Anna Belle

I, as if there were an I, view from here to there, as if either were markable, and see with no eyes, feel with no heart, having ascribed the only human possibility for description, the term Soul to my essence. I live. I do. I. The brushing of me against a you proving only being but not existence.
Another way to make real “I” is to compare myself to a breeze. That too cannot be seen. True utterances, all, are unlettered so this arrival to you in letters feels (to you, not I) like an ever tightening vice. You feel, but do not understand that which you feel, that part of you which is me.
Embodiment? No. Never. Except for those places where I cannot help but rest. I am clear breeze. Oxygen. I rest within those who do not know me with their minds, whose bodies lilt into the earth, whose hearts blood fertilizes the ground, who, alone, wait at the doorway of all that I am and all which I am connected to.
I cannot want but what is. I cannot wish for anything, but I do love albeith without possession. I do so here in this place I find that I am. It is this spirit of God (your frail term) that gives these words. I have no words, have never spoken but this once, but more aptly, bathe in places in need of life.
I am not God. I have no face, but I am. You know me, have known me.. Wherever there is need I am. I do not interfere with flesh, although flesh I effect. But not like you comprehend. I am armless, faceless, a manifestation of nothing physical, but am completely relational, uncompromising in my simple, essential ability to be. I cannot explain why I am, although this does not mean there is not an explanation. It is better known than thought.

You willl know me through life. You will believe you can see me through the eye of another. I cannot deny that you will see my effect, but you will not see me. I am not, in the way that you might believe. Your eyes, your mind, cannot comprehend the power of the moment in between moments in which I inhabit. Have you ever wondered about the moment when you look away from your path and what feels like what is termed “spirit” is almost dead? This is such a moment of forgetting of oneself. No parents eyes upon you, no blinding light shining saving rays, cloud hidden moonlight, mud, an eyelid slipping downward while the other steels itself toward a hope, a sign not yet given. There I am. I do not need to be there nor want to be. There is no other reason that I am there but that I am.
What reason, what is known then is magical, a galaxy glued, a lion laying with a lamb. What earthly movement present then, of an earthly design, mysterious because unplanned. Creatures know I am there and when I am there they know that I come because what I come for may come with me. I am! I do not want! I do not want a soul to accompany me. I do not not want a soul to accompany. There is no me, but an even higher essence to go to. I am with. When I am with, the world knows my purpose.
So I will explain my place now. I am inside of a creature that has fallen into a river. On it’s right ankle is a five inch cut. (I was inclined to say “my”) On this creature’s side, this creature being a brown mule, there is a long cut three inches deep. Its legs are struggling to get a grip upon a tree in which it is entangled. Water washes over it’s eye which makes the world seem all sky. It sees the tops of trees as it fights to keep its head above the water. It releases the tree and falls back into the water. The stream takes it. I stand above it as it goes. I am in a place of peace and “knowledge.” I am poised to release the momentary bonds of I am in relation to this earthly creature.
Through it I inhabit the earth. I rise and fall, burrow through, deny. I am within the magic, the child’s word for the ultimate workings of my essence within the physical world. Yet I touch nothing. I do nothing. I am with. When eyes close I stand at the portal and ask the final question. The question is silent, never once spoken of, it is simply put when only a single word is used to describe it: love.
Love is the seed, the proof of a pure heart. I will help return to the workings of the magic any speck of it where I discover that I am inside.
As this creature floated down the stream I became the light behind the filmy eye left open, an eye blind to even the notion that any hope yet exists. I am then the magic. It is the most physical that I can become although I am not physical. I release myself to the workings of God and in so doing become the creature, it’s benefactor, it’s voice to the weight of the crushing world. I carry until earth demands flesh. I do not do. I am. One day I smiled. This image of me I believe all will understand.
The creature had a secret friend. It is called a chipmunk. I saw it all. The mule went into the woods of the mountain with the chipmunk, the chipmunk leading the way up the mountain and the mule lumbering slowly behind, although the mule was the creature with the destination, a home, high above the base of his mountain. But the chipmunk was wayward. Unintelligent. It’s foolhardiness in selecting paths caused the wayward mule to lose its footing, ending with the river’s freeze. The mule washed upon a shore. Its nose breathed the mud of the shore. It’s blood reddened the stones of the shore. I was small. Disappearing, but ever looking forward with the mule. I was expanding, reuniting with what can be explained to you as limitless space, knowledge without knowing, feeling without feeling, being with no essence. I was going back when I “smiled” and knew it was not to be.

