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

21^st 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.

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.

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!

Zastrozzi

composed for a local production of George Walker’s play, Zastrozzi - it was a fun project, i meshed well with the play and its director - the music is based on character themes that intermingle: zastrozzi, verezzi, julia, bernardo, and matilda - the overture is a medly of the inter-scene music

Prologue - [2:04]
Scene 1 – ‘Nightmares that could petrify the Devil’ - [0:38]
Scene 2 – ‘I’ll even call it revenge’ - [0:35]
Scene 3 – ‘I just like to fight’ - [0:41]
Scene 4 – ‘He’s back’ - [0:29]
Scene 5 – ‘Thank you very very much’ - [0:30]
Scene 6 – ‘Where is my wine’ - [0:31]
Intermission – ‘Kill him with Imagination’ - [1:02]
Scene 7 – ‘Usually I am the one who is wonderful and the women are enthralled’ - [0:40]
Scene 8 – ‘Even if I must hurt him a little’ - [0:31]
Scene 9 – ‘I lied about not being armed’ - [0:36]
Scene 10 – The Dungeon of Love - [0:57]
Finale – ‘I like it here’ - [2:00]
Promo – ‘Matilda’s theme’ - [0:39]
Overture - [6:43]

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

Tenacious D on LSD

conjuring

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

just

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”

frivolous war

Our guilt would be somewhat mitigated, or at least easier to deal with, if there had been any real reason for this war. All wars are terrible, but some are justifiable. This was not. It was a frivolous war, perhaps the most abstract, pulled-out-of-thin-air war ever launched by a world power. It was dreamed up by hollow men who had never experienced war themselves, who made the decision as if playing a board game, and were supported by people who convinced themselves that the world was a board game.

Read this in Salon today. One of the best columns I've read on the Iraq war in years. You'll have to click through a daypass to see the whole thing. It's worth it - well, if you're the kind of choir boy who likes to be preached to anyway. Lest I sound like one of those self-righteous canucks, I don't think anyone who was or is against the war should have to apologize.

What I need is failure

I need to fail to respond. When you're predictable, people take you for granted. It's a tricky trade-off though. When you've got nothing to bluff with, no buffer to the void. Of course this is short term, cyclic. A visit to a career center put strange thoughts in my head - made me want to be a cog of some kind, maybe a sprocket, a good little machine part, do something useful.

Mining the Sky in Sagittarius

Do I have a body? No, I don't have a body. I am a body. I'm realizing that more and more now, really feeling it. You really feel it when you go psychosomatic routes. Most of what I associate with myself is the brain, that's where the ego is, that's what it rests on.

I'm feeling like a body when I see, feel it perturb, checking out appendages with my eyes - labeling them as separate in the seamless web. Language may have a rather different relationship with reality than we think. I was just walking through the autumn forest, dezcolors, thinking such crazy things as: what is real? I believe in reality in a sense, there is some objective thing out there, but then there are layers of filters and how is it possible to know what exists beyond the filters? And yet I believe in the idea of the external because I'm not solipsistic. I have faith in it. That doesn't mean I kill or die for it, unless the universe dictates I must. I can be, to some degree, emotionally detached from it (not from my delusions). But I have faith in it. My senses - they tell me things. Interpretation is a child's game, an aeon of spinning marbles.

Deep today for some reason. There are so many attitudes toward drugs. I've held so many myself, they shift with the weather, moods. Sell the kids for food. Like they take the place of religion for me some times, for so many reasons.

Almost felt spiritual when I walked in the woods today. Spiritual. A word I'd virtually excised from my vocabulary. Verboten things. Was Alan Watts a religious man? Of course that demands days of dull semantics to answer. Let's just say he was, and have it mean whatever you want. If so, he'd think being religious was synonymous with a lack of seriousness. Not lack of sincerity, but seriousness. Because religion, at least that zen flavour he loved, is supposed to be about the experience of breathing out the serious and returning to the playful. Or, well, that is my current reading of nirvana, anyway. I have no punchline here, sorry. I was just remembering when I felt strangely light-hearted, and understanding laughter as an ideology. I was smiling, knowing I'd lost huge swaths of innocence, and yet that means my laughter is EARNED now - cynicism, dark humour, it's a beautiful thing. And does cynicism mean secular? Or is it just a squinty cataract pallor, a veneer? Can one be cynical AND religious? Depends on where your faith is, what your faith is. But religion became odious in a way, in certain veneers, for me. I was thinking, does THC make me more tolerant to Richard Dawkins?

