| These Still Moments |
[Jun. 30th, 2009|07:53 am] |
These still-born again sentences
Simmer silently within ears
Unnoticing everything into a new
Reality
Secret night-shift strollers stop
Screaming smiles back and forth
Over the traffic tornado roll
Under the amber beam
Encased forever in a moment of
Viscous becoming
Unleashed and ensnared with
A word you said I asked
Again say it again and I
Saw the light swirl
Prismatic awareness
Running faster now
Than before this sound
Set off electrical fire
Freeways flowing with
Conflagrations of cornucopia
Congestion gumming up the works
With too many wonderful words
To write down the street
Stumbling in perfect sync
Free falling forward into
Awaiting arms open
At the end of every day
Nocturnes neglect all but the two
Musicians playing night-music
With eyes and finger tips barely
Touching lights alive inside the one
Reeling brain |
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| Commencement |
[Apr. 7th, 2009|06:52 pm] |
Poetry becomes the bedside’s broken heat
Bitch spreading
Legs like white lily pad
Lies floating stagnant—
She was killing my buzz
Anyway, today another lady
Walked with an, on my way,
Attitude about her noticing nothing
Unnatural in the downward-slant trajectory
Staring—
Never too good for love
To save us all again
Forever from fear
Together: amen
In a moment of passing days
Everything equalizes itself within
A single molecule of brain
Matter snot
Sufficiency superceding unstable
Youths engaging in matrimonial
Mistakes early
Brilliant white light wheels
Roll with the cancerous cross train
Cutting promise rings from the dead
Fingers of dim dice-roll decades
Ditch Catholic continuities and the misinformed
Gentrification of life’s commerce
In no particular order
To freebase the brimstone
Stone to the brim and
Free the Bass |
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| Lyrics |
[Dec. 24th, 2008|11:09 pm] |
This message was never supposed to take shape
In carefully worded letters of ambiguous intent
Or to roll off the tip of my tasteless tongue
Dribbling with engorged innuendo
The sounds are only actualized within an unconscious context
Unfolding full-force behind my barometric bifocals
Waiting for any ripple of reserved reciprocation to wrap
Butterfly-wing tornado-arms around our cold shoulders:
Two palms touch shivering nervously--
Only room for error exists around us now
Past mistakes fade out of the mix
As nasty-note nocturnes neglect grammar
In the name of instant gratification
Quick-fix fornication fallacies inject
Senility spirals upwards into a reeling brain
Crashing errant chords against laughing waves
On borrowed time
Miraculous music makes up for my lack of understanding
I will the rain to wash away the remnant husk of heartache
Free me from this fear of falling short
A freedom long overdue rim-shot ruptures the resilient cocoon
Snaring a cornucopia cadence of unrestrained capture
Wear my argyle awareness on your plaid sleeve
Standing alone like a laser-light house defending
Futuristic shores from the brink of uprising oceans
Nothing short of stereotypical testimony fits the gut feeling
Checking my gastric guesses against the warmth of your reception
My point is to transcend tapestries one thread
At a time, waiting for a texture totality to unravel
Before the stitch—outside the loom
Watch my hands remove pennies from the air
Inside your ear
Hear the commerce of souls manifest
Magic in the meeting of open minds—
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| Canon in me |
[Oct. 5th, 2008|01:08 pm] |
We are one living secret
Stranded symbiotic in a simultaneous subway
Worlds webbed together under green
Mossy moats of the oldest Regime
Shadow sanity: an off-color orange
Hiding itself hermaphroditic in the roundabout
Wings waiting for a surprise entrance
Never to come alone or in silence
Singing broken through a billion voices
Adrift in the wave-pool crash of time
Tremulous narrative rippling with continuities
Lost to the laser-light door jammed wide
With weapon-wails of carefully forgotten caterwauls
Reflecting-back only monotone shades of blank-canvas
Coincidence
Lost translations take tactile shape and spin
The wheel back before our eyes were understood as
The origin of all explanation outside the black-canyon
Divers will come to see for miles--while saying
Nothing of value
Sleeping on the surface in a bathysphere body
Lost somewhere beneath the eye’s unbeknownst ocean
Correlating the cornea’s eventuality endless beyond
The event-horizon halo holding humanity hostage
In breathing-apparatus aisles of incandescent uncertain information
Scrolling with insinuations of evacuation at the eleventh hour
Unnerving even the oldest amongst the Darwinian disciples
Reverting back to ring around the Rosary to pay the ransom
Off the runway straight-down into a nose-dive dance with the
Dirt-mile mirror ball as a mercurial liquid flowing up into the
Electromagnetic awareness awakening the deep blue undercurrent
Mass coalescing unto the aggregate climb around the free-feeling firelight
Unmasking midnight miracles for the children of the Moon-- |
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| Dishline Blues |
[Aug. 29th, 2008|10:52 pm] |
i.
Pull out all the stop
Light pins needling
The throttle driveway
Remorselessly
Skip to my SKUD missile toe
Jam festival reverberations
Beneath soulless staring
Glass eye entranceways
Round the backwater side
The white black
Blue and yellow sideways bench
Falling forward fast into the same
Daze of the news paper cupping
A silent shivering cortex feeling the
Cold breeze beckon blindness over
Steam water harboring the same yesterday’s waste
Grow disturbing like the Man can
Will You to Do it Right now running
From the water room’s rage of wind
Washing out the top-forty buzz-saw bandwidth
Killing a focus of flashlight fruition
Everything slides through red darkness
With distant purple passions slipping through
the skin smoked lifeline albatross into white
Breakers all along the aisles of air
A street of gold ascends back
Into soil audio samples
Blooming morning glories creep closer
Sun beams fight the mix-tape geometry
Free for all those holding up the roof
Tunnel tapestries Escher off into
The distance shields hiding time
From the gluttonous glowworm
Sunning the horizon’s halo
Prayers melt through Macaroni &
Cheese stuck to the pan
Scrubbing bubbles off the shingles of
My mouth mumbling tongues test
Patient parallels with pressure points
To the bloody sky with our screams--
ii.
