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

I rollerskated into Jacksonville, my balls flapping my legs. I was set to give a seminar on Life Choices, and it was entitled, "Life Choices".  I was sitting in a mud puddle on the sidewalk behind the Opera House, and I had like, a moment down-in myself, something of an epiphany. Who was I to give advice?  Like I was supposed to be-what-perfect?  Qualified? Who is ever qualified?  In fact, you usually want somebody that knows the perils, by experience, to give advice, someone who knows too well, and indeed, may have fallen prey to some of those same lifestyle pitfalls. As they say, "tell your children not to do the things I done." Broward of the Bounty, taking TP to his lover in an old Ford truck, the TP, the lover ahead in the road. They built, it is said, the natives, the teepee with ten poles, tentpoles, a hole for which to let the smoke rise, a hold for which to egress the light, and release the darkness, to catch a glimpse of heaven. I had gotten to my feet and

There was a layover in Codsacky, where they had the peanut dome and the old opera house and all, poor man's version of Ted talks.  A big rig had went kaput in the center of the state road that busected the community, snd motirists were skirting the ditchbanks.  One F150 even had got astrode the ditch on one side, maybe cajoling at a driveway to get his wheels over. At the little neighborhood grocery there was chili in one crockpot, chowder in another, and some dubious, but locally sourced peanuts on the boil.  What was dubious was the sit time of all that.  They had a microwave and a supply of prepacked frozen potatoes, the kind with the foiloid inner bottom for partially browning the things. I had slept the obligatory ten and played solitaire a while, and had worked a sort of stupid, idle hunger. What i set my eyes on was sitting under a glass cake plate, a globule of whipped cream topping that made us clueless about what was underneath, and lone cherry on top, and sat so stoicall

There were two Kevins, like the old saying, "one is for fighting, one is for fun." Or yet, still, "We got drama, we got punch." Have a gay old time. Leg Kevin was talking about Katt Williams and the Chrysler 300.  I told him he was a lad that like to play with pocketknives.  Furthermore, I'da cut off my own thumb in the fever to get it out of my pocket. "Mike's rapping again." "Im gonna start stabbing motherfuckers." "I like you Mike.  Come do mutual masturbation with my wife." They were watching that fat lady with the Arkansas clearance coming across the way towards the stoop.  Glad we had an ass of fried chicken and Red Velvet cake up in there waiting.  If I'd already lost a thumb, she'd probably think my fingers were frog legs and shit me up further. I coulda slow cooked them hams on that one, and then B was talking about forgetting his own knife that day, with me telling that was good, I'd get the jump on him tha

Underneath the shelter where the snowflakes fall like rain... Seed your love and reap the girlwind. So.  Its Halloween season again, and genius cable executives book the actual Halloween films, while some yet book Friday the 13th.  I caught a brief glimpse of the Last House remake the other day, with Monica Potter being just a shade too sexy to play a mum, but I watched anyway, and the man was like, "I'm easy."  And I said, they obviously worked on this script a while. It's like rubbing Ivermectin on your private parts, below the beltline. Anyway, its been a tradition that I would happen upon Friday the 13th sometime on Oct 31, but its already been on, on the 27th, and now I wonder.  I was finding it on AMC, but they did it early this year, like a run-up to the season.  I hope they dont have a Walking Dead thing planned, cause that's just a soap opera with some top notch zombie stuff thrown in.  George said it was a soap opera, and I new it, it was more about nast

Her paper-' What she think it do Makes me think one and done Love's cooling ember No more hopes of fun. Lights blink at me in frustration Toilet line jerk Frosty glow, arc sodium L.e.d maddening pumpkin orange Dyes the world of the night. Set against her magic paper, Me,  Aiming to take her life. Don siegel adjusting potted plants. I cant enjoy my beer and hashish Unless she dies. Why she say For what and who, Tales like hollywood blockbusters About things she think i do.

  "Who's in charge?" "I dunno.  Is it you?  You the C.O.?" "Nar, and I thought it was that boy what put his tally whacker in the ant hill, wearing the red Addidas, those purdy Ruby Red Addidas." "I'm triggered by that.  See my Granddad was in Antwerp, and I'm lonely.  So I rough your end section and spank at your mudflaps." "I drink a little Granddad.  And Ripple." "Guess you goin' to hell, old Fartnoy." "I'll meet you there, see you in the burning alive rape showers."

