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Truckin’ from the sconcheon to the escarpment, a tooling Gambino in a New York state of mind on the money, with a Chicago city of heart on the bull, and with an L.A. lot of circulation on with the show!

Livin’ in hell for some time, time to getaway to Paradise, Hawaii, a place off the charts, for great white sharks, sand crabs, and island fever!

Straight 70 poikothermy, amped 80s, no-no naughty 90’s, and kilogram’s 100th timed art-deco modern art full of pure sense, refined “Yayo!” screams, unfettered energy, and indefatigable renewal of deep dish π at an all-you-can-eat 5-star buffet (quinsy decagon) in-flim-flammable film-worthy filet coating me in the king’s own kin gown.  Enzymatic transferase catalyzes the spread of butter in the pot-luck smorgasbord, suction-cupped, octopus alive!

If only I had something to hold onto…that precious, all-consuming carnation’s slithering tentacle…

Like a parasite living within a renewable resource remaining apathetic to that parasite’s withdrawing presence, the resourceful organism goes through the motions that appetizes me pink (color of lust or of medium rarity.)

Tulips on parting and a Dutch to hold, the green-leaf variety flavored high honey!

The roaches’ paradox:  Flaming Lips Buggin’ on rooster-fish, “little cock-cunt undesirable maggot feasting dumbfounded ignorant, ‘learn to swim!’” shouting aside, “stupid shit dysfunctional junkies for lack of euthanizing hotels for the sake of eugenics.  Keep ‘em separated without rights or the right to leave and procreate offspring or their miserable habits on the rest of the world.  Pick a side and it better not be mine!  I have the right to leave at any moment, and yet, you have no such luxury.  Good!  I’ll take what’s mine and do what’s expected of me.  Let go of me!  Get the fuck off me you ignorant piece of shit!”

[Separated by two sides of the same coin] -- [Keeping scored metal tokens that measure life success and forgive debts to others, (in theory (as long as official currency is maintained by the NY State of mind)]

“Behold, ye are nothing, and your work of nought: an abomination is he that chooseth you.”

The only thing worse than being me, it is uniform conformity.

Baron von Otto Nast champions the cause of musical liberals exposing Communist sock + pole (anti-rock + anti-roll), beating deliberate tunes of knowing glory, stalling a glorious climax for fear of exhausting precious fluid resource, sauce of life, Russian rice-potato ferment.

Decapitation of revolutionary figurative operatives hydra spawn literary Scorpio scorpion slices that grab a hold of you and fill you with poisons, fixating poisons that fixate victims with a pleasurable paralysis, a sought after freeze, and an end with no surprises, the denial of twist, the love that trauma defined.  Soft and tight, pressure warms as it narcotizes.

Full of undead spirit, the undeserved happenstance remains standing a stuttering testament to taking things as they come and hoping for the best to come.  Ye, if your best be knowing better by learning, expect punishment of corrections.  While correctional facilities provide the means for employment, they don’t always employ the proper discipline of character required to reform or correct.  Led by the example of misleading leadership, prisoners violently steel themselves against the violence patrolling on guard duty.  Victims of crime, abuse, and exploitation, modern slave drivers continue to earn their living on classified characters of domestic abuse or fugitive refugees immigrating from the heart of darkness abroad.  Bumpkins with billy-clubs and high-powered rifles powered by high-school graduates with a license to shoot on sight of offense (with eyes yet plucked out).

Topeka Tapioca Topicide, n. The killing of one topic by another.  “May we change the subject?”

The Scopes Monkey Trial: Inherit the Wind: “The Righteous & The Wicked”: War and Peace

“He that trusteth in his riches shall fall: but the righteous shall flourish as a branch.
He that troubleth his own house shall inherit the wind: and the fool shall be servant to the wise of heart.
The fruit of the righteous is a tree of life; and he that winneth souls is wise.
Behold, the righteous shall be recompensed in the earth: much more than the wicked and the sinner.”
Proverbs 11:28-31

“…not a novel, even less is it a poem, and still less an historical chronicle.” ~Tolstoy on War and Peace

With “god-like” perspicacity, priceless I-ring, ethereal jewelry, ability enhancer – the ability to possess shadows, scatter ranks, heal through and through by the induction of light and the banishment of elements of interminable malice by observing and following the objective guidance of photons’ united illumination of divergent nadirs that trough through the split of hairs, fed through by the mouth of the river’s tributary, psalty absolver of lustrous chastity.

“Yap, yap, and yap…if it’s all the same to you scholastically socialist power equalizer, why plaint?  Why speak at all?  Your (invoice) invective invokes a disturbing presence, it is driving me berserk, you…talking cowboy, acting slave…as if…your master’s presence were oppressive!  Nevertheless…why should I change?  Why should I change when I hold and maintain my grasp of the power and of the control and of the remote locale hiding place full of well-to-do lists, buckets full of wishes, and an electrostatic peregrinator?”  The man lists recumbent before his Sanctovision carpenting telebeams of passively ultra-aggressive fiber-optic photohypnotics that induce a type of restless pseudosleep of commercial topicide entertaining the idea of entertainment efficiency like no-nonsense thrills that attend to the attention, “I’m too busy to pay,” (you, The Help) “even a trifling sum to you animal loving loafers bent on getting handouts from us able-bodied types and giving them to those undeserving invalid procrastinators undeserving of charity without tax-breaks!  What is it to me?  Nothing.  Go away from me now!  Bah-Humbug!  You goldbricking DeVito!  (My image in your mirror, through your lens disturbs me and I am too encumbered to find the mirth.)”

