20 Feb 2007

y men

what do you do with a piano? i guess you lead a band of mutants with your wolverine claws, unholy levels of keyboard amp, unheard of mix becomes the force-fed aesthetic of the future. legionnaire holds back guitar to an edged crunch to flank the enemies of progress. if i must do something new, i’ll accept artistic martyrdom, stay unschooled in the rules that must be broken for novelty’s sake, for the style of statements and soundtracks decades ahead, in times that are unimaginable but will end up being clever re-configurations of the near-capacity trans-cultural database accelerated with quantum computation.

stymied flow, forced into a low-scoring scrabble play because the invisible clock is ticking. libidinal landslide crushes local village.

x men are pre-millennium. y men are the future. so can they be expected to take care of their own? throw me a bone?

x men are in league with traditionalists, the lineage. the slots are opening up, enough to spread the word through the well-networked middle class, there are places, finally, in the order. so they’re starting to see the functions of the old gods. starting to reconcile with lobbyists for israel. ah i see, the homeland, yes. and what can you do about those muslims? that situation is synergistic with arms manufacturers, a self-perpetuating suicide harvest, life-affirming death. of course, being as sophisticated as this age will allow, i’m terribly ashamed for appearing condescending to any culture.

y men and women enjoy the irony of the futant ideal and reality, ideality, a charmed alphabet soup. we brought back charm. we let the institutions and buildings crumble, lent a few tribes for the sacking of new york and the overrunning of los angeles. we built the new charms with occasional reference to the old charms. an economy of luck, an age of superstition. reason is sisyphean, fuck that. pantera-riff party on second censomensus beach: “we are the new breed” in dicacphlegm grunt, strummed with the pick of destiny.

sarcastic throng worships the empty casket of timothy leary. if it doesn’t make me laugh, it’s worthless, which is why we cluster together, the humour is shared, we’ll bore it into the skull if we have to, silence brings seriousness, we put the serious heads in the stocks. even the boardwalks rot, we camped in swamps underneath, stole fire from the x men cancer survivors, indistinguishable from magic, fashioned cobalt 60 rayguns with sound effects, flash physics funkmeisters with double-edged swords, the priests of wargames, stun guns, evolved tazers, got the occasional scalp of an other but usually chain-whipped a neighbor, she likes it really, she’ll agree with a jagged-toothed smile, emotionally ambiguous, served slightly chilled with a vintage cartoon reference.

stymied flow for slow centuries, something breaks, stomach wall bursts, he patches it up with synthetic intestine, nanoplastic parasites invade the digestive tract, spread to the brain. eventually, through tendon-snapping acrobatics of self-analysis, he creates a schism in the brain, separates himself from the parasites, learns to communicate with them, makes an alliance. what can you accomplish with the aid of tiny plastic parasites?

“it’s something. it’s an accomplishment,” she says. he made it to the grocery store. made it to the second floor.

in a stock contest, medium-sized mr. nichols would be crushed by the plentiful entrants, atavistic bulkheads, load bearing spinal columns. but he is the type to dwarf the drones at nelson safeway. transferred, he’s got a mercenary tie, striped to signal he is a company man. benefits. presiding over this slice of my future. i don’t realize but i didn’t fulfill my quota of eye contact. plus something signaled i was doped up. orange alert. eyes shifted the message. not enough neurons for the task. benzos are my achiles’ heal.

i skipped my high school aptitude test. it would have said that at this point in my life, i should be smashing equipment into amps while dodging flying liquor bottles. i missed the boat on that. acid did find me, but i found it too slick a bunnyhole, too quick to insanity, or whatever passes for that in this pastiche. so i went and saw mr. nichols.

managed to freak him out with my plastic parasites. didn’t even know i’d done it. stealth. it’s an aquarian conspiracy!

enter audiobook osmosis man. his superpower is deriving deep wisdom from recorded lectures and audiobooks, avoiding the need to actually read anything. he is also the greatest tetris player in the world. he has the second through seventh sight. he has discovered the elusive fourth preview block. he plays tetris while listening to howard zinn, joseph campbell, and rupert sheldrake. he is a connoisseur of sleep and sooth. he lives between ideas and sleep. the seesaw between them is his passion, practice forever on the horizon, something to consider.

pipe cults are the best hope for the kappa opioid receptor protagonist. a developing story. they think they can abolish economy, replace it with chlorophyll. i’m listening. every cult has got an anti-depressant. i ran out of anti-drugs.

found a sound. castanet-core. i was used to a grind, a coffee grind. the castanet carried me a few blocks anyway. to the dregs of the parade, incidentally, a bus station. i followed the signs home.

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