Quite honestly, did it speak of times and places we know so familiar?  Or was it particularly hanged into space and time like a discarded Grand Wizard cloak?   Dare we, beneath the surface, scrub and then hover about the geode that is the life of Faulkner, the intellectual cache of Faulkner, indeed, the stories of sleepy mule's slowly Samba-ing their buttocks along in front of a convict, "working another man's soil". Till, till, tockery, a didgery and a whimsical doddering about the infinite space between wires and computer server banks. The thing is to move along with nature, for good or ill, and what is dealt to both good and ill is neither good nor ill, but simply nature.  But from the standpoint of faith, all dealt from nature, is, at bottom, good. Of Savini, this was his moment, and he pressed them hard, tasked them to emote to a kind of pitch intsensity: its the material, babies, the consequences of losing the day scrawled on their brows as they contest.  The ac

  Jean-Pierre was along the way, on a jaunt to perhaps the Prefecture, in his workman's cloak, muttering something indistinguishable to himself.  I thought it was as if demons had possessed him making guteral hell noises back and forth in the space between his menial soul and the firmament. I went back to my hoeing beans and then sat in the sun, when along came Jean-Pierre back from the Prefecture.  I had been an irregular sort of Thoreau, tending at my little patch of beans. This time I stopped him. "What do you know of the Way of Heaven?" I polled him, seriously. "Oh, Confuseus.  Always go after what you want.  Do not relent." He said. I pondered this a moment, and considered he may actually be possessed of some demonic spirit at that moment, some devilry at the palace, and all--an intrigue of some sort. "Do not relent in the pursuit of my want?" I asked. "Do not relent, good Confuseus.  Else you are not moving towards your desires, but just sit

  I saw myself from the obverse, the "me" of me, made plain, in the reverse, mirror universe, reverse aspect, and I knew it, though rarely, without cameras, have I seen my own self in that particular, peculiar angle. I saw myself, too, and my great grandmother, and I, her little cookie boy, a student of nature that was powerless against such precepts as but I could will away.  To wit, saying, "it sounded like fun at the time."  And regret was a forgotten old stone monument with old drying flowers from the a springtime that seemed like yesterday, but was more like four decades ago.  Was it indeed Springtime for Hitler?  Springtime in the Hinterlands?  Or the Roman Spring of Good Heather? It was such to see sprigs are made to sprig, and vines engrafted.  I watched oaks grow in the ditches.  I smoked something that was not punishable by incarceration, and I let my thoughts just sit, not in travel, not pergolating towards a destination, not generating a shape, but a sel

 The Great Aurelius, the Stoic Antonine, reminds that we as rational people have a sort of mental opt-in/opt-out option regarding nature.  This is evidenced in joy and to a lesser extent in fear, but think of how we can take control of our breath, the voluntary/involuntary functioning that we can come forward and take over. We have the opt-in to nature, but consider the less rational living bodies in creation; they have no such luxury, and are pretty much slaves to nature, instinct and innate things, the slow march of learned behavior. Just as the chimpanzees sometimes rage against the onlookers at the zoo, so too do we, on our FB and IG rage, rage, against the indignity of our individual plight.  Of that, it came to me once that I was no more or less deserving in my own judgement, when compared, no less susceptible or prone to bouts of luck and even the groans of fate. Indeed, one of my familiars died slowly by the roadside, yet others quietly in their beds, and another collapsed.  I

  I happened upon Kexon beating his cloak against the rocks by the river, and thought to give him queries of life and justice, temperance and the way of heaven.  However, I noticed the toenails were unkempt, and I wondered if a toilet defined a sage, or as it were, the sage defines his toilet.  Did it reflect some indolence or sloth in his person? I sang over the water while he continued, while villages women came with their baskets of wash, and is it happened, i was accosted to some extent, and the one of them even condescended to show me the middle way to heaven. I thought fortune and grace were certainly revealing something to me, and then there was the principate tax evaluator doing a kind of analytic project on how much time a day he spent breathing.  He sat in the sun, pumping his great legs like a sore ass, and trying to tally, so many seconds by so many minutes, into hours, and the waking concourse of reality then tallied, and he would have an analytical, quantified result of s