Meander with candor to avoid slander
Station yourself as a cross tied laceless shoe
This grunt galley’s going overboard
Keelhauling credit score skin grafts
Rivers in the brain branch parabolas
Bailing rampant neuronic wire outposts
Pulsing unknown answers to questions
No ones yet thought to ask
Its very similar to fishing, only they pay you
Sit around for hours waiting for something
To happen--Enjoying beverages of various kinds
Even more so on Tilapia Tuesdays--
Make the air mote light glimmer into a game
Make art appear from the loose love flashing neon
Internalize the lie detector lemmings skulking in
The wings flutter disturbed--Mechanical
Mutterings melt speech to sand paper salutations
Intensity levels off behind the eyes dulling glaze
Removing humans from their nature nurtures the
Unnatural glow of subjugation--Tyrannical
Off the clock counting time back until the work
Waits for it’s procedural timeline to back-petal out
Bank note vouchers for daily bread donations
Dark matter tumors doom the psyche to salivate
Synonyms for strange phenomenon stuck somewhere
Between a Drought locked dock and drowning
While the river bends spoons backwards crying
Waterfalls in a mid-day miracle of mist beams
A single ray acquires form shape and texture
Drawing lip synced fruit-fly commentaries out of hiding
Roaring all around me now my skin suffocates dry bone
Ear canal Backwash
iii.
Big horny toad shadow puppet freak dancing
Scares the living eggs fish-face dead
Crackling leave covered regurgitation rituals
Agree that its better to give thanks than to receive
Regret
White petal pandemonium picks a victim
Preying on magic water rooms left vacant hovels
Unknown black back lots corral common unconscious
Elevated enemies unknown in waking life’s willing war
Inside our one head
iv.
I am where we were once
Sea shore stalagmites
Cacophonous constellations smear the
Satellite signals aurora
The midnight mare stallions the
Drifting dunes washing untamed
Ancient eyes across our eyes
Blind language mutes the momentary
Alignment understood
Dim tracer dandelion dragonflies scream
Glow-stick goldenrod white toe
Turbulence beneath the sand shoveling
Cartography every foot of the beach
Wishing away the washing machine
Room running memories on tab
Pouring fox-fire blooming to a
Boiling point breakthrough on break
Basking July noon like a barnacle stuck sideways
To the sunny side of the blue backwater bench
v.
There’s too much order coming down
The line bringing us together barely touching
Numbered slots full three times fifteen times an
Hour can just loose itself in the patterns of pudding
Globs presented perpendicular on a plastic tray
Loneliness cornering in a crowded clatter walled
Conundrum loading blue hexagonal crates into
Waterfalls singing surgical scrubs no questions
Asked pointing lips nod in agreement to iron pans
Pepperoni rolls across the metal runway rapids regurgitating
Filth-filtered fluid flowing wet nasty appetites down the drain
Slip down the shades roll wonder-light around the
Hoover dam halo horizon horn-rimming darkness
Shut out the much ado music’s meaning to matter
Melting meaninglessly into the mashed potato particles peer
Out across the one orange-peel shaft of unrestrained sunlight
Count the stacks pushing plate sizes into the paths of passerby
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| All Clear |
[Aug. 29th, 2008|10:47 pm] |
Free words rumble forth fighting
For their own survival watching the
Feeling-eye felt-tip pen angle change meanings
With each contemplative crack of bone
Within the hand harmonies hue high-definition
Microcosms golden with sunrise altered backward
Into the earth
I sink back somewhere electricity exists only
Between secret lips without a name echoing
Fire-engine red light district disasters over
The frequency every father loves to fall asleep too
Grey-toed socks upright eyes tilting slowly forward toward the
Light humming vibrations begging sleep to come quickly and
Painlessly pleasant like a wet Sea-Captain narrative adventure
Watching you sit there convinced ottomans are apple-trees
Opening up naked above checkerboard cheshire-cat like conundrums of
Color floating bulbs in day-glow blobs beyond the lamp shade
Into the open eyes of our oracle screaming absolute beauty unfathomed truth
Squinty and shot as blood gets pumping pupils outward into obsidian platters
Veined in gold overlapping angel-wings reaching out from the steel-wall to feel
Something natural touching once again only as real as can be allowed by
Existence peaking early and finishing late the next morning when the confetti
Bombs have all drunk themselves into a muddy fornication across the ballroom
Floor feeling silent and white
Like a jury of our peers staring at a statute of limitations praying for a fully loaded
Filibuster to come storming in one day and spit sounds like love lashing out
Against everything everyone has been led to believe is evil is over forever
Without hesitation hands rain down selling support for the fine-print foot-creme all for
The fucking foot-creme cracks the skin to make you buy more again later prolonged
Usage linked to cancer but everything is going to be all-right folks
From the makers of ‘cancer-causing’ foot-creme comes the new improved:
Triple-Medicated ‘Foot-Creme-Cancer’ Remover-Creme!
Awkward phone voices fail the driving-test roadside runners for the rest of their
Lives lived inside some white-plaster box or series of white-plaster boxes departmentalized boxes Babyboomer boxes built to better a ‘great society’ beautiful uniformity
Within and outside stand in rows smiling for every fat neighbor to see searching
The white beam of light between blinds for proof of life inside some other inside
Somewhere else other than this present-day nothing-new sibilance of the now
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| Bonnaroo 2008 |
[Jun. 22nd, 2008|07:19 pm] |
Every other eye of the esophagus
Hears the rough ride remix
Touch the texture of the temples
Sounds complicate the cow
Pow bungalow highway
Roads really randy
Solar power happy hour
Cowering clover in the
Field day Dilapidation of the desk
Rows rippling runways taking off
The ocean canopy dominating the
Dancing dirty doings of the dance
Floor nation of Gypsy Land Rovers
Going to college to
Collage the Canvas with
Cannabis can’t handle this
Handle that holding out the
Sun on a string
Sitting on a rainbow strung
Outback firing quivers in the
Rain real golden like the
Glowing god row of Port a
Potty portals into the orange
Flowing rows of seated eyeballs
Blanketing the dirt covered bodies of
Water-based knowledge
Automatic writing the future
Incoming tidal wave of
Predestined personal power
Trajectories like hot glowing leaves of
Fire in the lungs smoking the hot
Glisten of the glasnost offering
Orbital planes of graining textiles
Finding outward appearances falling
Through sliding lanes of
Muddy sandal toes touching
Every other love light on
Full force like the morning
Jacket of dew frost cold
Sunlight my self sat in amongst
The Dead |
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| Porch Swing |
[Jun. 19th, 2008|02:20 am] |
A rough concept
Colors the night sky
Pebble gray
Who brought this tyrannical
Box factory into being
Everywhere the roads go?
