t-bone bowl

Cheer up. This hole of reality is a pit of darkness so deep, there is no return, a lot of people check out, don’t be one of them. Their vacant eyes and absent souls acting on muscle memory, going about their day. Ha ha, I’m just kidding, that’s all of us, to some degree we live out our souls, or we become one with this stuff of this place, maybe both, it doesn’t matter. I can sit here and pack boxes all day, in a giant factory, that releases these boxes to the wild, in some alternate dimension.

Obviously, my escape is my imagination. I’m not necessarily trying to escape reality, but I find it all to be very mundane. Eat, sleep, watch, sleep, do, sleep, eat, go on a trip. Have fun, have friends, chill out, fight sometimes, make up, be alive.

These are all the lessons of the mortal coil, as we spiral are way out. That’s why we talk. That’s why we communicate, we’ve got these bigass frontal lobes chock full of wizardry, and in this we dispel the rumors of a terrifying existence. Lightning oceans washing up on the shores of monoliths of experiential data, splashing back and freeing our fears, releasing the monstrosities of self upon the rubber barrier of what’s behind our eyes, bouncing back and scrabbling before they get sucked out through the mouth.

Splish, splash, I spit hot fire, tasting the absolution of these night terrors. Believe in some kind of cosmic universe where we are no longer set to be chained to the slavery of modern physics. Maybe I’m reborn genetically altered, or maybe they bring us all back to a much larger, futuristic universe that we all can be supported in, and we’re just preparing the way.

The substance of this place is dynamic. One iota of it, say, the atom, once sundered, releases chaos larger and more magnified than you can believe. We’ve pushed our fingers against the membrane of this place and poked a hole to other side, it’s just true. Welcome to the after-party. Does our guilt make us cower in the event of this towering tree of spiderweb glass cracks we have rendered onto our Earth, burnt hole fragmented and unraveling?

I don’t know.  I mean, it’s kind of cool, but I’m not particularly worried about it.  Everyone can sum up their fears, worries, aches and pains into a general feeling of malaise, and all I mean is cheer up.  It’s brighter out there than you think.  There’s laughter, smiling, people genuinely getting along and it’s inspiring to at least one of us, so be one of those.

cold addition

“Alright, hand me the scissors, some more straw, a blowtorch, that paint, some do-rit-os, and a cold, frosty, green lightning from the mini-fridge, yo,” said this one guy.  “Alright,” says the other, more empathetic fellow, since he listened more and talked less.  This other dude, who had brown hair and was generally shorter than the taller fellow with all the demands, gathered up all of these supplies and dumped them unceremoniously onto the desk in front of them.

“Here’s all your shit, bro, what are you doing?” he said.

“Dude, don’t fizz my cola,” taller, lighter-colored hair guy says, and cracks open his green soda.  “You are harshing my mellow something fierce,” he says.  “Listen, I’ma show you what this is all about, come back here in like two hours, I’ll be done,” he asks.

“Tight,” says the brown-haired youngster.  He goes off to play. Eventually, the ball that this kid and another were playing with got kicked under a car, and it was wedged so tightly, they could not get it out, not even an adult could get it out, so he wanders back to the shed that Kid 1 is still in for some godawful, horrible reason, because it was a really cool day outside and it would have been really cool if Kid 1, who’s name is Spencer, had come out to play, too.

Kid 2, brown hair sappy boy, who’s name is Jeffrey, but for your purposes, you can refer to him as J-dog, enters the shed again and asks Spencer, “Yo, was crackin’ homie?”

“Not much,” says Spencer.  “I’m about done with this,” he says, and puts down the blowtorch.  He lifts the mass of stuff on the desk into the air.

“This is called a motherfucking ‘effigy’, my bro.”

“What’s that?” J-dog says, clueless and caught in the headlights.

“This is an effigy and I’ma show you what it’s for,” Spencer says.

“You’re kinda scaring me, dawg,” J-dog says, but he blows it off and plays it cool.  A light tear rises in his eye, but he wipes it away.  “I mean, come on dog, you’re mom’s from Indiana, bro, quit clownin’.”

Now Spencer is clueless, and all of time stops, so I can step in to explain what’s going on.  You see, J-dog thought that the word ‘effigy’ was from a foreign language and he’s probably right.