A hawk sat perched in front of my sight. I could tell what it was and why it was sent. The hawk was brother to the mule, having shared a home in a house at the top of the mountain. The hawk had found the mule and was now simply waiting. The mule struggled furiously to stand. It could not. It lay there breathing heavily into the mud, it’s legs bloodying further in every attempt to rise. Upon the rising of a new sun, the breath of the animal had become calmer. Another sun and then another moon and then another sun and then another moon until the chipmunk arrived and with the utmost care took to finding tiny foods for the mule all in front of the watching eyes of a deadly enemy. The fearless chipmunk placed a kernel upon the lip of the mule and it would inhale. This continued for two more suns and two more moons. The hawk stayed in place, occassionally flying away and returning with a small creature of it’s own on which it fed. It watched.
It was almost a new sun when the mule felt the possibility of my great strength. With a mighty burst of thought it raised itself to its knees and then its legs, its eyes then dependent upon the eyes of the hawk before it. Then, for the first time other than for reasons of self sustenance, the hawk moved away, flew several feet so that the mule turned. It then flew again. The mule’s legs moved very slowly toward the hawk. The chipmunk followed. Three times the chipmunk distracted the mule into believing there was a better path to follow, but the hawk, it’s hunter instincts negated with this particular small animal, swooped down upon it, sending it scurrying away. The chipmunk, keenly aware of the predator, still would not leave the mule, but stayed with it, behind it, beside it, preferring to be within this new journey along the brush and crevices.
I am strongest within the notion of what you can conceive of as the properties inherent within a smile, that term which I used to describe the sudden illumination of hope of sustained love felt by the mule..How brittle the human terms for the essence of Life.
There were twenty-two more moons and twenty-one more suns before the mule arrived home. When it arrived it looked into the eyes of a family, including the eyes of a young one with the same world-sense, love-sense that Anna Belle had. Has.

Published in: on January 30, 2010 at 8:23 pm  Leave a Comment  

By Word Alone

The world is dead today. Perhaps it is only me. But I doubt it.
No money is ever enough money.
Hunger reaches further than satiety has knowledge.
We fall down.
Hoping upon the steely tendrils stretched too thin to hold us anymore.
Where is dawn’s sweet grasses where breezes carry word of feeling again?
Not here. There. Where the world waits in black like ocean’s bottom’s core.
To be cracked. Traversed. Conquered. Delivered. Then more.
No words tell that score.
Of bloomings later for loves of every age. Breath sweet again.
Cherry words. Honeyed silence.
Cries crackle and then peeter like lightning too weak to make a slash.
If there is no air to carry our voices then we are truly dead.
The dreaming head topples. It’s insides proven false.
No. Dreams of life do not life create.
And we turn. Gulf between thought and fragile bone. And know.
Man does not live by word alone.

Published in: on January 23, 2010 at 12:20 am  Leave a Comment  

Free Mars (fklc) – Albert

A long time ago there was a river valley where things that could fly did and you would watch those things fly and fly and fly and wonder if they were ever going to stop they were so high, way up.

Well, one day one of them birds came down and it was Mars. Minnie knew it. She could see it fall from the sky, first the shot then the bird falling from the sky and then all she knew was she was running. She was taking care of herself today. Her mama and father had both gone into town to get some things and they knew that she would be okay. She was fourteen. Damn right she would be okay. But she ran. That’s all she knew. She ran so fast that those twigs were breaking and those vines were breaking and- she ran.

But when she got there she was too late. She could see the Davis boys picking him up, Mars all flapping her wings with a bullet hole through one of them. She charged that biggest Davis boy and hit him so hard in the stomach with her head that he barreled over and started to cry and he was seventeen. She turned around and knocked Billy straight on his ass, just like she had to do at the fight at lunch time-twice!

She picked up Mars and walked that bird on in home. Then she waited. She tried to make Mars as comfortable as she could. There was little that she could do. She waited and thought about calling her mother’s cell phone, but she decided not to.

Pretty soon the door opened and in walked Minnie’s mother and father.

“Hi, honey.”
“What is it, honey?” She puts her groceries down on the table and goes over to Minnie. She grabs Minnie by the arms gently and looks into her eyes.
“Mars was shot.”
“Oh, my!”
“I got him, baby.”
Jed turns around and is holding the box that Minnie had placed him in with a jar cap full of water and a lot of bread to eat and cloth, old clean cloth that her mother had around.
“Got him through the wing, huh, girl?”
“Uh huh, daddy. Shot him clear through the wing.”