To myself, a scolding, “Your art is an abomination…that you would choose this and that but not care to include everything (and the kitchen sink) at the risk of sounding trite.  That you would reference that thesaurus and moth-eat your own thoughts…go through and cornball your own procedure, thinking that you could modulate your own voice for the sake of comedy…they’ll be laughing at you, certainly, but not for the reasons you wish, and you’ll be likely to miss the real joke altogether in your horse-bitten ~ mental jockeyed deliberant confusion like a bomberman in charge of literal stop constant plosives.  An ear possessed by a demonic tongue forking bitter, occlusive wax… trying on erotic wigs framing a face wagging a tongue lapping thin air without a sense of shame, that goes with my pilly-raspberry holiday sweater sopping with the thick drool of brain-dead dogs and the posthumous ooze of ghostbusting slimers ejaculating dysphoric rot into a swirly swig in brown stained porcelain, sneezing chunks and hiccupping loads of raw data sent back for analysis to this cold, flushing crucible, my troubled throne designed for the express purpose of diminishing dingleberries methodically with an antique crank-propulsion enema slipstreaming behind a Waterpik® bidet!”  (The anal floss congruent)

The diaphanous syrupy reticulate was then collected in tiny vials for later reduction to be used as a thickener, general flavor enhancer, or a remedy for pruritus or infertile sod…

All one great prurient pursuit for joy in all the wrong places, like some blasphemous whore-mongering open-mouth surgical theatre for indoctrinating dentists whose duty it becomes to purge the mouths of those dirty cock-suckers, shit-eaters, and (dare I say…) cunning linguists who mistreat mouths and pay dearly for the (some say luxury, others say right) to have another pair of peepers pay some sort of Hippocratic credence to the accumulating plaque of Mrs. Blackenchipped while students stare agape.

…And the worst part is you live alone with some other guy who takes advantage of you, collects the rent and leaves the money lying around like he’s got nothing better to do with it other than blow it off the coffee-table Yayo!

“You have a knack for making everything you touch ugly.  Is there really so much poison in you that common decency doesn’t stand a chance?  Honestly, for all your idealizing, what have you come up with beyond some disjointed come-filled smut set to offend and antagonize?  You should be ashamed of yourself if you don’t have anything nice to refocus your efforts on.  Is it really all pain, filth, and misery with you, or is it your intention to draw attention to this fantastic gutter of your filthy, disgraceful imaginings?  Do you enjoy doing this?”

Yes, in fact, I do.  It’s all I can do to stay sane is to imagine lives, events, occurrences, and very worlds that are magnitudes more horrific than the one I occupy, so that I may always be grateful for this life I have been given, yet somehow, twenty-six years into it, still have not completely grasped or got the hang of this life of flux.

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There comes a point in every man’s life where he begins to question his sanity.  Or maybe it’s just me.  Some days I’ll look at myself in the mirror and think “look at that handsome devil,” and other days I want to murder the image like Dorian Grey.  Some days I look at where I am in my life or look at what I have written and think I’m a sober genius and other days a complete drunken idiot.  The point is I can’t relax.  Sometimes it seems I am unable to relax for long periods of time so that it becomes extremely stressful and all consuming.  A man comes up to me for change.  He is clearly homeless.  I give him 51₵ and tell him that it’s all I can spare, that I’m currently unemployed, myself, too.  He walks away and I look back, part of me sorry that I didn’t give more, part of me split and part of me lied.  I could spare more (we all could). It’s an obnoxious, obvious white lie coming from another niggardly white man, myself.  I should not have said anything.  Part of me really does want to help, while another seemingly stronger part of me just wants to help myself.  It makes me wonder if every act of charity I’ve ever committed is an act to get on the God of the all-seeing-eye’s good side like Santa Claus this Christmas, like if I feel sorry enough and act sorry enough I won’t have to feel or act sorry anymore (because I’ll finally get what I’ve been giving, bullshit).  Mental health is a funny thing and like most funny things, we laugh for lack of a better solution, the laughter of the high-minded insane.  Perhaps laughter is the best cure we’ve got.  Maybe I’m just scared.  Every dream of mine seems to be a nightmare.  My Dad thinks I have a screw loose and I’m sure I have lost the whole nut.

               I often think that if I were crazier, that would be my best solution.  I want to act crazier, but my righteous discipline withholds all outward expressions that love endures and makes me silent and reserved.  I have reservations for just about everything, all the way to food, sleep, shelter, and friends, to name the basics that I believe the majority would agree are certain rights afforded even to the lowliest few.  How is it then that I second guess my own health and nutrition, my own schedule, the place where I live, and the relationships that I choose to keep on a second-to-second basis?  It’s maddening really, and it’s all I can do to just ignore it and keep muddling along.  My animal nature would do well to be more self-serving.  How is it that I martyr luxury for the sake of fulfillment?  Meaning, I decline every favor for fear of not being able to accept it graciously enough.  Every grace afforded me I take as a mark against myself, and I feel pity for myself for my inability to properly return the favor as if I’m losing some kind of ongoing competition of celestial etiquette.  It’s ridiculous, I know, but as the grinning Pumpkins say, cleanliness is godliness and god is empty, just like me (as I should be).

