KRU: Ghostwood Ventures.


 "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.

Taillight's Last Gleaming: On The New Moon and Mindset

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 controversial, though the NYPD Blue won an emmy for its set lighting, its most gripping scene would take place outdoors in whatever light there was from God Himself.


I had been laying there while Saffron was sucking on my toes, and think of it, my trying to go to sleep amidst the pleasantness, after having worn down on Mister Doug's daily chores.  I was dogged, behind the earlier that, and kind of blankscreen on it by the point, just kind of sitting there, may has well have been a paperweight or a pencil cup or even a bag of trash, something somewhat sociopathic, in that sense of it being the end of the day, psychopathic in the sense of being for want of dissipation, but even that?  Nay, I say, I was just there, again.

But in the time of the New Moon, there is a different kind of presence, and that from within, not that the picture is different, or that the eyes of different, or that the lighting is bad, but the mind of the beholder, perhaps, might be the different thing.  It looked like me, had some of my thoughts, my histories, my old loves, but it saw things, and had the most different thoughts, and I began to think I should know that person.


"He is me, but I am not him."

-said of Odin the CEO, and Odin the regaler of tourists, the one with the more menial job, perhaps, then, was the real one, and kind of a starfished piece of him went off and made a fortune away from the continent, in the New World, with the Yanks.

Shane?  Shane?


To Those Who Live in Mortal Consternation Over the Werewolves of Manassas.

 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 never land on two feet or three wheelstands.

There was Juniper tea and some kind of piecemeal funeral spray.

As they say, beheld through a glass darkly, a shadow self, representing opposing subconscious forces, and the actual shadow of the person holding the looking glass, is a kind of indefinite in its diffusion chromatic transposition of the person, a shape, as it were, holding a square thing.

I remember old schoolmate Chris got a Bobby Brown kind of haircut, when both were in fashion, Chris and Bobby Brown, both, that is, and I said it was a dead fish on his head, the clump of the stuff, the kind of Brillo of it, and the shape of it malforming, and Chris only gone out of fashion because he met an early end, one of those unexplained publicly, glossed over, it did bleed, as it were, but it did not lead.  We had one of those one time, a nice little "this person has a family" kind of thing, embarrassing private individuals, as it were, and it was fortunate for us the newscaster was literally the news director and the writer of the copy and the voice talent on the microphone; he was spoken to on the phone by near familiars of the offender, the subject, that is.

It's a sort of discretion afforded to private individuals, you know, and not like marriage stuff in a trial livestreamed to the public.

I had a pain in my nuts where the short hairs meet the inner leg; my shoes were hidden in a ditch.  I consulted a witch who had consulted a crystal ball, a spellbook, and a transient warlock.  My family?  In denial, and finally, they let it go.

That Tao of Milky.

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 the further vainglory of a doldrum maintenance post in India, or further incursions into Pakistan, that he missed and yearned for, so he read Rudyard Kipling and dreamed.  Somewhere in his mind, he found a fuse for that glory he yearned for, and that was partly the Tao as well, the military glory that was not, the adventure that was all in the mind.

The Tao you can post on your blog, is that even the tao, when the tao stands at the ends of words, but nowhere within them?  Or the Tao that is undiscovered science, that which we sense, but cannot put into dictums and theorems, that which perplexes understanding but is commonly observable.

It is easier, in the interim, to say what the Tao is not.

cuelest guile and dismal fortitudes; to the sticking place a'pluck.

"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 felt dewkiss and pleasant feverfew, horehound and such, and other niceties of the provinces.

Ah, yes--Mister Doug asked better diction of me, mayhap.

I was not barking at the moon, but conversely barking about the moon, the cheeseball of the heavens, the great home of little green men, of which sonnets were composed: lacrymose, and vinyl.

Tarot in the coming of the late May New Moon 2022.


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?

waning crescent moon-May 24, 2022

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."


"a rising tide deepsixes all boats", on recursion and recombinance.

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.

Bonfire of the Abominables or "The Abominalia"



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, in those days, before the subdivision and all, one could just sort of amble along, devotchkas and all, pickles and ice creams, fried potatoes and so forth, in little cups and cartons of various shapes.

