The Other Side – Dink

The Fargo Kantrowitz’z Literary Campsite

(An important message.)- the other side

We interrupt this sage. Yes. The other side is ridiculous. There is no other side. I repeat there is no repeat, wait, you can’t do tha…wait. Crunch. We interruput your air space with Albert Jones: People of the novel. The world is false. There is no here and there is no there, so, put down the novel and go outside and turn off the sprinklers. See if you can see that blonde who likes to undress by her swimming pool in plain sight of everybody around and it is everybody, Hank, Johnny, even over there on third street with his binoculars and all. Stan, Gus, Joe, Frank, Sam, Don, Bud, and Ron, Eli over from his roof on fourth street. The entire Clavicord family, whose last name I don’t know, but do know that sometimes he likes to play her when she plays it if you know what I mean. I can’t help it. It’s either never enjoy the stars or miss out on when the Mrs. leaves the shade open for ya. )

Jes kiddin, shit, she’d slap the taste out of your mouth and then you still gotta see her on Sunday. I’ve figgered it were more me to do what I do and that’s play bass. Ain’t got time for that kind of stuff. Leave it for daytime t.v. The world’s just not that bad that you gotta go there like a bunch of sniffy dogs in a neighborhood. My only real dream is to go on the road, go on tour. With somebody. Fuck it. So far we got Albert and…me. Oh well. We’ll get it going. The inner world society is doing pretty well, I guess. I’m getting the internet up since Albert is a moron when it comes to that stuff. Not a moron. No, I guess not, he’s not a moron. I[m more the moron really with me all I wanna do is play bass…

We got the stellar breeze inner world society going now, when stellar can make it into the Magi. He llives up in the hills collecting the milk of goats. They live happily and then one day Stellar will throw this email over to the gang and they’d read one of the mountain goat man’s poems for him since it was too hard for him to come down from the hills. But he would send ‘em and that was the stellar breeze inner world society, that name was Stellar’s, and he had the best poetry reading pretty much anywhere, really, that good. Anyway, Time magazine did a piece on him and then he was like, oh, now they think I think I’m something I’m not blah blah, but Stellar finally made it out of his cage on special occasions and it turned out one of these reasons was where he could see some of his poems performed at Albert’s The Fargo Kantrowitz’z Literary Cajmpsite. That was the best poetry reading ever done, one of the best with Stellar’s bathtub sit poetry reading, pink shower curtain, or the Porn Night! We were supposed to bring out mothers. Fucked up shit like that. Shows that nobody would ever go to, but they were packed. We saved Stellar, who was sort of like a non-lethal bullfighter and maneuvering round most any town since he was gay. Stellar was happy all the time. He was joyous! He had found something in his life and it made him light up almost as bright as Jesus but not quite. That kind of guy. Really can write too. He’s a serious poet, even does academic blah blah, but what I’m saying is this “character” was out there. He was the ken kesey of the east Appalachians, from New York City, of course…

Dink Merrick on living in Millsville 2010


Published in: on February 18, 2012 at 8:25 am  Leave a Comment  
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In The Smokies

You ever wonder what the world would be like if you or mama weren’t ever born? Jed asked his father while they sat up by the campfire.
–“Sure, You wouldn’t be asking me that question.” Tom strums his guitar
I guess not. How come you play guitar, daddy?
“I play guitar because it sounds good.”
That’s all?
“There’s something we got inside each and everyone of us, Jed, and it’s called your soul. You ever heard of the soul?”
“Well, good then. You got it. Your mama has got it. Even your baby brother Albert has got it. Some people even think that the trees got it. Well, in people sometimes it feels good to feel your soul, and I’m able to feel my soul through the playing of my guitar.”
So the soul ain’t real, is it, daddy! It’s invisible!
“Not real? Invisible? God, Jed, I didn’t realize how much you don’t know. The soul is the most real thing in the world. If somebody has no soul then you know it immediately.”
But I thought you said everybody has a soul.
“They do, but sometimes, if you do a bad thing, you can lose your soul. But I don’t think you lose it really. It just sort of goes underground. It goes into hiding. But no matter how far down it goes, with right living, and doing the right thing, you can bring it back up to the open air. That’s called forgiveness. That’s what Jesus talked ’bout, and your mother. No matter what bad you’ve done, if you ask Jesus to forgive you for it your sins will be washed away.”
How Jesus do that? Jed said.

