ASAP’s Fables: A Reality Consideration;

Anything that exists as a part of one man’s phantasy can be made to resemble reality through art, but that one man’s reality can also be made to resemble phantasy through art. Thus considering the latter part, a surreal quality of happenings can be imparted upon daily happenstance through detail and delineation (or energeia and ergon).  This occurs especially with digital news media, where objective facts are repeatedly commented upon, thus spun. This excess deliberation results in a paronomasia of facts that becomes a sentient paranormality. The inculcated ideals of free-market-enterprise concoct a historybook of organized competitiveness both in the public and private sectors, to the extent that becomes a preoccupation of family life, a sacred microcosm in the sway of these tides. The private (business) sector where goods are generated and the public (governmental) sector where rules are produced, introduced, and enforced (in the name of regulation) bleed together at the party-lobby interface. Taken as a body of bodies and subjected to Freudian psychoanalysis, it could be said that the private sector (pun) is the libido and that the public sector is the ego of a country like ours. The libido focuses on obtaining its desires for power and reproduction of self (see conglomerates). The ego focuses on rules and defines identity (see conformity) and also power, which leads to the conflict or struggle between the two opposing parts seeking moderation by reason of best interest logic.  Best interest logic is examining what course of action will most likely lead to optimal optinormality.  Optinormality is a consistently beneficial state of being wherein one is buffered from extreme lows, but is uninhibited when it comes to peaks, where reality and phantasy intermingle, join forces, and merge or merger, emerging emergent seeing where thoughts pop into existence through the front door.  As math goes to Gauss and physics to statistics, there’s a good probability that you’ll need to know.  The basis is written on the stars where (typically southwestern) men of agreeable cogence assemble (usually in Vegas) to agree upon what is written exactly. 

What man is found both perfect and not dead forever? Jesus!

Betelgeuse was never dead, nor did it live a typical human existence, being a star.

The area of no leaving, that point on a map could be a veritable universe for an individual in a group-thinking culture.  What it is, what it is to become, and most importantly to most: what it used to be, all play a strained hand in the buffalo alternative outdoors, the end all.

111313

The Vietnam application program will put Vietnam on the map.

The Major Achievement program for fifth graders, not architects, will help a sergeant rank abroad for killing just children, not women and/or Jesus Christ to O’Reilly factors of seven or older target demographics who act informatively, but truly they bear false witnesses to the books, pressed to impress, not to add insight to superstition.

Max Fro Ward cut his hair. Maximilian F. Roward wore it long. Neither knew the difference. Adventurousness skips a generation.

A passerine parasite flies over a nest egg and when a tree leaves the forest it is fall by definition.

Contrary to common belief, contrary believers contrive consensus in the company of inner demon advocates, inner lawyers of conscience who work judgment into vice and vice into good judgment.

As the plagues upon North Africa, Biblical times remain in Biblical places where they belong to folk who fight to survive in vain. O vanity of vanities, all is vanity! Northern Amici of North Americans put plagues on vanity plates and blankets. No one knows who knits or sows rows for the children in North Korea.

In new rhetoric, Quintilian’s uncertainty provision assumes that God and man are not one and the same, so that if the audience’s stance on a speech is acoustically muggled or made party political, enemies will insist that sound logic is meant narrow-mindedly, only to garner good favor amongst compatriots or for personal gain; not correct! Logic speaks not to the philosophically uninitiated, the pearly swine, sharing space with prodigies on the house or senate floor. Logic speaks, at worst, to God’s dead face.  Why?

Desertification diversification manifests vegetabula rasa.

One intended one in ten dead, stick knit tomb.
Recheese the reachees’ three cheese sauces.

