The Deal by Fargo Kantrowitz

The Deal

Ive had enough. Enough is enough. U got guys carrying guns in their larynx’s. you got people doing stupid things for people not you but them. Our representatives in congress on the Republican side are ALL working for corporations without admitting it. There is no other explanation for the tax bill.

You can’t win the argument on the street because nobody is watching the same program. But you’re ready to pick up a pitchfork and make it out into the streets anyway because supposedly there is an enemy there and you have to pitch in and join the fight. But you don’t admit that you didn’t see that internet show and realize that you don’t know why you are holding that pitchfork. You pitch the fork anyway. You wait. Why, you wonder. Why did I do it? But now it is too late, you are part of the plan. They will tell you what to do from here, in the meantime the elite, not the liberal elite, but the conservative elite, are going to eat. They are going to eat your children and you better smile and say yessir if you want your crust now. Without now then how could you have then, you imagine. But then comes and you watch the leg go down. Slurp. The deal you made with Donald Trump.

Jimmy ambled down the road. Not much going on with jimmy today. His official stance pertaining to his state of mind was left open. Of course, he was unconscious about so much but that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t try. You had to pull from the pit the sustenance that you need. It all feels so empty, like there is nothing going on anywhere that matters. Hopeless, pointless it is. Pitiful. Over. So what then? What then? What then? What’s the point and what is the point of thinking about then? When there is no now from which to grow a then.

In another sphere above the fear that he was aware of was a huge blue sky with birds flying and breezes that held meaning. Beauty, he supposed. But enough about that. The thing that everybody wanted to know about Jimmy was whether he would become a success. He too thought of this and it ultimately disappointed him greatly until he stopped doing anything that would make him a success. He was too put on the spot.

He made it down the street but didn’t know to turn left or right so he just kept walking. What’s the point? There was no point. Might as well keep walking forever, he thought. His feet kept moving. His mother was dead. His family was gone. His love hopes abandoned. The blue world above him or meaningful beauty always lived there, but it was impossible to connect to. So he walked with a fake blue sky above him as he did. Fake clouds. Fake birds. No accompanying feeling, the one thing he wanted. Nothing that mattered could permeate his skull. His skull, not heart. The heart was just one big lament by this time. Something that didn’t matter that much at all. Life didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Nothing.

Ii

Of course some things mattered, like sunshine and the best next word. Why would Jimmy want to cry? Post modern writers were all fools. That world wasn’t real. Only the real world was real. You know, that one. But then, you don’t want to say that, that the world is near one pickle shy of an empty barrel. Done. Nothing matters anymore as they say in this era of Trump. Nothing matters anymore. Exactly what jimmy was saying and feeling. Who cares? Who cares? You? Do you?

Published in: on June 23, 2021 at 8:10 pm  Leave a Comment  
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The Slander Artist

 

     the turn of events precluded me and

sunlight where now?

bitter aftermornings of you and me

where this afterglory now?

Firm handshakes on glories be known

where glories when the sun don’t shine?

Glory be! It’s a morning of translucent meditation

gripping satiety.

Published in: on September 6, 2020 at 10:39 pm  Leave a Comment  
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We Are the Killers – Albert

 

 

Dear Americans,

 

 

You yourselves are the killers. You who desire a home, a car, a family. You are the killers. All of those who choose to live this life with a smile. You are the killers. All of those who accept the mechanisms that place money into your pockets. You are the killers. All of those who live life day by day and are happy. You are the killers. All of those who make a nice living. You are the killers. All of you who watch the news. You are the killers. All of you who travel. You are the killers. All of you who stay home. You are the killers. All of you who curse the travesties of society from your living room. You are the killers. All of you who eat. You are the killers. All of you who dine. You are the killers. All of you with children. You are the killers. All of you without children. You are the killers. All of you who live in a society that appreciates law and order. You are the killers. All of you who side for the good guy. You are the killers. All of you who allow things. You are the killers. All of you who can’t afford lawyers and therefore have no voice. All of you who desire medical care and have no insurance. You are the killers. All of you who do not run for office. You are the killers. All of you who run for office. You are the killers. All of you who drive by bums. You are the killers. All of you who are human. You are the killers. We are the killers.

 

Published in: on July 21, 2020 at 4:59 am  Leave a Comment  
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Letter to a London Literary agent (never sent)-Albert

 

January 17, 1998

 

Dear London Literary Agent,

 

I have written a musical play tribute to Princess Diana. Initial reaction to the script has been very positive. I am seeking a British agent as I wish for London to be the place of my musical’s first showing. A pair of British theatre professionals in the U.S. are interested in the project, but I am hesitant to hand it to them as they seek Power of Attorney over it, I suppose, to have a greater hand in it creatively. I am not yet ready to give this power away.