“Jed, I’m not really sure, to be honest. I’ve always done pretty good at doing the right thing in this life. I’m sure your mother could tell you or if you listen up in church on Sunday they might throw you a hint. It’s a good question though…hmmm, wait, I think I know. That’s a damned good question, Jed. I guess, in some ways, Jesus sends his spirit down to watch over us when we don’t hardly believe we’re worth anything anymore. Maybe that’s what his angels are for. I guess the important thing, if you’re in a predicament of having lost your soul, is being open to those heavenly messengers. Now, they may not look like an angel or they may not seem like Jesus, but maybe they’re something that He does for you in some little way. Maybe he will send you a little bird to sit on your shoulder and tell you what to do. It happens in stories.”
Yeah, but those are stories. Let me play, daddy, Jed said.
“Are you big enough?”
Give me the guitar, dad.
“Here, I’ll teach you. This is how you play…you got your soul? ”
Yeah, daddy, I got my soul. Gimme the guitar…

(He hands Jed the guitar and teaches him how to play.)

Published in: on May 15, 2011 at 6:36 pm  Leave a Comment  


Dink Merrick was always bouncing, even at the tender age of five. He would pound his hands on things. Anything could be a drum. Then he would lose interest and move on, jump on, really, run down the stairs, run up the stairs, find his mother, Rhonda, who was always tired, and tackle her from behind and wrap his arms around her before being shooed and chastised. But nothing would stop him from his ever present need to move. His attention span was zero. Any toy he played with ended up broken, usually thrown against a wall or stomped on. It could be anything, a large truck going by outside of his window, a telephone call from downstairs. His imagination would take hold of any and everything and his body would follow with a totally incomprehensible action, usually destructive, that eventually led Rhonda to take Dink, whose real name was Robert (Dink was given to him by his father) to a doctor who called him hyperactive and put him on little red pills that worked for a little while, but still couldn’t quash his ferocious restlessness. The doctor asked Rhonda if everything was alright at home and she said yes. A lie. Steve Merrick hit Rhonda everywhere except her face.
Dink’s best friend was Richie who lived two doors away. His mother often asked Richie’s mother, Ann, to watch him while she was at work at the little diner on the highway, the first diner on the road that would take you on up into the Smoky Mountains, a favorite vacationing spot for anybody from Millsville, with it’s expansive beauty, rivers, streams and massive hardwood forests. One day he found a dime inside of Richie’s couch. His mother was upstairs at her sewing machine. Richie saw the dime and immediately claimed it for his own since it was in his couch. Dink disagreed vehemently and said “finders keepers losers weepers” and the two tussled for it until Dink broke away, ran out the front door and continued on until he got to his house, the precious dime still in his little palm. He went to his room upstairs and dropped the dime into his little yellow piggy bank. He then shook it back and forth and listened closely for an accurate accounting of his individual wealth. Not too bad, not too good. He placed it back on his shelf and looked around. He wouldn’t talk to Richie for a long while, he figured, now that he knew how unfair and spoiled his former friend really was. He went to his train set on the floor and turned it on, watching the little Union Cargo train with four cars go round and round. He quickly tired of this and then went downstairs and opened the refrigerator. He made himself a bowl of cereal and ate it and looked at the clock. Although he couldn’t tell time he sensed that his mother wouldn’t be home for a long while. On his way home he had first carefully checked, looking through the neighbors bushes, to see if his father was home still working on the truck. Had he been home he would have gone back to Richie’s and given back the dime. The old Ford was in the driveway, its hood open, tools scattered alongside on the old cracking cement, but his father wasn’t there. The little, rickety Datsun that his father hated with gusto and that he shared with his mother was also gone. Freedom.
But now there was nothing left to do but watch television. He missed Richie’s friendship and was lonely there without his mother. Being an adult wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. He turned on the television. He watched old cartoons on the old cartoon station since it wasn’t Saturday and there were no new cartoons to watch. They were funny anyway and at one point he stood up and bounced up and down on the couch as he watched the show. He was in the air when his father walked in and stopped and just stared at him. Jumping on the couch was strictly prohibited. Jumping at all was strictly prohibited anymore. His father said nothing, but just looked at him. There was something in his eye. His mouth was open like he was a stupid man. Dink knew he was in trouble, but there was something more. His father looked at him in such a way that he knew that he would get it good this time. His eyes were hollow, almost dead. His face was twisted around and contorted making him look like a monster that he once saw on t.v before his mother made him turn it off. His first thought was a question. Is he going to kill me? He thought that his father would kill him, not just beat him as he occasionally did when he was bad, not one of those hard hand beatings on his rear and his back and the back of his head hard until he was dizzy or belt beatings that would last it seemed an hour until he was purple and blue under his clothes. Dink, upon looking at his father, believed with all of his heart that the end of his life had finally arrived.