Dan is stirring up dust dusting. A dancer stirs up dust by dancing. Dan is a ‘roid ragger on the weekly rag.  He Pledges to particles to collect and relocate.  He moves his belongings, bed and all, into the room adjacent, and gets down to work.   (Today).  My butt bleeds when I diarrhea.  I think to myself, but he’s my friend! He’s my friend, my housemate, and my financial companion, but not for long.  He does not respect the needs of my friends and therefore does not respect my needs. A friend in need is a friend indeed. Let’s make for stormy weather.  There needs to be a reason for the season.  There needs to be a chill for there to be ice.  If he wants snow, he can have a snowy city.  I’m not taking skin off my back to accommodate the inhospitable. Let’s take the sugar pill.  Let’s imagine something’s happening and then do something about nothing. 

Machines handicap machines handicap man’s natural survive abilities in such a way as to render them both ineffective and ineffectual. Machines belittle men.  Machines are unnatural outcroppings of man’s desire to control and to render into submission creation, for creation cannot be ordered without disorder and order cannot be maintained without those disordered masses relying on maintenance for welfare.  Warfare punctuates; noise, heat, and light followed by darkness, cold, and silence; creation undone.

CitySolve

I awoke at 730 with no alarm to drive to Rochester, NY from Buffalo to participate in CitySolve, an Amazing Race (CBS) style scavenger hunt.  It was a difficult crunch for me because the previous night, Friday, 6/21 I was out until about 300, from the Sportsman Tavern on Amherst St. to watch my buddies the FolkFaces play a few songs for a Steve Earle tribute.  I had skated over with my friend J (she biked) at 2330 and the FF’s went on about 0030. A group of musicians stayed afterward for an acoustic citsuoca (palindrome).  I had five Rolling Rock 12oz. cans before I left for the show, then one Labatt Blue bottle, and two Stella Artois pints at the bar.  I also smoked some American Spirit cigarettes that J was offering me, then a chillum of some kind herb with a kind gentleman on the upstairs outdoor patio there.  This hit me especially hard because I hadn’t smoked any smokable in over a month because I have been seeking employment and drug testing is common procedure for new hires in New York State.  I do enjoy a good smoke now and again, but not in any fiendish kind of way.  Anyway, I hitched a ride part of the way back with R, J’s boyfriend and then skated back to my place exhausted on 6/22…

                Dehydrated, I stopped at the Spot Coffee on Elmwood for one of my hangover cures, a coffee and a bran muffin. Taken on the road, I sleepily took to the thruway at 70mph and arrived an hour later at my destination at Corn Hill, Rochester.  There I met S, the coordinator. T+J arrived shortly after.  Part of CitySolve involved a costume contest that S was gunning to win, and we prepared to become the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.  S was Donatello, T was Michelangelo, J was Leonardo, and I was Raphael.  The outfit involved green tights, brown underwear worn on the outside, a green athletic tee (painted yellow abs), and a shell made out of a large baking tray and green-painted paper mache.  We had strips of colored fabric that wrapped around elbows, knees, wrists, and the one with eyeholes for our face.  We had plastic mock weapons from Toys ‘R’ Us: a bo for Don, a nunchaku for Mic, a sword for Leo, and sais for Ralph.  The whole thing took about an hour to get into, but we looked good.  We called a taxi to take us to Murphy’s Law, a bar where the race started and finished, and our driver was the first to take a picture of us with his iPhone.

                When we arrived we made quite a scene, not that we had to do much acting, but heads were turning.  I knew I was in for a hell of a day when Don was getting aggravated that the bartender wasn’t serving drinks at 1100 and Leo was outside smoking a cigarette (a child’s cartoon hero, aging).  I only knew one other person there, a friend from elementary school with his wife, but the CitySolve event coordinator said that it was the largest turn-out he had ever seen.  It was a big crowd; it filled the parking lot out back and the sidewalk just outside the parking lot.  Once congregated, the costume contest took place.  People came up at random, stood on chairs, struck a pose, and the crowd voted based on applause.  My favorites were a couple girls who dressed up as minions from Despicable Me (they could even do the voices), and another group called Too Legit To Quit who wore gold ultra-baggy pants, black tank tops, gold chains, and a fake inflatable beach boom-box they danced to.  Our costumes were the best because we won the costume contest, we got the most applause (Don would later say that they were cheering for 5, nay, 10 minutes), and obtained a pair of JammyPacks for 2/4 of us (not I), in the snail mail.

