Futnuckery. A Helluva Vision. The Film-Flam Man. Conjugates of the Infinite.

   "To be alive?  To be hanging above the fire.  To be hanging on a rubber coated little wire, in the soapview heat dissonance, that kind of refraction over the flambe, and to have meteor showers, the phase of the moon calling to the earth, and so forth, a dismal recounting of previous years of ones life, not skipping over the empty moments, but making one sit through.  1:1 ratio, bebe." The Good Dale is in Hangar 18.  Tell Diane for later. Across the temporal spasm, the wizard sits and dreams, from his dismal spoons and his dust-covered things. A decade elapsed, a moment suspended in thin air; one interlocutes heavily, but the bootless cries carry no further than the banks of the Juniper. I don't presume to be too much, but I hope the Good Dale climbs whatever mountain he needs to climb to catch the murderer of women, two women, near twins, as it were, just bullets from an old Colt Peacemaker.

As of those pesky "knee-jerks", moral imperatives, I find myself doing a quick re-appraisal of things, as if seeing with new eyes, and that, not the reflectivity I mentioned on the coming New Moon in May 2022, but different, like I'm reflected, I'm coming from down deep, all the way from downtown, the Miami bench, even behind that, from the good seats, tossing the ball and having it get, not perfectly in, but surprisingly close. Close enough for credit, Cheevers. The facility itself somehow refracted, and its the submerged thing, not the thoughts, for the thoughts are instant, and it seems as to though a different person had these thoughts, as of a mathematical function changing into something else. Remember when the little black girl jumped-off the building, and it looked like Andy would sh*t a gold brick?  I remember that, and he almost did; it was precluded from syndication for awhile, like the Seinfeld kybosh on Susan episode, thought a bit dark and somehow contro

 Twas the breast of times; twas the cheddarwurst of times.  Twas an age of folly; twas an age of great aboundment.  Hath a man a nod for a desultory Howell Kirvonnen of a man, a Darnell Spurtelfoot, or some such, a man inclined to take to the big bowl; visitors, the regulars that is, know well, its one get, a great big little gay produce box. Temptations sing! Enlightenment twas not reason proved, but a reproval of all things in that pursuit, a kind of creekbank wasting of man's better efforts, where in his mind might be his better efforts, and not on the flap of his pajamas, or the media sociale, the public intercourse, the concourse, the discourse, and the thoroughfare: throughput, I mean, sedentary dissipation, a kind of evaporation and condensation in the form of ideas, gelled-stagnant old derriguotype of what passes for the collegiate, board-approved reason, that filtered through and flattered, tweeted by third-tier Democrats, such to grope but never find, fly and fly and neve

A thousand miles from nowhere, and yet on the tip-end of the tongue. Like the indeterminate space in the cleft of the buttocks, empty space which is made so important, that without substance making so much more to the importance than the subject matter itself. *the Tao you can post on TrikCroc is not the Tao. Edgar was attacked in the Mongolian wastes by a scorpion during an incursion, and soon after he became physically ill as the toxins attacked his body.  He lay, shifting this way and that, fevered, sweating, watching 1987 Robocop, as the toxins of the bite attacked his body. Afterward, when he was treated and supposedly cured, the necrotic effect of the bite diminished, he found he could breath in and out at the same time. His time away had disqualified him from further surface to the Mounted Calvary, but still, he kept in practice, and I always thought, the old would, the dead tissue around the probiscotic eruption, would be a sore point for getting tossed by his mount. There was

"They require that when a personage talks like an illustrated, gilt-edged, tree-calf, hand-tooled, seven-dollar Friendship's Offering in the beginning of a paragraph, he shall not talk like a negro minstrel in the end of it.  But this rule is flung down and danced upon in the Deerslayer tale."  -Mark Twain "Much Madness is divinest Sense-- To a discerning Eye-- Much Sense--the starkest Madness-- 'Tis the Majority In this, as all, prevail-- Assent--and you are sane-- Demur--You're straightway dangerous-- And handled with a Chain." -Emily Dickinson. A war fought on the strangest brown carpet, that which was set in dye as Apocalypse Now brought forth the eulogy of the 1970s, that which was well-worn, second-hand, and trod to utter sh*t and back, perhaps the color of beshizzle, nizzle, perhaps the color, and our interlocution the form; I fought a war, because the world would not set a stand for me. Cruelest guile and dismal fortitudes beset those who had fel

  Creativity, to an extent, action, but sort of indecisive and unsure. Can we call his enthusiasm blind? Remember, the unction to do something, especially when that something indistinct, is like an galactic coin-flip depending on what finally spurs the sufferer. With the waning crescent, we perhaps have a mistake to make and a lesson to learn to carry us into the New Moon?

