Poem – Albert


Needing to know beyond what knowledge,
needing not me,
lays down like rags before me
I feel again instead of see.

Having always seen, always supposedly known,
knowledge anew tells me I’ve not but been tethered
to a big brown ball lowing groans and smoking,
rounding the linelessness of what-might-be illumination,
sun gowned, maybe, real perhaps, or just mimicking
the word beyond the word where the word supposedly lay

at which destination I cannot see anyway so I don’t
instead deeming it right to feel only
watching not watching while the gazeless codes enrich me,
and feed my blindness something of something
at least to the point of wanting hence feeling.

so I smile at the absurdity of longing
to know the meaning of to know

Published in: on December 1, 2012 at 2:08 am  Leave a Comment  

Query Letter (never sent) – Albert

XXXXX madison avenue
new york, new york

January 21, 2012

Joey C. Kantor

Dear editor,

Has love been abandoned in American Christianity? Let me explain my personal conundrum. I am a 47-year-old writer from Las Vegas, Nevada. In 1973 my mother opened a store called Alpha Omega Bibles, Books and Art. My mother became “born-again” in 1973, the same year she opened the store. When Jesus’ love walloped my mother, boy, did it hit hard. I grew up with a mother who praised Jesus all day long openly. She was a beamer, a woman who shone with the love of the rescuing power of Jesus Christ. Hence, being 8 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 saying 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 for some reason 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. There are many more examples of Jesus preaching love in a way that most people would find difficult to follow. I learned them all. Because Jesus was such a nice guy I thought nothing of being a Christian too. I prayed and took the Bible seriously. It was all good until my first bout with His followers “other side.”

When I became a teenager I went to a non-denominational church, one of those big ones. The pastor was really cool and really smart. To this day I think that, but 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 Christian, you were going to go to hell. He mentioned Hindus. Gone. Buddhists. Finished. Muslims. Forget about it. Hell! Pure fire for eternity. Pretty harsh. He wasn’t the only pastor who had said this. It just took until my teenage years to finally feel uncomfortable about it. I had heard it my entire Christian life.

Think about it. You’re going along love love love when suddenly, boom, hate. Okay. Now, did Jesus say this? No. He didn’t say it. But all of the churches believed it. If it were true why didn’t Jesus Himself say it? The philosopher child grew confused. God is love, but hellfire actually hurts. Hmm. Okay. Keep going, I told myself. Jesus loves me this I know…

This started a journey of many years which eventually led me to take a Masters degree in Mythological Studies with Emphasis in Depth Psychology from Pacifica Graduate Institute. This school promised to teach me all about the beliefs of other religions, since religion for one is myth to another. I was somewhat of a renegade for going to this school or even having these sorts of thoughts. Most Christians wouldn’t look at a Buddhist text for fear of Satan himself jumping out at them from the pages. I knew I had to take the chance, but what I found was quite different. Time after time the religions that I studied did the same thing, they said the same things that Jesus said but in different ways. I saw the game clearly. There is one God but different masks, just like Joseph Campbell proclaimed in his work The Masks of God. All of the Christians in the churches were throwing the baby out with the bathwater. Jesus’ kind words were also these other religions’ kind words. I realized there was no way that they could go to the Christian hell. The loving God I had known wouldn’t be so stupid as to do that just because they spoke a different language, had a different mythic vocabulary.

I was saved. I could believe in the love of God again. I went on to become a reporter, then a writer of novels and stories. All was going well until another conundrum appeared. George W. Bush.

George W. Bush was the salvation of the evangelicals. All of the work put into the process of making Christianity a part of politics put forth by people like Ralph Reed and Pat Robertson had paid off and here was the result. Bush was a no-nonsense kind of guy who was also born-again. With him in office the country would finally become a Christian nation once again. The game had been won and the liberals could go take a hike because Jesus was coming to town. But was He?

Along came 9-11 and then Iraq. Suddenly, for the first time, I again saw that “other side” that I have mentioned. Now, as a writer, I follow the news. From day one the push to go into Iraq smelled like a dead carp. I believed that you should do anything that you can to solve a problem in at least a sane way. You can at least go out of your way to avoid doing something tragically permanent, but they pulled back Scott Ritter who wasn’t even finished searching for the nuclear weapons there. It was a mad rush to war, and who was cheering it on the most? The Christians. The good Christians of America were shouting for the death of innocent men, women and children because their Christian leader said that they must. I guess they thought it was a new form of Christianity or something to kill innocents. I don’t know. I truly don’t know and that’s what I want to find out.