                The race began and the first question was “What New York based team has gone the longest without winning a league championship?” Rangers, Knicks, Islanders, or Mets?  Each answer had a corresponding intersection of streets.  The correct answer would yield the packet we would need to perform our tasks to complete our quest, the wrong answer a dead end.  Unfortunately, no turtle knew the answer to the riddle; fortunately, we were able to just follow along with the crowd that was generally heading all in one direction.  Myself being the only runner in the group was somewhat frustrated because I find that I will actually get more tired walking than running long distances, and there was no way we would ever be able to win the overall event at a turtle’s pace. But we satisfied ourselves in our early victory, obtained our question packet, and meandered over to Hogan’s Hideaway to hash out the clues and have a much deserved first drink.  Don had a double vodka-soda, Mic had a vodka-soda, Leo had two double Jack and cokes, and I had one double vanilla rum-spiced rum and coke with a cherry and an order of fries.  So, Leo got drunk, I got soberer from the night before, and the Utahan bartender took our first pictures in front of a ‘Love Art’ painting hanging on the wall, thus satisfying a bonus requirement for the game.

                From there we found a golf-tee sculpture outside Parkleigh and took a picture in front of it.  Check that off the list.  We had to take a group-selfie because some black old bee waiting for the bus wouldn’t push our button.

                Walking north on Goodman now, a car pulls over and a very pretty black young bee gets out to take a picture with us.  She had just graduated from Wilson high school and was still wearing her mortarboard from the ceremony.  We crossed University and Leo decided to take a couple pictures at a construction site near the art gallery: one coming out of a port-o-potty, and one sitting in an unattended backhoe.  We then crossed to the other side of Goodman and into the Village Gate complex to find Village Idiots Improv.  There we had to do an improv-game where as a group we had to have a conversation using every letter of the alphabet consecutively.  It started out something like, “Allison is such a bee-sting,” to “Bitch better learn how to respect my authority,” to “Cunt needs to wash herself,” etc. pretty harsh and not always witty, we thus completed our activity, got another picture, and moved forward.

                Now was mostly walking: University Ave. to Towner’s bike shop to play a roll-a-tire game for a pic, back University to Chocolate & Vines for a pic, all the way down University to E. Main St. to the YMCA to play a memory game for a pic (Don couldn’t remember the suits of her two cards at this point), East Ave. Spot coffee to play flip-cup for a pic, across the Genesee River to Exchange to Nathaniel’s to throw darts for a pic (I got three bulls-eyes on my sixth try).  Many of the people driving in Rochester that day were honking, calling out ‘Hey!’ and Turtle catchphrases, and taking pictures and videos of us as we walked.  We stopped a number of times and posed for people along the way.

Since we were in the home-stretch and not really in race contention, we had a couple drinks. I had a gin and tonic and a shot of Patron Reposado with Don and Leo.  Don and I then went across the street and Don picked up a bottle of whipped-flavor vodka.  We were near Corn Hill so we went back to her place to have a couple whipped sodas.  We took a picture with Don’s dog Hollywood, and Don held Hollywood as if she were a football and struck a Heisman-trophy pose for a pic.  We filled up a water-bottle with more whipped soda and after a nice mover-lady took a pic of us in front of New Taj, we went back to Murphy’s Law to finish.

Here things get a little hazy.  I had a Guinness there, but the amount of vodka, and the fact that I had eaten very little all day were starting to hit me.  Don called a taxi and after we all clambered in and started driving she realized that she had left her bag, so we turned back to retrieve it.  I forgot the credit card holding my tab open until later.