The next day Jed went to the barn and he got on Teardrop. Now, Teardrop was a sturdy old mule, but he wasn’t young and he and Jed did walk most of the time, but when push came to shove and Jed wanted to ride, by gab, he’d ride and Teardrop’d never complain. Well, he got on Teardrop and he rode over to Mr. Davis’s house and he and Mr. Davis had a beer and they sympathized together, commisserated and ended up giving each other a hug when Mr. Davis realizes he hadn’t even seen his boys in two days.

“Then you don’t know if they’re alright?”
“I don’t know anything about them. Their mother drops them off.”

And Jed wished him adieu and much luck and told him that Mars was tough, but he was never as tough as a gun was, but if he could tell his boys what the scoop is around the mountain here about shooting birds because not all of them are wild. And Mr. Davis apologized again and almost turned around as if he were looking for his stick. So Jed rode off and went home and it became night time and Moxy curled up on his lap as Jed mumbled stories from Omar Khaayam and the Rubiyait.

The next day Minnie comes up to her dad and tells him exactly what happened.

“And I saw him putting Mars in that bag and just shoving him in like Mars is a fucking piece of meat.”
“That’s better.”
“…piece of meat and I just ran and ducked and hit him in the head as hard as I could with the top of my head like I would if they let me play with pads. And he started to cry. And then I just wolloped Billy. Billy deserved to be walloped, dad.”
“Then you left?”
“Yes I left!”
“You left them there? Are they alright?”
“I don’t care.”
“I care, I guess, but…”
“I’m calling Mr. Davis. You’re taking us where you saw the boys last. Go get your backpack packed.”

Jed called Mr. Davis and Mr. Davis came over to his house. They shook hands in the driveway and then Minnie followed them out to the station wagon and they all got in and then drove down the road. Minnie was sad, like it was all her fault. But Jed wasn’t going to make her feel that way. Mars flies around how Mars will fly around and if sometimes something bad and nasty happens then that particular something bad and nasty will happen, it’s almost natural. And Minnie could feel this message from her father so her biggest concern also became to find the boys mostly because her father wanted her to and partly because she realized that she never would like to see somebody die. Nobody’s THAT bad.

They pulled into the National Park Rd. through whose fences Minnie had to cut across to get to Mars. Mr. Davis drove the car up one hill after another. Finally he parked the car where Minnie pointed to with her little finger. They strode up the hill until they were almost at the space where Minnie thought that she was that previous morning.

They walked into a thicket, bushes, trees, vines, hills, stones, water. There was everything there. She walked in a little further and then a little further and then a little further and the others followed her into the thicket and when they were in they suddenly became very small, not really small, they stayed the same size, but they did become very small as compared to the world around them. It was a cool day suddenly, almost tropical, the sun that did hit you came through the trees and reminded you of the goodness of warmth. The day was not difficult, no clouds, no sounds of possibility being drown out by “rain” or “snow” or “hail” or whatever. The boys were nowhere to be seen.

“Well, what should we do? Should we split up?” Mr. Davis said. He was a frightened man because all of the years of neglect on his boys had added up to a delinquency charge at the county jail for them and it seemed ashamed that that should happen because it never would have happened at all if he hadn’t worked so goddamned much. He’d forgotten who his wife was and that was saying a lot.

“Daddy, we should stay together. I’m scared.”
“We will stay together.” then announcing, “We’ll stay together, Mr. Davis. Just holler a lot.”
“Billy! Twain!…Billy…Twain….Billy!” and Mr. Davis went walking ahead, like he’d lost a diamond on the golf course and he were determined that he would get it back if it meant he had to walk five thousand miles. He was on that walk, what Kirby used to call the secret trail of Ernest Hemingway or Ernest Hemingway’s Secret Trail, or along Ernest Hemingway’s Secret Trail. Or something like that.

They went on with this for awhile until finally Minnie spotted them. She knew it. They’d come in from the back side. Those little twits had made it up the mountain, up the back side just like Teardrop done it and then when Mars goes looking out over all the “poor” little creatures you shoot her! Pphtt!

“Easy there, Thriller,” Jed said. “Don’t go attacking them again, that’s not what we’re here for.”
“They better be dying daddy. They better be dying.”
“Minnie.” Jed said.

They climbed over to them slow-like just as they had always done up this far. Mr. Davis led the way and Jed helped him and Mr. Davis helped Jed. And then Minnie followed behind.

Mr. Davis got to the boys first.
“What are you doing?”
“What do you mean what are we doing? We’re hurt.” Billy said.
“What do you mean you’re hurt?”

“Twain. Twain’s hurt real bad. He’d bleeding up through his stomach papa and he just gurgles blood up and I can’t stop him and I can’t leave him and I can’t move him because he hurts too bad, papa. Help.”