"I'm a Sagittarius. The most philosophical of all the signs".

I wish I could wear my freakish roster of paradigms like hats, put on an old favourite whenever the mood strikes me. But the brain is hard to reign in like that. Nevertheless I nearly did that today. I put on my lucky white sox hat, literally, my "lucky" hat, luck, such a quaint old idea, chuckle - and yet I feel more potent, more myself, more aware with this on. But maybe it's that plant I smoked earlier. That changes paradigms too. Different attitudes.

FiveHTP - it's helping me again, I think. For a while I stopped thinking about it. I thought, I still get depressed, and I'm really over-hyping this thing. Now I'm crediting the flux of my moods to a chemical again. Folly? No, I think it's that I've decided to blow off Nelson and get a house in Parsons for a while - spontaneous, debauched, indulgent -- but also kind of cool. Novelty. Maybe that's what's really making me yearn less for comforts I shouldn't expect, bling bling, status, rock star cachet, pussy by the pound. Maybe better that I move in with some cool people in a foreign land and write songs.

For some reason, the idea keeps reverberating loudly in my head that this is somehow the best of all possible worlds. Everything is necessary. But then that means it's necessary to complain. Necessary to change things. So now this is just sounding tautological and meaningless.

"We may die from Medication but we sure killed all the pain" - Bright Eyes. I don't care what people say, he's an awesome singer/songwriter. Nothing musically amazing to my virtuoso progsnob biases, but past that, songs, man, SONGS - taking old forms, making them HIS, things that employ clichés, but somehow transcending them. What else can the new gen do? We're trying to figure it out. Ideas are crusting, new ones are scarce, it's like mining the sky for metal.

Killing the pain. Drugs can kill pain, guaranteed. They are a guarantee. A profound thing. A guarantee that you can die in peace. Just have the heroin handy. Or fentanyl. Or opium tea. Or even ketamine, I think K's really making a strong showing in the terminal scene, a feisty up 'n comer! I often console myself with the thought that drugs will be there for me. If I need them. This way of thinking about them is kind of anti-life. But, life is kind of anti some times. The Dao has gouged itself into my psychology. That sounds kind of pretentious, but it's true.

Religion claims to kill the pain too, but in the proper way, the theologically correct way. Put down the drugs, and get a hug, but from Jesus, not the creepy Catholic priests. Jesus is innocent. What is his relationship to Adam? You know, of Genesis? See, asking a question like that just makes everything look ridiculous. First you're imagining a guy on a cross, taking the punishment, aren't we just horrible savages... and then you're imagining a guy wearing a fig-leaf, stealing forbidden fruit cause a snake told him to.

What they should have done was create a plausible Adam and Eve. Not a Terry Gilliam treatment, although that would be fucking fantastic. But some ancient myth with believable characters. You know, like Jesus is kind of sort of believable, maybe not because he existed, but because either the man, or the myth, has had a staggering archetypal effect on culture, society. He has a complex named after him. But so does Oedipus. But Freud was a fucking freak. I want his coke connection.

Christianity is an amazing thing. Just an amazing thing to behold. It's not all good, not all bad, over-hyped and over-prescribed in strange ways - but a huge, fascinating religion. I just realized this.

McKenna thinks people, plural, transcending the lifespan of ordinary folks, have a nostalgia for the archaic past. It's an epigenetic thing, probably. The garden. If you're a fallen angel, you're not doing too well, are you? But if you're a risen ape, not too shabby. I'm pretty tied to the value system I've inherited from this obscure genetic fractal. Self-important. My SELF is IMPORTANT! It must be comfortable, and entertained, otherwise life isn't worth living. Fortunately poppies are renewable. But oil is not. 

