110112

A saintly sampling, Askari (Arabic for soldier), this year, a standard deviation.  My name at the top left to hand in.  Sacrifice absolutely necessary wastes of time to DMT.  Abstinence is a stretch.  Visualize spillage.  Watch substance scatter geometry across linoleum surfaces.  Failure assumes successful possibilities/time will average the null hypothesis out of existence like Newsweekends.  Chimney Ekibastuz-Kokshetau.  There was a man who was perfect, a god, yet he continued to fear God of the highest order, and applied all he was taught.  He had many children, the numbers 7 and 3, Li₃N.  Everything depends upon the color, the shape, the thickness, the density, the melting point of synthetic rubber vulcanized Olmec disulfur dichloride between two tires are ribbits plastered upon the passenger seat, croaking clearly the first names of Renaissance contributors who were, in their times, one man shows who were subsequently studied extensively for the meaning of truth in complex geometrycal patterns because that’s just what some people do for work or fun.  It’s a strict division between fun and what?  Livin’ in the ‘strict for Chester Young, [the hundredth day Adventist, whose birthday is divisible (by about three and then sum) ] the umpolung script flipper of ill decise.  Poor decisions are limited by price, miles.

Micromice, µm, crawl through the cracks of their home sweet infestation.
Messland.AmateursAmericanIntoLebanonIntoleraTaliban
Blast you low psych coma!  (Damn you dreamless sleep!)
When the going gets tough, those of fit constitution skedaddle.
410. A door slams. µm in-out skin pores. The court jests? A fake mess. 
“Better, you better pray to your god, because we can’t talk to him for you.”
Dietary concerns rationalized, et over.
Jill, Norse head, down a hill in Hot Topics.

The end of an age. The beginning of an era of psychonautic control that will become the
next reawakening challenged to be presented to the numbers of human… recently, Graduate Lee
recounting what it is to Scantron next to you, testing tests with bubble laser graphite matrices,
carbon compost, I didn’t solve it, I lived it, because there’s only one way to learn, experientially.
What goes unsaid behind closed doors in my own simplex mind is disturbing, to say the least,
It also keeps me up at night, contributing intimately to my lack of sleep without satisfaction.

The democratic process applied to natural law, metaphysics, mathematics…
Should we keep the symbols that constitute metaphors? R handy-dandy?
Aspects of importance of thought, a ranking system, favorite of the favorites.
Nihilistic plutocrats come harder and harder to please.  Rulers of a world made
for enslaving have enough made for them.  The enslaved react to the hunger tithe.
A spontaneous process occurs…Feudal lords nationalize communist or capitalist states.
Large landholdings held by large landholders fed up with profiting mere percentages
smell their own injustice and blame the hand-doubter, Oppenheimer, or Fritz Haber, Bosch.
Oil and an industrial process eradicated famine by materializing from the ether, ammonia, NH₃.
Fertilizer, manufactured for the living, and bombs, manufactured for the soon to be dead.

103112

Over the past two days I have become increasingly tangential to the point of origin being observed
within this species.  My body is touching itself, touching me, touching you, so now I’m contaminated.
Ah, what it is to be vivisected and relive the agony more acutely.  What fine punishment for a
narcotic observer chemanthropomorphising Cartwright Kafka, with a rhyme for his illegible scheme.
The treatment plant pukes when the hospital bathes in disaster relief.  Can you handle the comfort?

One banana and I get really crazy! Split personalities divide my schizophrenic house with dry/wall.
Smoke sockets were recently installed for my pipe to smoke me in my skivvies and long socks.
In fetching stockings, she passes me a roach, and we lie attached at hip like the temporary Siamese.
This is no normal hair day.  It’s come to this.  The black leather mask is coming with me to school.

Basking in the ambivalent simplex, T_D Apothecary sells Nerve Ending Ditherer, a transdermal
gel for shaky cigarette hands.  The quest for the Holy Grail of Perpetual Q_i keeps my status Q^o.

Clubbing drugs are like beating baby seals, it takes a lot of nerve, damage, and the satisfaction is sick.
The hot seat is Kelvin’s lofty pedestal.

