bliss Sentral.  Every citizen also knew that no one ever emerged from the huge detention block at the edge of the city complex.  Herbert knew that all of his friends and his coworkers would have simply written him off as a goner, though there was no stigma attached to being arrested, as it seemed to be an act of nature rather than a deterrent.

When Herbert saw the door to his cell swing open and a Member of the Sanctified Organ step in, he knew that this was to be the day. The Sanctified Organ was a state-controlled group which ground religion down to its essence.  There was only one ritual within the Sanctified Organ and this was simply known as “The Ritual.”  Nobody ever witnessed The Ritual outside of a state sponsored church other than those who were to be executed in the detention block.

The Ritual simply consisted of the Member raising her right arm to the sky, pointing her left arm to the ground, looking Herbert in the eye, and intoning in a freakish Southern drawl, “You are sinner.  You are forgiven.  Enjoy Paradise after death.”  Then two JP’s led Herbert down a long brightly-lit hall with inclined cement walls, so that Herbert felt like he was walking on the floor of a huge artificial valley.

Herbert and the guards reached the end of the valley where he was escorted into a tubular chamber.  There, he was stripped and strapped to a rack-like device, face down.  The steel rack had a slight tilt so that Herbert’s tush was a bit more elevated than his head.

A viewscreen descended from the ceiling until it stopped directly in Herbert’s line of vision.  When the screen popped to life, he could see the feed from a camera behind him as two JP’s attached a clamp device to Herbert’s buttocks that caused his cheeks to be widely spread.

Herbert shivered as the cold steel caressed his bottom.

When the clamps were firmly in place, the viewscreen showed that a large pair of laser crosshairs were being calibrated and targeted directly on the center of his anus.  Once they were aligned, the viewscreen showed an array of nine objects.

As all of the JP’s left the chamber and sealed the door behind them, Herbert heard a voice over the intercom which somehow seemed to boom and lilt at the same time.  The voice said, “The sacred number of the State is NINE!  NINE be BLESSED!  Our luxury is NINE!  Herbert, there are nine objects on the viewscreen.  Choose only one.  Indicate your choice through verbalization.  NINE!!”

After looking at rotating three-dimensional representations of the rocking chair, the baseball bat, the abacus, the wine bottle, the watermelon, the cat, the roll of barbed wire, the anchor, and the tractor tire for a few more moments, Herbert loudly announced “Watermelon!”

When the word “watermelon” escaped his mouth, Herbert saw a huge door slide away in front of him. By looking in the viewscreen, he saw that he was being provided a live feed of a similar door sliding away to his rear.  It now seemed to Herbert that the tubular chamber was actually only a small part of a giant tube which extended as far as he could see fore and aft.  He continued to watch the viewscreen as a series of images kept repeating themselves.  Herbert soon grew to understand that the “tube” he was in was actually a giant hollow ring far under the earth.  This donut under the ground seemed to be hundreds of miles in diameter.

Suddenly, 20 meters in front of the viewscreen, a large watermelon dropped into the tube and hung motionless in mid-air.  As Herbert watched the new images on the viewscreen, he began to piece it all together.  Finally he understood that he was inside a giant mass accelerator and that the mass of the chosen object would shoot around, accelerating until it reached fantastic speed until it encountered its target, which was currently pinioned under the ruby crossbeams of the targeting laser.

Herbert followed the now blank viewscreen with his eyes as it slowly ascended into the ceiling once again.  Amazingly quickly, the watermelon shot away and was out of sight.  Just as Herbert was about to scream “Why!?”, his query was silenced by the thunk of melon merging with its target.

blooded hands,

coqui.

 

gloryhole,

An ampule of vitriol fell off of the shelf.

The smell of wormwood filled the room.

Reeling with absinthe, I stumble into the rectory.

All of the doors are locked, but I just float on through.

Bloody Scythian poetry dribbles from my lips.

A Dybbuk is crouching in a dense corner.

I explained Nerdlinger’s particulars to Yvonne last night: never had a girlfriend, 29, lives in dorm, teaching asst., sample phone conversation, posture, corporeal proximics.

I never called him a name or presented any info that might sway her eventual independently-arrived-at conclusion that he is a complete loser.