Wasn't he a manager at Target?

27 years and so many desultory lifetimes in between, the thoroughfare that spans but one of those distances, or the intermenable few, or even more, an entire database of particulars, and so forth, and the whole thing, the abominables, protected by a key, of sorts.

They say the can know more about you in a few clicks, more about you than even you know, but I'm not so sure, I'm watching the puns and so forth that roll along in the algorithm and I'm not so impressed.  They certainly know what you just bought.  

You could buy a toilet ring, and next thing you know, Facebook shows you an ad for that same toilet ring you just bought, and from the same retailer, which is hardly effective advertising, if you've already dropped the hammer.

I gave myself a kind of affirmation about this, walking along in the parking lot, thinking there were some things within that they just couldnt touch, wheels they could turn and buttons they could not push, try as they may, a penny-worth of leaven, and the lump.  And even if were as blank as the surface of a lakeside, would they even guess half the more well?

I kind of watch the database rolling along, trying to guess the want, with kind of cold clinical detached interest, and the lesbians were fighting, that a situation run its course such before, you know, and people guessing genders and gospel singings.

We had discussed, of the bonfire of the abonimables, the essential indeterminance of life and the outer discourse, and all that, but that there was, a kind of snot-trail, you know, a kind of, "dog will hunt", a kind of Iron Man putting on his power shell and all, a kind of thing that, if the day were pretty, you might take the outside, but not as a 1+1 proposition, such as the machines come across with, but as a kind of whim, and they have trouble with whims.

Or, to be so engorged on faith and God-bound determinism, one kind of feeds on kind of a living soul, the body metabolising and digesting the spleen.

I remember Sneako, too.

You took a conveyance, partly for the pleasure of the ride, but was there not a point to the journey?  And when is the journey just for the sake of the journey?  When contention is just for the sake of being alive, and a subtractive Mosaic menu of dictums.

what if #37. a classic. what if wolverine killed punisher?

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.

What if you confused meditative prayer and contemplative prayer?  Do you think God would snicker down from the clouds, or muddle through?

Movie Idea(or decidely, definitively not): Gengho Unchained.

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 you did last summer.")  I mean, its surrealist painting nonsense, you know, my cat in a tree, and I call Jennifer Love Hewitt.

One year I watched something like 159 regular season Braves games.  I remember missing one during a three-day hospital stay, but I did get to watch one on the cheap institutional basic cable.

The extrastellar technology that made the headpiece of Narlhotep, and all them, them with the wing arms and all that, and the stuff, and the sideways one-eye faces like on playing cards, you know, deck of 52, and so forth, the Eye of Providence, and I have the PDF of Providence and all that, too, even today, in the shadow of post-modernity, the aftermath of history, and all of that.

Those spheres though.  They left them for people of the time, you know, to some end, some kind of proto-jawbreakers or something, that or a galactic sales pitch or something of the kind, pitching the technology, meanwhile they chunked the perfect spheres amongst naturally occurring stones and so forth, as if they were part of the scenery, and you might wait for White Rabbit and all, to think there was some kind of glitch in the Matrix or something, but I don't know.

Like I told my therapist, you know, asking, "what's bothering you today?" and I think, this person, an hourly with a Master's Degree, expects me to do the improbable and nigh impossible, that which has never happened in all of human history, and that is:

on the spot, off the cuff, offer up an explanation, not an apology nor justification, but just an explanation of reality itself.

It would be funny, though, if an admittedly broken patient offered up a satisfactory thumbnail sketch of all reality, including the history and future of the whole thing, while the hourly sat there probably earning something like 11 dollars while I explained it all, my theory of everything.


Executioner's Song, or "Fields of Ambrosia", Fontana du'Elektra.


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 balance sheet and all.  Collateral?

For a loan?  Or you mean tertiary violence by second and third-tiers, that kind, like "collateral damage"?

Laser show.

He owed the doctor 3500 USD.

It was something like they could purchase Gurtrund's sentence reduction, and it was her idea, her brilliant idea, knowing none of the particulars, but that there were places that stored and stockpiled money, but on the whole, these tended to have a high bar of paperwork when it came to lending to the commoner.