A coming period of intuition and reflection after a "bull run" through the soul earlier in the month with Ares.  Jupiter and Mercury craziness, turbulence....   "Ironically it is by the waning light of the Moon that we can see our soul’s compass most clearly."  

There was a kind of echo in the emptiness, a reverberation of caterwauls, and stomach spasms, and of the fog by the river, it was sort of several feet segmented above the terra firma, reaching smokily into a gray sky of mistules and somnambulent dewspread. He said he could make do with nigh whatever circumstance if his conscience were to the good, and happenstance went to work on that, probing, running combinations to test the veracity of his statement.

    We do, some of us, that is, remember Suckerberg and Sneako. Lest we forget and meet up with Joey-bear in the fog, like that movie where the husband wanders in from the fog in the roadway beyond, ghosts all, you know, and there was a night together, an eternal flotsam apart, and a non coming-to-terms. "We made love and there was some scattered grunting about and the usual platitudes.  Tut-tut, have some tea, and all." Do you remember when some harmless old lady shared something on Facebook and the CNN people came to her house and accused her of being a Russian asset? Fuck around and find out, CNN. Indeed, it was some 27 years ago, when we saw each other across the apothecary, on the reeds, the fronds, the subtle "subtil" flagging of the limbs and so forth, that and what more? Petcocks and bollocks. There was a bicycle around there, with a basket on front, a flat on rear that was for packages, as of a messenger platform, and one could cavort along the lakefront, i

What if, and entertsin the notion, what if your attitude were not the spawn of your environment, what if they arent the problem, after all, but instead, youre the problem, and you simply cant muster the love and respect your familiars deserve? It might be your own person to blame, and not an otherwise affectionate and receptive universe. I dont listen to kevin gates.  Im more into doug yates and ryan preece.  Chris beuscher. An easy fix, a little duct tape and a tube sock down the front of the pants.  You can do this, my little man meat. What if you treasured things that were fleeting, superficial, and utterly meaningless in the grand scheme of things? What if you pressed iran and north korea into an economic alliance for your own sick reasons, then refer to them as an enemy empire?  What if you were more concerned with building f18 fighters, than human rights abuses and attrocities? What if you were fnc or cnn?  I mean, the grass is greener, and the frying pan and the fire, and all. W

Big hill. Little monument. Unfriendly, superstitious pygmy locals. Gobekli Tepe. "That which was written 'aforetime' were written for our understanding, and is profitable for edification, doctrine and reproof." The fecund fields of Aberwaithe, not your "flowers for Algermon", not your Albert in the woodpile kind of thing, or Valhalle, Washington Square, the ancient Badoun burial mound of King Arturo. They made these, perfect solid spheres, of some technology perfect and true and entirely unknown to modernity, not even a whisper in posterity, of about and underlining such a profound and perfect technology, made that out of the grice of outer space, and dropped nary a nut leaving the memento to befuddle centuries of loin-cloth wearing barbarian savages. The Brits, you know?  Or what passed for Britons in the day and time, the days of those lives.  So called, "West-enders." "The World, The Flesh and The Devil."  (or "I still know what y

  Mariana Wallace as Gertrund the badly placed put-upon. Clarence Leachman as the one with the Traveling Wonders. Dreams a'bright, froth alight, about the crepiscule indominable night. He was calling it fields of Ambrosia, and I thought, perhaps, he had like an out-of-body experience, like looking from the outside at his own ass pimples, or something.  "Little red things", you know. An essay on what he did on summer vacation.  It was a spreadsheet, each entry tallying 100 bucks on the balance, and a SUM function at the end, nice and neat, though there would be beers and side trips in between, the tally wasn't so far off. It was four dollars for five minutes. I wondered, where it some homage to "A Face In the Crowd", and Keach's(Kevin) only human moment was he completed folded to Mariana Wallace, putty in her hands, groaning himself, like he were to took over the precipice of desire, made a quivering pudding. His own end?  They scoffed, you know, the bala

  New Warriors cartoon lead by Speedball would have been pure gold, bebe.   Golden, bebe. On the other hand, I'm spitballin' most of this, so, and I tend to cheerlead all of my own ideas. 75-0. sperms in the vitreous. The Onanist Festival Sperm Crawl down Jersey Street. Hey there. I'm so mad about safron. Safron so mad about me.

