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.


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!






We’re not in Heaven, I don’t think.  Many people like to look to planes of existence, or dimensional realities as being some type of explanation of why we feel the way we do.  Oh, oh, we live in a feeling world.  A human world, our society, comprised of the actions of our personalities, genetic expression of brain matter, thoughts and ideas, and I suppose at it’s core, feelings.  The emotional ballast to provide us the impetus to raise our heads to the sky and wonder.

I say we’re not in Heaven, because this reality is such a fearsome and mighty one, fraught with perils and danger.  Do not assume otherwise.  Do not assume that the lion will not eat the bear, because the bear does not eat the lion.  Back a million years ago, the stars shining down on the grass of the earth, if there was such a thing as a million years ago, or grass then, these stars were brilliant.  Our artificial light is too much for it now, though.  It is far too close and bright to do the night sky justice, anymore.

Morality, reason, justice, crime, these are elements that are non-existent to the stars and possibly trees, but we humans know what it is.  We may not think it exists, we may not feel as if this is so, but we know of them.  They are spectres or ghosts and clouds of some other worlds, maybe ones we originally came from, or that call us and pull us forward to come home.  It is of no matter, in the end, because we are not choosing these things for ourselves.

We make choices, in a way, don’t let me be so hasty.  Somehow, these universal concepts have found themselves in us, as we can reason out and think of them, and our respective positions, even if we feel they should not even really exist, or aren’t even real, after all.

We don’t just accept the naked brutality of Mother Nature, is all.  We sometimes imagine another, more peaceful scenario, universally.

turbo hyper thrusters on sale

Back when I was a child, a wee child ne’er larger than a toadstool, and I mean a big freaking toadstool from the plyothecausaurus era, a made up epoch in an alternate Earth’s history, I would hear people talk about putting dandelions into a salad.

Never do this.  As a child, I plucked me a little lion’s head looking flower, a weed in some cultures and ate its milky stem.  Not so pleasant tasting, unlike a chocolate candy bar, as was the item I and other little children were mostly after back in our day and age.  You’d hear stories about how soldiers out in war times were giving some refugee kids candy bars, but that these kids were so unused to the way of the candy bar, they developed gastro-intestinal distress.

This dandelion stem I am talking about caused me discomfort, I’m not going to lie.  It is okay, I guess, nowadays, because everybody is wrapped in bubble wrap, probably why these young kids are hellbent on being so psychologically destructive, as they are being given no outlet for the repercussions of dealing with survival, daily.  In fact, kids were mean back then, too.  Depends on how the parents were raising them and if you’ve ever experienced a time where adults were at each other’s throats because of politics, and belief systems they have acquired for themselves, handed down by the powerful, rich and wealthy, then you would understand what a pot the Earth is to piss in.

These are spittoons, these planets are.  I say this with hayseed sticking out of my teeth.  The Earth is a spittoon, I’ll say.  Spit.

Others will disagree, everyone was raised different, that’s why.

It isn’t terribly important.  We must be respectful to Earth, like we should everything else, but it is a giant lump of clay, after all.  We can drill down real hard, and collectively as a species, start spitting into this hole, but when the great and terrible monstrosities eventually arrive forth, sprung from mouth bacteria and a couple hundred or thousand years, you can expect how someone could be so antsy about the whole idea.  I digress.

Listen:  It’s not that important.  You die, I die, we all die.  It’s just the way that things go.  However, we have some kind of spiritual or emotional manifestation on this plane of existence, in so much that we even have a God that is recording all our deeds to judge us accordingly and grant us eternal life, for instance, to name one, and so possibly Egyptians were wrapping up dead bodies and praying to space cats, that you can get that this is a sort of confusing thing for humanity.  The whole thing is, it probably always was.  This is why confidence is so valued.


chicken pot pies

You check your refrigerator, looking for chicken pot pies.  You feel your way around in the dark, your refrigerator light bulb is broken.  You broke it because you weren’t sure if the light turned off, really, when you closed the door and you’d be damned if space and time would lie to you.  You have destroyed the chance for your machine’s cold-hearted laughter deep within, either totally illuminated or not.  You busted all the lights in your house and blacked out the windows, too.  Why?  Because space and time would lie to you.