Small flies fire
Sex flares into dark
Purple proximity
What questions answer
The deep blue backwood
Fingers beckoning?
Aural illusions linger
Like crackling feet
Wailing old wood
When will the nocturne
Notice my intermittent
Illiterate interruptions?
Wary of the west
Sidewalk a walking
Wall of earlobes
Where else could I
Possibly be other than
Here in this unfathomable now?
Slow silences sidestep
Amber answers
Illuminated
Why are the whales
Whistling through the forest’s
Windsock speaker?
Paving ways roll
Against the grain
Stemming circuitry
How did the bricks
Walk away with the wall
Sprouting sour apple eyes?
Sparks of seizure
Transform the telephone
Tangerine
No one knower knows
The minority report
Totality in darkness |
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| Sunny Day at the DMV |
[Jun. 19th, 2008|02:19 am] |
The time was now
But it’s not like I knew the
Day
Routes across the quad
Ripples rinse the canopy
Windows
Open tracks of dog
Intersect their undeniable
Energy
Extending out in cloud
Fancy eyes glimmer sky
Lines
Remind us of each
Others lost place in
Queue |
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| Interstate 80,000ft |
[May. 14th, 2008|01:54 am] |
The wheels roll off
In syncopation
Coloring the bass spectrum
White with rubber noise
Remixing the road’s peripheral
Panavision lenses drop
Calls flying through the dark
Tunnel forging the white molten
Gut-lines porous with gold
Underneath the heart of iron
Mountains
Fade to black
This invisible interstate
Exists
Eighty thousand feet
A way from the infinite
Ambivalent angels undulate
In the evening’s neon lime-
Light unaware
Their celestial bodies
Evoke a jugular response
Choking down the throats of
Distracted drivers
Flaming swords rain
Spear castrations from a cross
The cosmos hung:
David Lynch and Goliath
Face off in the universe’s
Last great pissing contest
This automotive-o-mated
Transmission from the satellite
Weigh station way out here in
The whatever is left of my self
Interest
Is brought to you
Steaming hot, complete with
Small bits of corn
By no one person in particular
Ever again
Unless this sonic-boom driven
Vehicle for elevated ideas
Hits the stratospheric speedway
Brimming all golden
In the academic undertow
Threatening censure from Hyperion’s ivory
Overlooks of gesticulated underestimation
Collapsing down jagged, fiberglass
Cliffs into a fjord forever
Falling towards the inevitable
Rock bottom
Presuppose is to Prophecy
As Predict is to Postulate
The future
Powers exist beyond
Public understanding
The grins and lies
Are necessary as evil
Unlearn the stacked deck
Cancel the game
Exit the premises and
Return to your homes
Or not one of you
Special, ‘unique’
Go-getters out there
Is getting out of this blood diamond
Bank Heist with a live to spare
You
Fly free of distraction
Another indeterminate atomization of
Tesla’s free energy machine
Genius is worth infinitely
More than an atomic death-ray
Those death-rays
Need plasma screen T.V.’s
Or they won’t sell enough
Units to buy you a Nobel prize
At least not the one your
Peacemaker enemy with the pacemaker
Bomb hidden in his chest will receive
In next week’s Zurich newspaper
The academy blown away
By the brilliant ovation
Standing Pompei statue caskets
Not sure whether I’m at
The last supper
Or the final Judgement
But at least I’m enjoying
The wine |
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| Color Codex |
[Apr. 10th, 2008|12:30 am] |
I suppose you have proof of this?
Colorful claims sit
Festering wine-fumes
Free for all
Those who will listen
Trust no one
Green greetings mean
A grid of secret
Numbers match
The test being scoliosis:
A purple grade point
Curvature
Red students reach
Fists up against
Arm’s graduation
Angel orange Ack Ack
Overalls hunting
Deer John’s dead
Letter
Office white
Wash the job
Waiting for after
Happy hours
Release the lantern street
Yellow over time
Clock watching
Squares of light into night
Grass texture
Gradations mix
Blue diamond glass
Pale possibilities
Expounding
The Same
Black scenario
Burned oak panel ceiling
Tile task forces
Think at a cranberry
Crawl
Space restricted to the real
Men in white faceless suits
Strumming impossible
Music on ball bearing
Grey compass gears
Shifting
Harbor harmonies hue
Star board pin holes
Over the morning
Blaze bomb horizon
Symbols select mental
Mates to murder
Mysteries in news
Print for the poor
Spirits reading
The aquamarine articles of
Confederate ration— |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 9th, 2008|03:29 pm] |
People who plagiarize:
I burn out their eyes--
See you on the other side
Of my self respect
Ass whole |
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| Seventy-seven Squirrelmations |
[Apr. 9th, 2008|03:11 pm] |
“And now we’re in 1920. Just picture it Walt: a ‘roarin’ jazz hall replica, a guy in a Hitler suit handing out novelty copies of Mein Kampf, Lynching booths, what do you think about ‘Stock Market Crash Mountain’, at the end of the ride a trapdoor opens beneath the Model-T and you and your family experience ‘Industrial Revolution: The Ride’, you can all watch each other free-falling down a series of pneumatic tubes into the ‘Dust Bowl’, leaving you stranded right in front of the entrance to the 1930’s area. Park visitors who don’t wish to pay the additional admission fee get to enjoy the authentic uncertainty of ‘Hitchhikers Highway’. Coincidentally, the ‘attraction’ is also the only road leading out of the park. You know the motto: ‘Pay for authenticity at the price of History!’ I’ve already filed the majority of the paperwork with the Ministry of Mendacity. The Board of Dictators will be meeting on Munday to debate the funding of the project. I’m fairly certain I can get them to fast track the deal, which I believe would derail any last minute ‘Librarial’ opposition.”
Walt Whiteman nodded robotically; contentiously adjusting the placement of his chin to disguise the fact that he wasn’t paying attention to his colleague’s poorly rehearsed sales pitch. They stood beneath three ancient fir trees, each trunk over thirty feet in diameter, coat linings damp with dew in the evergreen shade. Walt pressed the call button on his Laser-eye Leash; large brown chunks of tree bark scampered down in a wash of sap. Napoleon released a raspy bark as he launched himself from a low-lying branch, landing gracefully at Walt’s feet with a dusty thud. Walt reaches for the baseball-size acorn hidden in the right pocket of his navy blue trench coat. The black and white Squirrelmation jumps up onto its hind legs, whiskers refracting light in fiber-optic anticipation, almond eyes stare out expectantly dilated from underneath a small, red tasseled fez.