Would you be interested in an article on this topic as I embark on a journey of discovery through the land of fundamentalist Christianity? I will look into how they can continue, to this day, to vehemently support notions of violence against anybody they fear. Could it be that they are so trained to fear those of other religions that it is merely a natural next step to wipe them out, a notion as richly disturbing as the Muslim notion of the infidel?

As Republicans choose their candidate and applaud such bold statements by people like Newt Gingrich that you are to kill your enemies straight out, I will seek the answer to how they square this with Jesus’ command to not kill but to love your enemy. The fundamentalist world is filled with fear that things are changing in a way that will ultimately wipe their brand of Christianity out of the picture. Homosexuality and Abortion are two of the issues that scare them. Is paranoia the driver for abandoning love altogether? Is the siege mentality of the Christian right responsible? Is it what makes them rife for being used by others who seek power by any means necessary?

I am not a pacifist. Being half Jewish on my father’s side, I recognize the need to sometimes fight physically against tyranny as proven by the necessary war called World War II, but today’s fundamentalist Christians don’t seem to mind what the cause is anymore. They will be for war no matter what, it seems, and that stance shows anything but the love of Christ. Do they even notice their brethren’s perpetually bared fangs? Has love died in the American Christian church?


Joey C. Kantor

Published in: on November 27, 2012 at 12:50 am  Leave a Comment  
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The Barky Concept – a short,short story – Albert Jones

This is the story about my dog, Barky, Felix, Barky, Barky never shutups. Barky barks 24 hours a day and we, get this, we Keep him! Keep Him! My mom loves Barky. So this is the story. This is the way that it’s gotta go. Barky’s got to get famous. This is the only way. Barky must be famous so that my mom can be rich and I can get my own room on the other side of the mansion that Barky is going to buy us. Because, trust me on this, Barky can never be quiet. Barky can never Shut up.

This was the plan. Make sure that my mom didn’t find out, but sneak barky out of the house between two and 6 oclock when she got home everyday. I would have to buy my own carrying case. I’ll take Barky to all of the agencies. Everything. He’s real tame. He’ll let me hold him, which is a plus. A plus so far. So Here we go. Get that perpetual barking on command harnessed into a few dog food commercials and we’ll be set. I’ll keep the money quiet until Barky’s really famous and we can get that house and then I won’t have to listen anymore to that dog!


this is the plan. 3:30 got an appointment with Alpo. I know, I know, Alpo. What’s the odds of Alpo wanting Barky, but they need Barkies and I got one. Put out a few fliers and some other things and got a nibble from Alpo. So I take Barky in and they put him on the floor and first look to see how he is around people and he’s good on a leash too. My mom trained him, she wouldn’t take no shit. And here was my mom on the end of the leash right now, going through all the best motions to impress these people and wouldn’t you know it, through her dog of all things, all of my mom’s stuff, right here.

Anyway, we got through that one. That tall guy was the one in charge, I know it. You can never be sure though. Barky did alright. He barked of course, little son of a bitch, on cue, but that’s what he was supposed to do and it didn’t sound so bad once it was put on full form for the cameras. It’s like putting nickels in a slot machine, each bark a nickel, a chance at the big jackpot on a national Alpo commercial. Christ, they need new dogs all the time!

get in get out. That’s it. You make sure that you get in fast get the sound guy and the camera going. In the mood, barky! Rawf! Trademark! Another 2 grand in my pocket. Fifteen thousand short of getting the house and this dog out of my life forever!


Barky did it. A Lil’ Nibbler’s Chunky Treat gig with two other dogs, not the best scenario, the one of the lap and the smile, but I’ll take it, $1,800 to the broker tomorrow and we’re in and that dog can go to hell.

Been in the house five months. Can’t hear Barky anymore. Thanks God. People tell me to use Barky as my money making scheme in life instead of doing what I do. I tell them look, I could be living the high life with that dog there. We could easily pull down another five or six hundred thou together, but you know what? Fuck that dog.

Published in: on October 30, 2012 at 10:23 pm  Leave a Comment  


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.

Published in: on August 2, 2012 at 1:02 am  Leave a Comment  
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Is it Halftime yet? – Albert

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).

Published in: on July 27, 2012 at 9:45 pm  Leave a Comment  

Session (fin)

Session 5

Welcome back.

Glad to be back.


Did you ever figure out what you’re going to do?

Not really. Things are getting fuzzier. It’s like I’m traveling down this road and letting shit go. I want to let everything go. I don’t want to die, but I want to let everything in my life go. I want to believe that there are other things that I should be thinking about and dealing with and doing those things. I want to lose interest in everything from before. I want a newer and better life and just chuck the old one. It’s too full of shit.

How so?

