29 Nov 2006

Halliburton Faucet Inc.

**** *****
***     ***
**        **
***     ***
**** *****

Black Diamond is my only friend now
with values void, our divergent agenda delivers disappointment.

Natural Endorphins this way, a labyrinth but there’s only one way so you get there eventually, through many twists, gelcaphallic, won’t mix with ink, eyes on the sun
hormonal dictation
of lactation parallel to masturbation
the imperative of seeking sensation

Patterns that way, purity, rippling the sign, dragging synesthetic scaffolding along for a too-smooth ride, eyes dilated deltas, chemcann cocktail dictates certain behavioral fixations, channeled material, collective conscious excavation, ownership slips, dips aesthetic into a puddle, reverb, wet. Try to be nice but your head’s in the vice, anger is your vice now, hopskotch later, if you’re lucky, hard to say.

You know what the problem is but your sanity won’t let it be acknowledged, it’s an instinct for self-preservation, but not everyone escapes self-immolation, cause there’s lots of time for self-justification in your long life, four hundred dollars withdrawal from the ATM buys a lot of poison gnosis.

Still looking for oblivion?
Through what, mandies? Soma? Therapy?
Thumbprint monuments?
Could be a stately mambo stepclass
will only fit in a casket.

Rare moment of being in the rhomboid entourage. The museum. Purpose in four diamond angles. They make it look like I know what I’m doing. Magic Window.

The blast was a white frosted black diamond buried in the snow
corporate-fresh pines.

Hard to remember kootenay embankments
just thursday morning flashbacks
to idiot euphoria
fleeting giddy
idiocy and adventures to Velo City
still 300 km on graph paper.

The Welfare Cosmos
Purpose Division
is dividing my attention into a fugue state of feelings
subsidiary of the Washington Welfare Spring
Imperial Intergalactic American Federation
(US Hegemony has graduated to geological time
Rome never came close).

The Washington Welfare Cosmos
is almost a concerto, written on staff paper
with an HB pencil by a staffer drone
sitting at a green school desk
in a factory for my alien homeworld
the outer planet in the Righteous Ring
global consumer goods warehouse
with assumed infinite resources
a Halliburton Tap.

Stopped at the border of Annexia
with intent to traffic gaudy graphics
line art attempts to transcribe by stealing
powdered arabesques
fugitive visions.

Stately Ground in groovy gravity
now warhorse soot, the wonder
of age and decay & the ancient
ampersand, a footnote in a three-
millennium long run for Omar Khayyam
21st Century Schizoid Peasant
Black Diamond mountains
sublime shape symmetry.

High Gain is our symbol, so they tell me, I’ll accept, wear the hash mark on my lapel, vibrate at what frequency the modulating masses move me to, nodding my head to the glossolalia, I think I’m harmonizing with a cool consonance, that’s how it sounds to me.

I’m popping chick-o-sticks, which our leviathan lord interpreted as praying for apocalypse, he has some strange interpretations while he wipes the sleep of millennia from his crusted eyes, he’s a crusty cthulhu and he’s not a morning person, and all the coffee in Columbia won’t save us millionth generation synthetic short-lifers from our fiery fate, not even Halliburton’s hallucinatory faucet, the high definition desert mirage. Marie-Antoinette will be reborn in 2112, to enjoy a savoy truffle – some knowledge will be saved, some delicacies still craved and made.

A bromide tide of wisdom swept the woods awards one day – the trees were jealous but still etched the records into barkives for ecological time, which is near eternal if you include the geological foundations, which I do. I also include the floating rubaiyat, Omar’s mountain, Dorothy’s Oz, safe in my narcotic bubble, Tetris level 29 when The Force takes over, moves the blocks in ways foretold by the great old ones, electronic opium.

