It is very important to know whether or not it is half-time yet. Is it half-time yet? Is it? Is it half-time yet?
Given over then, livened over then, this other thing, crabdaplinar in scope, noodles and whey, won over then, thos slope, this gibletted…
nownownow…no need to get crandiplaplicler now is’it? Now now now.
– from the poetry of nobody no longer doodling series by Albert Jones (never printed).
Otis thought…
I don’t care what Otis thought
You would
Wouldn’t
Wouldn’t?
Would but wouldn’t. wouldn’t would. Wouldent.
Just as I thought
Whaddya mean
Scatterbrained
Like Susie?
Like Susie but different. You got the people headed brain pump.
That’s pimple. The people headed brain pimple that’s going to pop. We all pop. Everybody. That’s what we’re made to do. Or flip. Like spermatozoa or salmon in a river. We’re supposed to jump, pop, make a splash, but then it’s over. Just a small entertainment for a very small portion of mankind, but if we all do it then we think that there’s some sort of magic going on. Look at all the fish jumping. Look at all the people popping.
Then there are the patriglorphs, always remembering, will cry with you, but are really quite tough, have a bad reputation for being too good. People don’t believe it. Don’t trust it. But it’s true. Some people are good. Or pretty good anyway. What does good mean anyway?
Went to the yesterday. Nothing much happened. Just kidding. Didn’t go to the .
Otis thought nothing.
Othis thought something.
Otis doesn’t exist.
Otis does exist. He comes here at 3 and 5.
He’s a figment of your imagination.
He is the janitor.
He is not.
Hello.
Hello, otis. See…
Otis?
Yes.
Are you the janitor.
Yes.
When otis was born, his mother called him James. His stepfather called him Otis. Otis. It’s so easy to stop writing. Welcome. Redundant. Can only last a quarter of an hour. So much for that…
Young, we scour all things, for truths.
So much new, million mile message.
We believe that finally we know.
But a truth ofen hides after discovery,
Till nothing at all can be pinned.
You wonder what you knew,
Whether you had ever truly learned.
Maybe you did. Maybe you didn’t.
The truth seems taken from you,
Given back to the air, released.
Re-symbolized forever away from you.
So we prize the truths of the young,
Fresh eyes on ancient things,
But, still, the same dissipation –eventually-
The ambling away of palpable now
Back to dark, mysterious places.
Learned yet not so learned,
The known, not so known.
For the question is gone.
The need to know satiated.
Answers so integrated as to disappear.
Tell us, tell us, tell us!
Scream the young, like we did, I might add,
And we raise our heads, our minds,
Look up and see…nothing.
All is like it was before the attempt,
The desperate grab at knowing done,
Airy you, airy me, blue clouds each, rainless.
Nothing new, old sun.
Babel.
It’s all babble.
I mean Babel. As in Tower of Babel.
We’ve built our tower and the higher up we get, the less we understand one another.
The thieves have taken up roosts in the new nesting places.
Come on in. They look just like the honest ones before them.
That new website and service. Oh, that’s Johnny’s new thing,
something he does when he gets home from elementary school.
He’s made ten bucks this month faking his way through the adult world.
Good for you, Johnny, keep up the good work.
Babel. It’s not what you say, but how you say it.
Babel. It’s hardly worth talking about because any talk at all just adds to the confusion. I’ll be the one who explains it, each writer writes.
Add the solution to the billion other solutions and we’ll see if he or she is right.
Or simply lost.
Babel
It used to be that…
Once, when I was young…
There is no time for that…
Does anything matter anymore?
Clever clever clever.
Something they don’t teach you in school is…
How come we can’t just get along?
Are others feeling the same way?
How come…
When the world ends…
Which project was the right project
and did I do it?
What knowledge is the right knowledge?
Or is the determining factor sexual attractiveness?
How come…
Where did it say that…
What is the thing that matters…
Is that growling in your brain or…
How come we need to muse on…
We are all executioners, daily, every day…
We dispatch others. We dispatch all.
Eliminate the competition. Be alone. Good enough.
We throw money over our heads. That’s just what we do.
Because we love it.
I once wrote thinking writing would be read.
When it was not I wrote more thinking it would be read.
It was not. I wrote more thinking it would be read. It was not.
I wrote more thinking it…then I died.
In death you see things that you wouldn’t see in life.
All of those arrows that I used to point people to the truth
were confusing to them, unwanted. So unread.
I can’t blame them.
I don’t want to look at other people’s arrows either.