It just is. All my dreams that I went for were all vanity. Solomon was right. Even if you do succeed the heartbreak that you get in knowing that everybody then wants to see you fail brings you down. You wish that you could see according to the old way that you saw the world, but the old way is gone. People are animals and there’s nothing to allow you to overcome this fact. A smiler will kill you the next second. Some people perfect the process. Smile their way into your life and continually play the game so that one day they succeed and you lose. You can never go forward with people expecting there to be an even transaction. Everybody seeks superiority. It’s as simple as that. There is no other game in town. We all seek status and if we don’t get it then we can’t rest. We must win. There is nothing to strive for anymore so I would rather lose all signs of the game and, I don’t know, walk the earth.

Walk the earth?

You know, look at the world in a new way. Find something else to do. Maybe make glass and forget about being a battling ant for a crumb that is huge only to us ants. Sick of it. Tired of it. Done with it.

Well, you can’t just disappear.

No. I can’t. I will always be here, but how will I be here? This is the question.

You can get a new job.


You can get published and have success as a writer.

More judgment. The issue is lost. The salvation from the writing is hidden. I’m sick of dedicating my life to one or two readers who may or may not understand what I was trying to say. I thought I wanted to be heard and then found that I couldn’t be heard because everybody else is trying to be heard. We are throwing our best, truest stuff out there and it is being lost in everybody else’s best and truest stuff and in the end we don’t know who to believe, what to believe, or even what the issue is anymore. It’s just a bunch of us struggling to be most authentic so that we can be heard and eventually make money from being heard. We know this is the solution to our particular careerist illusions.

Wow. You are really hard core.

I’m not hard core. I’m not beginning to be hard core. I am mild and meek and have a lot to say, but I don’t know how important it is anymore now that I know that most of it has an undercurrent involved that is desperate, that the words have been shared under less than auspicious reasonings. We all want success. This corrupts us all. It means that there was a possibility that our truths did not contain real care. If you are selfish you cannot care. My whole life has been this balancing act, trying to be selfless and then to be selfish (since I matter too). The selfish part always seems to make me ineligible for the selfless role, like I am a phony and a fake and I’m starting to believe that I am. A true person doesn’t chase after success, but the one who doesn’t get it regrets it later. We are animals and it is better to be honest about this, make our nest egg while we are young, and live as long as we can because here comes death…

So, death is involved in this thing.

Yeah, death is there. Most people hear me talk and can’t stand it, think that I’m a major complainer, that I should just forget the bullshit and get on with my life. Well, that’s what I’m trying to do. Get rid of the bullshit and get on with my life. Get mine and disconnect the getting from “true” things that could be searched for and given to the masses to heal them. Altruism is purposeless anymore. Google for help and you will get many more better put together and researched answers than I could give. I would probably go off on the color blue or yellow or purple or something. Poetry. Nobody told me that us poets would be dealing with economics on the level of pennies. But that’s what it is. Pennies.

So, you feel as though you donated your life to the arts and life never gave you anything back?

Sort of. It gave me pleasure in a job well done. It gave me a sense of meaning and purpose, but when it is all said and done, the philosophical road that it places you on makes you lose everybody in the world that matters to you. You cannot have money, basically, so you cannot have a wife and children, hardly even friends. If you try and replace your moneyless world with friends then you are with other moneyless people and you begin to eat each other up with your moneyless problems, the havoc that moneylessness reaps on human beings in general. A soap opera. A big soap opera.

Like everyone else, I am silent and perplexed somewhat. I don’t know how to answer you, but I am sure that you get this response from just about everybody. You get it as complaining or thought processes gone too deep for your own good. The only advice you probably ever get is to go outside and enjoy nature.

True. Nobody knows how to talk to me. We immediately go to too deep modes of thought and the next thing you know. Poof. It’s done. Intellectual people can’t talk to me either. They can fake it pretty well, but only age can take you to a certain depth and all the reading in the world isn’t going to get you to the place where you can understand another man’s travails who feels them deeply and is perhaps older than you. We are all on a trek to death.

There it is again.

I guess so. But I’m not hooked on death. I’m hooked on the fact that life isn’t so great until death and I can’t ever figure out how to fix that. I know there are a lot of things that I should do, though. I’m not stupid. I didn’t just fall off the chicken truck. And that’s what I’m trying to do. I’m trying to clear the slate.

Maybe we should end it here.

End what here? Do you see? There is no there there. There is nothing to wrap up. I don’t know the metaphysics, but I’m pretty sure that we are not talking about anything of substance. Thoughts? Phtth. Call all talk complaint and excuses. What else is there any reason to communicate for? I’m not on to your pop rock trip and you don’t want to splice hairs about morality and the nature of mankind. Ehh. So let time roll. It’s going to roll anyway. Nothing is going to change. After 2000 years after Jesus we just had our bloodiest century ever. Man learns, but man forgets just as quickly. You can’t take the animal out of the man.