 So they had the Jazz Festival in Cheraw, SC, birthplace of Jazz great Dizzie Gillespie, and here today, on Sunday, the horns have been put away, and the music has subsided for a while, perhaps until another jovial weekend of friends and food and fun. This is possibly some of the artist's view leaving town southbound US 1/52, possibly heading to Greenville, Spartanburg, Charleston or somewhere around Columbia, back to their daily lives, where we can put on our masks and pretend to be normal people. But during the Jazz Festival, are we normal?  Is this the real "us", or is that work-a-day person that quietly goes through the motions the real "us"?

 

In days of old, they sent out the poet, the physician, the philosophers.....  Hail Atlantis.

Darryl.  An angry citrus farmer, more a golfer than a real thriving citrus grower, enraged to the point of brainstroke, hopelessly locked away in a drunk tank full of kindergartners.  He could decry his fate, but it was decided long ago...... Darrell.  Elevator music and all kinds of crime scene photos, people beating the bushes looking for a beloved and lost puppy, and Darrell hiding incriminating poop by stashing his Nikes out of sight from prying eyes. Doug.  Making salad for the firm with his fingers, and anybody that happened by as he did this was immediately taken by an almost mystical surety that Salmonella would come with the meal. Fibner & Locust provided an amount of liability protection, but such as it, everything was public opinion in the long run, and DD and D specialize in that particular mileau. I emptied the waste baskets there, and sometimes wore a sandwich board on the corner(none of this ever happened, btw).  My gf Scarlett would come pick me up in her 93 Accord

  So.  Sunday, it was, I remember it well, because it was yesterday.  Twas the best of times; twas the worst of times.  Twas also the remnant of a more civilized age. The Buddhist devotional recommended that we welcome stray thoughts, without being perturbed by them.  Such demands we know when a stray thought is indeed, "stray", and not something else.  Furthermore, it demands that we know how to handle such, but think of the contrary, how people can rebuke themselves and so forth, all for stray minutia that crops up.   Or worse still, in the form of not recognizing stray thoughts as indeed just stray thoughts, taking whims as "normative" or foundational in their thinking. THEN.  And the day goes on. Joyce Meyer talks about thinking with purpose.  Kind of mitigating the waste in thought, to an extent, and finding a facility to direct one's thinking. As a kind of fixative, I guess, we choose our thoughts, and maybe that goes towards, in her world, what we pray ab

  Of course, there's something we all know, lament, pound the posts, and we chortle and guffaw as others fall, too.  One could look back on days wasted on dreams, but even Relativity was Einstein's dream, even radiation poisoning was Madam Curie's dream. What is it?  The flick of a switch, yer know, yarblockos, and the thing is come off, and there is the solemnity and immediacy of always living in the present moment, kind of a drifting about somewhere of the fruit plane and all, the humboldt waves of pain, and so forth. In the immediacy of the moment, I'm kind of in a pleasant mind about it, being who I am, and you, who you are. I comes to me that in many ways I've sort of wandered along, drifting too, but not waves of tv signals, but on my own ideas, my spleen, intellectual whims, or whims that pretend to be intellectual, but at bottom are contorting themselves to feed the scrotum head with its own immediacy. Actives and Contemplatives.  I think, therefore I am, an

"Locked on military gluttons, I'm a nuclear murderer; I am Polaris." In another dimension perhaps, I am more full, perhaps too less fat, more intoxicating by presence than 120 proof.  Perhaps then, you are there too, seeing this across a gulf of lies, misdeeds and half-measures.  Perhaps too, we decided all this too long ago to still care, and are simply performing screw-turns and button-presses as per regimen. If we were Buddhistically aware of past lives, past circumstances....  they forecast the recycling of souls, perhaps to explain away their billion or so prancing footfalls in the forests of the evening crimson. We have something in VBA and Python, "uniques", and we hammer on a Western phenomenon of unique souls, each in its own time and space, and perhaps in that, a kind of biting interconnection, a kind of befuddled "universal" quality to all that passes. And its just like on Sesame Street, with Elmo, Tully and Grover chanting "one of thes