I have no better way to explain to you the premise but by showing the script to you. If you are interested in the script at all please contact me soon. I have enclosed an SASE in case you are not interested. The story is fantasy based upon the events of Diana’s final day at the Ritz Hotel in Paris. I do not know what the feeling in Great Britain is towards such a project, but I can assure you, the play was written in a spirit of love and respect. The first draft was written in less than two weeks time, a mere two weeks after Diana’s death while I, like the world, was still in mourning.

Thank you.

Sincerely,

Albert Jones

 

Published in: on July 8, 2020 at 12:33 pm  Leave a Comment  
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hey hey whoa whoa

 

hey hey whoa whoa after petals on albert jamz goes into let it be. The end of Petals. I sing I hope you didn’t hate my play today. Jed backs me up. This song actually turns into “don’t fight” drop curtain. Jed peaks his head out of the curtain while the applause is still going on. He steps out. He has a tshir tthrown over him that says Operation Smile. He goes up and taps on a microphone. Hello, well, then whatever he’s going to say and then they’ll all go into a jam of chuck berry’s johnny b goode. The armed guitar brigade.

 

 

Published in: on July 8, 2020 at 1:50 am  Leave a Comment  
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What’s Happening?

There is a lot of stuff going on these days. Stuff. Can something actually happen? What does it mean to happen? If something happens what does it become, the thing that happened? An ongoing happening? A million consecutive and fluid happens? Anyway, I guess we’ll never really know whether or not something can happen. Anyway.

 

Okay, so people say “this is happening” as a joke. This is happening, Stephen… I get it now. Something that happens can take time. It must be some sort of strange sort of thing where time is mixed in with space and within that funnel is a happen, but it can be long, years maybe. Maybe there is a larger bit of space rather than just the moment that something happens. Maybe a happening can last thousands or even millions of years. It’s good to think of time like that…long. It releases you. The Hindus have calendars in the millions of years. Time. This too shall pass, they say, this too shall pass.

 

Mostly it’s darkness. Clouds whispering in winds cooly wrapping round vents in the waterless sea and falling. You see. You don’t see. You keep going. All that you can do is just survive. All that you can do to help yourself is stay alive. Rush.

 

But I know there is more than that. I know this. This world is not meant to be wasted and family should not fight and that goes for extended family which means everybody in America and the wider world. Everybody. Everybody love.

 

 

Published in: on June 20, 2020 at 9:05 pm  Leave a Comment  
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the fargo kantrowitz’z literary campsite

Before the night fell the grasses swayed. All life was somber and still. A cricket bleeted alone as crickets always do, this one, too early to sing, waiting for night as the orange sun disappeared behind the mountain. The water of the lake was smooth, not a ripple, grasses grew out of there too. Tall grasses that sticking up like trees with thick stems and the brown, very brown, dark brown almost browner than the trunks of the trees on the shore stalks, as I said, stood perfectly still. What happens when the stopping begins. Eyes wide open we seek movement. The poets always sing of themselves in the whisps of winds and sways of leaves, but when selves disappear the remaining former proof lives on, soulless, unknowing, lost.

Too much silence can kill a man says huxley. But huxley doesn’t know anything. He cuts corn down when seasons of corn cutting come. He rushes out to strip the land and comes home a richer man for a season, the good season, in between the times of waiting and loneliness. The poets are always looking for friends in nature. Somehow they know how to relate. Sunshine becomes God and moon the almighty mother. Loneliness doesn’t grip them. They don’t need the flesh and blood of their soul sisters or their brothers. We all fall down.

And stories, expanding in underwater silence, our talents bubbles bursting upon the water’s skin.If we could tell our stories, let our stories come up and be as real to each other as they are to all too often unknowing selves, then we could breathe. But breath is but another dream, another wasted thought to the drowning man, his story and his being watching the round orb of the sun blur and decrease. Eyes on deck. Keep watching says you, but the poet knows that even the underworld is there for him to relate to. Even then.