Especially if they come with a mystic layer.
Perhaps my poetry is not sufficient.
Perhaps theirs as well. Perhaps all of our poetry is insufficient.
Or we believe that when we write such things we are preening.
So there was a huge upheaval against preening on the page.
And we all walked home, head bowed, shamed and believing rightfully so.
But there was no need for shame.
The world had logic’d itself into mayhem.
Poetry, the lost art of shameful practitioners
was the only place that really mattered anymore.
Prizes were given to people who wrote, even blandly, un-poetically.
For the words themselves, coming from the deep
mattered again, surprisingly. But not. Not in life.
But in death only.
Never in life.
So we wither upon the vine.
Greetings! Welcome to the
Well, what is it?
This spinning thing
In the sky
Skimming too
And brimming
With sharp glowing light
Greetings!
Perhaps you have the answer and you’re just out
Taking a spin
Perhaps you’ll help us miserable rats
I like to believe that you are miserable rat rescuers
That dog let up and my cat got away
It let up because my hand
That cat felt hurt for a couple a more day
But it was alright
Some cats truly do
Have nine lives.
They like to eat it too
They’ll tell you about it
If they don’t get it
No
Never trust a cat.
But anyway, I keep it. What else am I going to do.
Got a whole lot of ‘em.
Strays
Oh, well, whaddayagonnado?
Birds and cats don’t get along
Nor do doctors and patients
The confuscators are out and about
But we don’t listen
Cuz we got some music goin on
And, well, its time to…
Dance?
What if it were so simple as to be true. What if Pepsi taught the world to sing again. I’d like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony. I’d like to buy the world a coke and …
Or was that Pepsi. I always bought em, but now we know you shouldn’t drink all that sugar. So, whatddayagonnado?
New game show idea: Last Band to Pittsburgh.
Well, here we are again at the literary campsite. As you can see, nobody here is getting quite literary at the moment. Over there, look, its fargo kantrowitz. From Norway. Plays harp music all night and talks. Over there, Fargo kantrowitz, Burma, does snake charming music and Islamic Rock, look, over there, whose that? You guessed it, Fargo Kantrowitz, Istanbul. A poet and musician.
Meo..
No.
Meow…
No!
Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow!
Aaaaaggghhh!!! Get out!
Shit. And tomorrow I gotta pay that bill and Sunday I gotta…
I dream of mountains.
Perhaps, this mountain or mountains are
the mountains of true dreams or
just another dream by day,
non-distant dreams like dreams
that have been dreamed a hundred times before
by others, and better.
No, these mountains are the mountains of wishes as well.
Wishes are the winds in these hills that whisper
they are not mine to judge.
They are wishes and winds,
whisperers of tomorrow today.
This is the writing that matters most,
this moment, now.
I have rocked upon a million waves
in my quest for the perfect “word”
Really, you must want to write when you most want to love
and I have always been a big lover
except when I hated.
We fly low over kitten farms.
On The Unintelligible Wrath of God
By
Albert Jones
The Unintelligable Wrath of God
(A novel by Joey Kantor)_
The Unintelligible wrath of god
There were llittle hills and little valleys. No where was there a world better than this world and only far away could the “scary” things be presumed to be, far away from all, as though we lived on silver clouds and invisible biospheres made of plastic no glass no float, did I say “float” I mean, what I mean to say is that I think that something in you ultimately has to give in, you, as a person, me as a rider across these winded plains, everybody’s got to dig in, in their own way and if we can avoid it we can say to one another that there is room with all of us whether it be in staying or in passing. I think that it matters a lot to the world if there is something to say about something that there is to say about something about if there is something to say about something…
The day the dawn turned carpet hued, red, orange and filtered then, blue, blue? What color this in all this heat! Friends in the cooler, hopes hang in the air, you dine again with literature, wondering why now why you are one of the few left at the academy, the academy of readiness in silent rooms where books reach high into the rafters, somewhere up high is Knowledge and with this “gnosis” there is some magic of some kind, of some kind, no matter how little nor grand, magic, in a way that none of us can fully understand because we are all from this world, you, me, we. Everybody. I forgot what I was going to say.
The day the dawn turned carpet hued. Red, orange and filtered then, blue. Blue? What color this in all this heat! Friends, in the cooler, hopes hang in the air, you dine again with literature, wondering why now you are one of the few left at the academy where books pile high and eyes wide upon all. The academy is window dressing for Truth which stands tall with Knowledge among the rafters. Pizza. What if we sell pizza!