So after a long day, we were finally able to change out of our sweaty costumes, we said our first goodbyes, and Mike and Leo left.  Don was planning on going Out, so she was changing clothes/putting on makeup.  I didn’t have anything nice to wear, so S (I’m going back to Don=S) rustled up one of her dad’s button-down mustard-yellow silky collared shirts.  I was sipping on another whipped soda, reading Brief Interviews with Hideous Men by David Foster Wallace. I got through the first three pages that constitute the first short story when I woke up to S calling my name from the top of the stairs. I had a puddle of drool forming on the open pages of the book on the table because I had fallen asleep with my head in my hands.  Granted, when I awoke I felt much better, but I definitely realized my need for something to eat and that my drinks weren’t adequately performing this caloric function.  I climbed the stairs in response to S’s calling and relate that need to her.  Her response was to pop open a black-painted prescription vial and hand me a broken, generic Adderall, and says “Here, take this, then you won’t need to eat.”  I recognized the orange 30mg tab, I had taken a few in the past, and it was broken four ways, so 30/4 = 7.5mg would make me feel alright for awhile, it wouldn’t kill me (right away), and it would curb my appetite.  The taste was vaguely reminiscent of orange-creamsicle.  I thought that it must have been designed that way on purpose to market to child-geniuses, thumb-suckers.  At this point I started to balance myself out with a couple magic mushrooms too, I suppose there could be a number of reasons for or against this decision, but whatever the case, I found it to be pleasingly acceptable, for I began to feel energized, aware, and not hungry.

We took a cab back to Gibbs/Main where the main action of Rochester’s Jazz Fest was occurring.  There was one large tent across from the Eastman Theatre I would find myself in later (The Unity Health Systems Big Tent (UHSBT)).  There was a larger two-story tent at the end of Gibbs St. blocking the street off for walkers and we walked this way passed the tent and through by the row of food vendors (I wasn’t even thinking about food at this point).  At this point I realized that I didn’t have my credit card and I forgot what happened to it, so S called T and she remembered where it was and reminded us that it was back at Murphy’s Law, so we trotted ESE down East to get it.  We had another drink there (I had another Guinness) and closed the tab.

We wandered back and I found myself on a street that was behind the UHSBT.  We were near a club with a line out the back twenty deep (Abilene), and the rear of the UHSB tent lent VIP access.  S was making some calls, looking for her friend H who had a couple extra club-passes for the two of us.  We met them around the corner at Salvation Army parking lot.  We met with H, her boyfriend SL, and her mom AM, H&SL smoking a bowl of some kind.  I made water behind a dumpster (the first since I woke up in the morning, sweating all day) and we took our club-passes and went inside the UHSBT where the Shuffle Demons were playing.  We moseyed along the right wall of the interior of the tent, passed the bar, and settled to some area close to the stage where there was some space and danced.  Because there were chairs, despite the fact that the band was the Shuffle Demons and it was really good dance music, the grand majority of people in the tent were seated, looking up at the stage as though appreciating an opera, not what it was.  That was fine though, I had my dancing druthers and even a piece of cheesecake on a stick.

                The five of us wafted like the breeze out after the show was over, sat for a second to collect ourselves completely then sauntered back down Gibbs to rejoin the crowd on East.  We went one block to Chestnut St.  There was one of the free outdoor stages set up pumping good music all around, and we fluttered like moths to some bright lights at Xerox tent where they were testing some 360 degree experimental photographic technology on enthusiastic participants.  We danced while waiting in line.  Some lady standing behind us complained about S’s skanky skirt, but she was skankin’ it easy and paid no mind.  I wasn’t really into the whole picture-taking tent scene, I was there for the music, but like I said, I was having fun, and dancing over the whole lot with AM.

                H, SL, and AM parted ways with S and me.  I parted ways with S after walking a ways down East with her because she was planning on staying out all night clubbing (and not eating), and I had my mind on getting back to Buffalo so I could get a good night’s rest, relax Sunday, and go to my job interview Monday fresh.  Thus I walked the final mile back to my car and successfully drove back.  R, S’s brother called me when I was on Buffalo Rd. getting gas and tea, he wished I had stayed with her to take care of her, but he knows how she is and that she always survives.  I munched on a few mushrooms when I got tired on the thruway, just enough to keep me stimulated, washed down with Arizona green tea with honey.  Dangerous, perhaps, but I was determined.  I was determined to get a Lloyd’s burrito from the taco truck that was waiting for me near the house when I got back.  It weighed a pound and tasted like heaven.  I died happy and it was only midnight.