The Anglican Church

There is a carnival brewing in Nelson tonight, a queasy convalescence. People walk around with purpose. There will be parties, dangerous reveries, domestic disputes, sirens in the night. There’s a feeling in the pine-fresh moist air, a hint of ergot, fungus infections on the fringes. The Elysian techniques are long lost and will have to be slowly and painfully reinvented, truths discovered through the terror of delirium tremens. This will be a bloody testing ground, subsidized in strange and untraceable ways by Paul Martin’s government. The Welfare Cosmos will allow such loopholes as long as the surrounding woods is sufficiently unspoiled. The tipping point will be reached in 2010, at which time, the Nelson area will cease qualifying for protection from the Space Brothers. At which point, guerilla fortifications will be set up, and the contrails will become active chemical agents instead of placebos.

Tonight, one of many focal points in town is the Anglican church, lit orange by streetlights with the kind of tastefulness that only comes through accident. Robert Ashberry is “preaching” on the steps of the church, to a gathering crowd, a carnival crowd. He is speaking as the head of a group of orange-suited weirdoes, a mass spectrometer of humanity. A man in a crowd of less weird people smirks and asks Bob, in mid-rant: “Is Dali in there?”

Bob replies earnestly: “I wish you could see that Dali WILL be in there!”

There is uproarious laughter. Bob didn’t understand how he came off. Bob’s gnosis says that Dali will indeed figure eventually in his understanding of the mystic politics of things, God’s cruel love and empires of evil’s necessity, because Bob knows Dali is a part of the grand plan, like every man. But what the crowd hears is Bob obliviously admitting his own schizophrenic tendency to tie every bit of stimuli that crosses his ear canal into a cosmic conspiracy.

Bob goes on to reference Jonathan and the Christian Empire resurgence of dubious authorship. Is it Jonathan’s? As spectator, I’m surprised to find I might be the author of a Christian Empire, but then life turns out to be stranger than I imagined every second Sunday, and, case in point, this is not traditionally a party day, and the AM that would make it Monday is upon us, an even less traditional party day. Maybe I forgot I forged an empire, or at least “authored” it, whatever that means. Bob has windows so esoteric and brilliant that I’m not one to discount the theory. Of course, to Bob it isn’t a theory. It’s not “reality” either, that pedestrian word, trampled to death in disaster-panic history. It’s information. And he can use information. Many of us really believe he made MDA. There are probably documents to prove it, but investigative journalism is another skill we’ve lost in the new age. We’ll leave it to future scholars. Burn back up discs, what a treasure hunt they’ll have!

Bob is ranting about something else now. We missed the turn if there was one. Where’s the worm? Slurms MacKenzie knows not to ask about the secret ingredient. Bob says he was once a frequent flyer – but now he’s banned from Mexico. Though we’re not totally sure of the relevance of this statement, we pay rapt attention. Save for the smirking man, who has left to watch a DJ spin records at the Royal. Bob says he doesn’t go to New York much anymore. Implying he does occasionally. I want to ask him where New York figures in his present ideas about the world, but the setting isn’t appropriately intimate, and besides, I’m just a floating awareness here anyway.

Someone asks: “Is there any weekend around here?”

I don’t know. They shut down the show because of the Moonbag kids, street urchins who drank from infancy. You can still see them chomping on calflegs of mushrooms, silently, in the dark. They’re more than happy. After I saw them, I took a bird’s eye flight far above Nelson, wonderfully distorted, more than ever, psychological architecture reflecting and riffing on my yearning, my anxiety, my ignorance, my sanctity. I was taffy pulled through several novel dimensions, I soared across the lake and over the shoreline, beside railroad tracks, over a Grohman like area, finally arriving at a beautiful peaceful pool of lakewater and woods. I can’t remember what I did there.

Quasi and the lifeblood emetic

look at those three weirdos over there, shining

moments with an upright citizen's maglite in recordanza's extravaganza

take the veil and hail hell's frequency, a sixty hertz

refresh rate in what i've learned to believe is breath

oxidizing muscle memory, heart pumps i forgot

beatsynced so fine to time they slipped my mind

just TRY it quasi

the big picture is a funhouse, you freak, don't you like to have fun?

don't you like it when the city peels back into the hills, don't you want your

farm fresh fruit served on the grass linoleum of a famished skull orchard and

what else is there but fear, don't

you want to be

eternally confused

for the greater good and

necessary evil?