               There’s part of me that responds to my ongoing patriotic duty to the United States to explore every united state, not just in physical location, but also within the DSM concerned states of mind that are united somehow within my psychologically observable being made manifest by splitting my labile personality.

Whether such personal abstraction and social detribalization be a “good thing” is not for any individual to determine.  But a recognition of the process may disembarrass the matter of the miasmal moral fogs that now invest it…The hero has become a split man as he moves towards the possession of an individual ego…translating all aspects of our world into the language of one sense only…the words the reader sees are not the words that he will hear…the inward monition, or the sudden unaccountable feeling of power, or the sudden unaccountable loss of judgement, is the germ out of which the divine machinery developed…tactility was a kind of synesthesia or interplay among the senses, and as such, was the core of the richest art effects…”since Cezanne,” to paint as if you held, rather than as if you saw, objects…Hypnosis depends on the same principle of isolating one sense in order to anesthetize the others…we cannot think of sounds without thinking of letters; we believe letters have sounds. ~McLuhan

 Is there a quick fix to the eroding scenery?  I don’t want a quick fix mind!  (I believe we have been hypnotized!)  I want a quiet utopian villa on the steppes of some forest abounding with plenty where I may live in harmony with the land if I were to be so pleased, where die gedanken sind frei meets Walden meets “Gladiator”.

               Manifest error, city-boy, you have nothing without the State.  The State, the state of states, the ruling state of the ruling party who has decided to make an inch our standard metric.  The State, like some biblical allusion to a dead system, the federal system of rule that oversees our 1984 thoughtspeech.  Well, in a state where thoughts are free, as protected by the First Amendment of the Bill of Rights of the Constitution of the United States of America, what is there to fear regarding self-expression?  (Cops ruin everything, save Serpico) The way that antiquated Puritan ideals condemn the wicked, injustice is a dish best served cold and in the Northern States where the atmosphere is also frigid.  Icy ice ices the glazed brὓleė, torched dessert Puritan Peruvian Portuguese Satanic taste contingent.  What is wrong with bad math?  Blood runs bile black.  Judgment interrupted rule of symbols, pictures, statues, statutes, and icons.  Northern cold discomfort, lost without friends, brrr... 

If it is not the whole room, then it is the grinder, the mouth, the tooth, the talking sharp, the disjointed bark of some dental drill sergeant manning masochism and depersonalizing peons by taking away any sense of self identity that everyone else seems to hold onto for the sake of sanity.  I play the orphan in a crowd of family members come to old sport.  Thanks Gatsby, thanks Rilo Kiley – The Good That Won’t Come Out.  The good that won’t come out sits in silence and refuses to be identified.  It’s not like anyone would believe anyway…so cynical, acting the know-it-all, one hand to the finger to the jugular pulse taking time, the other hand to the finger in the butt-hole taking temperature, gauging the overall health like a digital doctor and laughing at the self-involved spectacle Hibbert.  What good is the internet if we’re all passively plugged in watching and nobody shares?  (Star-shaped Seuss Sneeches go out of style…)  Pretty soon somebody will be telling us everything that is and should be entertaining, and we’ll believe them with a mind impassive to alternatives.  Pretty soon we’ll all be as slaves to our own social media, making think that socializing is such a chore, like me, an effort a breath, emphysemamnesiac, Weezer – Only In Dreams.

Is asking Jesus to save me selfish?  Jesus, save my friends, save me enemies, save even those I am indifferent to, but please, Jesus, save everyone besides me.  I am but chafe for the chattel, a massive irritant, a social boil.

               Who could guess what I would become, and what the Hell happened to me?  Why the Hell would the Hell happen to me?  What sets me apart?  What makes me unknowable?  What makes me a mystery?  What is obscuring me?  What is making me opaque?  Let me be clear.  Let me be forward.  I am a problem-solver who sees no problems, who sees nothing wrong with anyone else, yet through mirror blankets of surreality, what the Hell is wrong with me (self involved son of perdition)?  I only desire to change the game. 

The universe:
big bang period point,
streaming ray verse
phonetic infinity
what I see is fixed and
what I visualize, mandala,
intricate art work washed away,
medium made clean
flowing down the river and
through the sands of time
no reason why
why should there be a reason why?
There is no why.
Intricately colored circles
fetter funny little men
lost in an idea, stuck on a thought,
hung-up in a net strung from the clouds
or floating in internet satellite space
where no one can hear you scream (Alien™),
only furiously text a temporal segment of the universe
converted into some silent rant
to be Kindle®d into dancing flames or
a single meandering e-reading bonFire.
The be all and end all…
don’t you want it?