 

 

Published in: on May 1, 2020 at 5:31 pm  Leave a Comment  

Of Psychonaughts and Perspicuity

We’re in the middle of something and then bam, wow, watch out! Here comes something totally random. Ooh, just around the corner a long word that makes no sense, a portmanteau word is what they call it. He wishes so that he could have made up the word portmanteau because it is the near perfect word, but alas especially after Joyce he knows he is just another psychonaught on the way to perspicuity. Ah, c’mon, man, you say. Perspicuity? Really? And then you laugh and you go on your way and say mommy did you see, he said perspicuity and you’ve got your brownie points and so you’re all over a cheeseburger or something whatever you do at the fargo kantrowitz’z literary campsite sort of thing and all that, but anyway, the moral of the story is this: the fklc delivers some of the finest (see I’m trying to illustrate it to you) writing per se in the world today. The fklc is proud to present a whole plethora of writing plethorianations that will tan your hide. Find out more. For $14.95 you too can make all the difference in the world. Suport the fargo kantrowitz’z literary campsites fund for cool words that will never, ever matter to anyone) or something ike that. Gaaaawd!

 

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Published in: on September 18, 2019 at 11:24 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Make America Love Again – Joey Kantor

 

 

 

My mother was born again in 1973, the same year she opened a Bible store in Las Vegas where I grew up.  When Jesus’ love walloped my mother, boy, did it hit hard. I grew up with a mother who praised Jesus all day long and quite openly.

 

Hence, being eight years old at the time, I was introduced to the Christian religion. I was immediately saved, of course, and Jesus took the place of my “word” which was a part of the practice of transcendental meditation that my mother had been involved with just the year before.

 

It became Jesus Jesus Jesus. Jesus loved everybody. I mean everybody. He loved His enemies even. When people got mad at him for telling the truth they actually put Him on a cross, hung Him there to die, and He still asked God to forgive them. He had a lot of patience, this Jesus. So I followed Him too.

 

When I became a teenager in the early 1980s I occasionally attended a non-denominational church, Calvary Chapel, at Rancho and the freeway. I remember one day an associate pastor telling us something that just didn’t jibe with what I thought I knew about Jesus. He said that unless you became a born-again Christian, you were going to go to hell.

 

Think about it. You’re going along -love love love- when suddenly, boom, hate. Jesus would throw you into an oven! Okay. Now, did Jesus condemn other religions of other cultures? If so I must have missed it what with all of the talk about love. What about the good Samaritan? It just didn’t make sense. I later took a two-year Masters degree in mythology, other people’s religions really, to find an answer.

 

What I discovered was interesting. Time after time the religions that I studied said the same things that Jesus said but in different ways. I saw the game clearly. The loving God I had known wouldn’t be so stupid as to condemn everyone other than Christians just because they spoke a different language, had a different mythic vocabulary if you will. The heart was what mattered.

 

Along came 9-11 and then Iraq. It was a mad rush to war, and who was cheering it on the most? The right wing evangelical Christians. The swiftness with which they abandoned the command not to kill, but love only, was breathtaking and very sad.

 

Now, of course, we have Donald Trump. Eighty-one percent of evangelicals voted for him even though his actions, even before the election, were blatantly vile. The evangelical Christians wanted to acquire the worldly power that Jesus Christ himself would have vehemently disagreed was worth having. Give unto Caesar what is Caesar’s…

 

Evangelicals have drunk the Trump Kool-Aid because it has been in Trump’s best interests to say and do whatever this sub-culture wants even if he has to lie.

 

I’ll stick with the loving God instead of this politically motivated facsimile of Christianity that feeds off of the notion of tough love. Love isn’t tough. Love is love.

 

Perhaps someday right wing evangelical Christians will once again embrace the idea that their worldly beings are nothing, that there is no greater thing to do than to give your very life for your brother, that you should give your enemy the shirt off of your back, that a real Christian cares for the “least of these,” that kindness is actually not weakness, as some would have you believe, that must be destroyed.

 

Wouldn’t it be nice if we could all just make America love again?

 