At the Zee frequency, in the key of Zen, 23 factorial! 26 tilde.  The shepherd’s
scale, logo-light itself, key infinity forever, brought down to Earth in a plastic shed
in the early morning.  Pumpkin seed vitamins are good for getting up.  Cherries
help with enemy fire from master puppets.  Wifi jacks?  Why Fiji, ACK?

Pumpkins with a horizon line cut across narcotic borders in the long blink of an eye
resting beneath the thick lids of the laws of sleep science resting between hard covers,
book binding, and horse glue.  You heard it here first from the force of the source
of the horse. I’m talking about equine labor contractions and Lilly Ledbetter.

Basking in the thing that is ambivalent and simple, elucidative procedure allows ‘to’ to ‘for’ weeks-vacation, just enough to cover each Roman Sabbath with fanfare and confetti.  Life dissolving napalm potpourri plays disintegrating medleys for its curative properties, charting holes in rough topography with war darts aimed at offensive angles, 108º, Flatland MDs know how to integrate Swiss cheese, corpse of milk.
If Joyce contributed one memorable laugh to the whole shebang…
“You use big words like a cute child.”
There was just enough time to draw the leads before the play was cast to/for the ducks.
There was just enough time for “Argo” to fit another scene with just enough time and space at the end of a runway, for a receiver to drop, for a plot to squeeze one more suspense from a group of undeveloped characters.
My main squeeze, it’s unfair, she’s trying to graduate ‘Mrs.’ Without Me, from the state’s (two rubber trust issues from the bald) orthodox art school, BS, UBbing me the Wong way.
My racially concentrated dominatrix is stereotypically painful.
I’m a back-tracking survivalist and a back-packing surrealist.
What is reality but a farce?  Because parody is the highest expression of art:
When the gods laugh, everyone is happy.
Fitful creativity liquidates and solidifies, melts and freezes.  I am a water table, cycling.

092612

--I can’t love myself.  I won’t love myself alone.--

 “But ye have borne the tabernacle of your Moloch and Chiun your images, the star of  your god, which ye made to yourselves.” Amos 5:26

There was an effort brewing in Hokkaido to suppress the infidel.  Already, they had caught him with his pants down masturbating to romance books, (you couldn’t call them novels anymore, they weren’t so new).  He got the rendezvous by the usual method, text *dingh*, not enough to cause too much racket… His lisp really bothered him on audio playback, but he wouldn’t let that bother anybody.  He wasn’t talking now.  Nor would he, no, not under torture or duress.  He had built up a tolerance for pain by bringing himself to the brink of climax again and again until his balls, his scrotum, filled with pus and made him sick.  Any pain now incurred was inversely sexual.  They wouldn’t think to milk him first.  They never do what’s nice and obvious.  Everything exquisite, nothing sacred.  Nevermind.  Microfiche, check, little tablet, check, file datum, double check.  Syria via Japan.

The spy game was easy.  Every tittle could be squeezed into a button and shoved up an anus for safe-keeping.  They never thought to plumb the line first.  In his darker years, (eldest son), he came to hate both sides of every geopolitical event, but as he soon discovered, this indifference to authority brought with it a healthy paycheck.  You see, it’s not easy to play both sides, but when one side wants you to win and believes in you, there is something innate in our nature that makes us want to obey, to follow some order, and he was okay with that, to an extent.  Loyalty to the mother/fatherland, Estonia, back home, they’d be proud.  He tries to think back, to remember something about the homeland in particular, but that wouldn’t help him right now, what, with the mission.  Boof the electronics.  Play the puppet.  It’s what he was paid to do.

He could always bend the minds of one or two confederates, but never the whole group.  The lisp gave it away.  Marked weakness, no group follows a lame leader, but to a simple some, the measurements seemed alright, and those where the ones who he aimed at, the ones with a weakness for weakness.  They would protect him when the group wouldn’t, and from there he could break apart the structure from the inside.  For he knew that what was wrong with him was merely superficial, but he brought out something much more deep-seated in others as a consequence, in their pity for him, they became his confidants.  Fox was no fool. 