Joe King continued to cycle through a Force-gesture slide show on his Clipboard computer as Walt pretended to side arm the acorn. Napoleon sped off into the forest, tongue drooling through the mist, as something called a “Vin Dieselgram” flamed across the luminescent panel.
“See this green, info orb on the left, that’s a detailed list I compiled of the real “Pros” in building these government-subsidized theme parks. The first choice would be Slick Flags, he’s personally overseen the construction of over seventy-seven ‘Mass-Spectacle-Centers’ World Campus wide.”
“I see.” Walt mumbled, nodding his head rhythmically. Napoleon tugged inquisitively on Walt’s sleeve, thumping his large hind paw in the dirt. Walt chunked the acorn into the sun, watching the nut fly as it disappeared into the light. Walt turned to his colleague:
“Joe you’ve given me a lot of information to work with here. However, in order to make a final decision about whether or not to develop this land, I’m just going to need some more time.”
Joe’s enthusiasm and charm collapsed into cold annoyance: “ All right Whiteman, but next time you bring me out into the middle of the Ardennes, you better be ready to talk business!”
“I’ll have my Drobots interface with your Drobots! You go ahead and take the Helicoptcar back to Verviers without me. I’ve got to check up on the property, I’ll take Napoleon on a walk down to the Brain-Station in Carlyle when I’m finished.” Joe stopped short of the Garage-pad:
“The Brain Station! Walt, haven’t you read any of the historical surveys outlining the neurological risks of telepathic travel over time? Besides, I personally can’t deal with all that sticky Ectoplasm, constantly having to explain why my dry-cleaned suits smell like dark matter, I guess I’m just old fashioned.” Walt stifled a laugh, the man who felt the need to develop the last 100 acres of uncorrupted wilderness in Historia, also thinks of himself as a regular, ‘old-fashioned’ guy—just great.
“You know me Joe, I’m as progressive as they come, slumming it up is an old past time for me.” Walt reflected on the secret irony of his previous statement as Joe chuckled idiotically. The balding Historian pressed the red button on his key-card, de-cloaking the ‘I’ shaped, four-blade Helicoptcar. Joe’s short legs negotiated the ramp up into the vehicle as Walt jogged back to avoid the whirlwind of leaves and pine needles; barely catching a glimpse of the black and white Historia Historical Society hologram as it disappeared over the tree line. The dull yellow craft pulls left at the last second, lumberjacking the top forty-feet of trunk off a small bluff of Pineapple-cone Pines. Napoleon emerged from the upper limbs of an ancient Hardwood next to the Garage-Pad barking curses into the percussive buzz of Joe’s sloppy flyving.
Walt breathed a heavy sigh of relief, sneezing into the crotch of his arm as the dust cloud dissipated into the moist, evening air. A vine slinks over Walt’s left shoulder; Napoleon dismounts stylishly onto the forest floor:
“Really Walt, why do keep bringing these stooges out herrrrrre?” Napoleon eloquently rolled his r’s as he retrieved the small vibrating communicator from under his fez: “One sec Walt, Uncle Ralph’s calling me—hey Nut-Hound we’re all clear; tell the tribe to resume the position.”
The air through the Ardennes’ crackled with seventy-seven simultaneous pops, fizzes, and squeaky relaxed sighs. Empty acorn shells fell from unseen heights. Somewhere in the distance a drum circle eased into a fresh groove. Lightening bugs took formation, color constellations collected throughout the forest canopy. The tribe assembled in the clearing beneath the Pine bluff injured in Joe King’s drunken take-off, a circular, step-pyramid of polished red soapstone emerged sibilant from the forest floor. Uncle Ralph fell into view from an incalculable, mist-veiled height and froze prostrate—less than an inch above the reflective surface of the polished stone monument. The tribe elder descended unhurt onto the stone floor before the altar of NO THING UNNATURAL.
Uncle Ralph was the oldest living elder among the tribe of enlightened Squirrelmations. Not including the seventy-seven, the ignorant masses of the Squirrelmation species lived in domestic slavery across the World Campus as household pets or laboratory test creatures. The Historia Historical Society fervently denies the existence of any evidence suggesting that the Squirrelmation breed’s brain tissue may have potentially been genetically enhanced using Human DNA.
Walt was relieved to be among friends, after his first telepathic teleportation he suffered from shock and spent several weeks in a catatonic state. Walt awoke free from his limited, institutionalized perceptions of reality; the world began to change in the wake of the overwhelming shock that a supernatural force had ascended through the eyes of his natural waking consciousness into being all tangible, omnipresent, and beautifully real. Through his practice of the Squirrelmation’s religion, Walt has gained active control over 80% of his brain capacity.
In 2552, the Intercollegiate Judiciary Committee, a World Campus Police organization, was asked to conduct a study to determine if the allegations were true, the Committee subpoenaed a Young Historian named Walt Whiteman to audit the team of Scientologists conducting the research; what he witnessed in those smoke-filled laboratories changed his life. One moment he was wearing scrubs in a surgical-sub somewhere thousands of leagues beneath the surface of the Atlantic Ocean, the very next step he took left him standing in the Ardennes region of Northern Historia, surrounded by twenty-two, three-foot tall Squirrelmations. The closest creature stepped forward: he was covered in brown fur and had two flaps of skin which hung from his nose like a hound, his ears, unlike the other Squirrel’s, hung loosely to the side of his head. Walt would later learn these prominent features earned Ralph the surname of Nut-Hound:
“How’d yaw enjoy the trip Walt?” Ralph asked.
“Airspace gridlock, the stench of rotting ozone, oh and guess whose an H.H.S ‘Radioscope’ subscriber? Mr. Joe King: ‘the serious guy’, Yuk Yuk Yuk—give me a break!”
“There’s more than one way to Scalp a Human, if you get my meaning.” Napoleon’s left eye glinted fluorescent in the soft glow of the Lightening Bug aerobatics.