                While this sort of action would be considered enough for most people, it was hardly for me.  Though still quite hungry in the morning, I waited until my home crew gathered together for Mythos brunch.  J,C,M,A, and I settled in for an a.m. Bellini followed by breakfast. I had an Italian sausage omelette with homefries and rye toast, yum!  Back to the house, slathered on SPF15, packed, and then J,C,A,D,L went in two cars after B showed up to go to Woodlawn beach on lake Erie.  Now the last time I was at Woodlawn had been a couple summers before and I remember having fun, but generally being unimpressed by the Butt-Stop sand and lack of activity.  This time however, the sand was cleaner and they had installed a beach-side bar that was pumping good old-school hip-hop, hopping with bikinied booties.  So I slept, I played three games of volleyball (won one out of three), had two Tecates, threw a Frisbee around, slept again, swam, and left.  One thing that struck me there was the array of wind turbines spinning about a half mile down the beach, the clear sky, the active people, a few boats (one with a pirate flag), and even the seagulls floating between the water, the beach, the people, the windmills, and the sky filled the scene with activity.  B drove A and I back through South Buffalo, looking for food though most restaurants were closed because it was Sunday.  We eventually hit Allentown and walked a few blocks east to Don Tequila’s for a pitcher of Dos Equis and dinner.  I had another superb burrito.

                Monday I woke up late, went for a 3.5 mile run, got dressed in a suit and went for a job interview at TestAmerica Inc., an environmental chemistry lab in Amherst.  I had an enjoyable interview then went home.  J was there and he promptly asked if I had any plans for the evening and if I wouldn’t like to go see Wynton Marsalis at Artpark?  Heck yes, J had free tickets because C was sick and C’s parents weren’t going.  We all had a few beers and then M,A,J, and I drove to Lewiston for some hep jazz!  I noticed it was predominately an elder crowd, but today I didn’t mind sitting.  We all got a 16oz. Molson and then took our seats in row B, only five rows away from the stage!  Being able to see the faces of the musicians playing up close definitely added to the enjoyment because they all seemed pretty laid back and enjoying the scene just as much if not more than we.  There were a couple numbers by Miles Davis, one by Cab Calloway, one by Dizzy Gillespie, others, and then a few numbers written by the band members, my favorite called BaBa Black Sheep, my friend’s favorite being a Spanish sounding number written by the bassist.  I got a 16oz Mike’s Harder Lemonade for the second set, (diabetes in a can), though honestly, I felt that the experience was un-enhance-able, I was so uplifted by the music where we sat in the cut that I grooved. 

A Failure F Success

OInowonnopiscenoverin merrin substrance veddid. I know this is fucked.
Every little thing I do now has to be scrutinized and I’m most suspicious of the
people closest to me. Dog tick kicks. They’re like animal outlets to my frustration.
Who else have I to complain to? What? My silent sheets? My sullen blanket?
I’ve had it. It was good. Why isn’t it? That’s all too easy. Why not? Nodes.
Oversimplicity and blank spaces characterize the plains, the Great Plains I’ve
never been to because I don’t have company, a gasoline budget for long distance
discovery rides, nor brakes that don’t make offensive noises when coming to rest.
Maybe I should just stop drinking, smoking, and jerking off. Where is solace?
How now Isaiah? At least I’m not a Mexican dishwasher. I have every God-
given right or opportunity I choose to seize, and yet, our parents and
our parent’s parents polluted America so who wants to seize a load of grime?
The day should be beautiful if not for soot and ye snake bittern owl cormorants.
Do you love your fellow man? As much as I would love a beautiful place out in the
country. Do you love your country? The powers that govern it make me suspicious.
Democracy: many voices, one head? Sounds like a freak that needs to be euthanized.
Put out of hizzer schizoid misery. Despot? I’d rather smoke a doobie or
suck a booby (not a red-foot or a blue-foot).