It also pays to act domesticated, yet remain wild.  That was a trick he pulled off masterfully, giving half sway to his own feral being, a fully nurtured beast with a mind that was cunning and teeth that were all- together razor.  Women operate the same way.  They’re always trying to figure out something about man, to suss out a weakness and to use it against him, and to eventually break him.  Check Samson.  Fox had discerned this for himself, but unlike Samson, they forgot to blind him.  He could do much more damage this way.  He could get back at the one who betrayed him.  His scorned lover and the others.  He was young and foolish, but he was happy for a while.  But that wouldn’t do.  The war came.  There was always war, but this time it came for him.  They took her away from him (she was in on it).  It was long ago, and that’s how he chooses to remember it, it wouldn’t help to remember it otherwise.  He has his duties now.  His assignment.  Boof and deliver.  Don’t think.  Revenge can always wait.

The UB Bullshitter

                Over the years it has been brought to my attention that the average college student is not angry enough to care enough to pick up a gun and shoot somebody!  That being said, please don’t pick up a gun and shoot somebody.  I say that merely as a reference statement for the state of apathy we realize, but doesn’t allow us to conceptualize what would drive a man to extremes not induced by a sports beverage.  I’m talking about the Fire of God (or the crispy noodles of Flying Spaghetti)!  The Name called upon that inspires us to do things we normally wouldn’t (as we confide in comfort), and that we idealize only alone at night and only as a last resort, assuming things don’t go as planned.

                The exit strategy is something that’s been drummed into our political heads.  Mode of thinking, this: that it is desirable to take an undesirable situation to its fulfillment in the hopes that it will turn around on its own, neglecting any sound math, science, or literature to the contrary, favoring instead the Bull Minimum (big shot) with a plush couch and a semi-conductor for half-hard jollies.

                What I’m trying to say, what I’m getting at is this, there is a social ideal to accrue collectibles, yet never make them your own.  Fuck ‘em.  I watched this George Carlin routine once where he discussed the semantics of fucking vs. killing.  Fucking (used in its verb tense) does not just refer to copulation, but also, as an extension, procreating, and ultimately multiplying.  Killing, (on the other hand) is not just an effort to stop a sentient body in motion, but also to take away the spirit (or the Flying Spaghetti Sauce) of the ego.  What I’m proposing is that we remove more superfluous egoes (while attempting to preserve the body) while being smarter about what we fuck or attempt to call our own.  Moderation.  I think that society is taking the golden ratio (φ=1+√5/2) out of modern living, and I don’t think that it’s just the rich that are taking more, it could also be that the poor are less deserving.  Where is virtue?  I would rather see the PRODIGAL SON (or the Flying Spaghetti Meatwad) out drinking than drugged on plasma.

                Speaking of plasma (TV) suckers, I think you get the best picture when you’re not only wrapped up in the warm glow, but also when you’re fully warped by it.  When you go to the next store and the next because you’re inalterably changed by what you see when you dedicate all the free time of your precious life to somebody else’s programming (who you’ve never even met but you feel like you know) extrapolating statistics (lies, damn lies, and statistics) twaining, coupling, or pairing two or more points together via broadcast towers in tight-knit gerrymandered demographic subset communities with progressively individualized business models intended to divide and conquer you.

                You haven’t seen it all until you’ve lived on the street, until you are street-smart you’re lacking in education, and until you are educated you can’t really know.  Knowing poverty exists without experiencing it is like knowing calculus exists without solving a problem, and it’s hard to know unless you’ve been thrown into a class, class system, or ranking mutually exclusive (statistically) of capability.  Then again, for the first few months I really sucked at being a waiter, probably because I underestimated how (cushy it wasn’t) much physical strength, balance, and endurance can be involved all while thinking on your feet while remaining affable.  And that was before alcohol, energy drinks, and live music were added to the mix of confusion after midnight!  That was the year I read Moby Dick.

Rent Free From Loose Handlers

I started this story for CC's & KFC's http://freerentcontest.com/ in the hopes that I might secure some money!  I wrote it out, then realized that it had to be reduced to 600 characters.  Here are 600 characters:  I titled it "One Abstract Wish"

I quit my job of 3 year with extreme prejudice and a wish.  I got my wish on a stick.  I returned home for a holiday, ran out of savings, and before I knew, I was trapped, financially castrated. Acerbity precedes acrimony. My parents get some sick thrill in watching me suffer. My primary primal relationship, Man vs. God, the Father, the One I want to change with an ultimatum without leverage. I have violent tendencies. I've tasted freedom without limits. Nothing nauseates me more than my own fear and inertia. This is unsettling. This is serious! 6:00 am?  I went to sleep at 1! Work? Not today.