Why would space and time lie to you?  Is reality only an illusion?  Why do you live in a black box?  I get you, I feel you, I see the theme here.  No lies.

Fine.  You’ve found a chicken pot pie up in the freezer, still running cold.  You open your busted microwave that you rigged up to work even though you have smashed the viewing window open, because you’d be damned if anything will keep your food from you.

You are a monster.  You are a fearsome sight in the light of the world outside.  Where are you?  In your imagination.  Hi.

You tear off the house you are in, the vague concept of home and take off running into the night, wild and free.

Goodbye, wild monster.  Find your prey or your haunted dreams.

checkerbox fountain

Ladies strewn about, dancing gossamers and all this, silk cloth trails.  The world of writing is as much about fantasy as it is reality.  Don’t take what I’m saying the wrong way, there is fiction and non-fiction, but there is even a little bit of artifice in non-fiction, because someone, somewhere, figured we could do more than just be cavemen.  Language, ladies and gentlemen, it is inherently a magic of it’s own.

I said ladies twice, gentlemen once, but I believe it’s all up in the air now.  Scientists can make anything happen.  The good old days were the good old days because that’s when everything was fucking normal.  Excuse my mastery of the bad languages!  Listen, for a few thousand years, technology has not rocked us so freaking hard in the skull.   Electricity is a bigass deal, but you go and check the fossil records?  Mankind existed possibly a few hundred thousand years prior to farming and landscapes and airplanes.  Who knows what we talked about, it was a slow start, but boy now does that candle burn on both ends!

Figure that out.  A thousand years ago was the year 1018 AD that was a long ass time ago, but the scientists who are creating black holes in their little lab beakers, and splicing rocks and animals together, and creating the medications that allow you or I to behave what the police consider sanely, are also saying that we were just normal humans for over a hundred thousand  years.  Let me put that into some kind of perspective for you.

100,000 years.   That’s a lot of grandpas and there was no major technological advancement freaking people the heck out all the time every day.  We all know it sucked though.  We’re somehow subject to the laws of nature, but we people always prove our own mastery over the laws of nature and now this technological snowball has definitely caught some momentum.

Enter fiction.  What’s going to happen, people want to know or possibly, what is one way that all this stuff can go down?  Here’s the real answer, I’ll tell it to you, because I’m Keith Bingham.

With power and possibility comes responsibility.  Meaning the questions we are faced with in our days of reckoning while alive on this planet are of a moral nature.  That’s the way it’s always been.  The odd thing about morality is that you can’t really force it on anyone else, or make them believe in it.  Cavemen had moral issues.

Consider this:  Your brain is designed to calculate sensory data and analyze and organize this information into some type of narrative of survival.

Survival, meaning life or death.  That’s why morality exists, because in whatever reality or universe we’ve managed to evolve ourselves into, life grows and dies, so all of morality has some kind of rational foundation.  Anyway, on with the show!

BIG ASS PTERODACTYLS ARE EATING YOUR TIME-SHARES was the original name of this writing, however, it has been changed due to my morality.



Ring-a-ding-ding, it’s future o’clock.  Get up, shake off the cobwebs, feel the morning.  Night, you belong to the river, be dark.  Wake up with a thousand sleeping culprits.  I mean this wholeheartedly.  Become an advantage.  Be loose in the goosebox, bros.  Put the cranium to major elasticity.  Smack the canvas, drip the paint, boys.

Go find a large, long, deep rabbit hole and climb in and wear a suit on the other side, where butterflies alight off your fingertips and the sun is always behind you, all walking deep pavements and bottlecaps make tap-shoes of your feet.

I mean this.  Endure the trials of malignation, be a raise of positivity.  You feel me, dog.

Exemplor the Tanvas

Hi, do come in, it’s been so long.  Haha, Mr. Exemplor believes in a justice, yet a corrupt justice, one of immediacy and expediency, I am wholly sure he orates ornately and orientatedly, as he has a few bings, dings, and dats in his shield.  Hi ho.  Missile captains are usually 24 marks, and we can end in a cold bucket, if you’d like.  I have no preference here.

This gentleman received an ice bucket shower, I’m kinda jelly, not goin’ to lie.