“Move away.”

The boy stood up and moved away, first placing his brother’s head softly on the pillow made up of his shirt. Mr. Davis took his place, cradling the boys head with his own lap. He tried calling the police on his cell phone, but nothing. Then Jed, nothing.

“Go, Mr. Jones. Go!”
In a split second, Minnie is up and running.
“Go child. Go,” Mr. Davis said. “What are we going to do, Mr. Jones?”

But Jed didn’t know. He bent down over the boy and then put his ear to his mouth to make sure there was breath. He knew this was true because the boy writhed in pain, which to Jed was a good sign because it meant he wasn’t completely unconscious and he could tell him where he hurt. But so far the boy wasn’t saying nothing. He was in one big, deep hurt and he was spending it all alone and that’s why his brother got scared and he didn’t want to move him, for fear of being there at that final defining moment, that moment when you disappear into the netherworlds of nevermore. He didn’t want to be there for that. So he cried.

But now he was here and he had to do something. He opened the boys mouth up a little bit. It was red with blood. He closed it. The boy seemed to be sleeping semi-calmly. It seemed like he had an internal bleeding and it wasn’t draining the very life out of him, but it sure did hurt like a summamabitch. He turned and looked up at Mr. Davis and calmly told him that he thinks that it’s no lie that his boy is hurt, but he didn’t think, that is, think, he didn’t think it was life threatening, but what the hell did he know? The most he knew about anatomy he learned off a Skid Row poster. He just shook his head.

But Minnie wasn’t done thinking about anything at that particular moment. She was contemplating jumping from one tree to another to cut five whole minutes off her time. She’d never done this and she’d thought about it a thousand times. Well, now was the time. She stood on that tree limb and she prepared. She waited, one, two, three breaths and then jumped she missed the other tree limb by three feet and splashed right there in the swimming hole. No, she wasn’t scared.

When she got out of the pool she kept running and thought about all of the stories that they tell you as children of the little red riding hood and the teeth and the witches and the goblins and ghosts in the woods. She thought of all of this as she ran and ran again, the same way back that she ran the day before. Back she went where she would go and look for mom and tell mom what happened and she and mom would go back and get them. Minnie burst through the door.

“What is it, Minnie!”
“That kid’s hurt!”
“What kid?.”
“The kid I hurt. That kid is hurt real bad. They’re all on the mountain, daddy and Mr. Davis and we were looking for the Davis boys…
“Oh, Minnie, what have you done now?”
“Nothing, mama.”
“You told me those boys were alright.”

Moxy rushes out the door, her cell phone at her ear.

“Marty! NO, get Marty! Thanks, Rebecca.”
“Hello, Marty? The Davis boys are hurt and they’re on the mountain. Minnie says that one of the boys is hurt really badly and they can’t move him. Yeah, I think you may need the call the helicopter just in case. They’ll probably want to know something’s up. Alright. I’ve got my bag and I’m going up the hill with Minnie. She’s taking me back. Quicker to hike it. Just past the big field by the house. Yeah, right…alright. Bye, Marty. 555-5738,38, 5738. I gotta go.”

Minnie has Teardrop saddled and ready to go.

“C’mon, ma!”

Moxy doesn’t say a thing. Just walks past Minnie and tells her to hurry it up with that mule.

Back at the boys Jed and Mr. Davis have learned that if you hold the boy in a certain position, like with his left leg pointed down or something that he breathes easier. He maybe had a punctured lung, Jed thought. Minnie probably did the twister at the end of her hit and she knew it was illegal. It was the twister. So if Minnie did the twister that means that this boy, Twain, was twisted, so it reasoned to go that if you untwisted him then maybe he wouldn’t die mistakenly while we all sat around thinking it was going to be alright.

Moxy stares up the hill, watching Teardrop climb with Minnie. She sits down briefly, exhausted, on a stump, gets right back up and follows her daughter and the mule. Her backpack heavy with supplies on her back.

Jed reaches around the young man and lifts him lightly. The boy relaxes a little.
“Gotta hold him like that.”
“Like this?”
“Yeah, a little under that way, keep his lung open better.”
“Yeah?” Mr. Davis asked with eyes wide.
“Yeah.” Jed said.
“Yeah, that’s alright, Twainy-boy, you friggin idiot. C’mon. That’s better, yeah.”

A light mist started to fall on the two men and the two boys. Jed looked up at the sky and wondered about existence. About his brother and his play. About his notion that everything will be alright could just be a ruse, a way to fool himself into believing that he wouldn’t have died had he continued drugs, a big lie, truly.