“According to the psychologist David Fontana, its symbolic nature can help one ‘to access progressively deeper levels of the unconscious, ultimately assisting the meditator to experience a mystical sense of oneness with the ultimate unity from which the cosmos in all its manifold forms arises.’” ~Wikimandala.  The metaphysical reality presupposed our ideas of objects superimposed on a plane of our own manifold imaginings, thus bring forth and into light that which spontaneously creates and dissolves before our very unseeing eyes, normally quite unconscious to the inherent mystery that undulates therein.  Imagine a sheet.  Upon this sheet, anything imaginable could be imagined, from Love to Cheeseburger (“I ὠ Huckabees”).  Our ideas and the inherent implications that these ideas attest and assert is inherently the constitution of our very being and a window to our very soul.  Daren Dugan’s cheeseburger is of a much different character than the cheeseburger of a vegan, an ex-McDonald’s employee, or a starvin’ Marvin.  The vegan may find that ‘cheeseburger’ fills full of disgust, a wise former employee may have reached a fat saturation of ‘cheeseburger,’ while Marvin’s mouth may water at the thought of sweet, succulent beef.  Even Daren Dugan’s cheeseburger may change in relation to Daren’s last meal, last cheeseburger, or a whole slew of factors and variables that will determine how Daren responds to his next cheeseburger, cheeseburger of the future.  Shall we canonize the cheeseburger?  Shall we worship the glorious beef of the ground?  Shall we take a picture (Canon® eyes) to keep that ideal burger at hand closer to memory?  Nay, for it is indiscreet to worship false idols, be it golden calf, golden arch, or cheesy burger.  It is for us and ours to accept the gift in good graces, to hold it for awhile, and to let it dissolve into salivary units, (lest we become craven slaves to our cravings, feeding a dank dark drink hole fizzing full of Coca-Cola® in middle somewhere, America while the rest of the world forgets our precious lump of gall).

               Boo to those Satanists of us who pay undue credence to many a holy unholy idea all the universe over.  Are some ideas more dangerous, or more terrifying than others? (Terror, terror, tear roar, tear, ROAR! Fire up the books!  Burn the Bibles!  Cook the Korans! Torture! Behead the Infidel!)  Certainly some are more insidiously poisonous, some are detrimental for fixation, and there are some that utterly torture and crucify for the sake of salvation.  I was locked up, and when I looked up, salvation was at hand, “Within religion salvation is the phenomenon of being saved from the undesirable condition of bondage or suffering experienced by the psyche or soul that has arisen as a result of unskillful or immoral actions generically referred to as sins.”  Making a condition or situation dutifully desirable comes within the scope and skill of salesmen who themselves must be dutifully convinced of the inherent worth of hulking family jewels, an unshakable pride, and a commitment to an inherently desirable affliction like big aching ball scratch (eager to be mound).  Verily, verily, when the walls dissolve as often most often do, the object itself seems to demarcate itself, as it should, a thing apart.  When the highest ideals low like cattle in rosy rumination, I find empathy shading in anticipation of storms and mulling rest time cud.  When Thunk thanked, a Neanderthal remembered and a bull shat!

 Action speaks louder than words unless the action itself happens to be speaking words at great volume.  A man of action calls to attention that which is in need of another, quieter type, teaming up, resorting to subliminal extremes to facilitate necessity, waving paper currency for a favor.  (Laws were intrinsically written for heavily salivating slave types, Blazing Mongo.)  Brim having been reached, a bartender works the tap, quelling the flow and stemming the tides of derivative change, volume per metric unit over time, arriving at an answer of providing decimal pints per second to a mob of patrons thirsty to death for the liquid ferment of fomentation, social lubrication, and whiskey Richards (who steel themselves to the wilt).  Whaow!  Suds are overflowing my cup!

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All that is gold does not glitter,
               Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
               Deep roots are not reached by frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
               A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
               The crownless again shall be king.

Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring, pg. 167

Familiar names in unfamiliar places, pandering bodily vices, impressing upon
exclusive company the importance of personal contributions made
to the society of statistical similarity.  Tight-lipped
conspirators inhibit scarily unknown creative entrepreneurs
who threaten customary security.  “What does this mean?”
is an all too common questionable thought that betrays confident
omniscience in the land of Droid® look-ups, a reusable rectangular reference
material that places mad confidence in an uncrackably expensive bill-maker
essentially still running on portable coal exhaust, hydrolic fracturing
via hydrolytic fractals splitting mathematically symbolic hypersymmetry,
repatterning parts, obfuscating verisimilitude in order to recondition
rethought.  Looking at life through a lens of wavy celerity, quickening
footsteps shuffle ma.y styc through  the crowd…
ethereal currents              running wire
through atmosphere.  Anecdotal evidence proves dental filling
antennae receiving radio transmission…now receiving data
over 4G cerebral rearrangement streamlined for higher
levels of data analysis through central nervous Sysco® systems,
modern cyborgs pirate access to streaming media every
waking moment in modern spiritual robot dreams.