So how do you get through the day, not believing in thoughts.

I believe in thoughts, but the transfer of them I don’t see as having any value. I can change you a little bit by changing your thoughts maybe, but so what? Who cares? Do you really need to be changed? It seems to me those who keep change away are the happiest. They get everything they want. They can kill for what they want. It’s easy. It’s easy to be a non-thinker in this society. It is geared for them. Lucky bastards who never believed in morality or the humanities, writing, art, music. Lucky bastards who can just see what is acceptable in their head and say no to everything else. If only I could be like this, then I could get in the game. Be loved. Be respected as strong and forthright, as being a person who knows what he wants and goes out and gets it. A success!

But only if they have money, right?

Yeah, I guess so. If they’re broke they’re just considered assholes. But when you have this type of attitude you’re going to find a way to get money.

Prison, maybe.

True. Maybe. Not everybody is smart enough to parlay their meanness into cold hard cash, but it certainly helps if you are ruthless and can lie in the name of apple pie, the American way and Jesus Christ Himself.

Your trajectory is set and you can just go…

Yes, something like that. You don’t have to mill around sticky moralistic questions and ugly reactions from ugly facts about mankind and whether or not you want to participate. You will want to participate in anything that will get you closer to your goals. You can fake all the other shit, all the moral shit, all that shit is easy to fake. You did it every day growing up going to school. You play that shit. Just play it. It’s easy to make it big if you don’t have a conscience. I wish I didn’t have a conscience basically, but I do, so I can’t get into this competition bullshit that they keep telling me that I need to embrace after filling my head for eighteen years with the notion that it’s about helping and sharing instead. Get out of school and you will see that the Pollyanna eyed doe-boys like me are the first to be placed on the platter to be picked clean. The luckiest people are the ones who drop out of school at thirteen with a strong work ethic. They beat the rest of them by 10 years. By the time the others have graduated college they are skilled in the game. They are the masters of the universe. Bow down to them. If you drop out at thirteen and are not work oriented you can kiss the baby just like the others who don’t care about things, but if you have a work ethic…

Scammers. Get connected in scams young?

Pretty much. Figure out how everything works, parlay your youthful charms into better pay and more connections. Play the adults for everything they’ve got. Youth rules. It’s just that youth doesn’t know this.

You sound exasperated.

It’s played out. I’m grasping at straws now. I don’t want any of this thought.

You think of what you say as mere thought. You don’t really think much of a real world do you? Everything seems to be philosophy with you.

True. Maybe that’s because I don’t have something better to do. Maybe I am complaining, but this is pretty much the way that I was taught to live. Think all the fucking time. Be a thinker. Be a critical thinker. Think about this that and the other thing and when you have thought a whole lot then put it on paper and let other people read what you thought and wait for the applause, smile, and continue on thinking and thinking until you write something else down, put it on paper, wait for the applause, accept it, and then go forward. All the while money is coming into your coffers because of the thoughts on paper and you are slowly rising in self-esteem, and your eyes clear up and you walk a little taller and you get a mate and have children.

Nice dream, huh?

Yeah, it is.

Tell me about your childhood.


What else?

Bad, good. Whatever. Pretty good. Imaginative kid. That’s why I’m a writer. In the sixth grade I got a lot of applause for some stupid stories I wrote. I included my friends in them. Second grade, I won best haiku poem by a Japanese judge, the uncle of a student. So I carried that forward as excuse enough to say that I want to be a writer. Good luck. Anyway, that was then. This is now. You don’t see yourself and all that and blah blah blah.

Blah what? What was that last blah.


That’s what I thought. Depressed, huh?

I guess.

That final blah always tells it.

What about your adulthood?

Pretty good. Not too bad.

What was good?

Peace. Young peace. I mean real young peace. When I was very young and the world was a magical place although I could feel the pain. I could also feel the beauty in the quiet stillness. Peace. Gray walls watching the shadows of the trees blow on my wall. Day slowly turning into night. Peace. Sometimes you are too frustrated to write. Too bottled up. Anything that you say would be too much about a subject that you feel more than truly understand. You try to understand but you don’t and you won’t ever. You’ll never see it in the scope which some say that you will and can see in, their scope, no, not even really that, a more positive scope, sure, hopeful, yes, always looking for the right proper true answer? Yeah. Peace. Gray wall peace. Sleep and dream peace to wake up to a raucous world slowly, the smell of the food cooking in the kitchen, look down the hall at the old clock. My brother’s up. Action. Talk. Life. Slowly come to life.


Yeah. Slowly come to life.

How old were you.