He ran for his life, darted up the stairs, directly into the hall closet where he closed the door behind him, opened the clothes hamper lid in the pitch black, forgetting about the light bulb on the string, and climbed in. He felt himself shaking, shivering at the thought of the look in the eye of his father. Never had he seen such a look. He began to put the few clothes and towels in the hamper over him in case his father searched it and relaxed his body so that he would sink as far down as he could possibly go. There was suddenly a crash downstairs. Then another. His father was kicking things over again searching for him. Then there was a thud and a scream. Then another thud and then another scream. He was punching the wall. Then another thud and then another scream until his father let out a high, piercing wail that sent a sharp shiver down Dink’s spine which made the lower part of his back physically hurt. He listened intently inside of the silence after the wail. Where was he? Dink couldn’t tell. Then he heard the footsteps. His father was walking up the stairs. Then silence again until he heard the door of his mother and father’s room open. The door did not close and he heard some drawers opening and then closing as though his father thought he was in the drawers inside the sliding closet. Then silence again. Nothing. He remained inside of the clothes hamper, shivering, his teeth chattering together. But still there was no more noise from his father. He hadn’t even left his room. Dink was too scared to cry.
Dink stayed in the hamper. How long he did not know. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. He had no idea, but he knew that he wasn’t ready to make a break. His fear of the dark was gone. The dark was the last thing that he had to be afraid of anymore. The dark was now his only friend. The phone rang inside of his father’s room. His father answered it. He couldn’t hear what his father was saying, but he could hear his voice. He was talking to somebody in a grown up manner. His voice was low and steady. He seemed calm now, as though the earlier destruction was for fun and now he was bored again. His father stopped talking and once again there was total silence in the house. After a couple of minutes, the phone rang again. His father answered it and once more there was that voice, a new, calm voice that spoke once again in a grown up manner. Far in the distance Dink could hear the blare of sirens. There was a fire somewhere. Had his father set the house on fire? Was he going to burn to a crisp? He smelled no smoke, but he wondered. The sirens got louder and louder and then suddenly stopped. He then heard the sound of feet on the carpet downstairs. He thought he heard a window break as well. Then another. They were fighting the fire downstairs. He had to go. He heard voices and movement up the stairs. His father still talked on the phone in that same calm voice. There were other people in his house, but none of them spoke. His father’s voice was the only voice when suddenly he heard another man’s voice.
“It’s okay, Steve. Don’t bother with it, old friend. C’mon, there, pal. Let’s just end this thing, okay?”
End what thing? Who was this man? He was not the only one in the house this was for sure. He heard the fireman radios static and electric downstairs, the serious sound of people doing serious things. The man spoke again.
“John, let’s do this my way now. Give me a little bit of time. I know Steve. Right, old buddy? We got you covered, right? We’re going to be alright. They’re going to step away for a bit.”
He heard footsteps moving away from his father’s doorway, but they did not move back down the stairs. How many firemen were in the house he couldn’t tell, but he could sense the buzzing. He could sense the danger and it made him sink lower into the hamper, even if the house was on fire he was not going to move. He was undiscovered.
The silence returned. He could hear the man and his father talk as though they were having a conversation, but he could not make out what they were saying. After awhile the fear subsided somewhat. His heart stopped beating a million miles an hour. He was tired, so tired and he felt his eyes close. Just a moment after he felt this weariness he fell asleep. It was a hazy sleep, a soft sleep, the kind that children were supposed to sleep. He awoke with a start thirty minutes later after remembering that his father was in trouble and he needed to help him. He had not burned to a crisp. His father was in trouble. Something had happened to his father. Although he did not know how long he had been asleep and because of the silence in the house he climbed out of the clothes hamper and pulled the string on the light bulb. The light hurt his eyes, but it allowed him to find the doorknob which he turned slowly and silently before peering into the hallway through the tiny crack of the door that he had opened like a spy. Nobody was in the hallway. His father’s door was open, but there were no more voices. He opened it further and searched the hallway to the end. There was nobody at the top of the stairway. Everybody must have left. He opened the door just enough to get through it and slowly made his way to his father’s door. When he was fully in the door frame he saw his father sitting on the floor, his back against a dresser. His legs were spread out in front of him and his head was resting upon a shotgun, the barrel keeping his head up like a crutch. His finger was on the trigger and a police officer crouched next to him. His father then moved his eyes slowly towards Dink and the sadness in the look immediately made Dink cry.
“Oh, God,” his father said, and the police officer said. “It’s okay, Steve. It’s okay.” But then Dink briefly lost consciousness, just for a split second, for he had suddenly accelerated at an unreal speed. He flew forward and hit his head on the wall as someone ran past him, pushing him over as though he were a rag doll. He turned over and saw that an older boy had run him over and was now beating his father mercilessly. He curled over on his side, closed his eyes and plugged his ears to drown out the horrible screams, like a girls, that were coming out of his father’s mouth as the room filled with police officers trying to get the boy off of his father who could do nothing to protect himself from the viciousness of this other child. After a moment they were able to pull the boy off of his father and held him like he was a dangerous full-grown man. He was breathing hard. He wore no shirt or shoes and had shampoo in his hair. This boy’s eyes were like the eyes of a scary monster too and they would not leave the form of his father who was now in the hands of two police officers. Another police office hurriedly removed the shotgun from the room. His father’s body wilted in the prison of the two police officer’s firm grips and he watched his father cry too, just like him, as if they were agreed that the world had finally come to an end.