It is never myself alone, it is always God, working with the
body, Jesus, through the Spiritual awareness inherent within us all
called by Christians, the Holy Ghost,
 “For the perfecting of the saints
for the work of the ministry for the edifying of the body
of Christ until we all come in the unity of faith and the
knowledge of the Son of God, unto a perfect man, unto the measure
of the stature of the fullness of Christ that we henceforth be no
more children tossed to, fro, and carried about with every wind if
doctrine by the sleight of men’s cunning craftiness whereby
they lie in wait to deceive but speaking the truth in love
may grow up into him in all things, which is the head, even Christ,
from whom the whole body fitly joined together and compacted by that
which every joint supplieth according to the effectual working in the
measure of every part maketh increase of the body unto the edifying of
itself in love.  This I say therefore, and testify in the Lord,
that ye henceforth walk not as other Gentiles walk, in the vanity
of their mind, having understanding darkened, being alienated
from the life of God through the ignorance that is in them,
because of the blindness of their heart: Who being past feeling
have given themselves over unto lasciviousness, to work all uncleanness
with greediness.”  Ephesians 5:12-19

Cigarettes serve as sensory isolators, enhancing sight, sound, at the expense
of taste.  Retribution, be swift for exercise of mental vanity.
I do all things not to edify self, but by He who sent me, I humble myself,
I am made humble
by overstating
my own self-
righteousness.
I am made
more perfect
not through
my pride
but through
my suffering.
Not through
fulfillment
of fleshly
lusts.  Man for others
died for our sins, died for us, for those
who may never know the difference
between life and life eternal.
I get close, close to understanding,
before I exceed in exalting myself, falsely
believing for a second that by some magic I make myself superior.
In the pursuit of something more, something else must always be lost.
Case in point…spun…swirling vomit…flush…chain smoking on
Phen-Phen®…puking capicola salami…chasing the past-past
repast back up memory purge.  “How I Met Your Mother” video
stimulation, so sick…all better.  The Hell, the Love, set
by and by in contrast.  Why does it seem that the Love came
first?  The faster fall, set against the slow struggle to
archive the vicious loss and the fleeting temptations set to
chase those reminiscent feelings set to the inevitable pain associated
with their removal, with nostalgia, using words to represent, poorly, what is past
instead of setting forth action for improvements.
How we squander our freedom; pulling boundaries inward from
the inside Pulk Pulk…reflecting on a distant point in a
hall of mirrors, telescopic microscopy mirrors.  Imagine self
electric and eternal…so big, so small…curious.  If only…
if only…alien planes, alien brains always better, unidentifiably flying on grander scales…
an interactive place and time with unclaimed control.
Drugs (such as these grapes) change interactive modalities
cascades chemical chimera, metamorphic
realms patent escape into unfamiliar realities,
dissimilar experiences unlike anything I’ve
seen produced before in effect.  Stumbling on
manufactured pollutants for a type of tolerable imbalance,
inhibition thrown off to my own detriment, a caustic interval of internal
torment, putting biologic response to the test, unnecessarily, for kicks,
because masochism feels freakishly right given the present
circumstances beyond my control, currently, like cold weather.
My stomach is a pit full of foreboding and my body is a light mass
for shadowing anything that I touch between the most potent source of light
proximate to the most moveable mass and myself.  I appreciate the cup
proximate to my most moveable mass, full of water, density approximately
one.  Angels hover high above in high spirits, everything is
alright, so I have faith, so I trust in Christ Jesus, my body.
“But what things I gain to me, those I counted loss for Christ.” Philippians 3:7
Wherefore I confuse myself, exerting my will for a temporary thrill
against nature.  Brought up in a land of artifice, nature seems
a crumbling patchwork, a mosaic born of rubble, Bam-Bam’s daddy.

For here I am - to measure and raise those things forgotten, bringing
back the beard both for and against vanity, depending on the strength
of mind growing out of love, geared toward self-abasement.
Mental crutches built from tears, saws, deconstructions, and weeping
banana-brained cuckoos cavorting upon perches high above the rest
of those mad birds bent on worms for feeding the baby cheep,
cheep go those hatchlings from the nest, who have no means of
mastery of flight, yet.  Eccentric experience: as we being to
define ourselves, who we are, what our needs be, niching
what it is we do, and thus separating ourselves from the entirety
of what it is to exist as we all do together and do all those things we
know not what, yet try to define as we go along the boundaries
of what we know to be true and be comfortable with.  Abuse,
that frustrated fist fails to recognize the source of evil and
the origin of anger are flying fingers, turned against and
turned toward the passive resistor (Ohm’s components)***
Every day Gandhi fought desires to physically fight, was he mentally conflicted?
William S. Burroughs asserts that our mind transcends space and time, physically divested,
as would Vonnegut, and many other religious anthropologists.  Filing cabinets, order,
structure, and sequence impart personal interrelation referenced to linearly
integrate a volumetric verisimilitude of functional forms
flowing about moments intermingling [like] psychedelic bubbles blowing
and floating about a backdrop mural wall complete with sounds of music,
motors, and speech painted with most intricate shading available to
my human eyes.  My homemade haberdashery: needs and nettles
bleed bionic spinning hellions, devise kinetics put to potential;
schizoid voices put to discernable speech.  What could I do better?
Physical herrings push breastlessness; rampant ideologues
refresh stale sensibilities with nonsense.
“Rejoice evermore.
Pray without ceasing.
In every thing give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ
Jesus concerning you.
Quench not the Spirit.
Despise not prophesying.
Prove all things; hold fast that which is good.
Abstain from all appearance of evil.
And the very God of peace sanctify you wholly; and I pray God
your whole spirit and soul and body be preserved blameless unto
the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ.
Faithful is he that calleth you, who also will do it.
Brethren, pray for us.
Greet all the brethren with an holy kiss.
I charge you by the Lord that this epistle be read unto all the
holy brethren.
The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you.  Amen.”
I Thessalonians 5:16-28
“Mortify therefore your members which are upon the earth; fornication,
uncleanness, inordinate affection, evil concupiscence, and covetousness,
which is idolatry: For which things’ sake the wrath of God cometh
on the children of disobedience: In which ye also walked some time,
when ye lived in them.  But now ye also put off all these; anger,
wrath, malice, blasphemy, filthy communication out of your mouth.
Lie not one to another, seeing that ye have put off the old man
with his deeds; And have put on the new man, which is renewed
in knowledge after the image of him that created him: Where there
is neither Greek nor Jew, circumcision nor uncircumcision, Barbarian,
Scythian, bond nor free: but Christ is all, and in all.  Put on
therefore, as the elect of God, holy and beloved, bowels of mercies,
kindness, humbleness of mind, meekness, longsuffering; Forbearing
one another, and forgiving one another, if any man have a quarrel
against any: even as Christ forgave you, so also do ye.”
Colossians 3:5-13
“And above all these things put on charity, which is the bond of perfectness.”
Colossians 3:14