your omega bracelet’s made of fridge magnets, still attracted to your birthstone, marked

like a gnostic valis-hunter from pre-cancerous rome, you can cut the ring if you

can claw your way through six thousand kilometers of cerebral cortex, the

scissors are on the surface, lemmiwink's victory serenade

she shoots daggers into my eyes with her focused metabolic modernism

puts the fun in function and we're going to the quackadero today - i was supposed to know

and i haven't been in aeons and my balls are blue but

i don't feel them anymore, circulation was a chore so

i shrugged it off for centuries, stopgap zen retreat, and now

marbles tumble down testosterone-red carpetways, the egalitarian potential of progenetic royalty

hubris of preserving a line is hallucinogenic history's ribald rhyme sluicing fruschavein riffacials

nestled quickie, desktop triggered amateur hottie, how much

did they pay her to take off her clothes?

eternally confused for the greater good and necessary evil, cut

yourself, cut your brother, cut your sister, cut your mother, drink

your blood and purge, drink

your blood and purge, cut

to the chase, telemetric biorealized telescopic eggsized lensthru life'sbloodemetic

tasted like dark matter, hydrogenicide, and in the end

it was the xemu hubbard never knew

no less than five incarnations is what he's selling

and of course i'll take it, anita says

where would i be without her?

naughty appreciation of a full color spectrum, they

added a nother letter to the RGB trinity

a nother lever to the machine

a nother side to the square

a nother vertex to my grin stretch

ing the smile beyond my face, hypervoluminous cubic rosetta, object of ur passé

collector's item value plummeting, depreciation in the glazed stare of the collective

compromise between duty and desire, forgetting how to appreciate in a

seizure that sheds alphanumerals like sweat, eternally

confused for the greater good and necessary evil

pork tastes like pigs in a way i can appreciate when bobblehead showmen are three-quarters through their morning cycle and the afternoon sun hasn't yet settled on this pre-cancerous crowd and i forgot if we were parked in the itchy or scratchy lot

and you can even wear a swastika if you want, if you care

if your deutsche marks beat their dali-cheques

if you ran out of norton bucks and kenny roger's wisdom

and if you still haven't made it back to your comfort zone yet, go fish

sing the reds in folsom prison, sing for seconal and your next cig, asceticism

is fine till they serve dinner, you know

they put paxil in your food, don't you?

Nevermind, stay

eternally

confused for the greater good and

necessary evil, it's

really a small picture, you can keep it in your wallet

the GPS chip in the film will track you to the last frame.

Robert Newman's History of Oil

Watch this - it's fucking great. Hilarious and informative.

He theorizes that Gulf War II is America's attempt to mete out mafia-style punishment, by making an example of Iraq. You can see how it looks good to trigger happy fools like Cheney: easy to invade, easy to destroy. (Not easily rebuilt, occupied, or governed, but THAT isn't the important part.) And why make an example of Iraq? Buying and selling oil in Euros would devalue the Dollar, with catastrophic consequences for American capitalism, or so Newman says. (Really? Catastrophic? Does that mean an income downgrade from 7 figures to 6 for the upper 1 percent?) Saddam's Iraq was the first of several nations (3 of which are now in Bush's "Axis of Evil") to consider the switch.

Yeah, but the war was a mess and America is weaker because of it. What kind of example did it set? Is anyone supposed to believe the US would or could invade every country that refused to prop up its currency? That's where I have trouble with the theory. But Newman acknowledges this angle too, by impersonating a taunting Venezuela. Maybe he thinks the ruling faction (is it the neo-cons or the Bush Cabal? Skull 'n Bones?) were so delusional and hubristic that they really thought their bravado would work - and they could actually whip a little cultural imperialism, or just plain imperialism, on Iraq and call it democracy. Sufficient cover for the sheep back home, sufficient hegemony in the middle east to ensure fear and respect. Is it too much of a stretch to think they were so lethally naive?

There's so many other possible reasons for the war. And Newman did say it was a cause, not the cause. But when you think about it, it does fit into a pattern of foreign policy. Well, I'm not a political commentator, that much is obvious. But I like to try and keep up with the world, when I can.

"Robert Newman gets to grips with the wars and politics of the last hundred years - but rather than adhering to the history we were fed at school, he places oil centre stage as the cause of all commotion. This innovative history programme is based around Robert Newman's stand-up act and supported by resourceful archive sequences and stills with satirical impersonations of historical figures from Mayan priests to Archduke Ferdinand. Quirky details such as a bicycle powered street lamp on the stage brings home the pertinent question of just how we are going to survive when the world's oil supplies are finally exhausted."