Look it up.

So now, Spencer and J-eez-us are strolling down the way and the sun is setting.  The effigy looks to be a scarecrow made of some burlap and staw or something, and Spencer’s also got some rope on him in the shape of a noose.  They find a tree and Spencer strings up the sackman to hang from the tree with a noose around it’s neck and he starts beating on it with a stick.

“WHOA, MAN,” J-bird says, because Spencer has obviously blown his fucking mind.

“Whoa, you’re beating a stuffed dude hanging from a tree by a rope around it’s neck, that is too fucking far out for me, man,” J-dog says.

“I know,” says Spencer.

He beats the thing a few more times, then he lights it on fire.

“Dude!  It’s a flaming, hanging man from a tree, bro!”

“Yeah, now watch this,” Spencer says.

He starts beating the figure again.  Flames and embers burst from the strawguy and little pinpricks appear on their skin.

“Holy shit, dude!” J-bro says and they fall on the ground laughing and rolling around.

After some time, the strawman has pretty much burnt up, and nothing else around the thing had caught fire, due to Spencer having been prepared and possibly once a boy scout.

“What was that all about,” J-dog says, propping himself on his elbow.

“That haydude was totally a physical representation and manifestation of all of my deepest fears, hates, and worries, all rolled into one entity.  It was cathartic attempt at rationalizing that this truly is a cold, uncaring universe, but I still have the warmth of heart to go on, I realize.”

“Thank God!” J-dog says.  The two guys go get icecream afterwards.  At some other part of this story the cops had shown up and arrested the pair and they spent about two nights in prison before being seen by a judge, at which point they were given probation and a slap in the face, because in that town, you were allowed to slap people in the face.

 

The End

 

plastic box for wetware

Charting a course through the stratosphere, we are fifty parsecs above land, no activity port, we are cleared for destination.  A man lands his foot to the pavement, his shoelace is untied.  A piece of gum sticks to his tread and now he is pissing out dark, yellow vitamins in the alley of some long-forgotten and abandoned landscape, where the sun is dripping brightly, the green is somewhat burned around the edges, and the ribbons fly through the air.  We’re landing, sir, comes a voice from within.

“Yes, of course, let me make myself more presentable,” says you, the person that this is about.

“Make yourself comfortable,” comes a commanding voice from deep in the cockpit.  You are still dreaming of dogs chasing cats through the clouds.  “Will it rain today?” you ask, and no one replies, because no one knows.

You do.  This is your life.  You are in control.  You want it to rain?  Snap your fingers.

This seems like so much, but it really is only just a little thing.  You can’t bother yourself with worrying about the rain, you’ve got other fish to fry.  Big, hefty fish, big, hefty fish flesh and fire.

“Where am I headed?” you ask.  You don’t ask this, you don’t want to ask this because it might seem like you have no idea what is going on, what you are doing, or what your purpose is, and everybody else seems to be just fine.  You keep this question to yourself and leaf through a small notebook you had placed in front of you prior to any of this happening.

“Certainly these notes to myself should clue me in as to what is taking place,” you say, and you leaf through the pages.  They’re blank.

“Well, I guess I was supposed to do that later on,” you remark to yourself sardonically, as you pick up a black pen that you must have intended on using and fulfill the prophecy you had set forth from the get-go.

‘Figure out what is going on,’ you write in the notebook to yourself.  You then scribble above this ‘Step 1’.  “Hopefully there are more steps to come,” you think as you close this notebook, immediately forgotten, because you have arrived.

The colors of the area you are in fade, you find yourself seated at a table with yourself.  “Hi,” you say.

“Hi, I’m you.”

You guys get into a deadly fight.  Blades flashing, is it really the time for you to die?

Not by your own hand, you think.  The tempest is over.  You sip your coffee politely as some more people line into the room and discuss current events.  Certainly you must play your part, then.  You flip through your notes and find your purpose.  How easily to follow simple, one-step rules.  You snap your fingers and thunder strikes.  Now everyone is batshit scared, but you’re not, because you don’t have the foggiest clue what has happened, but you are resolute in your determination to get to the bottom of it.

“When you snapped your fingers, it started raining,” says one of the people.

“I know,” you say.

“Are you a magician?” one of them says.