Eight. Nine. Ten. Life. Grew up, was going to say “though.” Like life is the hard lessons of older age and not the innocent dream of youngness was a part of you as well. We are all on the continuum it seems perhaps some of us may match along the way and we may have families. The world needs to cater to these growing families by providing them with decent places to assemble and be themselves. Let’s take the scene back away from the drug dealers and into the hands of our kids where it belongs. Hamlet, orchestra, rock, punk, whatever, circus! They’ll do it all these days and I think it’s high time we listened.


Jed Jones


Jed Jones was the lead guitarist for the grammy nominated band Moxy Priestess. In 2011 he put on Petals: A Rock Scenario. The American Tribute to Princess Diana at the Riverpark in his hometown of Millsville, Tennessee.


Stade Deakins

Interviews jed jones

s. Jed or is it Jedediah?
j. Jedediah, but you can call me Jed.
s. alright, Jed.
j. Stade?
s. Yes.
j. You don’t seem staid to me.
s. Thank you. Short for something.
j. Cool. Thankyou.
s. No, thank you for the interview.
j. Alright
s. Alright, let’s go. Moxy Priestess.
j. the love of my life.
s. Helen Capowitz
j. the mother of my child and the love of my life.
s. Moxy Priestess reunion?
j. I’ll talk now. Thanks, Stade, for having me. I got me right now a rock scenario on my hands written by my brother, Albert Jones, who I hadn’t even seen in over ten years.
S. Petals
J. Yes, that’s right, Petals.
s. is it sad? And about Princess Diana?
j. yes and no. it’s funny sad, but happy hopeful and musically astute…but anyway…
s. No, yes, I’m sure. And the music was written by yourself with your brother, Albert?
j. this is also correct.
s. I see. Well, tell me about this thing, this Scenario you call Petals?
j. Well, it’s like this, it’s one of those things. You ever pick up a rock on a beach or somewhere and looked at it and then kept it for a long time like it meant something to you until one day you look down and you see what it is? Well, Petals was like that. It was sort of an ode to my lostness in my daze of heroin addiction and running, petals, I remember ‘em in the fall in Pennsylvania. Petals. Petals. Petals. Falling Down. On the Ground. Petals. Knee deep.
s. I see. Let me ask you, is the risk on the road rousing you, I know Rose had a problem earlier in her career…
j. No, not at all. No. I’m free. I’m free. There’s a real story I could tell you and it would have to do with this play and it is actually in the play because I told Albert to put it in the play and he did. It’s what Steve Merrick told me at Riverbend Penitentiary in Nashville, Tennessee. He told me to “love.”

Love. That was it. No room for hate. Just love. And Albert put it in the play and then we took this hike on the mountain, a sort of climb, tried to get to the top through the back way of Anna Belle Mountain, the same way that my mule Teardrop went up. We made it, but along the way there was a little accident. We fell off of a cliff, first me, then Dink, this is Steve Merrick’s son, I still hated Steve Merrick at this time, still had the hatred clenched around my heart, and there was his son and he followed me over and finally we all just stopped.

Blahmph. I stood there swinging from a rope by my neck, Dink spread eagle above me as if about to take flight and from out of his shoulder the steel tip of a blade and rising above his shoulder, like smoke, the clenching face of Albert reeling both of us in.

s. how did you manage to fall like that?
j. fate.

Published in: on June 15, 2012 at 7:41 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Poetry of fargo kantrowitz

ocean sounds

as cold as the darkness at the bottom of the sea the day is bright and as unforgiving as the lost gaze of the sunken man. Dreams stripped away burst forth in air bubbles last wishes disperse popping upon seas never noticed, ever again.

Singing..i think i’m dead(sad)….

No jed don’t go there.
Moxy I gotta moxy I gottta do the song..
Alright. Diana this is jed’s song. He did it while we were running away to californnia. We’d been running a long time.
“Oh fargo please.
Fargo?, oh….sings…let me see if I can find the chords. It’s a real easy song.
“Oh I don’t care , fargo, just play it.:
Alright, mam, here it goes…
Sings “I think I am Jed..leads into hey hey whoa whoa (i’m free) pretty version.

…I never really told you what I was thinking about, albert, the day (interspersed with muddy cursing in background)…

Operatic singing…
“I love you, I do.”

