Kurdaitcha Construction

 

Orange tape, cranes, destroying the landscape for another phallic behemoth that profits few and costs many.  Surveyors on Hole 17, Richmond Hill, aren’t there to plant more trees, zoning.  Zoning out, succeeding at boredom, in the board room, another PowerPoint™ meeting takes place:

“Envision this:” she starts, attempting to impress a group of male colleagues like a well-dressed whore. “3 acres, prime real estate, stripped bare – denuded, levelled, and then… domes!” with pause for effect.

“I’m getting a massive erection!” said the president sincerely, getting attention, “It may be an eyesore, but it’ll get more looks being there which is better for the bottom-line.”

Buckminster Fuller’s communist/feminine geodesics fail to be ‘tried and true.’  Calm me, calm me, commie, can’t we all just get along and share a blanket and a supreme ideology?

A problem with stock markets are that investors are essentially glorified gamblers who desire to stack the odds in their favor, and if, looking back at historical precedent, it can be found that profit was proven to exist in a certain place and modality, the importation of said modality for supposed guaranteed profit trumps all other considerations. 

At least one guy in the boardroom supports getting 3 domes to try it out, but will not voice an opinion that dissents the established worldview of the Russian piss enthusiast, his boss, the one who signs the paychecks (digitally, distantly), that pays for his desirable condominium in midtown, the heart like a fist of it all. He doesn’t love it, but imagines someone will. He imagines some dime will be gullible enough to swipe right on Tinder®, and then with the right lines, a few drinks, and mood lighting, she will fail to discern his shortcomings until it is too late and she becomes emotionally invested like the gullible chick she is and he will get all the dome he wants.  He comes to finishing touches. She puts him in her mouth.  He teaches her a thing or two. She will learn to keep her opinions to herself. He continues to fantasize about the size of his new place, the location, the amenities, the luxuries, his accrued account balance, and the amount of sex he’ll be having because of it. As of now he’s only pulling sixes and sevens, basic bitches he looks at with disgust like his weak-willed mother.  There’s some philanthropic fellatio, but no call backs, just another stepping-stone he thinks as he StairMaster®s the gym, staring off into space with his Spotify Technology S.A. Airpod™ mix blaring crap EDM.  Tedium, ‘getting his steps in,’ a modern phrase for efficiency fiends.  Modern pedometers, Bluetooth® cock-rings give a more accurate reading bouncing on the dangle. 

A spring chicken choked for a clear mind and protein, down at the Tyson® production facility, a concentration camp for heathen hens, Sally Sue dumps a tray full of gibbets into the dog-food receptacle and replaces the plastic bin back on the end of the row after chucking the last few chunks into the mass grater, grinder, and processor. Dreaming of the big city, sick of these backwards backwoods clowns who spit, shoot, and take seconds without asking.

Many sell themselves into slavery for security, identifying part-heartedly with an occupation that pays some foreign energy conglomerate for their national gridiron, oil-wells, and mining equipment.  Protesters in Chile burnt down the headquarters of “Enel Chile, a subsidiary of Italian utility Enel…” harvesting income inequality, destabilizing by claiming rights to resources halfway across the globe, because apparently Italia est perfecta and has no problems at home.  A father who travels for work to escape/support his wife and kids who increasingly know luxury, but lack guidance.  Generations pass, kindred burgeon, now concentrated in cities, fail to look one another in the eye, fail to familiarize oneself with another, separated in spirit yet sharing common ancestry.

Living in the moment, a Brazilian dumptruck driver dumps his payload of plastic bagged waste into the Amazon river-basin.  Living in the moments to come, generations will have to rectify, reconcile, and regenerate the damages. Do we think we can get away with this bullshit philosophy? An atheist suicide reincarnation-victim born again against his will in more blood and less spirit (as is his Dharma) struggles with the fact that God doesn’t care that he wanted out.  A consciousness irreparably diminished to a lower order may continue to descend at his or her own animal peril since slaughter remains in vogue at the abattoir.  What does it mean to ‘live in the moment?’ For many it’s a McDonald’s cup or wrapper out the car window. Bye-bye! They go back to their litter of filthy children without a chance they thrust on society like a baby-tossing gypsy-crook, bent on profiting from a baby’s ability to evoke sympathy. I’d let that future criminal crash and protect my wallet!