He would have died.

Minnie ran frantically up the hill. Teardrop kept up with her most of the way, but sometimes he was slow. Moxy followed behind. Teardrop was her proper, natural pace. She felt she would get there faster by making it there at all than if she fell off a cliff or broke an ankle along the way herself.

Well, our heroes went up there and got that boy. The rest of this story need not be told. Sometimes the truth is the shortest way from one place to another and then, if you realize it, you will realize that it’s not the getting there that is all the fun, but the stayin’ and the lovin’, most of all the lovin’. So you’ll realize, once again, I suppose, that this boy was close to dying. It’s all a ruse. It’s all a ruse! Said the poet to himself. It’s all a ruse! But it weren’t. It weren’t. It were real, right there with this boys spitting up these blood bubbles that would pop.

He was close to the edge when Jed saw Moxy come up on over that mountain followed by Minnie riding atop that mule. He couldn’t believe it. And then she come and she took care of that boy and she agreed that they should wait for the helicopter which they did. Minnie wanted to take him down on Teardrop, but Jed figured Teardrop’d had about enough. She knew what he meant.

They got that boy to the emergency room and they fixed him up and put him in the hospital for two months to cure his internal bleeding. Minnie had done the twister, a football move, and it spun him and she knew the twister was illegal, but she did it when she saw anybody harming that bird of theirs Mars. She sure loves Mars.

I guess the point here is this: that no matter how bad you are or how bad you think you are, you’re never be so bad that you’re not important to God or The Universe or Star Trek or whatever…I mean, well, I don’t know what I mean. This is Albert Jones, signing off here at the Fargo Kantrowitz’z Literary Campsite. Maybe Mr. Kantrowitz will appear tomorrow.

Published in: on January 17, 2010 at 6:46 pm  Leave a Comment  

Get a Free Thousand Years

Love is not in the game plan for old joe.
Not even close
he wants nothing but to live and love and
maybe get laid now and then,
but until then,
he ain’t doing none of it
He’s like a teenaged girl
hoping for something to happen
which won’t
he sits around and laments the facts
of existence
pure and simple
He loses touch with himself
and dreams of times when he will know
something greater than what he knows
which isn’t much
but is something
although he’s not sure
what it is

character #2

yeah, but he knows better than to come around here.
We’ll kick his skinny little ass back to burbank
I don’t need that guy hanging around here
he gives me the creeps
He’s always talking about the way life should be
When is he just going to sit down and shutup
and appreciate the way that it is?
It seems to me that people like old Joe don’t know shit
about sherlock holmes
Seems like us old farts who sit around her day after day
have lost touch with something, but we don’t know what it is
joe says he does, but he don’t either
that’s what bugs me
the nerve of this guy to profess that he knows what is and isn’t true

character #3
Ah, give him a break.
Joe’s walked more golf courses than you’ll ever walked
raised three kids and two grandkids when the one bailed on him
he’s a loudmouth, sure, but he’s a good hearted loud mouth.
That kid over there. Joe taught him how to play.
You can’t tell by looking at him, but that kid shoots in the low 70s
and that’s because of Joe.

Character #2

yeah, but joe is so full of shit that kid probably improved his game
just to get joe off his back.
Hey, kid, put down that hamburger for a minute and come over here.

The kid, about seventeen, comes to the table and addresses the old man who called him. There are three other old men there. Bill, Wade, Tom and Jack.

You think that old guy Joe is a good teacher? I mean, did he teach you your game?

Kid (Craig)
joe gave me a couple hints once or twice, but I picked it up mostly by myself.

so the old man’s full of shit?

I wouldn’t say that, but he’s a little bit talky.

a little bit talky?

well, I guess he’s a lot talky.

That’s better. He’s a lot talky. You can go back to your burger.

(This has been a test of recollection patterns from my people to yours. We will now circumnavigate the globe thrice more until we have full systemic patterning at which point the human may be allowed to live another thousand years before destruction. Thankyou.)

Published in: on January 15, 2010 at 2:33 am  Leave a Comment  

Notes From Underground (the fklc) – Albert (mid-aughts)

Make less money, but be happier. Work work schedules hexagonally, man. You know, work a little here and a little there, you make less money, but so what? Make less money. But be happier. I don’t know how this works it just works. If you work less you will make less money but you will be happier. Even if you think you won’t be happier, you will be happier. Make less money, at least don’t let them know you sweat.

Sometimes you stink. So what? Make more money if you want to make less money. Get me? Make more money while you make less money. Get it? Numbers. Ask the number man the rules of the game and he’ll reduce them in a matter of seconds.