Published in: on April 16, 2011 at 6:12 pm  Leave a Comment  
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They Were Found Righteous – Albert

The Fargo Kantrowitz’z Literary Campsite’z

They Were Found Righteous
a breakfast surreal by Albert Jones

Chapter 1

The Unintelligible Wrath of God

Usually the blank space, the vacuous middle, the unholy whole of what I am is like a secret passageway to a new place. Horses cavort then die then disappear, but then re-appear running thigh long and whispery in their cloudy passage. What hard place do their hooves scratch? None, for the horse is in dream, a lone representation of a thought not reached by me nor anybody else. It drifts away, does not run, for it cannot run. It can only drift, disperse. This is the mode of normalcy for me. For you? Maybe for you too. If a horse why not a llama? A lemur? A disc? An obelisk? Why not a centipede or just the legs of a centipede? This is how much the eyeball world knows when belief in a something further inside is, not forgotten, but accepted as sad, decrepit and scary. The inner world teems and it is better that these horse half-thoughts do not arise again. Trilobites. Why not trilobites? An image, any image, where you can dig in like a fat man at a crab feast for something new, something about you? A crocodile? A soft day to replace a sudden feeling imageless that you must face. Why? Why?

Job was told there was something bad that he must have done to have brought upon him such wrath from God. Job sat there and watched everything fall apart. What must he have done? He could not think of what it could have been. Nothing. He had done nothing wrong. He never left this sentiment because he couldn’t see anything but the truth. This fact is what made him a noble man in God’s eyes. He did not make himself believe something that wasn’t true so that he could gain favor with his oppressor. He couldn’t. His nature was simple. This nature is what got him into trouble in the first place. How could he have changed? The Devil made a sorry bet. Watery worlds. Deep far down worlds like in an ocean, cold, salty with beasts inside. All symbolic. All symbolic for you, but not you, not anymore, not since the pain came along and made all such visages fearful. A trilobite. Or a crab like the zodiac sign. Each could make you something more than you are, but you lose it in the thinking and the analytic isn’t so good anymore and why would you want to go there anyway, this world that possesses you and feeds you tiny morsels of meaninglessness, no context, just tiny morsels of meaninglessness. Dodgers at 4 o’clock. You read it in the paper. You’ve got to go to work now.

I’m a scuttly now, a bog, bugged, scuttly upon the floor. Found out about my outer limbs and feels the crackle of the box. No way to get a message through my back. That’s where the light comes in. Angels. You slowly lift your eyes and you see the dawn or is a wasteland come to haunt you? A past? There must be a past or a whole bunch of built up futures that never materialized, all in all, though, you can bet that it will look like a city on a hill, but you won’t bet on it, because, although white, it is crumbling, slowly crumbling and the sand is becoming chalky and split and you know that yesterday is today and you cannot catch up. It will not let you catch up. A sloth. A lemur. A sense of well-being barely remembered. At least you have a car.

A downward slope, a slide of sorts at the tip is the leap. The lip of the tip is a leap into sky and from there perhaps down. Who am I to guess. Perhaps up. The eyeball world tells you nothing that’s why we turn, why the eyeball looks away towards something new. The two are unconnected, this thing inside, the tip thing, the lip thing into sky and the eyeball thing, tomorrow, today, the why’s, the where’s, the how’s. You think you’ve found color? Mind you, you have not. This thing that you have found is as wordless as yesterday. You watch for your next thoughts and hope that it will come for words may form upon your lips. Then you will know. But that is the eyeball world, the turned away world where hope is all that you’ve got because there is nothing else. You need a mirror, you know, but also know that the mirror is a mirror and where is the where? The there? Here, you hope, it is here, somewhere, because if not then all you’ve got is today. Not a place to get an eyeball in.

But there are buckets and in these buckets lie piles and piles of cash and that’s where you’re supposed to go. Go to the buckets of cold, hard cash. Cold? No, not cold. Warm and pliable and love-producing, these buckets will bring you warm flesh with heart attached. It will bring you children and home and hearth and hope and expectation and quiet knowledge of life’s realities, but stalwart faith, too, and hope. Did I mention hope? Let the exercise continue upon the Lord. Green and smelly, good and faithful. Cash is the God of the world and the only God the world will let you worship. Choose another God, go ahead I dare you, you will see that the world will not allow it for very long. Christianity? Hell, you’d be in the streets. The eyes will look away. Muslim? Well, I wouldn’t really know, but money seems better than this too. Hinduism. Well, there, everyone is poor. Anyway, green and good and smelly and hard and there and present and heartbeat bringing, life affirming. I worship you. I worship you. I worship you. If I don’t I’ll be kicked out I know.