He had talked to them about Kaiser Wilhelm, even complimented the bank man's son, then got to telling about the vision, speaking to another man, through a spirit medium, and proclaiming the "fields of ambrosia".

Of what, a young actor with a lot on the ball, collecting discarded dreams, before going on to Lincoln commercials or Jedi roles or something, collecting discarded dreams, with a drawer full of severed foreskins.

I had watched that show about them lighting the Charlotte Motor Speedway, too, and that was pretty cool.  Think this guy and his putt-putt could have made it come across, or as it were, come across with it.  A flim-flam man, Rick Santorium, Gordon Johncock, Howell Kirvonnen, Stacy Keach, you know, kind of a "did you see "A Face In The Crowd?" and it was like, everybody is suddenly an anti-hero, and there might be actual college kids that want to see Martin Sheen rape adolescent Jodie Foster, or something.  Clint's blue eyes kind of figuring gun-play odds and saying something marginally comprehensible about his pack animal guffawing at a slur.

You ever read The Bluest Eye?


KRU: The Magilla from Vanilla. Busting our humps for your entertainment dollar. Or decidely, definitively, not.


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.


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.

God speaks, and Joseph, the chief of the slaves.


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 events in life, he had been told beforehand that he was favored of God.  

How do you think that effected Joseph?  Did it give him a certainty that lasted through, that cut the turmoil of being left in a pit to die, and then becoming a slave?

Classically churning the orange juice into Mountain Dew, rising above it all, that if man made Joseph a slave, he would be the chief slave, the most important of them all.

That blessing withstanding still, decades later, he confronted his brothers seemingly without guile, but hesitant to reveal his true identity to the them.

Joseph had a word sustaining him.

And he was watching the plan of God unfold before him.

As the pastor went through all this, the raindrops fell, feeding the foliage.

The word, too, feeding my soul.

KRU: of peasants and debutantes.


At what cost: a republic?! How Doug nonchalantly brought down western civilization: a narrative from the Complaint Box.

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 NFT of Mister Doug's penis was sorely in danger of going viral.

It was going.

Big business with the devotchka set.

I also, as another element of my job description, scraped the squirrels off the roadway in front of the house.

Me and Olaf had to schedule a think-tank on this beshizzle.

I mean, what do you do with a problem like Doug?  I mean, its like the black people, where you make abortion legal on some pretext, and let them just destroy all of their future generations.

Youthanasia, you see?

"Right to choose."  Not weed though.  Not gambling.  But certain other things, a beguiling little menu of lifestyle choices, and those beniggling moral imperatives.  Make abortion legal, and then let nature take its course.

In the name of convenience, you let them kill themselves.  But then too, its like, a Tennessee abortion, that Doug and his lastest flame are related.  I seen him in his dress socks, smoking a cigarette, elbows on his knees, lost in some kind of thought.

But that's why Doug makes the big money.

Not only residuals from having built, single-handedly, a discount store in Richmond County, NC.

Olaf had a little Volkswagen, and I was teasing him that the hatchback was for some kind of sex-sling for all his boyfriends.  Olaf, happily married, and all, you know?  He had a kid in the Justice department, where my best hope was that one of my children doesn't enter the system as a convicted felon, incarcerated and generally hopeless.

Rather just take Doug's trashbag, rip it open with my unusually keen Leatherman blade, and just broadcast that all over his yard and house.



the Big Bear is in the woods.

Looks like her clothes got snagged-away on a branch.

Put her feet on his shoulders

and force his ugly coconut down the toilet.


On the frisson politick: Handful of nuts and something between the cheek and gums.

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, but then the leftist can point that out from the rightey, like Roe v Wade being, in polite society, "settled precedent" but then, in front of friendlies, its not so settled is it, its more of a take down target.

Olaf wouldn't un-friend you for that nonsense, because he can see your humanity through all the noise and pre-made lines, lies agreed upon, pitched political battles, and so forth.

He can see right through that noise and junk, and he's not shilling for party donations either.  Maybe, despite being "straight white and Southern", he preserves his own judgements, and doesn't agree to blanket policies, and doesn't climb on board for every agenda item without questions.