That’s why the government keeps kids from learning their numbers because it’s all fucked up. If we kids knew our numbers then we could call them on their numbers. Remember the first thing bush said he was afraid of was fuzzy math. Well he has a right to be, because he knows that no matter how smart he is in math, his numbers won’t necessarily be the last and final numbers. He figures that he could be proved wrong and laughed at. Well, bushy boy isn’t standing for it. He’s richi riching himself right to the top of the tower of, well, everything. Love! & the American way. Loving himself is alright. He’s going to make it to the top, but those numbers (10,000 dead in Iraq. 550 Americans. & this doesn’t even talk about the wounded.). Sooner or later someone is going to prove him illogical and he will get mean.

The computer is finally saying that illogic shouldn’t necessarily be an idea’s ending point. What is there is a Higher Purpose. Enter Jesus. Over there J man. You’ll do . You’ll confound their numbers at least in the eyes of my constituents who can barely read for the fine job we do at keeping them away from their letters…

“i said numbers. Fuzzy up their numbers.”
Well, mr president, their letters are pretty fuzzied up too now. It’s not just their numbers.
‘You mean to say there’s been no child left behind?”
Why, no sir, I don’t unders…
“perfect, draw that up and stuff it in the pipeline. No child left behind and we want their math and english skills to be top notch, notch enough to make america proud (insert smile here, attempt to not scurry for jokes concerning his truly (mythical) nose and sneaky (and sleepy) eyes.

(W. is not an inviting human being, especially after you truly find out about the kinds of damage that his “policies” do.)

I’m sure he’s guaranteed somebody’s loved one took on Jesus because he’s understanding the reel people’s plight and making sure that there ain’t no more death or nothin like that, aw, shucks, (are southern people really that stupid?) Bush makes it appear so. We are all southern people in George Bush’s utopian story line. We are the little people. Weee. Whoop dee dee! It’s a hummmm-dinger!

As far back as the 80s I can remember not liking country music. The idea that America belongs to the cowboys (still!) Is largely untrue. We are the world. We are yellow, blue, purple, white, black, brown, umber, beige and two shades of burnt orange and yet we still don’t and can’t figure out that we are brothers among the tribe Human, brothers and sisters here to make sure the other understands that if you understand then you don’t have to worry about this or that. That if you are caring for your fellow man then you can live outside of fear. Terror disappears. Whose got time when the world is providing the resources for sustainable living?

Release the new clean technologies that provide energy. Make it truly abundant. Ancient tribes took the time to do great art. We can get there again even while knowing our babies are fed and we have a roof over our heads. Care needs to be taken. Love freely given out. Lies abated. Time to ask the politicians to step down and the people stand up for what is right; no more killing in the name of God.