All we were doing was writing poems, not praying for apocalypse, Tetragrammaton was a tonality-tweaking tongue-twister, not the unspeakable name of God, and sunny pleasuredomes were found in caves of ice that were discovered in brain changing experiments on mice – safe in our narcotic bubble. At least the lab rat got to consume crack at the end of its short rodent life, a lifetime supply, and at least we, at least an upper crust of us, the savoy truffle appreciators, worthy evolutionary ambassadors for elite human experience, at least this elite got to lay eyes, ears, and endorfins on personalized paisley visions, the Qual in us all, before the planet failed to support our bloated civilization’s software, the epigenetic kamikaze burnout, at least we maintained the infrastructure for the pleasure button as long as we could, the
turning of the
Halliburton Tap, safe in our narcotic bubble.

The Washington Welfare Spring is a wishing well, so the striking janitors at this demon stration tell me. Arranged in hexagonal rings, they form an easy bond with me. They even offer me honorary membership in their roguish union, the one they carved out of the carcinomic heart of city hall with a rusty pocket-knife, though I’ve never cleaned a thing in my life. Five is not a demon, they say. The amateurish occultists of the Pentagon got it wrong. Six is the real threat. They number one hundred and eleven groups. A gestalt of six hundred and sixty six.

The train across town blows its mournful minor ninth. Meaning is scattering, appropriately trashy, cluttering the entrance of the senior’s apartment block.

Oh what will people say?

Let’s not kid ourselves, this is not sustainable. No… let’s kid ourselves. The sand is so warm. And who can really say what would be a new way? We’d be kidding ourselves anyway. Anyway we slice it.

Surely you see the incongruity between your concerns and your life on the grid. Yes but here, warm on the grid, is the only place I can look cold and logical at what it might mean to be off. Safe and warm in my narcotic bubble I can appreciate the drama of death, can even armchair quarterback the blood-soaked political games that follow. Outside of this zone of taken-for-granted comfort, I must blanket myself in superstition and pseudo-scientific delusion. That is the only thing that will suffice. And I’m not alone in this. Just a typical sheep, like you.

Was listening to Yes, shining cities of the future, symbolically reconciling synthetic and organic. Orgasmic. Much great music to be written in C major, rhythms Bartok never collected, 70s futures, more like Enron stock than Macintosh, but reaching me anyway, in this heyday of information and exponentially depleting material.

One day, my son, the pain will reach such an intensity that it will release you from all your personal demons, it will be a fecund cauterization, a rebirth, the full yang of freedom, A#1.

What he didn’t tell me was that I must anesthetize myself from the torture of that knowledge so I don’t forfeit. There are many ways to self-immolate, and some of them aren’t really all that painful. Safe in my narcotic bubble.

27 Nov 2006

Intelligence Quotient

Finally found a music obsession worthy to supplant the Mars Volta liason. Yes, it's Yes. Too bad this rip is a glitchy mess. That's why I'm on soulseek.

Surprisingly straight transcription.

Voices are lost in parsecs of woods. Half eaten pills in dreams.

His age is indeterminate. Leroy's. Brown.

Circuitous drunkenavigations.

Living on borrowed time. Suburbias, already sepia-toned, but how often can I believe what would destroy politics? Staring dumbly down the barrel of apocalypse - it's a barrel of laughs. Homeless, working for the mob. So it's real. But what? Buried in a church organ's wall of sound. Chooglin, sounding, organing. Soundboard. Bored of sound? Banging, mainlining, soma, euphoria. Mainstream is in the bloodstream, blissstream. Line, line on a star, over the lino, like what black god brought me to. Premonition of streamroll fogged past blanquetext. Robitussian was poetic once. A Tenth of flexeril.

This album is mindblowing - it's like I'm hearing almost exactly the kind of sound I envisioned I would have if I developed everything as I'd hoped to. Wow, wakeman. Wow. But the guitar is what really arrests my attention. And the bass. And the drums. This is like Rush, ELP, and Liszt collided to form a superdense mass that collapsed in on itself producing a singularity of ROCK!

A shame about the vocals though. They're not bad. But not that good. Kind of vanilla. No personality. A far cry from Cedric Bixler, or even Geddy Lee. Or even Greg Lake. Lyrics... I dunno. Something about getting up and getting down. I could write way better lyrics. If they didn't read like philosophical treatises, that is. Or teastises on chromatic disintegration.

Chooglin and rueing the day you ever choogled out of my starsystem. Afterburnination. Gospel spasms in epileptic fountains.

