Thursday, 31 May 2012

Have 21st century kids. with a side of industrial plastics.

Part II (of 5/29 dirge)

twenty first century kids
might care less about
fallen by and by
numerically larger

this might really bother the mind
to consider
what 21st century kids
care about

tripping on what
one suspects
21st century kids
could care less 4...

i think i'll have a
hormonal imbalance today
and a side of
industrial plastics

then segue
through the
monoxide blue
toll takers
my own

21st century kids
 notwithstanding --
 it hurts! 
(life, presumably)

 i tried everything!
(so to escape, presumably)

 jailbreaking my android
flushing my gps signal
setting privacy controls to
three- U's:

i even called the omniscient-G
like china
and demanded
they map my island apart
from all other islands
and unique to my wishes

g unfortunately
used my call to nail my g.wallet
a past due amount
from some cell phone skins
i purchased last month

i am researching how it was
that china put the fear into
them, damn it!
 shit, i am using their search

i tried 2 sound convincing
 i will not let any fucker know my
longitude or latitude!

i tried visualizations
Taller than walls
my firewalls!

the bathroom glass
 looked disdainfully back

i tried desperately
pushing estate
 sales of
location history on c.list
burying all former permissions
 i could find on myself
poly-profile forensics

i found myself
 vacating gaps
writing over all zeros
in what formerly was known as my
free space

 how did they come up with
this shit!? 
who owns clouds? 
beside myself

i forced the author to
grant continuance on this
post, which was a bitch in hell
let me tell you

to b continued...

Tuesday, 29 May 2012

and on. and on. listen vs talk. take one. (a poem or dirge).

never ask no one 2 listen...
can you anymore?
everybody cannot!

is now akin to

so i say
so i say so.
sorry i say so violently

you and i
we know better!
(we know)
we know damn well
what we are

every smaller division of cutup
into front/rear differential
upper/lower case hills
acute/obtuse felt sense
of ten diff. type strata
of the now
formerly known as

even Ken Wilber
might struggle
to ID that level!

a certified hospital?
a medical institution?
on the top of pill hill!

every Darwinist
might concur defeat

every accomplished
identity thief might agree
not to 

every Tibetan monk might
lose interest quick...

strike a squirrel pose
with hands
 playing sunlight

every shadow
another possible animal

Platonic wet dream
on every french caveman


car insurance co.'s
 comic relief in form
fills the ad-days
the sad-days the
salad days...

every caesar dying every 
scandalous which way
and let me say:
oh manson-may-i?
helter-fuckin'-skelter! ha!

try and copywrite that,
manson.... son of man son.
son of cave man son
held for holy ransom...

its hell its hot out
its gonna be a fuckin' melter
liquid liner
every designer
fashion faux-pas
fuck you too!
hip nyc
coffee fuckin'
book mother
scratched with silver.


every hot hell day
in every goddamn way
the useless hopeless half of me
throws it out like a dirty
wish to wish upon
the wishful wishfullikins:

i'm a love you
i'm a love me
i'm a love the kids
i'm a love the vegans
i'm a join the heathens
i'm a crazy mad season!

(or somethin' like)

i'm back in court
for his and hers, moms and pops
and a backup set
guilty until innocent
i took for ya in the colon
charge of treason....

(which continues on and on like)

for none
and paradoxically
buddha blown
god drone
of patchouli
rose of

(can i buy a rhyme? and on)

my huguenot
my daughter
of american
drawn revolting like

(and some passion plea play like mrs dash
to bring it all back to sense again or somethin')

take me
im your pawn!
im your prawn yes your little
with a little head pink and shaved
kinda pub crawled public mauled
pubic stage of maturity
fuck the fuckin' reason!

the reason.

pop-n-park your popcorn
right here, bitches!
we got aluminum
on the

hike skirts
torn shirts
twisted lifestyles
twice fucked

come one
come every one

join my screw-2-the-loo
4:20 flightdeck

fantasy starved
adult video store

south of




Monday, 21 May 2012

latitude twisters in the rush of right now! (final-edit-lost)

Today it was may. Spring dropped the sun into our sky, and our sky turned a soft gentle blue with a royal lineage tarnished only by the eco-pollution puffs of refractory gray-whites slowly unraveling into the low voltage vacuum which inevitably picked up pace and pulled every living air being into the jetstream, like it or not, or one of a few jetstreams of which one had little choice to free agent out and demand a home.