Why don’t you describe his poetry to me?  Does it explain why he is so clinging and pushy about your opinion of it? This guy is like 20 times the deep social idiot that Nietzsche was.

mum in her couth,

glamslam.

 

span,

the still air of an ancient cave is no place to make cabbage rolls

The Gay Junkie Fisting Scene of Santiago, Chile:

Raul had no morals, as he was raised by three old junkies gathered around the rotting corpse of latino fascism.  He had been hustling for food, for money, for attention since he before he could talk. Raul had entertained all of the scams, haunted all of the tourist vistas.  But, today, all of that would recede.

Chichi was her name, but not just because she had big tits.  She had long black curly locks and a rancorous demeanor.  She could cook dope in her sleep and she had never seen a fist she couldn’t swallow with any of three glorious holes.  Ironically, the oral one was the most dangerous.

Lindo always wore white.  His smoothly shaven face allowed full viewing of the numerous small scars on his face.  Feline cunnilingus is not without its dangers.

Esteban captured it all.  In the opinion of others, he was a poet, but to himself he was simply a biographer, a historian, a journalist. Others saw his work as poetry because his opiate-addled consciousness could not express itself in any straight manner.  The sinuous turns of phrase which he employed were quite bland to him, searingly beautiful to others.

Manuel Vega had made his way to junkyville from some Ecuadorian backwater.  As soon as he hit town, he set up a divided-tent glory hole on the edge of a shithole barrio.  He was excellent at his craft, and the pesos came rolling in, but his life never went anywhere because the algebra of need dictated that he invest every peseta he made in a complex and well-defined smack habit.  He wouldn’t even buy food for himself.  The doctors at the free clinic who examined Manuel once a month told him that he only survived because the massive quantities of semen he consumed were full of protein and vitamin C.

Mariela DeRosa had been a fine young woman until the first time her lover Gloria had tied rubber tubing around her arm.  After that, she lived for the fix.  She was usually too dry for her customers, so she could have been the poster girl for “el K-Y.”

floatation crevice,

ditch.

 

blasto,

“Covered in Coke and Vaseline, still cannot fix this broken machine.” -nin

There are advantages to being an incognate blunderfist.  For starters, one never need be bothered by the itching followed by the creasing followed by the oozing.

Fourth of all, there is no sex like the sex one has with Jesus.

We should calculate, in calories, the amount of mental energy each one of us spends sublimating, redirecting or simply holding back anger.

What kind of psychological damage has it done to me when I didn’t chase down that car that almost ran over me and rip the fenders off of it?  By how many years has my life been shortened because I didn’t swing a pickaxe through the heads of every one of those fucks who certainly deserved it?  I have sacrificed for this failed society and I am weary.

I tire of nebbishes slinging pebbles at me.

At one point I must shrug.

sparkle diligently,

fizzo.

 

dash,

A fine mist caresses the greater nuances of the edge-urban sprawl.  A body of geniuses unites and they decide on peppermint.  Tamarinds whorl with delight.

Theme

Attitude

Execution

Divestment

Instead of inflicting any more damage, Ronald decided to give up his thriving insect eradication business in order to concentrate on more sublime affairs–such as the one he was currently having with Nancy the Priestess.

It’s like a blade that simply cannot be dulled.  As for the wide open gashes, well, what can I say other than “apply pressure”?

Loping along merrily, Theodore saw only those colors which screamed the brightest.  He brought his huge hammer fist whistling through the air where it connected with absolutely nothing other than the ass end of his dulled perceptions.  Every day, he stalked around under the I-40 overpass looking for lost cultures in abandoned aluminum.  Once, he found a cracked Timex.  Theodore knew that it wasn’t working, but he took great pleasure in walking into various establishments within the rotted shell of DownTown, laying his gaze lovingly on the cracked face of his treasure, and loudly announcing that the time was “thirteen o’ fuckin’ clock.”  Lately, though, he had stayed out of the local businesses as his pants-dropping maneuver in the local Taco Hell had not gone over so well.  He had been warned.

Don’t worry.  It’ll all be OK.  I won’t make anyone read the crazy words if they don’t want to.  “You are free to do what we say.”  “Do not question.”  “Your excursions into unauthorized areas are not appreciated.”  “Please feel at liberty to peruse the offerings of the new Fall Season–there should be plenty there to keep you occupied.”