Outcast – Jed

Outcast-Jed

There is something that I know now but didn’t know most my whole life. You’ve got to control, to some degree, where you let your mind go. I remember the time when we were living in San Francisco and Moxy kicked me out of the house until I got clean. I was using so hard I wasn’t even thinking about what it was doing to Moxy.  I just stood there and it seemed like right out of the blue Moxy is mad at me in a way that was really important I recognize. I’d gone on and off of heroin and other hard drugs since I was fifteen years old. We’d been a band for almost two years by this time. She wasn’t no angel. She did a lot of coke on the road, but she always knew how to say no. What got her this time was the way I was handling myself around the women on the tour. I swore a thousand times to her that I would never cheat on her, but one time after a show there were these two girls. I didn’t know they were only sixteen. They looked about 26. We’re at the party afterward and these girls are hanging all over me the way they do when one of them, I guess it was a dare by the other one, rips off her shirt and pushes her tits right into my mouth. That’s a strange predicament to be in. When a man has got a nice pair of tits actually pushed into his mouth there is a big moment there for contemplation. A tit tastes good no matter whose chest they’re connnected to. I can’t say that I wasn’t pleasantly surprised, but I was just as much irritated because what if Moxy was looking. She wouldn’t understand. Which she didn’t. That girl just kept pressing her tits in my face and then tried to roll on top of me. I was like a rag doll. I didn’t know how to stop it. My first thought was that this wasn’t necessarily something that needed to be stopped because, like I said, it was quite nice.  But I got to my senses after a second or two. Maybe it was more like fifteen. I don’t think that I licked them at all, although I can’t be quite sure. Anyway, Moxy did see it all and I found out about it in the limo back to the hotel. She didn’t say a word to me until we got back to the hotel. She took a shower and got ready for bed. Then I did the same and was about to get into bed when she threw the pillow at me and just told me to go, that she didn’t want to see my tit-sucking face. Then she threw the alarm clock at me, but it was connected to the wall so it just fell to the ground. Next, since she wasn’t going to allow herself to fall victim to the same mistake again, she jumped out of bed and unplugged the lamp and chucked it at me. It would have hit me in the head had I not deflected it with my arm. She says “Go do your smack. Go suck some more titties. I don’t want to see you anymore.” I tried to reason with her, but it was impossible.

Everybody must have gone through that empty feeling when you think that you have blown the best thing of your life. It’s like the only feeling you’ve got, the only blood you’ve got in your body is just about an ounce and it’s sitting down there at the pit of your stomach.  I kept thinking “what did I do? What did I do?” I kept thinking that over and over again, going over and over what happened with that little slutty girl backstage. But it was too late. I was released. Cut free.  When I walked out of that hotel room I was in shock. Bewildered. I sat in the lobby waiting for a car rental for a half hour.  When I got it, a blue Mercury Topaz, I just started driving. It was two a.m. It was just me and the California coast and that’s the way it was for the next two weeks. Just me, my heroin, and later, an acoustic guitar bought in Santa Cruz.

This little trip was different than the second time that Moxy kicked me out of the house, many years later when we lived in the Village.  These two weeks were spent in a despair that I realize now went deeper than just Moxy kicking me out for an accident. I knew in my heart of hearts that she would come to understand the nature of my sexual accident if that’s what you can call it.  Whereas the second time I knew that the bullshit was over, that I’d gone too far in my insanity and my unbelief that Moxy would ever really leave me. That time she really did. To her core she did. This California trek was the journey of a man who didn’t know what hit him, a man in shock who believed that the end was at hand with the only girl he really ever loved. Yet, it was too unbelievable that these years would be negated by such a cause. But it seemed to be the case. For two weeks I wrestled with whether or not it was truly the case. When I believed it I would sink down into the recesses of my mind.  I sought refuge in the stupidest things. I let myself go crazy. I followed every thread of thought and allowed it to be the truth when in fact it was the wriggly nerve endings of a mind too fucked up over many years to know that a mind has its fair amount of peripheral bullshit.

I lost my cool. I built fantasies out of the stuff of my life. I freaked on colors. I had musical epiphanies. I spent three days outside of Santa Barbara singing into a long tunnel that went under the freeway.  There was not a single minute where I was not stoned. I went into bars with good music.  I’d sit there and look at the band and the girls, but they may as well have been elephants. The thought of a woman other than Moxy made me sadder than I already was. It was really just a shit time.

But the original point is that all of those whacked out thoughts along the coast pointed more to hell than heaven. If I hadn’t allowed hell into me through the needle I’m sure that I could have rested out Moxy’s anger at a Holiday Inn somewhere.  Instead, I let my fantasies take me down. I let it. I realized you’ve got to control your mind.

It’s just that when the only girl you love leaves you you feel like you are dead. The eyes don’t work. They see, but they do not care about anything that they see. It’s the same with your breath. You breathe, but it seems like bullshit too. Eating sucks too. The only thing that matters is flying away on those dreams which ultimately all point down. Ronnie James Dio was right.  When a woman becomes a witch you must hail her.  Moxy’s wrath was that of a woman with great strength, the darker side of Moxy’s persona that is hinted at, but never fully exposed.  Ultimately, her power is in leaving you knowing that she is the reason for everything good in your life. She becomes the embodiment of the good aspect that the witch inside of her now controls.  You have been banished. You may never, never, ever go home. The only way is down. Yeah, Dio was right.

One day I called her and she apologized, saying she overreacted. Have you ever had your life handed back to you?

 

Published in: on May 24, 2019 at 10:09 pm  Leave a Comment