I could quote you a quote on your intelligence, but the question of the quotient is confounding me. So I'll act awestruck, cause I really am anyway. Just don't expect me to remember what it means.

22 Nov 2006

Escher's First House

Our very fine house has some very odd angles to it - it's 120 years olde, so years of settling has put nearly everything at odd angles. Cabinets, mirrors, especially the floors. We have the entire top half of this turquoise blue Victorian. Here's the tour, a' la Raz.

Here's our view from the back - we hardly use the front door:

Our kick-ass balcony!:

Here's J'than, cleaning the windows in the kitchen:

More of the kitchen:

Here's the view out of kitchen windows - another pretty Victorian! It's condemned, which for some reason makes it prettier to me:

Methmaker making musicmeth on the keyboard:

Me lounging in my room. I was wondering if the cameraman, who shall remain nameless, had yet figured out which button to push:

Matt's chickendance! Bawk!

Me doing the moose, appropriately named "Blurwinkle":

Well that's it for now, oh hey, it's J'than, cleaning the window of my car!

He's done, yay! Now I can see out of my window!

OK, kids, hope you enjoyed! More to come when my crappy little batteries get recharged!

20 Nov 2006

15 Nov 2006

rubbed out

high definition porn girl
with a fast frame-rate
the art of the slut

she’s got it down to a science
but it’s so real she
must be a real slut
like a real unicorn
like a real live cum-craving creature
and my god, it’s like she’s popping out of that
ten second sample clip with the end of a syringe
mainlining herself into each of my several billion dendrites
all quivering monkey lust

so real, it’s never been that real before
for the best orgasm I’ve had in months
and this clip is now my favourite
and I will rub it out because
porn is made for maximum mono-sensory thrill
reward system in the absence of biological satiation
shortcut, subverting the boreal chill

I’ll rub it out
and it’ll be my climax for the next several weeks
before my neurons need new
information I'll know when I see
but the high definition girl will have a good run
maybe a historic one, because she gave me an orgasm
so good I’m writing about it

I will use it up in a flash
a sliver of geological time, no fossil record
and then I will look on the era as past fetish
dusty crusty and I will appreciate it aesthetically
as the liquid architecture of love, hall of fame material
stimuli ineffective on empty circuitry
those neuro-patterns primed
for a specific pornographic pleasure
dead zone of overdosed braincells
abandoned for the next
fit of sexy

4 Nov 2006


it's not the day of the sloughed rhythm - slipping out of a cycle, in the moonlit pool's ripple, it was a hobo train to tropane freedom, lethal archetypes - the best kind of connections are tenuous - fentanyl is real but more symbolic to me than any actuality - let's not get into meditation on time though - and belief is too subsumed in semantics - moongate crasher, union fatefitter, crack-spasm teques

guilt is good so they say, keeps things in check, but that cycle devours itself, and no i won't draw it as a spiral - you can't always see a wound for what it is, or maybe it's a premonition - i'd love to be able to be the crazy drunk, or maybe my drug is self-righteousness, the limited i'm allotted in my own guilt and drug-corrupted life

it's the day of sniping distant and dying nalis on crosses - at least that's what i remember sucrets juice could conjure, and it WAS a conjuring, genuinely crazy shit - sounds pretty similar to a turn of the century record groove, a laughtrack from 02, but there are subtle variations, a clarinet solo - a paradigm patchwork quilt woven from a change of education, a school of life - oh those hard knockers, what do they know? what can they tell? maybe they never assembled lao's yang from the shards, or maybe what they needed was the yin - it's either ether or the other, and ethereally redundant and deluded to simplify it in those terms, unless you can drink your beverage of choice and get away with it

2 Nov 2006


and i'll ramble about how much i love the word ramble
for its quaint quality, how it puts me in the suburbs of live journal
with the mass of amateur writers who tell the distant deep sea divers
that they’re “rambling”, just “rambling”

Michael Brooks, the mentor I never met

I have a lot of podcast fraaaaands that I listen to every day. They don't know me but they're my best buds. I have to know their tak...