Out from the out in to the inside and then back out, strung, this path together by course thread marked. Still no sign of land. You don’t want feats. You want truth and love. This is all and tomorrow, when the eyeball is back, you will have to make do. Another day is what it brings, no mirror, yet the day. Tomorrow, but no today. Past loves are gone and you are here and your eyeball is dead, or if not dead, un-seeing enough to seem dead. Unseeing enough to make you want to sleep. You attached to the eyeball by tether and synapse to heart and body where fat is becoming who you are and bags are spilling under your eyes because You Can’t See Yourself.

Oh, well. Money is there (although it’s not). Money is there and you had better believe it. Respect it. Money? Money? Money? Money? What does this mean? It means warm cars and heat. Mountain roads yet safety. Sleeping children and a warm smile and true love beside you. It means family appreciation and your rightful place. It limits doubt, no, kills it. Your smile seems like something meant to be. God was good to you and all because of money, money, money, money, money, money, money.

Slip sided because the memory of sex is gone, you are in four rooms, between four walls rather, where these rooms, or walls rather, wait beside you. At least they are there although they are much like the hoofless horse and then they are gone and you don’t know why you would see them in your Mind’s Eye. For if a hoofless horse can run and a four-walled room (s) can be then the inner space, the gasping space, gurgling space can be filled more, but not with feeling, this you know, not with feeling anymore because when feeling comes then you will know that you are something beyond the other thing. Money will become something again and you will raise your mouth to the skyh to try and capture some with a smile, a moneyrainy smile that catches rainmoney smile and you will be happy because the cragspace of nothing brown where walls and horses non-eyeball placeness beckons you will know. Simply, then, you will know…perhaps.

Well then back to the box. Slow down and take heed because back to the box you go when memory, good stuff, the stuff that is good for you to remember not bad, hints at itself again like a vague whisper a mountain lion stepping soft in snow memory asking for you again by name. and you remember that you remember that you remember that you remember that you remember. Memory of old days return again and you know that if this memory is here that another can be formed but boxes and horses, dead horses, I might add and eyeballs and you and me and us and we and money and this and that and the other thing and the thing beyonjd that that you didn’t want to talk about and thw whirl and the world and the now and the then and the how and the when and hen and the chipmunk and back to you and me and us and we and so it goes and so it goes and so it goes…

Remember when the monkey wrench was thrown into the plan? Remember when the surf carried me away and I didn’t come back for ten years? Remember how I thought that I wasn’t human and therefore couldn’t have relationship because relationship was between two humans and I was not human, but something else? Remember how the sky turned dark because that is what it was said it must do to denote the feeling that was being bandying about, and it stayed dark for two years? Remember when we had sex in the rain? Remember how we thought that this mattered, before the period when I thought I wasn’t real and that maybe I could live in a box and ask questions of a God that didn’t seem to be there and when the day ended, as it always did for you because you were real, then all things would end and a little less light would slip into the picture so that the picture was of rain and steep hills and everywhere you looked you didn’t see. That much you knew by now, that as a not human you did not see and you wanted back (me) membership in the club because not being human is not all that it’s cracked up to be thank you very much.

And then it happened anyway and you saw that you did not see and after years and years of trying to see anyway, that is, become human again anyway, you saw that you did not see, that sight was a something that was no longer allowed to you because of the goddamned way that everything goes down until you don’t want to see, the eyeball is closed to the other world. The eyeball knows better than to see and you guess from then on it. Your days continue, of course, but it is all of the guess. Guess the color of that, the temperature of that, the mood of this, the meaning of that until all dead horses and celestial boxes become solidified in a someplace that is not meant to be deciphered. No more answers for you, he who tried to leave the human race but found that he had no other race in which to go. Pity though the teller of the tales of woe for such persons are unwanted, usurpers and much done before. Sanitize, sanitize, sanitize, sanitize, Hence one of the reasons for “ending it all.” But not.
As for the soliloquy. Who asked? Nobody that’s who. That’s why that is that. That which is not the other that that. Word play. Meaningless. But is. It. Then. When all is then. Now. Belly far heaven go wherever cloud be roam. That that. Or vortex, something more to go for, go far for when you don’t even know which thread is here, what world connected. Far into the unknown then while butterfy capillaries and caterpillars green greet you again, notice you are on the periphery and your words are letters first, before thought, and thought, hidden, dances unnoticed, single and solitary, so that you can beep alone where code is duke.