Published in: on January 12, 2010 at 10:09 pm  Leave a Comment  

Literary Lamentations (the fklc)- Albert

I was just walking down the street the other day when my school book learning got in my way. Actually, another day to a writer is always that day of years ago. A day equaling an entire period of angst and hell in the writer’s life, everything metabolized down into some symbolic form until you just can’t quite stand it anymore and you write about the relationship between a chicken and a squirrel and try to pass it off as art.
Now, it is art. This is the funny thing. It is art. But in order to be welcomed into the fold of humanity as the textbooks say that we need and want, we must do everything in our power to impress upon the hill people that it is art. This is an art in itself and is a higher art for it is what forms “artists” as we understand them: Bernard Shaw, Sarah McLaughlin, Rodney Dangerfield, Tupac. What binds all of these people together is that they had fame. Being famous is the most important thing in the trek of the artist onward to sublimity. If we don’t become famous then we are nothing. Why is this? Because if we don’t become famous then we’re going to be scraping shit off things for others as their slaves. None of us want to be slaves. We don’t even believe in slavery and yet we are? Isn’t that funny how that happens?
So the main question becomes how we are to not be slaves in this world of slaves where everybody is a slave to somebody else unless you decide to completely back out and become a hermit. Now, hermiting has gotten a bad rap as of late with Ted Kazinski and all. In a family of “hard workers” it is even harder to break away from this desire to be alone or, god forbid, simply intellectual as opposed to industrial.
In the Bible they say that every part is equal in stature. You need the feet as much as you need the head. Well, the symbolic structure of “the feet” in our society consists of scrubbing toilets and making the bed of drunken, rich, drug besotted 19 year olds who have driven into town in their daddy’s BMW convertibles. Whichever way you slice it there can no doubt that in this case being the head is undoubtedly better than being the feet, especially when you get a little of their cum on your finger as you change their sheets.
But strangers cannot affect you nearly as much as your own family can. God forbid that you have a father who makes his living scraping shit off of sewer walls because you will have learned that scraping shit off of sewer walls is the pinnacle of human existence, that there is no greater goal to strive for than to scrape shit off of sewer walls. This is just an example. Every human being believes that every other human beings should be doing what they are doing if only for the reason that if they don’t believe this then they will recognize that they have been wasting their lives, which we all, for the most part do every day.
And time passes. This is true. As you get older and your world does not materialize as you expected it would according to your dreams you see that all is in a state of slow deterioration. I imagine even the “successful” see this deterioration, if they don’t express it then maybe they feel it on the inside. They feel their weaknesses. I sometimes think that the only people who are happy are those who have forsaken the idea that you can improve your lot on earth by overcoming the material obstacles, by becoming the head instead of the feet. While it is better to be the head than the feet, it does not slow the process of deterioration. This is a truth. But also, this is not a truth. Every word is false if another word follows. A truth suggests that you can stop right there and bask in reality. Well, there is reality and then there is surreal reality and then there is blackest reality and then there is hopeful reality and then there is…
You get the picture. By the time you have the answer you’ve forgotten the question. We are all the mule trying to reach the carrot tied to our tails by the fool who laughs and laughs and laughs, who cannot stop laughing, who will never stop laughing, who has come upon a truth and, smarter than the non-fool, stops.
If you have love in your life then all of these ideas are ludicrous. They are all ludicrous anyway if you think of them in terms of how they will be understood. Isn’t to be understood to be loved if you are a good person? I rarely see instances of love between strangers. Loneliness isn’t the down side of being alone, it stems from seeing the world in love. Love is a singular connection. Once you stop being lovable then you are halfway released from any tether you may have had on earth. From here you enter the loveless realm of the workings of the mind. You can go to the moon or sit on a star from here, but you won’t be able to feel it. You will only be able to see it. When you look you glimpse the light from real human beings who have found the connection. Your book falls the nine miles it takes to get to hell. You wait, but you wait for nothing. For death. Same thing.
There is always the self help route. This too is faulty because we don’t want help. We want love. We can’t just change the pictures in our heads and somehow be alright. Even understanding is a failure because no matter how much we understand we are going to have to fight those closest to us to realize it in our lives and our society will always be about thirty years behind those of us who have taken the initiative and plotted out the possibilities of our human potential.
We are still alone. Individuals are pushed backward, flushed out of the system. We walk the outer rim of earth, lonely puppets without puppeteers, alive due to some bizarre system we developed as children and perfected as adults much to our detriment. When we are not being blasted in the ear as to what we should do and how we should do it by our loved ones we are following paths of thought that take us only further away until, finally, we are at the outer rim, walking lonely and aimlessly within the realm of our highest aspiration which in it’s final form is spiritual when we thought it would include the physical, the mental, the emotional, the familial. Skin hanging upon bones. Man does not live on word alone.
They say that the hopeful people do better as human beings than the non hopeful people. The numbers are pretty convincing although I don’t have them here. I’m not sure what they mean by “hopeful” but I imagine it consists of not having had many bad influences in your life. I think hopefulness comes from having had predominantly positive influences in your life. I personally get tired of trying to figure it all out. I guess this makes me less hopeful and therefore a failure according to the study which therefore makes the study useless to the hopeless and beneficial only to the hopeful since the hopeempty are easily beaten down and often gullible and believing, always attributing to themselves the worst and thereby becoming hopeempty.
At least us hope empty people have got some role models: Sartre, Camus, Beckett. The Hopeful look at these people and don’t understand them. The universities make sure that we worship. Then they come out with these studies which place the divides between the classes; between the educated and the ignorant. I believe that the ignorant are more hopeful. I am not hopeful because I know the futility in trying to make it in this world using my chosen method: the mind. There is nothing I can say to convince anybody of anything. When I do try I simply question my motives and find that I want others to read me and be changed and then if I go further I discover that if they are reading me then I am probably getting paid. I want my physical comforts so I can continue to dispense this “truth” which will set them free and keep me fed and housed. Truth is better left spontaneous. In actuality it cannot be given at all, but only expressed. Words are a cheap whore that I visit again and again, always believing that the next time I will get out of her what I dream.