  They preach God as a relationship, Christ as a doorway to God. What of the natural, Living God?  What of the God that reveals his love and wisdom to us everyday, in the common discourse?  THAT God. The experiential God, along with the soul-stirring love of both He and the Savior. Case in point, I'm sitting, standing, and a devotional program comes on, one of those dismal money preachers, but he's on the low-end of the spectrum, just beginning to build-out, just beginning that forecasted "increase" of income, wealth, and he's sitting a little table with two Bibles and a notebook.  He reads Du Toit, the sort of heretic devotional architect behind the Mirror Bible. Meanwhile, outside, the heat of spring dials-down a notch, the clouds come over, and a gentle rain begins to spread over the land.  The pleasantness of the effect is without question; meanwhile the man is talking about the technicolor Joseph, and how God picked up Joseph's spirit. Of Joseph's bad

 

She had her feet  on the headboard.   He was balling her but good, balling her butt good, giving it to her, patronizing her apothecary and all.  And I knew, on my end, there would be death threats against Mister Doug. This was why I got paid the big bucks. One foot in Zaire, that old hoe, the other foot somewhere around the Adirondacks. I mean, I had to take the trash out, and be the ding-dang security staff, an army of one, and I was beginning to go Margaret Sanger on it, to think, it'd keep him more out of trouble if I just shot him in the leg. That was one way of thinking. Olaf had absconded from "general operations" to the "marketing combine", particularly, posting chest hair pics on facebook, that there was some kind of under-market, a quiet, "gray market" for eyes on pictures of Doug's chest hair.  And the girls were all about it, and I didn't know if it was vicarious living, or "caged heat" or something, but it was going. An NF

Olaf Turtletaub had his Battle Flag doo-rag tucked in one pocket, and his Skoal Mint Pouches.  But his raison de'tre?  He had a handful of Planter's Honey Roasted, and the damn deers, the ones not cleared-out, the does, the daughters and mammies, would come right up past the ditchbank, the edge of the wood, and eat right out of his hand. Eating some nuts, like an obstinate ideologue friend of mine who made one of those pre-packaged meme-based statements and said, of the party line, "if you don't agree with me, you should un-friend." And I was thinking, I didn't disagree with the point of the piece, but the attitude of cutting-off the conversation, ya know?  Cutting off the conversation with moral imperatives is kind of..... not good.  Un-American.  Its how wars start, pejoratives, absolutes and red lines and so forth, routes of cutting off, reasons for shutting down diplomacy.  And you'd think, if you were on the right, you could point it out from the left

I noticed yesterday, the stock market bloodbath was away from the financial sector. And WMT. Indeed, in times of uncertainty, get the buttocks to the Wal Mart, Wallsmark, which is the gut, the roiling gut of America. I mused to myself that, if the rally started, if it ever would, despite an unfriendly regime in DC, it would begin with finance, with money pumped in from govco to save 401k's. Charles Schwab was up on May 11, 2022. Flash forward. Today, the retail sector, and a few other odds and ends, anomalies, and I'm seeing, there is money looking to come into the market, even in the slump, people looking to cash-in, even while so many seem to cash-out. Stupid options guys, triggering wave after wave of sell-off, meanwhile, a few brave pioneering souls still possessed of a will to make a little money. With gas prices up, Murphy USA is worth more than still-solid Walmart.  So in effect, you might spend 400 dollars a week at Walmart, and only 120 at Murphy, but Murphy's stoc

I noted Ronald Acuna Jr drew some walks in the May 10, 2022 loss to the Boston Red Sox.  For the casual fan, the Braves loss was probably sour, but for the real die hard through-and-through Braves faithful, it was encouraging, for the following reason: We had competitive at-bats, forcing that 3 balls, 2 strikes count, a "hitter's count", numerous times against a pretty good pitcher in the wizard Red Sock Garrett Whitlock, a scrappy still-young pitcher with a decent track record and a low ERA. Ronny did that, forced the count, worked that pitcher, who still comes up looking like a rose, but I can't help but think, he did his job and closed-out batters when necessary, but our boys encourage me because of those quality at-bats. Good eye. Good at-bats. Work the enemy pitcher. See what he's got. Make him throw it. Increase his pitch count. My question about the Tuesday game, was that, seeing Marcel Ozuna's admirable offensive performance, did he force the count?  O

"The Thrilla in Manilla." Sanitary napkins on the wall, not unlike the little freshness packet, or the lemon scented things from the rib joint. Excavate the sauce, please. Dripping with sauce. Getting fingerprints everywhere. "What in the world have you been eating?" I eat dreams and crap memorandums. "The Unswerection on the Predeliction." "Kill the body and the head will die." A kind of fluid evacuation, an emission, an omission, an indecision. "Do boys menstruate?" They lining us all up for a menstrual show, with memos circulating and all that, lining us up for their petty privileged convenience. The Grey Belt. "And the people bowed and prayed, to the neon god they made."  