You think for a minute and tell them “No.”  Crisis averted, you go back to sipping your coffee.  They don’t used to make mornings like this, but you resolve to get to the bottom of that, too.

Your name is Larry.  You live in a country on the planet and are given to flights of fancy.  You drink rum with juice at times.  You are also forgetful.

tardy tudie and the cleats

I think the crowd prefers things cut, dry, pre-packaged, instant, supported by gobs of money, and in their face. It would seem that way. Maybe not, maybe just the big media machine does. Learn from the valuable predators, the resourceful omnivores, the cotton-candy puffery and wild baboons. Learn from the skies, learn from the voids that shape and define us. Do we learn from the blade thrust into our chest, or do we learn that we are now going to die? Take advantage of what does not harm you and watch it grow. Plant the seeds, reap the harvest, keep watch over your things and guard them so, limbs or space vehicles, whatever is in your charge.

Think of your day, think of the random conversations you may have or have not been a part of, and you’ll have an idea for the orthodox and how often is the word ‘wisdom’ ever used?  Maybe 1 of 1000 words, but that’s also a probably extremely high probability.

Anyway, my point is, the masses sure know how they like their content. Cut, dry, seasoned with the times.

Wisdom wouldn’t be wisdom, if everyone heard it.  So you can’t really blame someone for not having it.  People didn’t make themselves the way they are and some people go so far as to say that others are going to pay for it.  Sure, back in the days of high survival, it was good to have a bloodthirsty mindset.  But now?  Now we all live in soft linen and robes and things.  Ease of transport, quick of cash.  The heated air or cooled comfort of the indoors and pleasurable.  We live in palaces, my dear, compared to so long ago.  The truth is always in fashion, the seasons?  Changing tides.  It is history in the making.

I don’t worry about it, I guess.  I don’t know if you do either, but I guess it doesn’t matter to me.

I’m not responsible for this.  Neither are you.  Neither is any one lone individual.

But here I am, one lone individual, cutting a cloth against the tidal wave of no responsibilities.  Crashing the shores of desolate moons, waylaid by principle and fear.  Blank, stretched white canvas on which to dash my ink. I write with fervor and intent, maddened and hungry for law and order. A wild beast, set free from the constraints of physics, laying my hands upon the ethereal and watching, and waiting, fighting against the tyrannies of being set free.  Many people confuse the wild and the civilized.  Many people get confused about what role freedom plays in a world not of our making.  Listen to me, I didn’t even make my own body.

I grew it!  Someone dropped some shit off in the lab and I definitely applied the right lighting to it, that’s for sure.  Once it was put in my charge, I was responsible for it.  I don’t abdicate responsibility, I choose to be free.  The resilience of reality ensures that I am reckoned with.

john and the beanstalks

Men lurking around a field because they’re going to go at each other with swords, blades, knives, shields, helmets, mace, rocks, sticks, name-calling, basketball hoop, these dudes are going to win, either them or they.  Blood or sweat will flow or both.  Someone yells out “Peace!”

“Peace!”

“Peace, gentleman,” is called from one of the sides of the green grass meant to darken with evil sky and rivers of blood.  A technical is called.  Generals rear up their horses, plans are dashed and folded, computers start crunching long, big, heavy numbers.

“We call for peace between both of our sides!”

“Fuck off, we need to eat,” says the others.  Instantly branded criminals, they kick the shit out of the other dudes until they scream bloody murder.  Howling as they receive the eternal beatdown.

No.  Wiser and cooler heads prevailed from the other side.  It is just a mirage, a bloodmist that falls over the eyes and minds of both teams.

“Why should we relent of our contest?” or some words depending on where this is and what exactly is going on.  “Why should we not fight?” they say, for clarity.

The reason these guys are going at it is circumspect, here.  Obviously, they feel a need to beat.  These are the lines drawn in the sands for men.

“Because we don’t need to, anymore.  The reason to do this has been called off.”

Everyone packs up the stage equipment and lighting and they all go home, no blood thirsty necks torn today.  They go home to their wives and children and live great lives.