The mathematical mosaics in which we believe imparts virtue, fills the gaps
with the stuff of integrity.  When we imagine our gods to be godless
heathens, we are still ourselves fulfilling prophetic proverb.  We become the
unguarded, fearful of inherent potential, set to pain, lookout ahead!
What I feel are these feelings, what I see is this suffering, what I
wish for, bananas: banishment from thee for seeing how much
thou hast taken without my knowing.  You hear me not.  Because you
desire pleasure in the form of the company of many women, you shall
not be satisfied because you remember not the spirits of the company
of which they bring.  Out of complacent lust and desire not for the
betterment of thine own perfection, you remain in unsatisfied judgment of
the ones you’re with.  Exercise fulfillment is a run in the park.
               Of the variety of miraculous passages to pass
               the tree of moderation, moderate to excess,
               the law upholder needs a law breaker to chase.
               Once troublemakers obey, problemsolvers invent.
               He who desires simplicity must be willing to sacrifice, to work.
               Food providers, water wheelers, specialized trainers, sans dealers.
               Dealers huddle within the coziest positions, prefortified
               escarpments, mozy on down eroding roads in need of
seasonal upkeep.  Nature, however, rejuvenates Herself without external aid.
Survival is a mechanism; luxury a kill-switch.  As I abide, my elder decomposing,
reigning in my lifespan, my life spans a cigarette.  Now I linger like a woozy aftertaste,
my fingers malinger over this area, my enclosed space.  [Tiny Taza, here I come!]

120211

 “Man is not a domestic animal…It is because we vary so much in temperament and endowment that the social restraints necessary for our survival seem so burdensome.  Men and women are caught between the millstones of their temperament and the customs of the society in which they find themselves and which they must accept in order to survive.  When these two are at odds they become anxious, resentful, guilty or fearful, depending partly on their personal makeup and partly on the emotional expression which their particular society allows.”  Osmand, H.  LSD pg. 32,3.

Multiple perfunctory ideals synapse simultaneously perfusing axons with a confusing balance of

excitatory and inhibitory neurotransmitters oscillating between termini n terminu.
Let me teach you a lesson, you can only get luck never have luck. 
To put it Gumply, Lucky is as Lucky does,
Dalmatian dumb luck reverscreen old Sid-o-TV-id-Sedative 1,001 channel front river front satellite dish
capillary neighborhoods, vein drags, and artery Main St. redistribution stent overhauled 90
necrosed-dead-ass. Bursting brain cells fail to react again; neural networks detour.

Nama-Rupa (Name and Form)

The sensuous sensationalizing of parts of us reacting righteously to symbols manifests itself outwardly according to pattern, mode, set, and setting.  There’s a first time for everything.  *Blink*

Acculturated man breaks up the continuum, (a fathomlessly mysterious and infinite something, whose outward aspect is what we call Matter and) attaches labels to a few of the fragments, projects the labels into the outside world and thus creates for himself an all-too-human universe of separate objects, each of which is merely the embodiment of a name, a particular illustration of some traditional abstraction, what we perceive takes on the pattern of the conceptual lattice through which it has been filtered.”  Huxley, A. LSD pg. 41

Mundainty apparitions blow over daybydaybodaybybody.  Okay, if this is only this and tat tvam asi then how cynical it is easy to simply solve in fewer words the Obed jubilation that this everything showers everywhere.  Why words anyway?  Silent utopia!
(Modest Mouse sings the Willful Suspension of Disbelief on Everywhere and His Nasty Parlor Tricks)
Conjecture, reasonable conjecture muse rhetoric into a fearful following that spin wheels in parallax.
The future is known, the future can only be known if the future is static.  Ecstasy, according to Leary, indicates an etymology, ex- (out of) stasis, (static, or fixed).  In the process reading this, meanings of words continue to grow, become transmogrified, or become uprooted completely, branching offshoots.
I might disintegrate into thin air!