There were little red dots and it became that they were the mumps and granny had to spend three months in the hospital in st. lean and then there was no more hospital because the big wind come and granny was in it. Lived three days after that and told the story ever after, over and over again how she “Flew!” she just flew. It was the greatest experience of granny’s life and she was afraid she was maybe a witch and felt penance, but she enjoyed it, sure, but it killed. Her . it most certainly did do that.
2
it seems the summer never ends. Me and granny are the pickers these days. Jacklyn is in Trent. God knows what. Mabel, the Other granny around her is always sick in bed with something, Willis works, Todd delays at the pool hall, Ernest cries, Faith lies, Bridget dines on seashells for awhile, then nothing. Boredom.
We stop this novel for an announcement…in fifteen minutes when you’re reading along there will be the words “Uncle Filibluster” plastered on the page in full pronouncement, only that time, there won’t be no rhyme or reason and….Mr. Whurlingzser? Yes…yes?
Wake up sir, we’ve landed in Leningrad. Alright, alright, will do, thank you, madam, thank you. I will…I will….
From the unintelligible wrath of god by Fargo Kantrowitz:
Who was fargo kantrowitz?
Fargo Kantrowitz was born Joey Kantor in the year 1964 in the city of las vegas Nevada in the united states of America. Kansas city was the main stage of that America when everybody wanted to live in Kansas city. Everybody thought it would be cool if you could go to Kansas city and make it in the rackets, whatever anybody thought that the rackets were back then, drugs, of course, but not for wackenhurst, although he did smoke a little pot now and then. He thought about it. Does he want to go to the big city or does he want to stay and make it at his home? He decides. He will stay. He will make it on his own at home. That is what he would do, but there was an evil stepbrother who thought differently. The other one, the second born, whose wishes never matched Joey’s, whose belief system did not include……………(Hello……this isn’t a joke……I’m stuck inside this story…………….if you…..could only please help me by writing me out of this damned story!
Kantor looked down at this page.
What can I believe of a story that screams of me. What would I know of a place so bold. I would think that you are nothing but an animal, my friend, so everything is going to be a foolish game. I think that we are people and we make the world like sheeple the better and the wondrous all the same. There’s people eating plame.
(Fargo kantrowitz 08)
\
from the fake novel The unintelligible wrath of god:
Hollow roars on English paths wonderous days lie ahead
Fat far fittens, along hurley kittens, furl their flag and delay all the nuown
All the purrs in the mittens
f.k. 08
the unintelligible wrath of god…
part 2
this is part two of what I am about to call tuwog. Tuwog was born The Unintelligable Wrath of God, a novel by Fargo Kantrowitz who is really Joey kantor who gave away, what, his novel?
Cut!
Cut?
Listen, Charlie, I know you think the line is giving up your whatevers, your…
His novel…
His novel…right, his novel, but it isn’t his novel, it’s his navel, you see, he doesn’t want to give up the comfort of being a navel-gazer, a dreamer, a schlep, you see, he’s a comedic hero, not some shlep who needs to have a book around just to be comfortable. He wants to give up his dreamlife, for god’s sake, and get a real life. That’s what he wants. The novel ain’t even in the script. It’s navel.
Okay.
Okay?
Okay. I got it. Navel. A dreamer. Gotcha.
Great….okay, back in action. Let’s do it again.
“the Unintelligable Wrath of God” take 600. Scene 14. Director: Scott Exler. Starring: Dave Burns.
This is part two of what I am about to call tuwog. Tuwog was born The Unintelligable Wrath of God, a navel by Fargo Kantrowitz who is really Joey Kantor who gave away, what, his navel?
Cut!
Fargokantrowitz o8
Part iii of tuwog….