 

The End

Penny Anthem

Mind expanding crystals, soul experiencing wallpaper, are cartoons really alive?  I’m just kidding.  This is not for us, this is for the massive machines that crush all these words through a thresher to hand them out daily, somewhat randomly.  It’s not tourettes or anything, maybe when I’m older I’ll start yelling out “Pen cloaking material devices!” from the window of the hospital in my wheelchair, but not today, buddy.  Not today.

Just kidding.  Humor is a finicky substance, because it’s reflective, subjective, and all-encompassing.  Everyone get’s a good joke, but we all need those subtle clues to clue us in on the humor.  It’s real wild stuff.  I figure it Ghafzanipak, a made-up alien world where beings have heads where there hands should be, and feet for their heads, and hands for their feet, we’d look pretty amusing to them.  But that’s not funny, that’s heart-breaking, as we annihilate that alien race into space dust.

Why are we so alone?  we cry to the stars.

Run, lonely, little butteryfly

Some old man wanders up to me.  I’m assuming he’s wandering, since I’m not looking for old men asking me anything and he doesn’t seem so purposeful.  He’s obviously got a question, it seems, but he’s just a lonely, little butterfly looking for another lost butterfly to pin his problem on.  Fuck off, old man, I think, but I don’t want to think this, because what if I’m the old man, hundreds of years in the future and I need help?

“What’s up, old man, you seem to be lost,” I say.

“No, I’m most assuredly not lost,” he replies.

Some time passes, as this realization sinks in like a crispy, salty tortilla chip into some cold, nacho cheese because I don’t care.  I’ve been screaming it in my head so much lately.  I don’t care, I don’t care.

The truth is I don’t care because my emotion nub is so burnt out from being fucked with.  I can’t afford to care, because I really care so much and will lose all of my senses, whatever I have them in, whatever jars with whatever labels they are collected and reside in.

“Listen, old fellow, this suspense is killing all of us, why don’t you clue in at least the readers to what has you so readily apparent in this environment?” I say.

“Do you want to know why I’m not lost?” asks the old man.

“No!  That was forty years ago, no one cares now!  We care about quicker, faster things than you, you obsolete vessel of humanity!” I say, rudely.

“I’m not lost, because wherever you go, there you are,” says the old man.  He waves his hand in the air as if opening his palm to truth and power.  Like he has just dropped the mortal quandary onto my head as pure enlightenment, I shed my being, release my energy into the cosmic-ness of us all, one with the entity that birthed, suffocates, and absorbs us back in, skeleton burning and turning to ash and my flesh melts and my soul floats to the top.

No, none of that happened.  “Great,” I say, cowardly.  I kind of give a lukewarm shrug.

His eyes turn dark.  He squints them, and I can tell because his spectacles are so fucking thick and magnifying.  “Where are you, boy?” he says, like a snake would whisper to it’s prey.

“Right here, daddy-o,” is my reply, because I’m such a quick study.

He melts into some candy-striped puddle and the sun flashes crimson and gold a zillion times a second.  Some hyperbolic rate, at least, is represented in this or that last bit.  There is nothing to learn, the dark, burning and laughing void tells me.  It is a skull, with mirthful holes for eyes, laughing, because it gets to tell me there’s nothing to learn from all of this.  There’s no sense to be sorted through.  The sense you were born with was put there by people who were not smart enough to realize even they believed lies, or maybe they did, but they gave them to you, and you just sorta let them slip through your fingers and crash to the ground, because you are real and they are not.  The lies, not whoever gave them to you, let’s not get this too confused.

I’d hate to take away all your hope, young or old person.  Whatever you are.

Token Candy

Despite objections to the contrary, some kind of semi-transparent blocks, ghosts and shades of what could have gone wrong that are haunting your dreams as you experience some kind of better reality than all that.  I don’t determine my reality.  Well, I mean, I do, I pay my bills, I try and be responsible, I try to keep a safe 10′ bubble of good reality all day.  Maybe 20′, I can square that algorithm if I need to.  Quadruple it cubicly.  These are possible.

So.

Some kind of wizard living in a cave keeps a notebook that he writes his spells in.  He probably has hundreds of little glass bottles in which he keeps magical ingredients he’s found over time, roots and snippets of herbs and powders, oh my.  He probably has a big kettle, or cauldron, or large pot, or whatever you want to call it with logs underneath of it that have burst into flames, heating the mixture in the sorcerous vessel and a pinch of this, sprig of that, some magical cantations and boom you have rain and a spell.  These are important things.  Perhaps it starts raining, so he will then believe his magic works.  He might use thyme and mint in the mixture next time, to leave a more pleasing aroma.  He keeps notes and writes his magical words in a magical tome that he closes up when he is done and he might have twenty.