Sever the Saccharine

Or maybe not. Maybe douse it in alcohol, make a tincture. Overripe, overwrought. But having purpose in some secret chasm. If I can milk the moment, I will.

I've crawled through the mud of jaded glades before. So many times. Is it a random walk? Is it what McKenna called "history?" Just watched a two-hour speedrun of Mario 64. One hundred and twenty stars. Dreamed of crack, like I usually do. The usual metaphors.

Not severed, not cynical enough. I want to pick the vines clean, but I can't find them all. Secrets. Information isn't objectively overloaded, I just haven't grown my new lobes. Atrophy. But I know there's more. Can't be patient. Gentleman caller, flopped the riff, sinkhole, enamel stripped teeth - but not totally ruined. The scrapyard, the starpower in the scrapyard. Run, run, run! Haha. Leave my friends behind, abandon family, bounce to the virtues of the virtual, run the code, run.

Did the tryptamine intercolate correctly? What does that mean for my future? Our future? They said the philosopher's stone is at the top of the tallest mountain. Poetry won't get me out of this mess. I'll pick the vine clean. See if I can see what it means.

When are they going to build the autobahn for the collective consciousness? The internet is supposed to be that, maybe it is. Except it's twisted. Like it's supposed to be, perhaps. Like in my devil gnosis, the necessary evil, the misery I must spread before I shuffle off this mortal coil, plagued kiss-off before the fentanyl vault - the welfare cosmos. Not that I don't see stars on the horizon. Distorted through the jitters, ocular oscillation. But I see them.

re: invest your money wisely

if you want to spend your old age in something

a step above a coldwater flat in st. pete

the most important thing about being a step up

is your view on the people below because

without that, where have you arrived?

no, none of those suits make you look

dynamic and resourceful, and the green cotton

might make a great haiku but, you know

kung fu, you know where your opposing drone

is going to move the bishop, you know

there's no point wasting time

step to me punk 

and you're gonna get a beating

generic crunk rap

is the classical music of the future

i don't know quite how to feel about that

so i laugh, imagining the novelty of

geezers in coldwater flats harvesting

carbon-based energy, downloading television

(crichton was a pessimist

he never saw the use for a greenhouse)

tundra will be an ancient relic

like andy warhol

and i didn't build the orange bridge

but i drove a car over the orange bridge

so many times, sinful times, good times

and my consumption motivated those

people to build the orange bridge

so you can thank me for that

and my contribution to evolution

is to slough off survival

yes, i'm the omniscient plant

the lotus eaten, i don't care

i don't even rock, i'm pawn scum

punk scuzz with an overgrown hawk

and nothing to sell

i won't fight for higher ground

i’ll kill myself before i kill you

that's the hippie craque guarantee

when the melting glaciers drown the orange bridge

i give up

i give up on humanity, the orange bridge

necessary evil

last autumn

i somehow wound up with a zastrozzi complex
things converged:
psyche, diet, configuration, social situation
in such a way as to make me relate
to the guilt-stricken zastrozzi
tortured with the obligation of balancing the scales
with vengeance
righteous vengeance naturally
if you’re going to do something
do it right, cut that loser Victor into
32 pieces of equal size
but even evil for the sake of evil
yes real red-blooded, full-bodied evil
to avoid the saccharine hell of the
imbalanced, sick, pleasantly vague facsimile of reality

somehow i could relate to that imperative perfectly
when happiness was mania, everything ill-gotten, unearned
and there was a fundamental flaw in the function of feeling
life being fractally wrong
and getting wronger with every moment
and every thought

i wrote music for zastrozzi
the character theme wasn't near agitated enough
mere melancholy, though i guess it sounds like i feel
when i'm resigned to the toxicity of this
strip-mined wasteland of
gurgling information, tapwater, power lines, tumour vibes
fiber optic nursery rhymes, lenticular curriculums for
flying saucer apprenticeships and gaktastic nasal drips
post hocking knowledge for triumph of the willful delirium

today i still feel that evil is necessary
but i’ve managed to shrug off the burden
of being the necessary agent for carrying out this evil, me
the humble purple prosist from munchkin land
a kaleidoscopesmith
who would rather chill on the boards than start shit
and who would like to read poetry, and say what i like
about the poems i read
and not talk about what i don't like
cause that never motivates me anyway
when criticism is contrived and my natural
healthy flow of information is my dolce dynamics
mezzoforte, meandering, non-malicious
whatever decadence and complacency that contributes to
because someone else can be the asshole
the target for a divided puppet army
vintage allusion in ten years
golden oldey