I’ve said and done some pretty offensive things in my life. Is it my fault that
most people would rather judge me than fight me? Size me up as a big man with
a small brain who doesn’t know what he’s talking about? That’s fine, but I’ve
just about had it with ALL this fuckin shit. People put their rights
before their God, so who am I supposed to believe but the cynic?

St. Patrick's Daisy

Diaspora – The settling of scattered colonies of Jews outside Palestine (after the Babylonian exile).
Die, a spore, rat, a key
diasporaticly list out of Babylon.

The scattered seed of the people unsettled the land of plenty, those seeds that grew when planted, the seeds of knowledge that they watched for a long while after growth before becoming aware of their relative nakedness of what had become a mystery unseen before hardened in hellfire.  "I’d like my anxiety with a sense of dread," was never said aloud.

My own skieveiness
grosses myself out.
As it should I’s’pose.

Convince yourself that this is not an optical illusion.  <Ctrl + Alt + Realities… Beep.>

“Everything you talk about is not as
fun as what you could be doing, a voice in
my head insists.” “Shut up, I’m conducting
 a laboratory in the laboratorium paradigm -
an action and an unde (whence), a place
from where the action came from

Don Julio Vertullio De Vertullio Sassulio
saves everything in secret places.
Do you think if you go run around everywhere you’re
going to learn something, anything?
The word is only truth if it feels true
to believe it.  Is that true?
Aren’t some things true and some things truer?

Who first felt truth?
I’ll volunteer.
Where did it touch you?
Up here.
Checks out the truth processor
Down here.
Checks out the truth delivery
Up again
I combat the evils of the world with
chemical euphoria chemically induced
to the ass in advanced A SHED.

Young, stupid, left wide open, “Everytime I look for you,” by Blink-182

I am nothing if not the people who came before me, therefore, an aberration.

The North Pole feeds itself on light particles,
rules the world as a magnet, dictates freely,
and convinces itself of anything catharctic, taboo.

We put something in a frame and decide it’s more
reflective than the things around it because it’s
surrounded with something shiny like a halo and
some element as valuable as gold.

Z à Aggressiveness Eyes Zydecorient

The propinquity of the phyllotaxis
Fibonacci’s my sequence
Up my ratio?

“Anxiety produces speech, and out sort of speech
is religion – every religion.
Out of the fear of Space arise the numina of the
world-as-nature and the cults of gods; out of
the fear for time arise the numina of life, of sex
and greed, of the State, centering on ancestor-worship.

Spengler, O. The Decline of the West, Book II, p. 265

Concatenation abeyance

“One has merely to declare oneself free, and one feels the
moment to be conditioned.  But if one has the courage
to declare oneself conditioned, then one has the feeling of
being free.”
Goethe

Hearing
Disparates
requires coalescence.

Being is a mystery that, as soon as faith and science
turn their attention to it, ill-uses them into fateful error.
In the realm of doing the waking-consciousness
takes charge only when it becomes technique.

 Pick-up technique, the soul of example, the artist at
his craft divulges the question on everyone’s mind,
“Who likes short shorts?” I do! Summer in Spring,
a warm reminder of better things to come, already
here and on their way in a realm of consciousness
where qualities take on form’s essence
less phrenologically than physiognomically.

“But belief and life, love springing from the secret
fear of the world, and love springing from the secret
hate of the sexes, knowledge of inorganic and sense
of organic logic, Causes and Destinies – this is the
deepest opposition of all” 271

Medical Doctors, death seers, knowers of inorganic
nature, are able to prophetically divine the nature of the
cause, and thus, seemingly, the knowledge of the destiny
of the cold individual; at a loss for pulse and
further upward mobility.