Today it was may for K, and K had no home except the ones intangible. That is not to undermine or underemphasize the magnitude of having any home at all, for an intangible home was better than no home at all, mind you. You are minded. Domed. (not brained, for such would be a violence and violences were not tolerated in these parts). Nevermind. The mind is being pulled into never. Not ever. Never.

This is a bad happenstance which occasions K today. Today in May. K is off to one side of K. Witnessing K (by the way). Thank god-dieu merci. For this ability allowed for one to see one coming or going, but better yet to anticipate both good and bad happenstances of all flavors and types. Almost like your antivirus might scan an file before it dishes it into the hard drive bowl. If its rubbish, it gets the hook! 86! If its protein, it gets put into the bowl for electronic digestion.

An opening. An ending, yet a commencement and thus a paradox like how you feel conflicted on your day of graduation of any sort, kind, ritual. Well, that was how K felt. How K described the feeling. Or would if asked or invited or begged to do so. She would comply. (Unless the affiliation were of the sour apple kind of vine). K considers herself of highest caliber. Meaning honest in practice not nature. Meaning benevolent in an empathic, compassionate kind of way. Definitely not elite or better than you. Certainly not morally positioned to look down upon others (unless others happened to be sociopaths or murderers).

Anyway, pretty harmless, that K. Much less turbulent than the jetstream pulling all matter without discrimination into its high velocity air channels. Like latitude twisters, some said. Others saw them predominantly as helpful aeration and circulatory organs of the sphere on axis spin semi-tilt, in otherwise fixed or non-variable predictability, in any given span of thousand or couple few thousand annuals. Clearly their was tension and disagreement among inhabitants of imperfect sphere, as to the effectiveness of naturally arising streams of fast moving air kept close by force of gravity and others.

katya by kalikila.
Of course, dark matter was a whole new wax ball with a potential core of life-altering elements yet unknown origin and interaction or exposure to said atmosphere. So jetstreams were left for farmers and their almanacs. Some of which were now read on e-machines rather than off parchment. Trees everywhere breathed a collective sigh of relief, and converged to determine how to best express gratitude to technologies developed to save their skin. Literally.

All of which was critical to K. And K now knew what once she had no gratitude for herself. Having been ignorant once. Only once. Only once per life lived. Who K was before and after this sunny may day, meaning today, may be relevant and could be referenced (if queried). However, contextually, materially, tangibly manifest and smelled, tasted, felt, seen, heard, and interacted with.... before and aftertimes were faded out to the spotlight of the magic of the beauty of the undenying impartiality and potential immeasurable adrenaline rush of right now.

Author notes: Unfortunately I lost an hour and a half of complicated editing of this piece, as my hotspot went down because my nexus lost power... so in this rare occasion, i have decided to post the barebones piece at its last saved point, which gets the idea across and maybe the feeling, but is not whole by any means. I wont be re-finishing this. 

Friday, 11 May 2012

may eleven, twenty twelve. more thoughts on NH.

 Where there are trees, there are fires. Alot of controlled fires in the pine forests of NH. Most of which were smokeouts safely wrapped behind the sternum and tangential to the sacs at the ends of networks that make up the lungs. Alot of lungs in a state of recycle from a quarter century of casual freerolling tobacco pinners, ritual made mornings to calm the whole organism mental and physical, for each and every slightly unpredictable afternoon of attention and presence toward the community here  understood as having slid off benchmarks long since established and become landmarks. Like pine become oak. Hardened to dead solid. Respected like a wall. Not respected so much as a known entity and spoken of as such. Like goddamn it! I accidentally ran the snowplow dead set into the old Oak tree lee side of Smith's rock! Everyone would know what ya meant when you said such. Locally.

The young families of the lakes region NH who sourced locally, were typically well-educated (though often self-educated), working class in nature (with varying degrees of industriousness), lightly scarred by nuclear family proclivities toward violence and insensitivity....misogyny and sexualizing the burden of most women, but taken on and often handled the best a girl can handle trauma. The children were always loved except when they were not. But usually somebody could love each and every child, if that child was not in some isolative place. Men and sons and brothers were still likely in the taking up of arms of diverse typology (anything according to what one could reasonably within the law beg steal borrow or finance out for themselves) when any issue become too emotional or overwhelming to be handled well (settled). Often a family affair of long running depth could end up getting beat back down to size. Most did not prefer this way, however it ran in the blood of many. And so was manifest. Often against the wishes of atleast one pacifist in any family system tied into the Ten (what i call the greater systemics).