Even the –less can be mapped out like a mountain craggy image up then down and hidden by clouds-even that. Just because all eyes are gone doesn’t mean that there is not seeing. You have the vortex, again, the mountain hole wind trees dirt deer swirling down into the maelstrom. That too can be mapped. Shown. Even though eyes are still closed by all, no seeing yet sight. Whose? Whose?

Those who did rock and the hard block hope and the dyke role is the one with the suit the one with the sack, guns in backs, movie live in. wicked. It’s a wicked where we live in.

B;oblip Industries. Clipping now. Hicking now. Wicked sound, six pack I’m sipping now. It’s cool. It’s cool. It’s cool. Whoo hoo. Whoo. Hoo.
Whoo. Hoo!

Ya’ll 2002 transplant. One! Hzhzhzhz .

They used the beat from garnier’s fruictese and got national radio play…but they’re drinking beer!

Righteous! Dude!
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Published in: on March 30, 2011 at 2:50 am  Leave a Comment  

I Am Worthy – Albert

I’ve sat on this for a long time, the lost days, the moments of wanting what I had and no longer being able to feel the entering place. It really is like wandering dark hallways. All memory is lost because it cannot be seen. It can only be felt. There is nothing not askew. If color could be placed upon my mind, enough to outline those forms still brewing in my soul I would be a happy man, but it is only the acts of others that seem to be able to place me there. Those acts seem to be unimportant anymore. I could trace anything in my day. I don’t mean draw, but trace the outlines of feelings enough to be able to look back at it and proclaim its verity.
And I was proud. That was a good feeling. Although when you are at any particular place in your life you doubt that it is real and verifiable there was a time when final results occurred, final notions, things that made you breathe out and walk on sturdy in your step like a man who knows where he is going and determined to get there. Too many people have placed me aside or, to be more truthful, I have set myself aside for other people to shine. I have always been one who steps aside for the new and whole in others. I surround myself with those who do not consider these questions, those with minds that put forth what they know as if it were true and all that there is to know. This has caused me some despair over the years because my altruism overrides my selfishness and it is only in selfishness that you can assert yourself as those who are also asserting themselves mindlessly do.

I am working on this. It is my weakness, this capitulation to all who appear and assert themselves. If you listen enough to others you will forget that your truth must be gathered for yourself. What is this truth? It is a million footed thing. A monster or a saint that asks for less discussion, asks for an end to discussion so that it may be felt deeply. Study, something formerly sought after in my youth, in its disappearance leaves me hollow for then there is no more pondering. There is only scattershot thought, winged solutions, uncolored wandering darkened rooms. At least I lost my ego. But that was not what I truly wanted. There is the selfishness. This selfishness, this healthy selfishness, asks for more color, more light, assertion and proclamation all the while knowing that it may be shot down by another’s proclamation and yet, if so, this should be considered a good thing for the lion, at least, has been let out of its cage. No place for a lion to be.
I believe that the mind, in forsaking knowing, retracts, becomes emaciated and if left too long in an unattended state, dies. I have attempted this soulical suicide. It has been what I have wanted, to find truth in an unadorned state. But truth unadorned is not truth for it cannot be seen. Vision is desired because it streaks across the mind in a flash, with flash, and does so because life is proud and viable and seeks beauty in every step of it’s formation. We cannot be a dunce, asking for nothing for hatred of human pride which we may believe lurks around the next corner ready to devour us. We are meant to shine. Our proclamations are meant to be daring and our lives so fulfilled proclaim back to ourselves our goodness. We become beacons of light that move us forward because it has taken away our choice. When you see an open path you must take it. When you do you bump once again against darkness, but beside you are visions of truth that edify. It is this picking of the fruit right where we are that allows us to grow. Growth is our ability to feel secure in our knowledge. Knowledge allows us to feel secure in our steps. Darkness is only darkness and can be penetrated by simple light until we finally reach the reality that we seek be it what we expected or not. We seek knowledge of ourselves. If we become too wrapped up in mind games of others concerning us we will become stilted, but once we awaken again we are more than able to continue the fight, to pick up the sword and cut once again at those black chimera’s just ahead. We kill fear.