I was absolutely crackers last night

If I said anything inappropriate, sorry. I wrote a lot of email. A lot of E mail... get it? Of course, this is one of those second guessing mornings. I love people - sometimes a little too much. Sometimes I go too far with the expression. Oh well, I suppose it's better than depression. Really, no one could possibly care how cool I am as much as I do myself. My self-imposed standards. Hey, if it's cool with you, it's cool with me.

Counting tree rings in the silicon forest. I guess I'm not totally hollowed out. I still have poetry. I have good friends, and good family. I cracked myself wide open last night. So things are messy. Don't know how to feel about it. Can't get a hold on the overcast aesthetic this morning. The crystal ship is being filled. But I'd rather chill at the harbor.

I definitely need to write something, a bulletin, navigate the 2nd through 7th guesses. Towers of glass and steel.

I might feel like hiding from the world for a while. The experiment went awry. I don't want to stick around and be blamed for the results. By that, I mean the experiment of being cracked. There's a Sonic on a space colony, solar fuel.

end program

Bury discipline. I can't stand my profile. Ground zero is black glass spray painted to look like a human life. Tendons and shards. Dirty lensgrinder. Quaint backwards password. Fragments, memories, ideas with fleeting meaning. No essay tonight. No composition. No composure. Can't be bothered to do anything. Even the song I still feel. Drowning in phlegm. Comp is being hacked to pieces at the chop shop. I'm being sold new parts by the mafia. They're going to install the bare minimum software, the rest is up to me.

How do they do it? The mafioso? It must be life force. Capitalist incentive. The kind that motivates me to quit the game. Like Cziffra motivated pianists to quit playing.

Again, I'm tempted to buy stock in the fentanyl vault. Again, a vacation, another tight circle, another tight headache. Can't break the cycle. Why does the tip keep me coming back? Crypto-zoology. Been sick so long it seems like health to me. What order can I arrange these sentences in so that they carry maximum weight? Can I create isotopes? Irradiate the forest?

Swept across the floor, snug as a bug on drugs. I can ignore the sweep of history if I have the will. The powder didn't kill me. Its function was dubious. Chemicals don't help. Religion is a joke. It's all a swoon now. A solvent swoon, solving nothing. I ran out of luck. Luck is a fortunate order of information. You can hop along the top of its sawtooth peaks until you fall off.

Now someone wants in. Habitual novelty. Nasal fixation. I want to sleep but I can't. I've slept too much already. More would be fine. Atrophy the lungs, accelerate the end.

Can't study music. I don't have the drive. I should accept that. And I should have known. It's moronic that I keep deluding myself - THIS time it'll be different. THIS time I'm motivated. THIS time is always a 13-hour Reich at best. Razed regime. For the best maybe. Who cares if my fingers can do this or that? What does it matter anyway?

I'm not used or abused. Cause I have no function. Wish I could hallucinate but I can't.

F lock. Steak and potatoes. Finger shuffle. When you threw us to the wolves we could see nowhere else for you to end up but hell. It was involuntary perception. It was mandatory. Material to work with. Fish flap in the oceanic abyss. I want to see the rubble above my head. But being epic would necessitate a fundamental flaw in the fabric of whatever the fuck the fabric is. Form, function, scroll lock. Redundant pyramid cap, sarcophagus of refuge. How many dead lands have I travelled? It will be different when it's different. Always compound. As long as it's compound. Grammar will dictate. Holodeck, end program. End program. END PROGRAM!

Myth

Grass, herbs and fruit-bearing trees are created.

Atlantis had nothing on Eden.

I'm a quivering High Strung carnivorous dichotomy. Narrow band of jittery frequencies. Munching on a pastry. We bring the myth back occasionally. Drinking coffee. Trying to reset the circadian rhythm. In the absense of the Pharoah. He was put out to pasture before he could put me to work.

Clear formatting. Clear formatting. If only it were that easy. The plywood village still stands, mocking me - children in their new playground - my old playground. Play things.