Published in: on May 20, 2012 at 12:40 am  Leave a Comment  
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Fargo Kantrowitz’z Literary Campsite #1
1455 words

I was elated when Nirvana killed hair bands. If Nirvana hadn’t done that I would probably be wearing make-up right now. Nirvana and Pearl Jam bid us to rock from the heart. I had been unconscious, figuring that if there was a meaning to the term “unskinny bop” then they would surely tell us.
Somewhere down deep I knew that my generation had it in it to produce something soulful. I secretly believed that there were causes that should be stood up for, societal things that needed our attention that our leaders Tommy Lee and that guy from Twisted Sister weren’t telling us about.
After Nirvana, boys soon forgot about feminizing themselves to fool women into giving them sex. The grunge movement began. Guys wore old, plaid lumberjack shirts and blue jeans so that women would know they were all man, yet sensitive and caring. I’m not sure how that worked, but it did. I was very glad it did because that was all I could afford to wear anyway. The bullshit sexual dynamics of the day were then totally re-arranged so that men and women had to re-learn how to screw each other over according to completely different rules.
Generation X itself was eventually tossed to the wayside, however, as all generations must eventually be, to make room for the next batch of hep, raw potential. We figured out our alienation problems and now all we do is go to our jobs and wonder why we’re not billionaires. We’d even accept being millionaires.
Welcome Generation Y. I don’t know a single person who would proclaim themselves a member of generation Y. That is because I’ve never met a young person who knows what the Y stands for. It is obviously a false tag most likely created by an advertising firm somewhere. It’s not even original. It’s like a tire company having as their slogan “got tires?”
The first generation to get a tag was “The Lost Generation” of the 1920s. This was coined by a very famous lesbian writer named Gertrude Stein who told us truthfully that a rose is a rose is a rose. I personally think that statement was only worth about five minutes of fame, but it got her fifteen.
She was referring to writers like Ernest Hemingway, F.Scott Fitzgerald and the poet Ezra Pound who were living in Paris at the time. I think it is because of Stein that it is expected that a generation needs to be lost, the more lost the better. It seems to give a sense of solace if you can think that you are not the only loser within your age group.
The Baby Boomers were an exception to this rule in that they were named by din of sheer numbers. They were falsely accused of being the Pepsi Generation for a while, but looking up out of their purple haze realized that it had just been a joke. While they dreamed of eggmen and walruses the competitor of Coke was working overtime to capitalize on this generation’s newfound consciousness, installing subliminal commands of future haircuts into their brains; teach the world to sing/globalization…you get the idea.
The Lost Generation arose because of a group of eclectic artists. The Baby Boomers came from a lot of people having a lot of sex all at the same time. Generation X came from a group of kids rebelling against other kids whose only sense of purpose in life had been to get laid and, of course, to compare hair spray.
Rap music started getting the little pink knees of America bopping in the eighties, but we were still just a bunch of Bon Jovi, li’l cowboys at heart. It wasn’t until the early nineties that popular music was able to convince white children that it was actually good to listen to rap. We started selling our breakfast cereals to it. You didn’t even have to be irate and carry a gun. It was that much fun to play at being angry. Heretofore the isolated sound of extremely irate black males; irate white boys were allowed in on the fun. Pretty soon we had the Beastie Boys using their screechy, Brooklyn voices rapping to us to party on, yet it sort of sounded like rock. It was anger-light.
But it wasn’t until the early to mid 90s, really, that gangsta-rap grabbed the white boys by the balls and squeezed hard. There was one great convulsive movement in America and it twisted every single baseball cap around. Our teen boys thumped their way through the streets garnering dirty looks by one and all; pink fellows aching for pigmentation or something which could make this music their own, for it was obvious that blonde hair and daddy-bought BMW does not a gangsta make.
Somehow “death metal” came to the rescue. I’m not sure how, but it did. This is the insane white boy contribution to today’s music scene; the driving, pulsing, frenzy, kill your neighbor, show your tits aspect of the bands that helped burn down Woodstock. Some of the bands, most notably, are Korn and Limp Bizkit.
Death metal has been around since I can remember. It had always just been the bastard child with an extra limb of rock and roll. It is the music that Satan uses to sing his spawn to sleep with down in Hell. This isn’t your grandfather’s heavy metal.
Now, in the year 2000, rap has totally infiltrated rock through this broken board in rock’s back yard fence. Many of these new artists turned out a few weeks ago at the Silver Bowl for X-107s Our Big Concert 3.5; Static-X, Cypress Hill, System of a Down, even the girlband Kittie.
It is the only music powerful enough to tickle the cool meter of the “wassup” kids with blonde hair. Through the energy flowing at the Silver Bowl, emitted by the testosterone-pulsing, danger-promising boys and No Fear, tit-proud grrrls, the human conundrum is exposed: Master Violence and Lord Sex feeding one off of the other in the realm of mankind’s shady other side or Let’s fight a lot with other males then find a mate, a bush, then fuck.
Here is a hungry animal tired of being told to behave, a prowling beast that wants to destroy, wants to devour, to conquer or be conquered. This concert exposed its nature; a new tribalism, modern rompings to life’s oldest libidinal impulses. If stored away too long this beast can stew and fester inside, bringing with it such things as quiet deviancy, unfulfillment, even the possibility of murder.
Without a controlled confrontation with mortality, sexuality, the killer instinct and our own fear of injury and its connection with our souls -all which this music provides- we often fail to understand why we attempt to strive through the more mundane yet necessary daily tasks of living. We become too safe. We don’t dare to eat a peach. We go inside of ourselves, surround ourselves with houses of comfort that reek of silent pain. Sometimes we need to artificially induce fear to provoke the animal out of its hole.
It was somewhere during the middle of the show that I realized I wouldn’t use Generation Y anymore. I noticed how on the radio and television everybody is using the F-Word these days. Commercials are saying it, bleeping it, but acting like they never said it. It’s boring already and now that it is getting commercialized, just plain ugly. But one thing is for sure, it is the first time that the media has allowed it to go this far. It must be something within the age itself. So, I said, okay, if that is the case, then let’s give the kiddies what they want.
Welcome, my friends, to the Fucked Generation. F-Gen. It’s a little more original than Generation Y because at least it has some meaning. The word incites, it forces issues, disputes adult arguments that kids don’t understand. With it there is no need to feign intelligence. Any F-Gener knows that everything in the adult world is “so gay” anyway. It’s what’s in the gut that matters.
But in a more real sense, it does seem to demand a listening to from those too caught up in the madness of our society. It rages at our loveless system with the tenacity of a poodle, yet with just as much fear. It balks at and rebukes bus stops at 112 degrees, status wars practiced by everybody, and the panic in the slow discovery that our world can be a monster.
It claims existence as guiltlessly as a lion devours it’s prey. Plus, you’ve got to admit, it’s even more loser-like than “lost or even “X.”
Gertrude Stein would be proud.