The world askied for it and it got it. The unintelligible wrath of god in two sets both book and literary. Don’t forget to buy your tuwog postcards to send to your friends. And do you have a tshirt? Well, now you can. You can have your very own tuwog tshirt by sending 16.99 plus postage and handling to tuwog, port royal new hamnpshire, west Covina Hampton drive, 2352 Ferryboat way. Massachussetts. Tuwog is the first major work of literature that comes with its own advertising campaign. You see. You can’t write a novel without having an advertising campaign. Turns out, you have to do one of two things and either way could end you up in the poorhouse 1. You could act like you don’t care about the fact that your novel has to have an advertising component and not do it and really write a good novel, but then it won’t sell. You’ve got to figure out how to dumb it down to the editors, really, more than the people because the editors are the gatekeepers and they’re very busy, busier, perhaps, than any other breed of person on the planet. I would hate to be an editor and be so busy that you can barely find time to get back to people or to read their work, busy, busy, busy, busy, busy, then nothing. Boom. It’s over. That editor is gone. Too busy. Or you can go with the advertising component of your novel and realize that you bette really make this one “swing.” Groovy, cat, wow! Simple simon met a pieman and tuwog is on its wayh, that’s way baby, tuwog, your novel, is here and it is asking you, wow, oh, ooW! Or not. Sometimes life can be such a bore. I mean, look, really, do you really want to live in a novel as a person or a concept and have an advertising “component” right there beside you? What would Jane Eyre have done if one of the members of her inner circle were an Advertising Component? It boggles the fucking mind. Excuse my French. (insert quote in French here. Quote should say something like this: sometimes when you do not know what you are going to do, you choose to do otherwise. That choice melded in wiwth the million other life choices of those participating with us in this planet creates an amalgum of method and thought which has power and often grace. On the other side is the obverse, negative reaction that causes hate and pain. The balance of these universes, these “polarities” mean the difference between victory and defeat in the world. When defeat comes near, when it pokes it’s nose into your own face, you wonder about the fragility of life. Your dreams can’t help you anymore, your mythological saints, your own private “components.” But you trek forward anyway meeting that fierce and fiery gaze and say no, today, no, tomorrow, no.
Fargo kantrowitz 08
He re again. Don’t like to type except when said typewriter is on my belly. Gave the good lie they did to get my money back when English was something that mattered. Study English and you will write. Didn’t work out. Brain too weird. Didn’t like the work. Drown or starve or something but no money from English. The lie of the university that English will pay your bills. English wont pay your bills. Hard work will. And not hard work at English. Tried that. Didn’t work. Too weird.
If only the world could come together in a good way. That words could matter again. I kknow that they can’t. they never will. I will be the only one to read them. Too weird. They wanted me to be a n artist and then I would have money and I wouldn’t have to work at things I didn’t want to work at, but it s not true. God doesn’t care if you are doing what you are supposed to be doing. He just wants his taxes. If you don’t pay your taxes you experience the unintelligible wrath of god. He hates us all it seems. Every last one of us. And he should . we are fallible, malleable, putty and weak. Why wouldn’ he want to make it harder for us? Wouldn’t we want to make it harder on , say, ants? Or a puppy? Or a kitten? Or on a group of people who happen to be stupoid enough to have built their house on sand. Jus tlike the bible story said. Serves the bastard right and god gets to smile a little bit as the people are washed off the face of the earth forever. But what about the fear? What about the pain? Didn’t god see that? Apparently not. Apparently, he thinks its only fair that I should be aware as I start to go under and drown, when the fire starts to burn up my body, when I watch a child begin to die due to a violent end. Serves them right. He’s right though. He’s right though. We deserve it. Where’s the drugs?
Some people are poets because that’s what they are. They are poets because if they were not poets then they would just be stupid. Their brains wouldn’t work the right way. They have to get out what is inside of them as though it is a poison that must be expelled. Drats that my career consists of that. That my career consists of doing a job that makes me have to spill the beans over and over and over again. I am tired of it. It is not what I want. What I want is solidity. The end to weakness. I want to experience and enjoy, not ruminate. But that’s okay. I chose my way. And yet it never chose me back, it has , in fact, spurned me. that’s okay. That’s okay
nothing does man fear
more than fear
he loathes
no other contaminant
half as much
for it leaves
the birther
and child,
one and the same
deeper in sadness
yet grimly
thereby justified
for having given
vacant gazes
unasked for
to the fearer
of his own fear
he gives plea to a mercy
he’s never believed in
pushing false energies
as if paying homage
to ghosts
yet he is ever
unbelieving
in such a task
as escaping
the hollowed hole
his eyes
balled tight,
never quite rolled
away from the one
just met
and fed
less than well
who, truly
having then met fear
faceless
becomes fear
blackened brothers
then they are
shamed
for having joined
a stranger’s moment
of buried nothingness
facing each
they fear
their own de-facing
desirous
of a better face
to coddle demise
believed in
only in shrouds
as if each believed
their own face
too unhandsome
to blink with
to part the dirt
on the way down
before introductions
even whisperless,
each separate each
fear-free
finally and cold
holes away
non-faced
from each
tombs
graves
ends.
The Fargo Kantrowitz’z Literary Campsite
The Fargo Kantrowitz'z Literary Campsite 