To have true victory over fear we must have true acceptance of love. Love is the result of our having tried. Our having tried reminds us that we are worthy. Success is that which allows us room to stand back and smell the flower, to love the flower and all those around us. It is and is not the opposite of hate. Hate makes us want to hurt. Love, it’s opposite, makes us want to continue the path in which we are on. It is our payment for we do nothing for free. We all must be paid and when we play in the garden of such thought it is nothing but this love that reminds us that we are good and right and worthy. Love goes hand in hand also with change. If we are to love we must embrace the entry into the realm of love. Without this entering into the darkness with bright flame we are nothing. Fear, the first thing we encounter on our journey, is only fear. We must not back from it. We must edify ourselves with that which will remind us of this. Some would call this positive thinking, but I hate such terms. It is more poetic than that. This beauty, this senseful beauty which occurs when we dare to love, is all and all ultimately, for if we are to give our lives over to the process, a process which may at times decapacitate us, we must reach for the lifeline and love is the lifeline. In it is beauty and joy and delicate artistry. This goes for thought and spreads into things that thought produces: art, literature and such. We are meant to explore the good and great things in our lives and in other people’s lives. It is not our responsibility to hold it down as the greatest of thoughts, for all things die as well as the opportune moment for the release of a beautiful thought, but while we are with it we should be with it completely. In this way the love spreads through you and you are able to share the thought poetically, shiningly, daringly and lovingly and the end result is that whatever kernel of existence was hiding inside of you is now released into the wider world, injected into other souls who can use it for their own sustenance. If it falls flat then we must remember that the process is true, but not always true for others. Opportunity knocks to those who can hear it. For those who can’t it doesn’t mean it won’t. It may just mean that it is not time.
I have gathered a hatred of poetry over the last few years because of hatred for myself. This must change or else I will die. Literally die. The body cannot live in a world where love is kept out voluntarily because you feel unworthy. I am worthy.

Published in: on February 13, 2011 at 6:46 pm  Leave a Comment  
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The Arms of Christ – Steve Merrick

the road was dark and bleak. The white sunset was gone and all those who wondered about the nature of things asleep. It was a cold, dead town.

Outside seven holes were buried, former brains, mouths where food went in every day until the day Jeremy Stevenson lost faith. That ain’t a easy thing to say come from me, Steve Merrick, killer of Jed Jones’ father Tom.

Outside a storm was raging. I mean a storm. I was there looking into the window and I saw it there, sir, a chair as a chair dares to be rare, then I’m going to get somewhere, at least in this life, Jed said.

You ain’t nothing boy.

The kid looked at me from across that prison room glass and I knew he’d shot me right between the eyes. ‘Cept he didn’t have no gun. It was the oddest thing.

“I’d a killt you, sir,” Jed said. “I’d of put a gun to your head and pulled the trigger, sir, no longer than it takes a fly to spit on your arm. I’d a done it too. But I grew up and stopped bein’ that little kid who did it every day of his life.”

“You say you’re a friend of my boy Dink?” I asked him.

“I suppose that’s true, sir,” Jed said.

“Well, you just tell him the only way I acted the way I did was because I was too goddamned cold. And you tell him, boy, who can shoot me in the eyes at leisure, that, I’m sorry for his being having with me when worlds were shit.”

“I’ll tell him that, sir.”

“And you tell him that I didn’t know what I was doing. And you tell him that I loved him, okay?”


“Yeah, man,” that Jed said.

“Okay, you can go.” I told him. And he did.

Published in: on February 6, 2011 at 4:11 am  Leave a Comment  
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On The Unintelligible Wrath of God – Albert

On The Unintelligible Wrath of God

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.


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?
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. 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?

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

Published in: on December 18, 2010 at 9:54 am  Leave a Comment  

Just Do It – Albert Jones

Just Do It
by Albert Jones

Get yourself out of the mess.
If perchance you succeed
then help others ever after to do the same.
Help one person
knowing that by doing so
you are helping many people.
Let economic love grow.
Do not force it or try to manipulate it.
Let it show you.
The horse knows the way.