“Refrain from introspection, inspection, retrospection, or elocution on fringe subjects.”  “YOU ARE FREE TO DO WHAT WE SAY.”

this is the point,

pinch.

 

st. regis of cunt lick county,

“I have no faith that keeps me from tasting the joys of the world.” -mary my hope

Driven to some sort of technocratic extreme, Impulse Sintral decided that all of the open land shall be sterilized and that all food shall henceforth be naturally hydroponic.

I told my office mates about the “now semen free” and the “microwavable!” food product decals.  They thought it was cool! I think another good decal would be to shrink the image you have pasted in the green notebook and have a motto under it which says “William S. Burroughs approved!”

How the FUCK are we gonna tear this sunbitch down?  Will decals and rude noises do the trick?  Mainstream water sports?  Massive crack habits fed by bestial fisting?  We need a reverse neutron weapon which destroys all the industry and structure but leaves the people standing.  On the other hand….. some dumbass’ll just build it all again.

some folks’ll,

st. lemuel of reacharoundshire.

 

millibar,

michelle controls Sputnik

i am humbled

sky controller

is high priestess

one day, perhaps,

a failed Vulcan death grip

will force her to dangerously

re align orbital paths

space junk rains down

artificial nerves are rendered silent

what’s the weather gonna be like tomorrow?

“And I’m putting out fires with gasoline.”–bowie

one) pouncing trance object

two) jizzmonic fugue device

poopfrau) penile plot twistings

It didn’t seem to move too much, but it was ominously perched all the same.  We didn’t see it coming did we?  It eventually had a life all its own and our stupor was only multiplied.  We were fooling ourselves all along.  Clawless cats climb few trees.

Pulse one pulse two pulse three deeply breathe now.  Hot licks of the precious fluid splatter her backside as she moans in faux agony. After all, she had handled much larger than him.  But the need for drama dictated that she squirm like a pinioned worm about to be dissected. In fact, she barely felt the invasion, but the hypnotic pumping made for a good plot device.

One’s life only gets fatter and fatter as more pressure is applied. Soon enough, the tool is numb as it has been overused.  The thrusting continues, but the numbness makes it an exercise in futility.  No one is getting off this time.  Few ever realize that it is OK to pull out.

slickened walls,

protruding nubs,

pascal.

 

thistle,

“I killed about a million people and it took about half a day.”–cure

He had been drumming up business all day, but his special ampules just weren’t moving.

In NAKED LUNCH, Burroughs refers to doctors as “croakers.”

“Hand in hand is the only way to land and always the right way ’round.”–cure

I pulled an old box out of my closet and found an old cure tape.

Can’t you tell?  I also found many frat pix, some Cheryl pix, and a couple of letters from Joe Buckley that you simply must read.  These letters, dated before I knew any of you, will conclusively prove that I have long courted denizens of the intelligent/psychotic fringe.  I hope that none of my old surreal companions ever “grew up.”

Speaking of surreal, Yvonne and Alison just came by asking for “Steven Martin.”  Oh well, they’ll get braver and cleverer later when they want to try and embarrass me.  Last night, A and I had to explain to them all about the movie phenomenon known as SHAFT.  All sorts of unintended double-entendres then occurred–i.e.  “We were sitting around talking the other night and SHAFT came up.”

the uninterrupted hooting of the gibbons

“Don’t worry, I don’t worship Satan or anything.”–what I said to a girl named Torrie.  She was in my frat room and she sort of looked askance at my Cult subway poster.  She really obviously wanted nothing to do with me.  I don’t think I ever apologized for my decor again.  After all, if apologizing didn’t get me any nookie, why repeat the performance?

Around that time I decided to try and treat women like friends rather than like an audience to be performed for.  “It does not matter if you are ladies, bitches, cunts, whores, nuns, wives or mothers!  You are all equally worthless in my eyes!”  I tend to enjoy the company of a woman who likes being treated like a generic human rather than insisting on being crowned as the carrier of the ova.  Older women tend to hold it against me when I don’t treat them as special because of their gender.  I suppose they would be happier if I were flip, charming, leering and chasing them around trying to pinch their asses.  But, no matter how much they may yearn for the old ways, I refuse to cheapen them.

sex machine to all the chicks,

weed.