Olaf Turtletaub is not your average bear.  

May 12, 2022. Stock Market apocalypse incomplete, however butt-reaming for the fair weather financial fiend.

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 stock is up a bit over Walmart.


It's all a matter of confidence and a few simple leaps of logic, with gas prices up, total sales for Murphy will be up, and even that despite feds threatening some of the tobacco sales, with gas prices artificially inflating sales, even as total sales volume decreases.

The number of uniques decrease, you see.

Thanks again for triggering saves of sell-offs, option guys.

Braves v Red Legs. For the ATL. Atlanta Braves, Boston Red Sox May 10, 2022.

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?  Or did Ronald Acuna Jr more or less just play against swing-mode type to set the table later, to toy with expectations, while some of the others were in swing-mode?

Were we just "effing with 'em"?

BS: "I eat dreams and crap memorandums." "The Unswerection on the Prediliction."

"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."


On aging in the personality.

"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."


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, and yet, in that traversing, after, all would seem so connected, beings outside the person, and the things experienced by the senses would have a renewed freshness, ala the Bob Dylan lyric:

"But I was so much older then; I'm younger than that now."

Nodules of progress and meditations on the life experience; "play with it until you get it right; have fun with it."



To serve you.




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 recycling even our food, and the only thing really green, is our poopie.

For some the astrological formation represents great change, quick updates, a cycle of rapid changes, even, and perhaps, at the end of the day, one, even while deciding his own steps, may or may not even recognize himself, herself, when she looks in the mirror: but not in the same way of becoming one's own enemy, but in the sense of living, and all that encompasses.

The vast experience that is even a very finite or comparatively short life.

"A man's life often depends on a mere scrap of information."

Experience dictates precedents, and precedents generally rule our day, past our shifting whims, and transient desires.  And speaking of transient desires, no, I'm not claiming to have saved a public transit line, nor have masturbated on a public transit line.

But if I wasted my get, it was kind of a saving grace for someone.  Kind of an existential kind of flotsam of Bonus Savings, and no I didn't have to be a member of a club, or anything like that.  "It's fun and easy to get started."

"Play with it until you get it right."

Experience forms that matrix of expectations, don'tcha know?

Good Time Cholly.  Now Good Luck Cholly.

A knuckleball right in the left temple, I wot, to wake up the casual fan.

When I get it going good, I say to myself, "here's Uncle Bingo".

But inside the interpretive matrix, it all seems so abstract, as of Tittaglia's reductionism, in which the whole thing becomes rather simplistic shapes, and so forth, something, at least, or at best perhaps, understood by a rather broad plethora of people.  That instant recognition, fast-decode, would be the saving grace of Tittaglia, as he codifies items of for legal clients, beside his lunch list, and stock watchlist.

I suppose, then, "being in the world",

there are so many forms of self-pleasuring.

"It Wasn't Zodiac." The universe mumbles along. Aries and Jupiter, the universe... the barkspangled universe....

"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.


The Pocketwatch and the Pebble: The Titanic Miracle of Being.

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 conversation of the universe, itself, or something, something that remain dreadfully indistinct and too lava lamp deformed to ever be raud into any kind of beguiling marketable clarity.

Olaf Turtletaub, that was, like a walking miracle, but not in the since, "I'm lucky to still be alive", by something else.  "You were lucky to see me, Cheevers."  "Hah yoo during?"

That kind of gemcrack touching of the fingertips, God and Man, and all, you know?  One reaching from paradise, across a gulf, the other all the way from Toledo, and nary the twain, or perpetually enjoined through the self-same whisper of all the universe overhead, which is as constant as starglow.

Something rather calling out to the infinite of it all, such as one to pick up a pebble, and think it were an accident of creation, or was it made?  A certain kind of material perfection about it, and even a permanence the human being lacks, and we call such an accident of creation?  One fellow said, that if you found a pocketwatch on the beach, and a pebble or seashell, you wouldn't assume the items were all accidents, but perhaps, stretching a bit, of manufacture by some agency.