Meaning the community and the families that made up the community, was represented by the Ten. Ten being that simple way of moving a decimal point to quickly comprehend larger mathematics by scale. Taught commonly in schools in twenty-first century USA. So plumbers, truckers, traffickers of goods, fences, barbacks, yoga studio owners, microbrew entrepreuners, corner store clerks, cashiers, DIY loan lenders, DIY in home thievery, used car saleswomen, children as young as probably three years old, or as old as forty-five just learning the rudimentary trick. Just push and pull that little black type point in and out the fold, depending on how you are working or manipulatin' numbers, or gettin' manipulated at any given juncture... The lesson of the Ten was a lesson worth learning to most in this socio-economic strata of the country, and worth a few precious moments of what's left of anyones attention span, one would think.

And most everyone did. Except some weren't done being ignorant. Some were overly attached to their Ritalin and or their ADHD or ADD diagnoses. Which was also fine. A choice. And some chose to judge them, but mostly did not. For Ritalin was a widespread panacea to disobedient and otherwise non -compliant kids of the eighties. Some weren't done conning. The others weren't done being conned.

The transactional nature of all human affairs inevitably led to the two aforementioned encampments becoming more or less prominent. Could be as simple as changing bills with a stranger. Here's a twenty for your two tens. A crisp twenty for two old hamiltons. You gotta feel good about that. Hamilton wasn't much to write home about. Certainly no Franklin! No Lincoln. No Clinton. No Roosevelt. In fact, he might just barely resemble a Romney on a cloudy humid poor excuse for a summer afternoon in Wolfeboro, NH.  Romney with an inedible scaleback sunfish on his hook flopping to be released. Romney with a post elect scowl possibly, and straps from the lawn furniture on the dock, imprinted on his back from the weight of him. After an unbearably cold dawn swim. With a bodyguard trying his hardest to just fade into the shadow of a fiberglass laminated bow of an antique wooden campaign cruiser at the bottom of a pencilled in expense account list, waterlogged at the base of the  inboard cover, in that uncomfortable place where one would hope to be able to fittingly sum it all up: where the rubber meets the road! But the road is a lake and not a road, and so casts off the baseboards like driftwood-- but not like driftwood because its not. Maybe a liberal feeling in the atmosphere. Or just a reflection of a mormon element introduced into a state less familiar to mormonism, thus marginalizing the scene. Yes it can get complicated if you stray far from the Ten.

So here you have you with your crisp bill, the Dub,  the double dime, the twenty.  You who may not be done getting conned, and may or may not know it. Or may be an innocent victim. Or an innocent so-called victim who chooses not to be a victim because money is in this case not an object or at least not renting any extra time or leasing any space in your head.

So a real unaffected wise man or woman, according at least to one opinion (if maybe your own, still viable, still counts, like following your own page or blog, for instance). Not perhaps worthy of a half minute of choice words around anybody's dinner table or business meeting. But still extant in the moment. Man and bill. Bill and man. Putting aside all accessories however vital, from cigar cutters to vistaprint business cards to lobster bib tucked away in a tourist destination mariner's rescue kit of some disgusting sort, conceived of and put together by a few frozen asses around a carved out fish hole in the New Hampshire deepfreeze winter, probably a couple twelve-packs into a Meister-Brau and waiting too long for the bass to bite, and not much longer than it takes to jot down somewhere the rudimentary idea to help carve holes into the tourists fannypacks the following summer, as locals are obliged and certainly licensed to do...

Short of theft and long on cute lake crap out of towners hauled home for some goddamn reason no one up there would ever care to know. Nor dare to report. God forbid any such nonsense be found on their person. A great bellyaching hurt would be put upon them, this was certain. For which they would offer thanks. To keep them tried and local true. A kinda purification ritual, no doubt....
Coming back to the twenty dollar bill, the exchange, the con and the conned, and the rest. So crisp it seems counterfeit somehow, the twenty. Like an overstarched shirt collar. Or many, for that matter. Or nothing but starch, hold the collar, light on the shirt. Its own inertia could not be expressed like that, if the one describing the scene actually expected to be a credible witness... unless they were absentee from the class. Or masterful at masking and misrepresentation, which in itself sounds suspicious if not malicious. So?