Ralph Nut Hound handed Walt an ornate chalice, paw-crafted from the shell of an acorn:
“Drink up man.” The rest of the Seventy-seven raised their mugs of Acornsinthe in a toast to Walt Whiteman; he was the first human prophet to declare himself a follower of NO THING UNNATURAL. Walt’s study of twentieth century marketing practices enabled him to construct an ingenious, subliminal advertising campaign to encourage public support for the construction of an intercollegiate network of ‘Brain Stations’. Walt made a single, five-minute presentation to the Judiciary Committee, spawning a billion dollar industry overnight—Walt was now a very rich man. The majority of his funds were used to purchase the remaining acreage of the Ardennes forest region from a corrupt Cartographer in the H.H.S. High Command. Walt had bought his own way off the grid—literally.
Walt’s business matters are all handled in a cube-shaped facility, thirty miles beneath the forest floor. The Double-Blind Consulting Firm manages the facility. The Firm is a cover-business for a secret monastic order that requires all its followers to surgically remove their eyes. The Firm learns to perform clerical and manufacturing work in total darkness, one-handed, as a team. The “Brain Station’ travel process is enabled through an intravenous injection of synthesized Acornsinthe. Any non-enlightened Scholar could telepathically travel to any one the seventy-seven thousand stations across the World Campus. Many telepathic travelers’ have reported experiencing intermittent cases of extreme disillusionment or ‘un-reality’ after a trip. These reports equate the only public evidence of Walt’s secret war on the rest of the world. Each traveler is un-indoctrinated from the physical world and jettisoned to a predetermined set of coordinates in a state of Dark Matter, upon arrival the traveler returns into his/her previous frame of perception, unconsciously introduced into a new dimension of myriad Psychological possibility.
All citizens enrolled as students of the World Campus must adhere to their respective College’s philosophies of perception. The Historia Historical Society mandates that Historian civilization be constructed solely around tenants and texts of Historical Scholarship, alternative systems of thought were illegal—ironically, Walt remains the only un-indoctrinated member of the H.H.S. and yet he is still the only faculty member who actually put in the time taking classes to earn an official PHD in History.
Ralph, Napoleon and Walt sit around a stump-based table on the lower patio of the pyramid’s fourth tier. An overhead bay of flat-panel computer screens monitored the production levels of the Acornsinthe distillation facility hidden inside the pyramid. Ralph grabs a paw-woven hose off the wall and takes draughts in long gulps: “So Walt, this is what always confused me about the ‘official’ H.H.S. Timeline of Historical Events: After the intellectual revolution in 2012 and knowledge ‘supposedly’ conquers ignorance, violence, and war—why did the newly elected Dean of the World Campus order the public executions of all men and women unwilling to adopt their respective College’s philosophy of perception? Every damn school of Human thought seemed to get the ‘Answer’ just a little bit wrong in the beginning:
Literaturia’s citizens are too introverted in their writing, the last fifty novels to make the Dean’s list were posted posthumously, having each been found hand written in a weathered journal hidden under the mattress, encrypted on the dead Librarian’s personal computer, or in a small whicker basket close to the bank of what was once the Nile River. Scientologist’s value the understanding of life over a soul’s autonomy to follow its own fate—butchers the whole lot of em. The only ‘thing’ you can count on Numberian’s to do is to count for you. Binary code is not a language living creatures should be forced to speak. Which brings me to some interesting news:
My cousin Viney, the Terrier Rat, forwarded me a message about a Dolpenguin community that has just established the first NO THING UNNATURAL Mission on the Antarctic continent. Let’s all wish our World Brothers the happiest of travels upon their acceptance of the Natural Soul’s potential power to move a consciousness anywhere, at anytime, by sheer will alone. This isn’t the ‘Triumph of the Will’ they used to screen in the WWII Theaters back in Historia Walt. Your Soul saw beyond the schematic spiderweb of the Academic Institution and rejected their illusionary philosophies of perception. In that moment of cold blackness you awoke tuned in to a concentric infinity of vacillation and compromise ordering the chaotic uncertainty of our universe. You materialized from the forest-mist standing on a low branch above our make shift camp, eyes aglow with new-life; vibrant in that first week of our freedom. You sang in exultant harmony with our tribe, professing a faith to all that you are, were, and would soon become.” Ralph stifled a belch with the palm of his hand, a single bubble burst iridescent from the corner of his jaw. The pearl of wisdom was reduced to a slapstick soapbox routine in the casual air of the Seventy-Seven’s sunset celebration.
Napoleon and Walt sat on the stairs near the top of the Pyramid observing subtle cycles of change in the environment the untrained human mind couldn’t perceive:
“Walt, do you think the Academic Institution could accidentally stumble upon our sacred knowledge of the Answer?”
Walt reclined against the wall of the pyramid and placed his hands behind his head:
“Napoleon, the Academic Institution remains ignorant of the language through which to phrase the question in the first place, and I’d like to keep it that way. So don’t ask.”
|
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| 101 Ways To Dismember a Luminescent Frog |
[Apr. 9th, 2008|03:04 pm] |
101 Ways to Dismember a Luminescent Frog
-“Um sir? Excuse me, your alligator-face tote bag of—ashes, or whatever that sparkly gunk is, just fell open over there by the door.”
-“Oh my…now that’s a bad thing.”
-“Bad thing? What business does a shirtless, painted man like you have crying over a little spilled dirt?”
-“That gator-bag by the door is full of goofer-dust, we’re goners.”
-“Goober-Dust? Tell me, what is Gopher Dust and why should I care?”
-“Well you see, I’m taking classes to get my W-M.D. this semester, so I’m not technically certified yet—but my academic standing doesn’t really matter anymore because I just accidentally made us the victims of my ‘take-home’ midterm, which by the way, I will be failing now. Neither you nor I will be able to leave this elevator alive.”
-“Oh—yeah that’s defiantly not a good thing. Neither was your decision to pierce the cartilage of your nose with a chicken bone.”
-“Look! Even if maintenance fixes the elevator and this door opens up back in the lobby, in the end that goofer-dust down on the laminate gets to keep its pound of flesh. If you or anyone so much as takes one step across the devil’s threshold; you’ll be dead.”
-“O.k. doc, I get the point. Don’t get your feathers in a ruff. The dust is cursed; if we step over the bag then we both go belly-up. Is that the hustle?”
-“Yes, that’s correct. However, you do seem just a bit too calm considering our circumstances; what exactly is your deal Miss Donna Karen?”