Differ Sports; Kind Points.

When those guys (owners v. b-ballers) measure everything in money it takes real heroics entirely out of the equation when nasty sty statistics dominate the boards.  When honesty is denied for steroids, Clemens, those chemicals and hormones take the power of the heart into reduction, the power of the heart beating poison learns to preserve and protect itself like a QT interval in trouble, hurting inside.
The flagging
militarism            downward glancing cross-eyed murmurings           on a leashhhhush
                                                                                                                        with a lease
                                                                                                                        contract signed
                                                                                                                        willfully
                                                                                                                        beholden
                                                                                                                        to the pact.
To his credit, he would indiscriminately autograph
anything, Rose, without regard or with regards to the highest bidder (adieu).
Ink sucker! Debt coverer!  Shylock Bass, trumpeting noiselessly, appreciative fan…
“I finally offended Love enough that she left and so much that she never wanted to come back!”

Owl:

“What a hoot!”
“What a pair of hooters!”
“If looks could kill then herpes would be fatal.”
(The cold sore on her face consumed me and I lost my head!)
“That’s way more than a zit!”
“It has got to be infected, look at the size of that thing!”
“A Botulistic Facial Anomoly!”
“Holy Anomoly Batman!”
Yes, Robin, I see it too…those lips.”

Rabbit Hole Booby Trap Perverse Scuttling Indiscrete Design:

The Fahrer Artuna Autumnal Industry Ball full of hard legs and up the happenstairs into the arms of a falling offer.  Though I don’t deny blubbury, I admit shury dafal.  In defense of the indiscriminate, I attest to the following:
1) That I have no recollection of the preceding devents
2) That I loved her; All of her; and then some (Moor)
3) That all the time I was convinced of my virtue.
The alcoholism was the result of my being in a bad place, not vice versa.
I admit that I have two hands; wishes and reality; seeds and manure.
“Grubby little hands, go plant some daffodils, they are pretty, write ten: 10.”

∞/0 Zero: Place-holder:

Zero is a number in waiting for future events that will make everything more describable.

“’How is a memory to be made for the man-animal? How is an impression to be so deeply fixed upon this ephemeral understanding, half dense, and half silly, upon this incarnate forgetfulness, that it will be permanently present?”  As one may imagine, this primeval problem was not solved by exactly gentle answers and gentle means; perhaps there is nothing more awful and more sinister in the early history of man than his system of mnemonics.  “Something is burnt in so as to rein in his memory: only that which never stops hurting remains in his memory.’ This is an axiom of the oldest (unfortunately also the longest) psychology in the world.”  Nietzsche The Genealogy of Morals pg. 37

Without pain, without mutilating factor, we would have no mnemonics nor demand any sympathy recompense.  The fact that man (thinks he) knows so much indicates that either he has lived a difficult life or is in some way a glutton for pain.  Loneliness…angst…nibbles away at our very soul come to burn on the atomic level in the fires of self-help books come to personalize anguish.  The gifts we deserve are seldom worth sharing.  Reading SOB, so effete, writing sympathy cards for every occasion, “So sorry for the birth of your very own soon to be hated Son.  He will be a nuisance on your life, schedule, and your very ability to have a good time or find any peace!”  God is troubled.  He became troubled by our increasingly frequent use of convenient excuses to explain away anything and everything into nothingness, until there aren’t any answers, only silence. 
“I can’t take it anymore! My bitch is about to get married to some other mother matriculator!  I’m losing my gripe on reality!  What is there to complain about anymore!?  Nothing!  That’s the problem!”
Nothing!  That’s the problem!  Arjuna observes the battlefield, pure and pointless.  “There is nothing to be maintained by these foolhardy extravaganzas!”
War intimates cross-cultural communication; assassination silences complicit renderings, thus silencing the heart,
“So I grab the knife from his hands and give him the sound beating he deserves amplified.  A cross between piss and shit, he was getting more attention than he deserved.  Why I didn’t beat his face in sooner, I figured that look wasn’t natural, that he was already undergoing some kind of personal trauma or bereavement.  Nope!  Turns out, that’s just the look of an asshole.  Some asshole at that!  You know, sometimes I stay in because I know that if I go out I’ll be looking for trouble; not so with this guy.  A real go-getter went out to find it!”

Young the Giant – Cough Syrup:

Over the counter
and through the bar he jitters on his swivel
stool in nervous apprehension for the first sip
of the day of anti-anxiety ethanol that
will put him in Irish ease with all
of his drinking strangers staring
through him, paying no mind to the
vibrating trusses he wiggles looser with
each successive Achilles crank.

The Whistling Wizzard:

A cellular demographic streamlines mom & pop
cultural media interests targeted to & for
trendsetters who unwittingly acknowledge
statistical trends self-satisfyingly set
for animated sales base program loopers
whom firework application scrollers attract
into technological relapses at 4G
framerates. [FruitNinja LemonBodies]

Die Gedanken Sind Frei:

Thoughts are free, who can guess them?
They flee by like nocturnal shadows.
No man can know them, no hunter can shoot them
with powder and lead: Thoughts are free!

I think what I want, and what delights me,
still always reticent, and as it is suitable.
My wish and desire, no one can deny me
and so it will always be: Thoughts are free!