So here in NH, a great land and loved!! We will have the freedom. The choice to stop and stop at once, no lollygagging about in this soup of crap words (not if you hope to have any kind of decency or respect in this land, okay). Seriously. Wake up. Wake the fuck up. Pretenders stop pretending. Locals suffer and love and work. Work and suffer and love. Tourists tour. Politicians pull up camp for a while. Locals tend to their homes need tending. And charge a prized inflated rate, for sure. And spend the extra on fudge at the fudge shop. And earmuffs and gloves and salt for the winter. Yes. This is how it is done. And no one comes in and does it any different, at least not without any success in effecting change. Not over the long haul. Well...that kind of thing would certainly be rare and not well remembered, by most. Possibly lost in the pines, held out on the mournful chord of any loon any august late night, or june. Possibly held tight and together in the rational of the Ten, or anysomesuchconcept that approaches what the writer efforted to convey, with all the best of intentions. With love for the NH people and land and lakes and all. amen. 

Wednesday, 2 May 2012

86 the tv. installment #2

The negative ionic charge of the failed experiment within an experiment, gave way to a ripple of change from the laboratory through the sub-basement floors, up out through the vents in the concrete, then surrounded the campus and trekked out into the lungs of the populace,  then filtered out back into words which found their way back to the auditors of electric company utilities boardroom discussion of routine adjustments on the graphic equalizer of city lighting.

The postmortem of the day was to follow said discussion. Which details looking back upon any error of operations of anyutility, anywhere. Postmortem. To see what could have been done differently to prevent the death (mortem). Postmortem being the ideal way to accomplish an teaching moment, or a moment like sixties commune idyllic living experiments, or an gathering with L.Ron. Hubbard in the easy way he seemed to have to soothe the collective conscious into a smooth groove. Or any other charismatic, for that matter. Postmortem, because the course has completed its damage, and therefore all passions toward choices and possibilities dissipate. So people can hear people and not talk over them and such. Fascinating. Isn't it? I could go on. But I think I killed it.

Funding cannot be left out of the conversation, if anyone were to be taking anyone else seriously. If anyone were to be on the take. Seriously. Someone must be, or else there is a  vacuum. But the place isn't that clean? I wouldn't sit on the carpet if I had two broken legs. Unless of course, we were on the ever so critical topic of FUNDS. Funding fills all vacuums anyway. We depend upon it like fossil fuels. We know we oughta get away from it, far away, but we cannot.

The fuckin' funding! In that one location on the web which cannot ever be redesigned. For it falls into that central place, potent yet interdependent and interconnected to all threads. Yeah. Like intel or google or apple or microsoft. The proprietary stuff cannot not be leased in order to achieve equilibrium. One can try. One can hope. One can pray. But the spider's gonna be pretty pissed off to come home and find a bare spot of air, then drop down on a mainline thread to the mass of useless webbing on the forest floor.

He's gonna find ya, the spider, and shoot ya full of poison for what ya did. Not looking after the funding. Ya. It's not what you wanna think about most of the time, for sure, you wanna believe your here creating and bursting with energy! (which you very well may be) However do not make the mistake and for a minute block out the true nature of your embedded link to the funding. Try and respect it, honor it, and don't keep all your efforts locked in a chest for no one to share in. (Remember, fun is part of funding). Not if you want to be true to the nature of the life in the world that is yours and mine and ours. Nah, believe me, I wanted to see things that way. I tried to inflict upon myself some kind of personal self and only self-dependency for years. In Chicago. But I could not ever shake it, the funds, the virtual branded image and reality of the funds.

Shit, I am basically talking about the paper chase. USA inner city style.  Those who try to escape this, will be forever accosted by the undeniable truth -- until tears and salt water are all that is left of us. Not unlike water released from a sponge, this process. Which happened THERE!  in that boardroom during the postmortem, when the negative ionic charge wrapped itself around the attendees, the suits, those undeniably in lockstep with one lobby or another.

The resulting counterpunch was like an active element come to life. Most immediate! A positive reinstatement of charge returned from the electric company grid through wire to linked wires hung by telephone pole that.... oh fuck it all! So the TV got turned on again!

That is all that happened. I had no control over it, I swear. And no. I do not want to get into a postmortem on the subject.