-“This isn’t the first time I’ve been stuck in a South Campus elevator, or the first time I’ve been told that I was going to die as a result of it. Amateur.”
-“How rare, an attractive white girl who isn’t ‘totally grossed out’ by the occult or knowledge of her own, impending death?”
-“ Excuse me? Don’t start talking about me like I’m not here! If you’re actually a Witchdoctor, why not try to make this elevator, oh I don’t know, un-stuck! Please remember you’re the one who supposedly cursed us both to early deaths!”
-“Again, I’m really sorry about that. But don’t you forget that because of this midterm murder-suicide I’ll probably never make Shaman’s list!”
-“Well at least no one will think you’re a Voodoo nerd. But just to clarify, you’re sure there isn’t some kind of Anti-curse or incantation you could perform to reverse the whole death aspect of your goner-dust? ”
-“Un-killing someone isn’t covered until the 7th Chapter of the Course-book, the Midterm only focuses on death-spells up to Chapter 6.”
-“Well what about teleportation? Couldn’t you just ‘zap’ us out of the elevator into the hallway or out onto the quad?”
-“Voodooology doesn’t work like that. My fellow Voodooologists acknowledge the same universal rules and laws that govern the other Physical sciences, besides, astral-projection isn’t covered until Chapter 13, and the last guy who tried it ended up dangling above some ceiling-tiles impaled on a gas-pipe, laughing uncontrollably; but when the maintenance crew got their step-ladders squeaked into position, and their big blue and saffron bolt-cutters up, up, and around that pipe, cutting; you would have laughed or cried, both probably, maybe neither; but here’s the point, this is the point: explosion. Everyone got burned up—
I should have been in that class, but I skipped that day, there were these three yellow and black frogs sitting on my window sill when I woke up that morning, and they were just croaking some of the meanest insults that I had ever heard; however, I am known as quite the chivalric Hoodoo man in certain circles, I was only interested in pursuing the most cordial methods of inquiry into these frogs dismemberment—I mean their dis-temperament; I wanted to know why these shiny frogs felt the need to openly discuss their sexual domination of my Mother and her three elderly cousins, the three frogs were inexorable, no amount of pleading would silence their horrible, squelchy insults, so I read Chapter 1 of my Course Book and flipped to the “101 ways to Dismember a Luminescent Frog” worksheet on page 22, after the textual-review questions,
I went into my Lab-Kit and got some Eye of newt, and threw it into a Cauldron, but by that time the three frogs had moved on from shooting the dozens to giving me misleading information about my Investment-portfolio, so I called my guy at Charles Schwab, and he said everything was ‘A-OK’, so I came back to the matter of dismembering these three frogs, and I read, #22-Sprinkle ‘that stuff’ all around the frog’s floor, but nowhere in my lab kit could I find a bottle or vial with the words ‘that stuff’ on the label, so I Googled Voodooology+’that stuff’+ dismembering frogs, and I got about three thousand hits, so I checked out a Wikipedia entry that seemed promising, and found out that ‘that stuff’ was a Voodooological term referencing Goofer-dust;
The course’s strange terminology is borrowed from a mixture of southern colloquial dialect and blues jargon, ‘that stuff’ had been coined by the Voodooological community as a means of censoring goofer-dust’s negative connotations within the academic sphere, (mainly because ‘that stuff’ was being used as the primary weapon in the United States secret campaign of covert political assassinations) the proven effectiveness of the devil’s-dust, which is comprised mainly of graveyard dirt, but include bits of bone, or sulfur so that the dust can be put to use multiple times, the batch I was turning-in for a grade was conjured using a compass-locked directional seal, which means that the victim the dust is intended for can’t cross the directional plane associated with the geographic location of the dust, basically since we are the victims, we can’t cross the threshold of this elevator anywhere inside the building, on the roof, two-miles in the sky, or thirty-thousand feet underground, it is also problematic that this elevator is essentially surrounded by concrete and currently stuck between the 6th and the 7th floors; but I’ve wandered off from my point, sorry I can be a bit capricious when I rant like this:
There I was in my backyard, using a Dixie-cup to shovel some of the top-soil off of my dead-dog Juju’s grave, I put the soil into one of those zip-lock bag’s with the color-changing seal, and I went back up the stairs into my room and sprinkled the goofer-dust all around the window-sill where those shiny, garish frogs were kicking back in tiny, frog-size wicker chairs, listening to a little frog-size Victrola, smoking frog-size cigarettes, and ashing all over the place, necks bulging with contempt and sassiness, just no respect at all, so I sprinkle the dust on the floor, forming a half circle around the window-sill, and soon enough the three frogs start coughing, and then the first frog,
The one using the miniscule frog-size cigarette-holder and wearing the mini frog-size aviator sunglasses, hacks up a lung—still breathing mind you, and then the second frog, the one who talked like a slot-machine and spat golden particles of frog-slobber, starts spewing red gel-like goo-balls across the carpet, his heart shot out, still beating, tethered to the spewing mass of entrails—the third frog,
The one that had facial hair and sandals, dropped his burning cigarette and walked across the window-sill and went inside a frog-size, popsicle-stick tool shed, the bearded-frog came back out onto the ledge with two frog-size 4x4’s, a GI-Joe Action Hammer, and some frog-size nails, and the little guy proceeded to nail himself onto this damned frog-size crucifix he had constructed, this last part took three days, sleeping in my room was made hard if not impossible by the croaker’s ribbits for mercy, so I got desperate, and caught a toad out in the yard, I dressed him up in a little Roman Legion outfit, made him a toad-sized spear, and read the Books of John, Paul, George, and Jerry Seinfeld aloud, the toad found this humorous but somewhat confusing, grammatically incorrect, blasphemous, and almost ineffable, so the Legion-toad trained an army of several-hundred other male toads under my bed,
Then the toad-phalanxes went out into the front yard and captured all the women-toads and children-toads, the initial Legion-toad was promoted to the rank of Emperor-toad, the slave-toads constructed a toad-ziggurat, five stories tall, dedicated to the honor of the Imperial-toad; this structure was the Monarch-toad’s crowning achievement; so all the while this damned Martyr frog is wasting away, ever so loudly, across the room,