Published in: on January 12, 2010 at 4:37 am  Leave a Comment  

Mysteria Went

There was once a man named Rodrigo who did not know everything, but he knew some things and the one thing that he knew was that he would live to be an old man and die alone on a hill overlooking a cliff or in his bed but he would be old. Rodrigo knew that time was on his side but he didn’t know what would lie before him. Everything was … the form would become him and he knew what it would be. … at last sight he would be known to have been gone. Then he was. But first there was anna maria who he married and … how come some things…

The image of a woman’s breasts here

Go there then, go there then again.

How come? You.
Time management
Literary management.

Use questions where question marks are unneeded
Ask questions but first knead it, the bread that is…
Oh, c’awhmahn! Darling…

And mysteria walked out of Theodore’s life forever, never turning back. Theodore had said that one solemn thing and at its passing from his lips he had released mysteria from that which she had needed from him and she went. Mysteria went.

Published in: on January 9, 2010 at 6:53 pm  Leave a Comment  

Jed, Countyjail and Johnny

Once upon a time and what a time it was!

There were three dead dogs lying underfoot.

Now, I like dogs. Dogs make me smile.

So I’m walking down the road and I see two other dogs dead underfoot. And that makes me sad. Of course. Right? Yup. But anyway, these dogs were all dead and and then I saw why.
Billy was out playing that day I guess. I’m sorry. Shit. I never shoulda dun this ya know?

I don’t care if I forget a comma or two, but walking out into these shallows without a thought to what’s coming up behind us to gulp us down at any moment just like that new movie that’s coming out about that big alligator eating everybody up.

Of us.

Shit.Well I guess its like that. Its like a big alligator coming up from thebottoms of thelakes to eat us up.
Well anyway …

Those boys killed Billy that day. Tied him up with a rope and beat him like they did each one of those five dogs that I was talking about. But like I was originally trying to say before I started originally trying to say something I realized my feet were running very fast towards billy and especially towards that boy who held a club and was beating billy.

Now I was only 13, you see. Right around Billy’s age and these were two grown men. But I needed to take that club away from that monster was beating billy with it. So my feet carried me. And I took that club away and I started beating him with it. Until I thought maybe he was dead. All I knew was he was going to start beating me too and I said shit alls fair in love and war and got strong all of a sudden as my 150 bench lift finally came in handy in p.e.

I took that club and I brought it down overhis head and he stopped then I brought it down over the head of the other one who was standing around but looked like he might still be dangerous.

I don’t know if he died. You always feel sorry for that one. He’s the dylan klebold killer of the world. The ever accomplice. Never ever gets to choose his fate.

And then I took that boy out of there. He died at home, though. But that wasn’t what I was orignally trying to say. What I meant was that I was carrying that boy home over my shoulder his face black and blue literally, his eye creeping purple up to the very edges of it’s allowability to close itself! And these two cops see me and I think they musta been standing guard for them others to beat that boy because they didn’t seem to care a shit about me and especially this little boy

ah, we getting off on a bad foot aren’t we…i’m Countyjail.
Good ta meet ya, County Jail.
What’s your name?

chapter 2 of “of the sweet dreams of dying dogs”

the clumsy disadvantages of living your life on the edge is that you get to chase down all those dreams too. You get to walk along the fairyland of existence, meet all of the interesting characters in the arts, God Forbid! Or you think that you are going to be a part of some grand minstrel show and travel the world and act as though you own it.

Yeah, County, but….pizza.
No pizza, Johnny.
No Pizza. Boy, you are a dumb one. And that’s what I was trying to tell you about having to carry someone. Now he weren’t no popular person for these men to be beating him and then the way they handled him from me and shit. I thought if I gave that boy to that police officer it was just the same as handing him to the angel of death. So I thought, no, I’ll be the ambulance driver on this one. So we get in the car and he drives us to the hospital, but i’m watching guard. I don’t trust my own people at this moment and am looking around for a few good, nice black faces who might be peeping out the window and might of seen the fight so when they try to pin it on me they won’t be able to, but that’s not my important part. My important part comes now. One of em was turned around and looking at us and he see me a young scrubby white boy out digging for worms for fishing and my friend here who was almost dead. And that mother fucker had the audacity to look at me in such a way that I was going to claw his eyes out and kill him. And after awhile they pulled over and those two men were there. I guess they’d woken up or something or just let me have the boy because their consciouses wouldn’t let them survive without doing so…well, anyway, I ended up flat on my face, half of it in the mud. You ever have your tongue covered in mud? You ever taste worms? I thought I finally got the chance. But you see, I am a little story to tell and I’m going to tell it. Me and worms always been friends.

no Pizza
no pizza
pizza pizza


Published in: on January 7, 2010 at 9:56 pm  Leave a Comment