"I was about fifty[years old] when I discovered God wanted me to enjoy my life."  -Joyce Meyer. "Eyes have not seen, and ears have not heard, the blessings God has in store for you." -Paul(paraphrase) This, this....  Aries/Jupiter thing..... I'm in a state of constant, endless, seemingly aimless musing, planning, as it were, adventures and life paths to lead further into the heart of the woods, past the witchcabin and the leafless inner forest limbs, the creeping things, and the moldly lightly-colored vines, with their tissue paper leaves. You go inside, more and more, into the inner space of oneself, while learning and experiencing also, more and more of the outer world, farther and farther still. That's where they tell you, that, inside, like a magic witchcrystal, there is wizard's glass, and it, a glowing portal to without, like the proverbial wormhole that teleports a lifetime across the universe, past the limits of human knowledge and experience, an

  Reticulating. To serve you. Even. Frigging. Better. But did you think all would be well?  Indeed, the sun even shines on ancient ruins and fragments of Eastern Europe, don'tcha know, Cheever?  And if you were ever wrong, wouldn't the universe smack you between the eyes with a newspaper?  Would not those empty moments cease to restful, and instead, be lost in a kind of word salad, a hodgepodge of life? Hath not a Jupiter an Aries? The sign said, "The World Is Yours", and I went inside and bought me a quart of motor oil.  The real sh*t. I was on the precipice, like Spiderman holding the A-train with his webs, but it was like, me in only my gym socks, suspended by impossibly long phlegm-like strings of glue kind of gizm. That too, to make use of what's on hand, what's readily available, what's "in the world", and here is perhaps the very crux of the whole matter, that we only eat the supposedly sinless, and for luck, otherwise we are condemned to

"Fifty thousand to Montana?  Al's losing his belly for the grift."   sylvan apparent perchances.... to hang some on a limb, perhaps, not as a goon or ragoon or a dragoon, but to be in the somewhat seemingly infinite and altogether indefinite space between, the intervening, and intermingling. parson along the heavens above the insolent, lost firmament..... hail Atlantis! They sent... the negroid poet the MCU hollywood headliner the boy band bass singer the NBA all-star. On tendrils of multiconscious neurons, little synapses, breaths of dust between. To the seven ends. It was some sort of reproach on man against himself, or perhaps, little still, indentions made in the battlements and paraphets.  Along the stygian freis, creatures, perhaps once men, stumble along. It was, less than a little pinkie finger of the moon, and Aries and Jupiter on the mingle, coming soon to a megaplex nightmare near you. Canteloupes reaching towards the heavens.  

On a day like today. The Turtletaub's welcomed a child, kind of a witching moon little Cheever, Olaf it was, at once to find oneself a-dry and "being in the world".  Word spread, this one nudging that one, "guess what?" "chicken butt?" and all the way along the thoroughfare, like a shockwave, but certainly more joyous: the word.   "He's sucking his finger!" screamed a passerby as they were taking young Olaf home. A joyous event, Olaf Turtletaub. Thirty years, you know, and a prophet can perform no miracles in his own town, all a matter of faith fizzling, seeing the man shave or brush his teeth, you certainly get to not expecting a miracle, word salad, verbage that loosens the underwear elastic. The wedding at Bethesda Non-Denom. Baptized as it were, dunked like a donut in good Brasilian, he's up and looking into the light of the sky. Listening, to a conversation it seemed few could actually hear, except himself and the particulars, a

I was being funny, and they were seeing, this is fun, like getting kicked in the nuts on a lark, and I was like yeah. They were experiencing otherness. I was experiencing an overwhelming sensation, and carried along, I became, as it were, a force for my own end, towards an end for my own force.   In nutpain they had a kind of out-of-body experience, wretching and wrenching, cavorting, and doubling at the middle. Sounds like someone doesn't trust a free media, but that's just one man's take: the straw man argument.  "He blindsides people by kicking them in the nuts when he finds them unawares." I was watching Djanko Unchained, and generally thinking the soundtrack was a$$. I was watching the usual back and forth revolving door between MSDNC and the White House, and kind of thinking, you know, its not dishonest, per se, as birds of a feather, not after the other side a while back, not after that, but you know. A grain of salt. And a little salt leavens the whole lum

Say they like to sneak-sneak A'watching me  Nekkid in my teepee Playing with my weewee They enjoyed it so good, Made me don of the clan Said i sing the skawbaugh Singing out my song "aw lawd" Against all they taught, They loved it such, Become the law of the land.