At this point I was out of options, my girlfriend Nancy wasn’t comfortable being intimate in front of a developing amphibian civilization: this martyr-frog was defiantly cock-blocking me now, immediate action was required on my part, I went back to the frog-dismemberment worksheet and found several templates available on the back of the sheet, there were: diagrams, fold-out statistics, charts, and even a CD-ROM disk, which came with a 1yr subscription to Santeria Magazine, (I, of course, only read it for the articles)
So I consulted my books to try and find a spell or potion which could capture the attention of all the mindless toads, but then I successfully captured a mouse with a small bit of cheese and an expertly bent paper-clip, I had my mouse associate round up a small group of his friends, I constructed mouse-size musical instruments with normal, human-size tools, and distributed the instruments to the rag-tag group of neon mice, the mice held several ‘unplugged’ rehearsals while I built mouse-size amps and microphones, then we were finally ready for the first live, amplified performance from the window-sill to raise toad-awareness about the dying, croaking frog problem and volunteer-mice handed out free pamphlets outlining what toads like them could do to help the cause financially or personally,
After Toad-aid, the three day Mice-Rock festival, the all rodent rock group consisted of the four wealthiest small animals in my room, the toads were buying Toad-aid T-shirts and the band was getting 30 % with interest, not including T-CD and T-DVD sales which were at an all time high, the toad-fans began fighting among themselves about who liked the Mellifluous Mice the most, the really hardcore toad-fans, made fun of their younger toad-sibling’s friend’s who also liked the band, but were too young in toad-years to go to a M.M. concert, the tension between toad-generations grew to a unbearable level, the croaking martyr-frog had already died by this point, but the success of the Mellifluous Mice’s first two-room tour had called for a road-trip into the kitchen to see the Mouse-rock show, also I made a pretty amazing sandwich while I was in there, so at this point the initial problem with the martyr-frog was solved,
But now I had a civilization of angst-ridden toads, and a rodent rock super-group that financially controlled more square footage of my house than I did, again I consulted my books, but after three days into my study of Toad/Mice-elimination, with the microcosm of small wildlife spreading across the borders of my small bedroom and closet, the martyr-frog casually hopped in through my locked bedroom door, alive and breathing, he showed all the toads the holes in his feet, and gurgled several sounds only amphibious creatures and rodents understand, next thing I know, all these frogs, toads, and mice are singing this old Otis Redding song, all in gurgles, and then every last one of the creatures transubstantiated into pure light, the toad-ziggurat crumbled into disrepair, and the alarm-clock dangling from the side of the night stand indicated that I only had seven minutes to get to class on-time, and I hadn’t really slept, showered, or eaten anything other than peanut butter for the past four days,
So I asked my professor about the frog and toad issues and she immediately inquired if the animals had ascended, which as a result of all the glowing, I felt they most certainly had, but as my professor pointed out, the energy ball of ‘pure-light’ my universal microcosm of small animals had transubstantiated into, was still confined within the walls of my bedroom, which made it awfully bright at night, sleeping wasn’t impossible and the bluish glow from my upstairs window was seriously freaking out the neighbors across the street: a Christian family of three, with a snub-nosed yippy dog named Luther, whose barking at my bluish-window made the neighborhood very aware of his canine-sixth sense for the better part of two-months, thankfully the pure-light dissipated ‘supernaturally’ over the following year, during this time I slept downstairs, or over at Nancy’s house, depending on her mood, the weather, and what phase the moon was in, I think it was full that night, but I’m not sure now, my memory isn’t what it once was when it comes to Voodooology.”
-“Maybe that’s a good thing, your rant didn’t even come close to answering my question. I’ll try rephrasing it; is there anything you can ‘conjure up’ to save our lives? A simple yes or no will suffice.”
-“No, there’s not really anything I can do, I’d have to email my professor about it and I think he’s delivering a lecture at a Voodooology Conference in Haiti this week. I don’t think they have Internet access down there anyway. In the Haitian marshland they’ve got gallinippers the size of sea-gulls buzzing around, big enough to suck blood right out of the empty blue air.”
-“How about ‘fly’ or ‘mosquito’, couldn’t you just use one of those words? Why you insist on talking the way you do? If you really must know, I don’t think you’re a Witchdoctor at all! I think you’re just slap-goof crazy—Wait! Did you feel that? We’re moving again!”
-“So what? Like I already tried to explain, if we—“
-“I know, I know, if I step over your powder-purse I’ll die—die laughing. You Back-Campus Undergrads are all the same, waiting around in the elevator for the first ‘attractive white girl’ you see, and then you break out the ‘Oh no! I’m a Witchdoctor and unless you sex me up right now you’re going to die’ routine! You should be ashamed! I mean what was coming next? Because it certainly wasn’t going to be me!”
-“Well Miss DKNY, here’s your floor, good day to you then.”
-“So long creep.”
-“One second Professor, I wouldn’t step inside here quite yet if I were you—wait what floor are we on?”
-“6th floor, Theology department.”
-“Oh—come on inside then, let’s ride this one out.” |
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| Powerless |
[Mar. 26th, 2008|09:58 pm] |
Plant biology sexes
Me up out of jungle rot
Ankle vines
Knowledge approaches
Waiting to yell
Surprise!
Twenty foot tall
Naked as
Cellophane
Floating silver
Shaping Sunday’s
Regularity
Still convinced
I am just a vessel (in disguises)
In service to some
Purpose higher
Than myself
A loner liking
Things lonely
But perfect
Struck dumb daily
By the residual restructuring
Of my metabolic mental
Motor heart ritual
Burn soul
Lines charred free from
Skin
I can’t see again!
Free from fear at last
Blind our rape warriors
In statistical
Negotiation
Calm down the
Cranky Curator’s Union
Picket-fence rascals
Drive-by slow
Stay away from torturing
Hard facts
Being, the cause of great
Nests of ill nourished
Warp rats
Convinced lime aid
Is the catalyst powering
Electrolysis
We all fall in
Marching merrily over
The hill and far off
Deep followers of the piper
Free falling
Stagnant hypnosis
Too bitter to taste
The honey harmony
Balancing con
Eccentrics with check book
Puppy pictures
That sap flows
Not!