Published in: on April 8, 2012 at 5:37 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Session (birth,sex,money,God)

Session 3

You are only interested in writing if you can plug into your mind as if you’re dreaming.
That’s true.
Why would you want to write if it wasn’t fun?
I wouldn’t.
But you do?
I have to.
Why do you have to?
Because I’m a writer.
Then what do you write about?
I don’t know. Stuff. I don’t know.
You don’t know. You just make it up.
Like I said, I’m a writer.
Right. Writers write.
But you don’t enjoy it?
Sometimes you enjoy it.
When it flows.
When it flows as if it were a dream. So you like to write daydreams.
Yeah, I guess so. I like to write daydreams.
But doesn’t being a daydreamer make you a shlep in the world?
Yes, unless you are published then you are a god.
I see. Tell me.
Yes, Plato…
No, let me just ask you a question. If you could do something other than write what would it be?
I don’t know. A baseball player I guess.
Then why don’t you become a baseball player?
Bad knee. Too old. Suck at the game.
What else.
An astronaut.
What else.
I was going to say fireman but you would know that I’m just goofing around.
Let me see. What would I want to do if I wasn’t a writer which isn’t all fun and games. They asked Eliot if living the life of a poet was worth the hassle and he simply said “no.”
So you don’t want to be a writer.
What would you want to be.
Something that would allow me to make a lot of money easily and move to a beach and just smoke pot.
The dream world again.
So you want to be a writer.
It seems more significant than painting or photography. But you can’t make money at it, just like those others. You have to sell yourself out. You have to go into advertising, basically, sell shit for other people. Be a part of the problem.
So you see the way that society is as part of the problem.
Yeah, pretty much. This is what the old family and friends don’t understand. Why I don’t even attempt to enter that world, but for me entering that world is like selling out and I don’t have a lot of energy in that direction. So I say I want to write, although it is often pure pain as you write and also take into account the fact that some 19 year old Brown sophomore will be judging you and deciding your work’s fate. Perhaps that graduate hasn’t yet had the experience necessary to judge it properly. So we get an aging down of everything we read. Everything must be written to fit this fucking mold of the reader being a fucking baby.
You’re angry.
You’re damned right I’m angry.
So what do you do?
I don’t know. I deal with my anger, but my writing will never change the facts of the world.
Which are?
Well, let me think.
No, let me ask you another question.
Okay. Shoot.
How old are you?
You have no loved one in your life.
Why not?
I’m a writer.
Would you like one?
I also dribble when I pee so sometimes I stink.
You could go to the doctor.
Can’t afford it. I’m a writer.
Don’t you send your stuff out?
Rarely. Can’t afford the postage and printing costs.
So are you a writer?
Yes. I’ve written a lot.
Sounds like you might be afraid of rejection.
Not afraid. Disgusted.
And this makes you come down on yourself like you’re just a sore loser.
How did you know that?
Just a guess. That’s what you pay me for.
Ten bucks an hour on a sliding scale.
You pay me. I get paid. Trust me.
Now I’m part of the problem.
So it goes back and forth. You’re part of the problem sometimes and they’re part of the problem sometimes.
Which makes you ambivalent.
I never understood that word.
You don’t care.
Right. I don’t care. Like I said, I just want to go to the beach and smoke pot.
Then why don’t you?
Can’t afford it.
Just go and see what happens. You’ll find a job. Just go and smoke pot. But then you would have to quit writing and that seems important to you even though you act like it isn’t.
It may be. It may not be. I think I chose the profession as a teenager so it doesn’t really matter. A vocation of the mind isn’t really a good idea. Best to do something really technical or where you use your hands. Make sure that everybody understands it and most importantly make sure that the service is wanted. Dream professions are highly competitive. You have to be superman. I’m not superman any more.