Published in: on December 10, 2010 at 10:14 pm  Leave a Comment  

Henry Mills Diary – Book One

First Entry – September 1876

The sun is over the valley below. We here on the mountain have it better than the rest of them, I think. Being up here all the time in the cool fall air of Tennessee. Got me a real-live town building up down there. Built that school and the store and the restaurant and the hotel. Got all kinds of people coming in now and buying up what’s left of the land. Letting it go where I think it’s a good thing to be let go. I like a lot of the people. After the war people needed new and good and they were happy that I’d paved the way. They saw what I saw, that the madness didn’t have to be here forever. Named the place Millsville at the urging of Mary who says she is so proud of me and that she couldn’t have done better in a husband than she’s done in me. God, I love that girl. Why she said yes I’ll never know. She wasn’t after my money. She loves me. It’s in her eyes when she looks at me. She is the dream I’ve always dreamed after and now all the working and saving and being smart in the business world has paid off and we’re well off, got a town named after my family starting down there and we live up here on this mountain with our chickens and our mules and sheep and garden and Mary takes care of them most and she paints and sews and cooks and cleans even though I could hire someone right out to take care of everything. Our livelihood isn’t gotten from up here, but down there. I’m pulling in more from that restaurant alone than I need to live on. I tell Mary I’m taking her to Paris, France and London, England and she tells me to be silent, that she doesn’t need that fancy sort of life, that she’s got her morning walks in the woods and her artistic endeavors and, I can see it, she’s got that gleam in her eye. She wants to have a baby. God it feels good. Everything’s turned out right. And I never stole anything to get us where we are today. Right living and good, sound business practices and everybody trusted me. Now they love me, love us, love Mary. Everybody loves Mary, the way she walks and how beautiful she is. I can’t help but thinking that we’re the king and queen of the whole valley. We’re everything two married people dream of being, except that one thing about having a baby, but that won’t be too long. Mary is simply the love of my life and I am the happiest man on the planet. Mary said I should write this diary like a book so that people in the future can understand the context. She’s also a literary genius and has a book of her own full of poems. I do feel a little stupid writing it like that since I know everything all the time, but I’ll try not to forget about the future people and tell this like a story that I don’t know. Maybe me and the future will learn a few things about what I think I know, but didn’t really know, by following this process of Mary’s. She calls me Nathaniel Hawthorne. She calls me smart. She says I’m a man of importance. God, I love that girl. Don’t laugh people of the future. I’m just a man in love. Goodbye for now, Diary.

Published in: on September 19, 2010 at 8:52 pm  Leave a Comment  

The Fall – Jed

The walk in the woods with my brother and his friend was anything but pleasant. I don’t remember what I hated about it most. Probably just feeling lost all the time. Good thing we understand that our mule did it so we should be able to too. So we all saw how tough a mule can really be and of course we all know, because a mule will just keep walking until he’s home. That’s it. That’s what mules do. They don’t stop walking.

I remember when I was in Michigan walking to the Applethorpes house a long time ago, too long it seems now. That was when, oh well, it doesn’t matter what happened then. What matters was that that walk in the woods with Albert and Dink and really, mostly, with Teardrop, made me think about what’s real and what’s not.

I think about the pain on the face of a family in Tennessee just like I see face in the pain of a family in Michigan and Teardrop saw pain in the face of his family, us, waiting for him, sad until he got home. We were worried, truly worried that something dreadful had happened to the mule and most of all it was me and Moxy looking at ourselves and thinking “what if our stupidity kills that mule” and our too intelligent daughter Minnie, only two, learns he is dead and we’re all funny and guilty about it?

That first lie would kill us, would break our hearts and we knew it so we searched for that mule but we didn’t expect him to come up the side that he did. Didn’t even begin to think so, but after climbing around enough we found it, a stone that was actually the dried mud cake of a mule’s shit. From there we just went up wherever we could.

Dink had climbing shit. Exactly that. His ropes were tangled and weak. He didn’t know how to climb but just acted like he did. I wanted the rope and he wouldn’t give it to me because what he wore was all one piece and he needed it about him. It was his armor. I could see that so I let it go.

I wasn’t planning on having a difficult time of this climb. I would go around if I had to, do anything but face the mountain head on. I was wrong. I learned to climb because if I hadn’t in a few situations I would have stayed on that mountain forever or until the helicopter finally come and picked me up which I’m sure it would have after a day or two when the others got back down. But when Dink actually got a hold of that rope like he did just when I started falling and he got it around my neck and pulled I looked up at him and wondered for a moment whether or not God Himself had always been a horrible, horrible lie.

I wrestled the rope up around my chin, my mouth clamped shut, Dink just looked down at me with his teeth grinning, holding on by a sliver of stone on the right side of his right shoe and the left side of his left shoe. I didn’t know males could do that, and he pulled. He pulled. And he pulled and I don’t know how he was standing there, frankly.

It was as though he were standing upright on the side of the mountain, then I saw it, Albert right above his left shoulder, face down, with his teeth clenched as blood slowly began to trickle out of Dink’s shoulder and into his shirt and that’s when I noticed the silver flash of the knife that Albert had sent all the way through.

I’d managed to secure the rope around my chin. I just clenched my jaw. My arms were stuck slightly in two cracks and the rest was just pretty much down. But Dink saw immediately and lowered what he later called his “Emergency Lasso.” He liked to keep it handy to tie around trees. We got in a fight. Albert called me an asshole and Dink…then Albert pulled us in. He fastened that knife right through his best friend’s shoulder to save me. He was probably hoping to find bone to make sure it was secure then all Dink would have to do is balance his legs. I realized Dink had got me, but he too was going over and down for good and then I realized Albert had saved me again and I thanked God for kin.

Published in: on September 3, 2010 at 3:55 pm  Leave a Comment