Pewter pastry
Chefs chisel
Marble cake busts
For Caesar Chavez
Lettuce immortal
Sweat lodged
Between sugarcane teeth
This hubbub moonwalks
Neon greeting cards
Litter the parade ground
Smiles stand shining
Westward evening
Flat across dormitory
Wall horizons
We all cut the deck
Favorably backwards
Into our self made
Vestment portfolio
Cloaks concealing
Manhood from
Congressional eyes
Only— |
|
|
| Celluloid Eye-Beams |
[Mar. 24th, 2008|01:06 am] |
So I, as a writer, have decided that I have the right to write about things that I think, perceive, and feel. This ‘right’ that I grant myself to write has been mandated by a conscious need I have had to nurture within my batty, whiffle-ball mind. A small whisper calls for action, leading my narrative back to the page or computer screen night after night. Some moments evoke a wisp of red and yellow maple leaves, blowing softly golden across the coarse red sandstone of an Art Deco overlook, disappearing down jagged, peppermint cliffs into the blue crash of ancient oceans. Other hours drift reality round, ringing metaphorical washing machines through cycles of intellectual poverty.
The afternoons of my youth are wasting forward studiously. Noting the facts I retain to purge them rank before a classroom of peering, ‘out of this world’, eyes. Nothing seems to matter publicly outside of publicly making an effort to matter. I watch ticker-tape parades courtesy flush themselves out of our system, but in my absent-minded opinion, real-life is about as Greek as slavery. Kick yourselves retarded shushing your children into senility; watch them sleep without sound, forever crying “freedom”, hiding naked behind their dreams.
The incalculable volume of life occurred to me suddenly, staring at the dormitory in the distance, squares of white light stacked grid style. Each light-square represented two undergraduates, but some students are probably out studying, some in the room down the hall, three visiting friends and an ex-lover three floors down and three windows to the left. Some are probably having shaky-loft sex, others are already outside having that ‘one last’ cigarette of the evening. Half of the girls on the sixth floor are behind a sorority house on Milledge Avenue; smoking marijuana from a small glass frog-pipe in a silver Land Rover—a white DMB sticker peels in soft flakes from the back bumper.
The point of all this stereotyping and generalization is to prove my point; the human condition cannot be confined to an ordered grid of glowing white squares. We pack ourselves into some of the boxes and leave others empty and dark, we’re outside of the lines and slinking unnoticed beneath the margins.
The squiggle spectrum stands still at light speed, thirty-five millimeters of your time framed instantly. Expose yourself to the risks of light; fade slowly in the warmth of daze.
|
|
|
| Bulldog Square |
[Mar. 22nd, 2008|09:20 pm] |
The iciness
Blurred my
Momentary vision
Pulling the curve
Around dead man’s bridge
Stopping short of
Breath
Well under the yellow
16ft 4in Clearance
A white sedan sits sideways
Silence stood suggesting
Immediacy and uncertain
Dread
EMT’s slowly burn past
Deadpan firemen sleeping
Fast awake
The bridge’s mouth
Drips rainbow sheets of oil
Over its prey
Digesting
The driver’s fate my soul’s
Uncertainty as I—
As you
Turn the car
Driving Away |
|
|
| Georgia's Power |
[Mar. 9th, 2008|03:31 am] |
I have seen the same
Appliance sit and stare
At Everywhere
Lonely as a bubonic cloud
Plaguing bloodlines
Red sky sinking
Possibilities lost dry
Erase marks the week
Changing color continuities
Shiftless taking turns
Relaxed no place
But anywhere and all
The time
It is a white box
Coroners cook
Our meals to
Melt away smells
A death toast
To Texas for being
Such a wasteland
Of dramatic monologues
The stench in
My shoes is working
Well with others
Stranger than the
Stench alone
Candles call forth
The suppressed Romantic vision
Old wrinkles tear up
Ignorant of iron
A mechanized squeal
Black-tail splashes the
Drum-chord
Dissonant night
Dancer shades of grayscale
Balance the wires
Chain ganging metal-triangle men
Across common grass that
No one seems to want
Red clay trails cut
Cotton terraces rolling away
Electromagnetic waves of grainy
White tungsten blindness
Over the blank screen
Projectile vomiting
Out of rage— |
|
|
| A simulation of the Machine |
[Mar. 7th, 2008|01:48 am] |
Simmer in the soup
Soaking fat grease up growing
Weaker by the dozen
Days worked in rounds
Clocking conundrums
Metronome solid wasting
Time for everyone
Watch how this magic
Grows boundless meanings
Unspoken
The danger scares
Illuminated manuscripts into hiding
They pray down brush strokes
To alleviate Death's head
Calibrations with ink stain
Calligraphy
Vacillate between realms
Undecided about existence
But with a General’s uniformity
Carry a side-arm
Pistol whip ready to strike
Brass golden—
Rally those troops
Cause this one-man band
Symposium of selves
Rules the island
Memories fluctuate between screen
Shot scrolls buried in Lascaux and
More information streaming
Light speed into the picture
Framed for life
Nailed back to the wall
Use less
Those eyes have seen
Me staring into them
On several other evenings
On mute touching
Sound bites to the palate
Of my tongue
Simple
Yet elegant
Syllables In pixel punch-card quality
Within the white static
State of New Reality
Everyone is shown
Buying in—
Accept users
Read the illusion like a news-
Paper product floating
Free dream breezeways
Dry lead weight
Becomes real
Altered unto the sun
The Good eye
Smiling brown
Noise crushes flat
Empty of all
Air
Ulcers contract blindness
In the dark releasing
Embrace—
Stand by… |
|
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| Waffle |
[Mar. 7th, 2008|12:43 am] |
There is a small blue boy
Sitting high on a red recliner
On an orange alter
Near the back booth of our yellow downtown diner
He is crying white chrysanthemums
Being pretentious with his purple
Ascot inserted drip-nose
Head turned coughing
Electronic ice flaking off
In screams
There are three green Giants jumping holes
Into skylights feverish with flap-jacks
Frying pan funk feet forward
A head breaks insulation flakes
Falling mote
Eggs inedible being
Eaten alive by chickens
With no heads
In cutoffs clucking nonsense
Nipples
Eleven shoulder backs
Good hustle guys inside
Wearing smell bad pads
One man messiahs himself
Impotent of autumn leaves
To grayscale
Three walk the thin red exit line
Controversy calling my name to attention
Gab that game, molar cavities of sweet meat bile
Melting hearts so rancid you can smell
Disease of mind
With ease
Seven sit staring cerebellum
Celebrations into oscillating asbestos rings
Bell tones sing concentric chaos
Coughing
This mourning lives sepia
One hazel eyes
Tomorrow with a kind
Of hope in the golden
Grid— |
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