Here's how the rest went:

I had never wanted or intended to go home.  I wanted to live in the fantasy land of Oz forever.  After attending University, the place that made the freedom sense tingle, the thought of returning to that old, familiar homestead was never a passing thought or consideration.  Even when I dropped out of school due to excessive drug-use inducing social anxiety disorders and relationship disorders, I was determined to ‘make it’ as a writer of high regard on account of my buoyant ego, because I wanted a freer freedom.  I found myself chasing the Dragon.  I cut ties.  Part of me is masochistic, both physically and mentally, but I have faith in the fact that love is all-enduring.

               When we stop learning, we start forgetting, so I applied to the school of hard-knocks, where all the late greats earn their chops.  I moved around, I lived here and there, in halls and vestibules. I worked for pittance, long hours for little reward.  I’ve slept in warehouses and streetcars, on hardwood slats and itchy wall-to-wall carpeting.  I thought I had it pretty swell when I found a surfable couch and a one-oh hourly wage to sleep on with low rent and no utilities…Yeah, I had it real swell until I got fired, or I should say, quit with extreme prejudice.

               But this is still all a lead in to the point of living at home with the ‘rents.  Yeah, these old bogies still have the same face, live in the same place, and have the same numbers attached to their names, their social security, yet, something was not quite right because everything was still the same. My Father rules his home with the heavy-handed laws of subjective aesthetics, where cleanliness is next to godliness, and yet not being a believer in God or gods, helping keep things straight is a thankless job.  Despite all his rage, or perhaps, in spite of it, I still intended to move back to Buffalo, NY, my home, find another job, and hunker down for the winter, but when my car’s radiator blew the last of my savings, I felt the sickness of financial castration bubbling uneasily into the Nausea that I’m sure that Sartre describes in his book ad nauseum, although I haven’t read it.

               My parents didn’t feel sorry for me, or if they did, they never showed it.  My dad is bitter that I spent all his projected analysis on a fruitless venture (college), justifiably so, in a way, but then again, he never even got to hear the full story because it’s difficult to listen with hard ears, look with hard eyes, and judge with a hard heart.  My Pa doesn’t take the truth too well unless it’s glaring him in the face from the TV set of The History Channel, and even then, I’m not sure if he’s really paying attention.

               This just serves to show the acerbity and acrimony that frames the aspect of my primary primal human relationship with Man vs. God, the Father.  I’ve spent many sleepless nights in a bed I can’t afford just thinking how I’m going to kill the old bastard if he crosses me the wrong way and just thinking how I never had these thoughts floating aimlessly on my travelling woven blanket from the Mexican Pee-Pee Station that I obtained on a trip I once took to Cozumel to visit the Mayan ruins built long ago for newlyweds on a beach following a Jeep caravan through a forbidden city on New Year’s Day when I was only sixteen…

               Now, a decade later, it just goes to serve the purpose of contrasting between the potential diversity of an experience that a single day can offer with the finite rigidity of first-worlders who spend their time arming clocks.  These keepers of time, money, and other intangible ideas that they swear to possess, tighten what has been sprung in the name of the calendar’s Sun, waxing and waning the Moon that is there to fantasize, but not to touch.  I’ve got balls, man, sir, dude, however you call it, but how am I supposed to use them if you cut off my dick? I am required to censor myself and work full time for the minimum standard of living, minimum for a littler person perhaps, but not for a giant like me.  Man must eat, sleep, and play, or pray for those things to come that might not yet exist.  But I’m a realist in a certain sense.  I understand who the suppliers are and what they’re demanding:  Fresh Goods!  I see who lives and who toils for a living:  Modern slaves who are slaves to their own modernity and calculate freedom with an App tablet that tells them where to go, what to do, and where it’s at!  Goods forbid that I should be globally positioned ineffectually!  Yet here I am, again, a part of me apartment hunting for that load bearing egg of a carton to contain me and transport me from one miserable situation to a more vibrant green on the other side by the path less traveled.