 

Had a dream where Lakota/Blackfoot tribe hybrid were on my grandfather’s farm seeking through-fare.  My father was being a royal asshole to them.  There were three male representatives of these people painted black from the neck down with red on their faces and hair shorn on the sides and long on top pulled back with feathers being very peaceful and friendly.  I immediately felt a sort of kindred bond with these guys who seemed relatively normal, at least non-threatening and were just asking for passage after my grandfather who normally granted them the consideration had recently passed.  I was just a child in the dream and subject to my dad’s authority, or at least it was obvious I had no real say in this matter as it represented a legal issue I had no immediate authority on in terms of rights to move.  I guess once my dad made up his mind about these gentle-men he became increasingly irascible toward them for being there, displaying a scram or get lost mentality.  I, for my part, wanted to be clear to them that I did not share my father’s beliefs.  I had been dressed up in some stupid golf-shirt I was pulling on to signal how ridiculous I thought this all was.  I got in the passenger seat of a car and as my dad drove off he nearly hit them on purpose and when I said something he started wailing on me, then I woke up.

 

Seeds of slaughter sewn out to pasture
a constant reminder of life’s fragility
and how blessed are we who are intact?

As a child, cardboard cube, sunny day
Thinking, outside, the refrigerator box
Being crushed by a 3’x3’ sky.

 

The thought of tainted tap-water gives me the TDS willies. Uncle in my head about kidney stones, and Doug about the spiritual connection to the food we eat (if you’re sensitive to that sort of stuff). Tonight, like many nights lately, I have become fearful and anxious for my life and I believe it has something to do with abstention from tobacco products for whole days now, but it feels as though my entire life were caving in, on the verge of collapse, structurally, corporeally!  My heart, my brain, my kidneys, and probably other things are about to go on strike and pull out of the accord just because they got used to something called wealth and forgot about a little something called liberty, so with a lump sum it popped out of his chest like “Alien” and before long all the lambs were silent after a series of cut-short crescendos a’bleat.  Don’t worry mom, dad, this is just aphasia.  Wouldn’t it have been weird if that were the last line I wrote?  Dinosaurs are weirder.  (“Cut too much slack,” jawed a yokel, downed a tequila, and ran amok.)  Edible marijuana details my inadequacies to be gone over slowly, one by one, second by excruciating second over-throne.  Nicotine with-drawl sucks.  I think I have been developing sleep apnea.  Hanging out with people in their twenties who have been hooked and accept their hooked-ness, which is somehow tolerable as a youth, yet degrading, accelerating the aging process with all its aches, pains, weaknesses, and malignant growths that might be avoided with a more moderate diet of substances and a more substantial diet of wholesomeness.  Lame, I know!

A pharmacist (@thanatophobiapharmaceuticals) is a salesperson trained to transact impartially.  Dirk believes that since we are all marketed to, our personal preferences determine who we are vs. (as I believe) that we continually make decisions that are more or less mathematically sound, in a way that our actions are more or less harmonious with not only the nature that surrounds, but also with the nature that lies within.  As I pull another long strange hair from a fleece blanket that was my grandmother’s I look back upon a life that was a least in part determined by the circumstances surrounding conception itself as a preferential treatment of this over that objective reality.  As a gardener chooses what seeds to sow, so too does a person, when meditating, list.  If a master were to perfect himself for a decade, it would be as if an eternity had passed, however determinable the duration, objectively.

As my shadow swirls in growing grass, my butt gets wetter and things deteriorate, decisively.
As my shadow swirls in growing grass, I sharpen my eyes.  My breath I purloin.  I take the entire volume as an expanse, and I go red in the face with sun blisters.  My breath I purloin.  If the Treasury Department were to tax, it would send out a hitman to suffocate me like someone in a prison-cell who didn’t kill himself.
As my shadow swirls in growing grass, people drive by in fully automated automobiles and some of them wave, until, after a while, they see me as a statue wielding infinity possessed by blunt forces as well as traumatic experiences that stupid children still decide to go near.  A sleeping dragon in the East, what could disturb this genderless entity whose throne is all wet?  A fanciful region in the West celebrates Bacchus despite an angrily jealous god’s immolation.
As my shadow swirls in growing grass, neighborhood cats come give me a sniff and take a few nibbles.  As they eat my body and drink my blood, I refuse to flinch, despite the nerve-impulses, despite the nervous input, despite the festering infections, despite the rashes, bug-bites, headache, and ringing-in-the-ears.  Despite all that, nothing.  Teeth like tweezers that burn as they pull, why would anyone choose to do so little so save self from agnosticism?  “Allahu Akbar!” our master hears from Mecca he faces, “You believe that shit?” he hears from the bar behind.  Not knowing what to think, he focuses on nothingness intently.