Indeed, we are all "fearfully and wonderfully made", of some import, and made of deposit beneath that galactic whisper, maybe its just the stove-pop of the heat from the sun, maybe, but its something, perhaps, we all have in common, the implacable sky.  It may as well be a tether putting us all together as if in some sort of prison: a fleshly containment, struggling to keep hold of the soul, which is far beyond the flesh in its miraculous singularity......

Olaf Turtletaub was a walking flesh-spirit miracle by virtue of just existence, and then thinking of the finite dimensions of existence, do we put God into that same container of existence?  To just imagine.  The infinite dimensions at the outer edges of thought, and that sense of being "on", like any old toaster oven or radioset, but beyond that, to be "aware"?

The media. The Mainstream Madea. And a somewhat fractured remembrance of MySpace.

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 lump.  Little bit goes a long way.  One bad apple in the bunch, and kerplewy.  Excise, exorcise and all that.

Maybe their can be kind of unfettered, not butt hurt quality about it, but appreciating someone else's perspective.  I could try it, you could try it.  We could be

a little tv island

where we coordinate our own opinions.

*Gail is autistic.

They had enslaved the wahf, cause she was "ethnically-undesirable" or something, like that, whatever passes for decorum in polite society, and there was "economic activity" and she was at once praised for being "co-equal" but that 72k out of the man's 100k, and she could only do one new SUV at the time.

Jamie had a gun.  I know, this gets tense, and it wasn't the single-shot shotgun, either, not the one from Bentonville, but something else, a big ole forty-figh, put a whole in you big enough for someone to walk through.

And Alec had a gun, but no one knew, on television or anywhere else, that if, on some of the old-style single-actions, you pulled the hammer back, then released it, it could in fact detonate a round, but they didn't know, as it was all a henky kind of he said she said.

And all the killing should be make believe.

And the Republic gravitated towards static portrayals of good versus evil, so the analysts said, where in truth, someone just made a string of good comic book movies, but they said it was a trend in a world, a world where....

the real world had such vague definitions of good and evil, maybe, so they said.  So they yearned for something more clear, something not as dishonest as the public discourse.  Something more of just getting the bad guys, now and then, but it was vigilante stuff where the police were being demonized so, around.

Someone knocked on my door, and they just stared at me.  Me knowing what they wanted, you know, me knowing and all.  But no, I would hand them a refreshing fresh fig.

I wouldn't.

As a boy, I read the reading primer stories of one Mister Fig, who had a magic car, and we all made a big whoop about it, some weird with a cool car, you know?

I know, I know, this is like an episode of Quantum Leap, the one where Sam jumps into Michael Knight's body and takes Kitt around the block a few times.  But it was ripsh*t for kids, the magic car, and we all were just on the cusp of Power Wheels going nationwide.  It was like, a fuse, a scratching finger for an inch, that way got our dose of bling inside the pages of the reading thing.


*I never trusted the movies' Iron Man, no matter how entertaining the character was to watch.

*Captain America is boring as watching paint dry.

*Doctor Strange is implausible.

*Twitter is/was the great NFT that Moonraker could put in his own personal collection.

MySpace was so much better, in some ways, than Facebook, but still.  Of course it was much less of a thinly-disguised advertising platform than the modern Facebook.  Newcorp purchased MySpace for 600 million, and meanwhile, the snarky on-air talent were mentioning Facebook as sort of a satire of some private, catfished citizen, a catfished citizen who had incidentally posted a selfie on his online site, which the snarky ones lampooned as "facebook" in their doublespeak.

For sake of simply raking an innocent person over the coals of public opinion, they made mention again and again of "facebook", and NewCorp soon sold the once-king site of MySpace for less than 1M.

The snarky ones(from Earl Hannity down to floorscrubber Trace Gallager) cost NewCorp 599 million dollars, for the sake of their on-air doublespeak.

There's more to that story.  I had a brush with the MySpace gremlin many years later, thanks to a cribbed user database.

corinthian outlaw: a paraphrase and ditty.

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.

near the end of autumn in the southeast.

This time of year in the southeastern United States has these mid-morning thaws, in which a thin veneer of overnight or early morning frost ...