And if I am thrown into the darkest dungeon,
all this would be futile work,
because my thoughts tear all gates
and walls apart: Thoughts are free!

So I will renounce my sorrows forever,
and never again will torture myself with whimsies.
In one's heart, one can always laugh and joke
and think at the same time: Thoughts are free!

I love wine, and my girl even more,
Only her I like best of all.
I'm not alone with my glass of wine,
my girl is with me: Thoughts are free!

“What is man that thou art mindful of him?”

What is woman that man art attracted to her?  With regard to every curve, this goes all the way back to Ecstatic Eden when it was recognized that man come from God and woman came from man and original sin came from recognizing lower orders instead of God.  Nowadays, there is less sin from observing animals and more from regarding computers and other machines that serve as idols of obsession, especially when these very machines can provide an adequate simulation of animal sexuality through Gorilla Glass™ and technology urges us onward as a female in heat.  “People don’t know what they want until you show it to them.”  So said Steve Jobs and so would say the Snake.

The temporary shutting of the doors and windows of consciousness, the relief from the clamant alarums and excursions, with which our subconscious world of servant organs works in mutual co-operation and antagonism; a little quietude, a little tabula rasa of the consciousness, so as to make room again for the new, and above all for the more noble functions and functionaries, room for government, foresight, predetermination (for our organism is on an oligarchic model)- that is the utility, as I have said, of the active forgetfulness, which is a very sentinel and nurse of psychic order, repose, etiquette, and this shows at once why it is that there can exist no happiness, no gladness, no hope, no pride, no real present without forgetfulness.
Nietzsche, The Genealogy of Morals.

Lines shift, vibrate, and hum…zap!  Something caught a hold of the electric fence.  Kindling, tiles, ratfinks, and beer shits.  This is the second café hit today.  Aroma Syrah!  Babbitt, little brown man, pubic beard, leather visor-beret, socially awkward hobbit, beady eyes always looking, inspecting, and judging.  He doesn’t ever say much, which is probably a good thing.  This neighborhood isn’t big enough for the two of us.  Word spreads around Buffalo and the Elmwood village fast…can’t get away with much…the women talk.  They never let anything go, man they can really hold a grudge.  Being judgmental is what makes a person beautiful and keeps you that way, the friends you keep, fucking moral liberals with hang-ups.  Winter wardrobes cover pudge.  All I ever wanted was some pot and a thick squeeze, somewhere warm to be high and daydream.  The troubles of this world pass beyond me and I have no desire to catch up (to them).  A sucker’s born every day to fretful parents who think they can protect them by containing them in a cubicle somewhere out of harm’s way.  What a life.  It makes me sick, the fucking thought.  Easy living is for suckers who only know how to suck and only want to keep suckling social teat on nutrient deprived soil.  Fuck ‘em.  City dwelling pacifists are the only true evil.  They are no fun.  They have no sense of humor.  They have nothing to protect but corporate hand-outs and antiquated ideals.  They are good-for-nothing swindlers who truly believe that home-ownership and an easy lay are the highest ideals to conform to.  May your ego sustain you!  It’s not that I would turn down a hot piece of ass, because honestly, the longer I go, the better they all seem to look.  Beauty is in the eye of the longing beholder longing to hold a radiant beauty in my own right.  It’s hopeless really, all the attention, it seems exhausting.  The ones who look the best never seem to care, really…After all said and done, give me a hit of ecstasy without the week-long depression, let me have Christ’s chemical body, buoyant on eternal reserves of serotonin, oxytocin, and superserendipity.  Wouldn’t it be nice?  Heaven is a place of euphoria and ideal forms (coming to me).

               Writing for writing’s sake, getting stoned for the sake of art, becoming that mutilated masterpiece, making myself interesting as a job, doing my own promotion, vertically integrating myself, creating for myself some sort of Clockwork Orange Nazi torture projector of humiliation, drug induced screams, and forced change like unwanted menstruations.  The umbrage reveals the dark, hidden truth behind suffixes and crucifixes.  Death is a [symbolic] means to salvation, do what you must, pragmatist.  Organization relaxes.  Organizational reflexes keep clean what could otherwise be dirty, stressful, and chaotic.  By committing cleanliness to muscle memory, we thereby relieve ourselves the mental hassle of turning tasks into chores, chortling as things are revealed and thereby made easier by upping the intensity of insane practices designed to desensitize numbskull slaves who are clearly under my control for the numbing task of getting things done for me more efficiently, profitably, and making corporate a science such as subliminal sales for my portfolio, psychological mechanism for the wishy-washy devolving brain developing blanks, educating imbeciles who suck the pity system dry as dumbed-down families of weaklings continue to breed under the auspices of the scientific method, way of getting down to fittest conclusions, twig bearing fruit bearing heritage doing things the soft way, studying soft sciences that never quite get past the basics and make the rest up on sandy soil sure to slip under pressure, when reality meets its realist who truly believes in things that are provably plausible so as to exemplify the circumstance in lay language, so as to condescend to the hoi polloi who have no choice but to bow to hardened knowledge, calculated respect, and the threat of aggravating circumstances made worse through the poor leadership from the son of a rich man.  (I think you lost me.)