'Religious knowledge is power-man' not only
ascertains causations, but handles them.  “He who knows
the secret relationship between microcosm and macrocosm
commands it also, whether the knowledge has come to him by
revelation or by eavesdropping.  Thus the magician and
conjuror is truly the Taboo-man.  He compels the deity through
sacrifice and prayer; he practices the true rites and sacraments
because they are causes of inevitable results, and whosoever knows
them, him they must serve.  He reads in the stars and in the
sacred books; in his power lies, timeless and immune from all
accident, the causal relation of sin and propitiation,
repentance and absolutions, sacrifice and grace. His chain
of sacred origins and results makes him himself a vessel of
mysterious power and, therefore, a cause of new effects, in
which one must have faith before one may have them imparted.” 271

Exercitium spirituale – Spiritual exercises? 

What moral, what ethic, therefore is tempted to be imparted
to the technician, carrier of just technique?

Ticks quicken at regular intervals…”but something eternal
and universally valid, (is) not only without time, but hostile to time
and for that very reason ‘true.’ 272

Imagine observing a quantum                    when in your defined
locality a moving particle appears             in the system with known
velocity, destination, and purpose…        what had to leave the system
in this sense is a semblance of sanity or decocted coherence.
It can’t be definition, actually hit any of the points on the
pre-defined vector plot, only by constructing the plot for
the body in motion itself can any of the points
be of ascertainable validity.

Points in the system may become excited and move and
give way to the general vector of determination, but in no way
may Fourier transform, may space give way to time,
time gives way to space. The frozen time dynamic,
excited by the current that enters the system at
this point has the ability to displace or likewise become
‘stuck’ itself in the system (locality), but its
subsequent removal will be only the result of some future
space-excitation that fixes time to it.

Time is a dress, garb, sense, novelty,
escutcheon, shield, crest, meld, guild,
ego, desired expression of vanity, (as
a Deadhead comes out of the 60’s) out of
time, in place, remains in an excited state, an
anti-particle the other ½ of a split
system from a single source flashed-back.

St. Patrick's Daze

Notes passed unto the scientific community mustn’t
contain imaginary superfluity, yet it’s analogous
to proving a point, met by marked silence, oft
ignored.  A cry for help’s screaming ‘rabbits’ by the
fool’s yard, Bird-man flies to find someone
like a chicken at top speed.

                “Gene, man, something’s different about you, you’ve
altered, or mutated, or something, because something’s
just not right about you lately, you’ve changed.”
                “Nay, Hen, I’ve seen the light like you, and
just as I’ve calculated, the light has worked upon me
at a potential worthy of magnitude including
time initial â (a ÷ hat) up to and including time
present and probably through tomorrow, if all things
go according to formula.  Listen, Henry, I look
great, I feel great, and no shit has hit the fan
that we’re using for this light experiment,
just a light-spatter on super-imposable film that
we were using to create these measurements, and the
results are fascinating, scintillating even, if
you were to go that far.”

There are Buddhist monks who clothe themselves in torture,
their tears evaporate along with everybody else’s,
just more.  All tears float up into the ether and intermingle
there a long while, or until the next monsoon tsunami.
When disaster is predictable, you can prepare for it, but
not necessarily avoid it.  Getting hit hard is only human.  
I don’t mind getting dirty and staying that way for just a
while, because I know that nothing is ordinarily not forever.

The trismatites get the trismagist by the odelus in the noon tuxedo.

What disciple would go unto throes for his master?

Push on through…Salmonella Dub

My time in quantum heaven spent pondering a heaven-sent wonder,
my angel dissected, my cut cutty in chains, the sin generator
was a wonder not to look away from, if that’s how
you could decline the root of those waves, the prime
motivator, my substantive love for flashy screens that
give me peace mins.  Manymany peace mins. collect like
frequent flier miles to Bird-man who still runs like
a chicken, and wants to get off the ground standing.
WAA!

                Birdman’s baby, adorned in raiment, marks her
splendor in the bathtub near the light fan used for sterile
developments darkroom predictebant what had happened
pluperfectly at the point aggregate.  A light box with
no windows flickers on one wall within:  Chicken skeet,
drank it like Chubucabra, the bird rustler, the imaginary
animalcule, the carnival carnivore who sucked the suffering
teet of turpidity from a hole in the wall at the zoo.