 

white hunter,

“Knowing is a farce, gentlemen.  And this farce can do nothing but harm the integral freedom of men.  Therefore, let us create in this world a way in which knowing can never be accomplished.  Let us create an unholy diversion from which the seeking eyes of humanity can never be torn.  Let us engage the world of business and lead them into dire fantasies of efficiency and easy manipulation of symbols.

“To these ends, let us create and unleash the personal computer.” -Chairman Frank Codswiper of IBM, meeting of the Board of Directors, February 3rd, 1967.

“In our world, the absent referent reins supreme.  When our strongest device is something that doesn’t even exist, we have come no farther that the Crusaders or the makers of Ankor Wat.  We are enshrouded in the unreal.  The nexus of the past and the future is not the now, it is the void.” -Charles Kuralt, in TAO OF REVOLUTION

The lives our parents lead, those lives of grandiose assumption, the worship of that terrible god named “progress,” is a cluttered existence–this we cannot deny.  But, we must realize that focusing upon the faults of a nearly dead generation will get us no nearer to our goal.  So, in order to eliminate THE MAN, we must first destroy memory itself!  We must behave as if we are the first generation of humans to grace this planet.  In this way, we can totally forgo any phase of materialistic destruction that an armed revolution would entail.  By a simple change in the structure of our inner relationships, we can simply erase THE MAN from time itself.  If you meet THE MAN on the road, do not kill him!  Simply pretend he is not there. -THE BIND, writing in revolutionary pamphlet entitled “Time and THE MAN.”, distributed to coffeehouses in Berkley, Detroit, and Vancouver in July, 1969.

everything is wrong,

black heart.

 

autoloader,

“I’m afraid of Americans.”–david bowie

The history of one’s life is often seen as a journey.  From a certain perspective, my life can be seen as a slow walk away from America. Taking a ten year slice: 1986:  I drove a metallic baby blue 1968 Chevy Impala.  Each and every part was made in this country.  It had glasspax and it roared like a motherfucker.  It had never seen a catalytic converter or emission controls.  It was made of steel, rubber, vinyl.  Two bodies could be hidden in the trunk. I had three guns in my closet.  Double-barrel, rifle, pistol.  Lots of ammo. I wore a letter jacket and played football.

1996:  I drove a miniscule red Honda which I barely fit into. Hadn’t touched a gun in years. I wore a parka. I did Japanese stuff.

Of course, there are a lot of other details, but you get the gist. I’m starting to think that Americans would not be so charming if we didn’t drive every day or if everyone weren’t packin’ heat.  After all, danger molds us, does it not?  What danger does the average Brit see every day?  Perhaps some thug won’t let them pass on the sidewalk so that they have to step in the mud.  Maybe while walking to the green grocer, a dog will bark at them.

A Chinese person might step on a rock on the way to the rice paddy or maybe the neighbor will yell at them for playing their radio too loud.

In America, anyone who gets in a car cheats death with every mile.  A person can get shot for no reason, or for simply for making eye contact with the wrong character.  Often, people are shot IN their cars.

this makes us crazy

we make war on each other

death is all around us but we won’t acknowledge it

just because we are technologically advanced doesn’t mean

that we aren’t barbarians

face it, without our cars and our guns, we would be as boring as

Austrians or Paraguayans

we are so harsh

we shine beautifully in our simple, insane fashion

“God is an American.”–bowie

cordite,vodka,diesel,rubber&come,

double action.

 

onward,

from the Chlorine Chemistry Council:  98% of all U.S. drinking water systems that disinfect rely on chlorine.  Chlorine use in water disinfection has played a major role in the 50% increase in U.S. life expectancy in this century. Yeah, I want to live in medieval times, sure. Yep, a lone cowpoke out on the range, wouldn’t that be wonderful? I want to be a gladiator! I must be strange, as my fantasy life seems to be stuck in the present.  I just don’t see the romanticism of widespread poverty, wildfire-like epidemics, trephination, illiteracy, etc.

In every era, man looks back over his shoulder, shakes his head, and mutters “I was just born {x} years too late.” This attitude will chase away bliss as surely as a barking dog will chase a rabbit away.

If we accept who we are, and love the times we are in, then the rabbit of happiness will curl up on our laps.

“The time is nigh!  Time to do or die.” -living color

upward.