Other days, he solitarily wanders the forests and hunts herbs and animal flesh and meat to roast and eat.  He’s got another pot for that.  He gets to the streams, the creeks, the brooks, and lies down to sip water plainly.  It is ideal.  These are things that are possible, oh sorcerous wizards of time and space, gallantly, silently, and privately waging wars with spectres unknown, mere future possibilities we are trying to avoid.

 

 

a black ocean

“Listen, what’s the point of anything?” the man had said, so definitely willing to contend with the spectres and ghosts of the worlds of despair.  Maddening hounds, slavering at their rusted chains, the insanity of any sense or reason to be winnowed out of this imperfect world.   I could call him anything.  Joseph, Martin, X-337, dogboy, it doesn’t matter the man’s name, as this feeling is normal.  People have learned not to question so deeply into the abyss.  They have learned not to coax the beast and, perhaps in this peace of mind, some purpose can be found.  Some wrestle it to the ground and slay it, as their purpose is evident and plain.  They are alive.  So are you.  Hi.

Perhaps Joseph lies dead at the wayside.  ‘How can you be here if you’ve given up?’ we wonder.  We are alive in this world, after all.

“Who was this dead boy?” you ask.

“Maybe he was trying to ascertain some living reason,” I say.

Don’t despair.  Be uplifted.  Do not be sad, be happy.  There are all kinds of worlds out there, worlds out here, it all may seem so humdrum, plain and blah, but people are soft.  You do not have to be soft, you can be like us, you and I, in this story.

We are adventuring through a story, you and I.  We are leaving behind the false world we truly live in and embarking on this world we are creating in our minds.

Many fall at the wayside.  Do not get lost.  We want to forget it is in our minds.  We want our brains to release us from this mortal coil and send us God knows where, but only for an amount of time to allow us to be renewed.  Zombies eat brains, but they are only in this story as I had just only recently mentioned them.  Now those, too, are fading into the dust, and we light our fire and sit in our tents in the desert now.  We wear swaddled cloths, to protect us from the grit and sun, and roast the meat over the fire.  Our eyes swim with misty memories of brothers we have lost, and we drink our hard liquors with purpose, to fall into oblivion, sweating in our clothes, and so thusly wake up in a new day.  We want to be free, but we know the only freedom is to return to the burning void that men have questioned and died for.  We live, you or I.  What calamity it is to strike the thunders of the Heavens.

 

 

 

 

 

tell a clerk

I’m just going to go ahead and phone this in, hard.  Like I’m not here, this was taken over by software, bros.  Some kind of mechanical neural circuit chip wedged in hard to the cranium, fingers just flying over keys like some kind of piano with a busted mouth. I get up and rattle the cage, but I’m not really trying to get out, I’m just programmed to scare the living dickens out of chickens.  Slap, slap, wake up! they tell me.  I laugh at them, because I don’t understand.

 

WHAT A MACHINE SAYS WHEN IT DOESN’T UNDERSTAND BUT LIFE GOES ON it laughs, bros.  The computer.  The matrix style mega mother brain controlling all of this, somehow it ain’t controlling us, no no.  Sometimes I like to pretend I ask God for help with this.

Robots know about God, maybe they even take orders from him, or so they say.  How can you argue with a robot that finds God?  Just seems silly, I guess.  Better to have no feelings than suffer immense heartbreak, perhaps, after all.  This is about a mechanical contraption, right?  Something we rigged up to dole out dynamite?  Dish out the dishes?

Oh, clever you and I, we are.  Disguise our hearts under the machinery, let’s move forward.

Some people take pickaxes to concrete, some people do lots of different things, bury their immense pride in deep, dark wells.  It is of no matter.  You say to me that the universe is endless, literally eons of gazillions of years old, time may not truly exist, and so we are all just pushing piles of dust around until we fall dead into them, but yet still our beating, uneternal, mortal hearts spurn us and goad us into action, hiyo!