Fade to black.
Eyelids filter.

The heat kicks on with a frequency proportional to outdoor
temp., so my awareness automatically implies tacitly.

In their own times they already supposed themselves
the gods of the history books.

Polyorthistic Aceldama

A round room with manymanymanymanymanymanymany doors
declare the relative ‘rightness’ of the room exited above
all others…

The densest nug
felt like a hug
when no one was really there.

The tallest glass
filled up my ass.
Pardon, my derriere.

The city expresses scale.
The temple and the dun (borderwall)
are belittling.

Through a machine, a young man
imagines eternal life in his time, with
electronic prosthetics
and eleemosynary medicare
with mental health hats
styled superstitcheosly
by needling bureaucrats.

Believing in freedom from compulsion, slack minds
do what they’re compelled to do in the name of freedom!

Well, now that’s technically freedom for a cause, to be allowed
to do what you would (left to ones’ own devices) be allowed to do.

Proper product placement in a trustworthy source initiates that
appropriate feedback mechanism that lumps benefits together.

What is the favored practice?  Vanity,
who wants to know?  One, A. Murkin
with a high degree of correlation, choleration,
and a discoloration.  Celebrity spreads
like a disease.  The kids want to know why
to fear.  The adults know what to fear.
The difference between superstition and a
healthy fear of the Lord, in a Godsense,
is a Godsense, and what it feels to doubt.

Awareness of mental health disorders, a high prevalence
in the infected region confesses a physiognomy
I know to avoid and know not to judge myself.
I don’t know what I’m doing now, I just know
that I have to do it because if I don’t do it, then
I won’t do it again and I want to do it forever.

Opera Unoperta: The unconcealed works

A Paul Rudd
monkey-comedy,
ape, technically.
There are 40
sad details.

One, So full, we ate.

We sat by the particle projector and were added at & to according to data plan or data plot.

I was so mad that I didn’t care to come out (and play).

There’s a needle in my eye, ouch, it hurts,
please stop, I feel that!  The probe!

Give ‘em guns.  They’ll only eliminate one
another on one way streets.

When the hammer comes down will the nail get
another say?

Insular scientists are no longer able to translate
the language of thought into the language of speech.

Via elimination, hate at limitations,
particle on a wire at wits end with
a cat trying to get him to come out of a tree.
The mirror of self-loathing hardens entrails.
The cat on the poster that encourages those
in need of encouragement to ‘Hang in There’
while separating the signifier from the signified,
the blueprint from being reinvented.  The State is
blind and the blind State is O.K. with the blind State
its in, because that’s just what the Blind State
is in the Blind State’s own collectivist mind and the
Blind State’s okay with that ‘cause it knows no better.

“What makes you a friend to yourself?” Horace
might have asked indirectly.

The art of a perfectionist is a point to be pondered.
Where did he get that (idea)? Was it a point from an
artstkicker during the tsky[hy period of constant backwash?
 Will he be remembered as a man of his period in time?
The God in man only hopes.
Hope till your last breath.
Hope until you die,
(“Abandon all hope ye who enter this place.”)
And give your God unto the sign itself
while trusting the Devil’s imperial dictum,
(a la Dante(’s allegory)).

Is God a single atom decaying?
Is God a superposition of opposing states
like a little Christian who didn’t peek before Christmas at his
own presence, presents, or presentness?

Pleasantness is something you can feel for yourself.

When you void me of my nothingness you fill me up.

I take personal responsibility for everything by projecting all my problems into the future.
Why do you want me to pay special attention to this here, now-present thing-itself?

Proper etiquette dictates:  It’s wrong to say ‘Right’ when referring to a state of correctness.
Just like it is incorrect to say ‘Like’ when referring to one state that is similar to another state of similarity.
And this is similar to the dictum that states that all men were created equally into varying states of correctness and etiquette (when put to a poll.)
All men were once born of blood and some men continue to be bloodthirsty like their fathers' father's Fathers

chili concentrate reconstitution admixture (when put to a can.)