Tell me about superman.
He flies around and wears a cape.
No, your version of superman.
He knows things. He doesn’t feel pain. He doesn’t rebel against the world and cripple himself.
You do that?
All the time.
Anger again.
Yeah, I guess.
What happened to you?
I always look for similes and I can never find any. They told me in literature school that you should look for similes for your writing to be good. I’ve never been able to and it’s always flustered me as a writer. So I just started writing what I wanted to write. No similes or just bad ones and I accept it. I’m a bad writer.
Define a bad writer.
A bad writer is someone who doesn’t put in a lot of description or similes but just writes like he’s thinking a lot. That’s me. Nothing ever happens either. There’s no plot. Just interiority. Lots of interiority.
You’re an introvert?
Do you like being an introvert?
Hate it.
Imagine that every thought that you think has to be thought over and over again, but not in a few seconds but over several years. It takes you years to learn something an extrovert takes for granted from the beginning. Being an introvert is like a curse.
So being an introvert is what happened to you?
What happened to you?
That’s hard to say.
It seems everything has happened to me and it’s all just added up. You sort of go with it because that’s the way it is.
Name one thing.
Can’t think of any I want to go into.
Why not?
The stories are too long. I’m a writer, remember?
I guess.
Then what.
Goes black.
My will to think.
What do you do?
Lie down.
And think?
Of course.
Is this good?
I figure it’s good for my story writing possibilities.
Do you really want to cash in on your pain?
Figure maybe it will help me escape the pain to have money.
So you make a living by lying down and thinking about your pain?
No I make a living by writing about it. I figure I’m just trying to figure it out. But I don’t send anything out so I don’t make any money at all. I guess I’m just keeping hope alive that’s all.
When does it end?
When I come up for air?
What’s going to make you do that?
I don’t know. Move away.
Where would you go.
Why Boston?
Because there are literary people there and then maybe I won’t feel so alone.
Why does everybody have to be literary?
They don’t, but otherwise they’re sexual and monetary.
Aren’t you sexual and monetary?
No, because I’m literary. We lose the sexual part without the monetary after awhile and of course we never have the monetary. It’s failure upon failure as a human being, but what are you going to do? Stay in shape and you’ll still be part of the pack for a little while anyway.
What do you mean?
What I mean is that we are animals in a pack. We have as much desire to bolster the weak in this pack as do animals in theirs. We are all going to get old so we’re all doomed to be tossed out of the pack. We may not be killed but we will be abandoned. That’s why we have families, because we know that our own offspring, at least, cannot throw us over a cliff. This is not true for people not our direct family. It’s a ruthless system really that if true and there is a God would mean that this God is a very ruthless God.
But isn’t God just the way that it is. What is is God?
I guess so. It’s seeming to be that way all the time, but you’ve got to admit that your admiration for this God has to go down the more you realize this plan.
So what do you do?
I grow old just like the rest of them. I try to put myself into a situation that will allow me freedom to move around, preferentially in nature, since that is the only way that you will be allowed to remain in the pack. People want only strength. They will do their best to destroy you if you attempt to foist philosophy or contemplation their way as strength. No, strength is in the arm and the loins and that’s it. Completely.
And in youth.
Yes, in youth. You can contemplate in youth because it adds to your aura of strength. Beauty is strength. Beauty is health. Health is strength.

Published in: on April 5, 2012 at 5:50 pm  Leave a Comment  
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The 36 Least Asked Questions of All Time

The Least Asked Questions of All Time

Why don’t the Harlem Globetrotter’s just go pro?
Why do we love Chinese food, yet the people annoy us?
Why do girls always say they like “sensitive” guys and then always dump them for football players?

Perhaps you have wondered…coming soon…

Published in: on March 20, 2012 at 9:44 pm  Leave a Comment  
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