Molecules On A Page

 The ink doesn’t think.

There has to be something on the other

end of that ink that thinks, organic

molecules firm enough to hold a pen

or brush. There has to be something other

than the firm grip that moves the ink.

What moves the ink? What moves the mover?

Simple complexity of organic molecules where

did they come from in the first place anyway

what happens when the pen runs out of ink?

Cult

Totalitarian (            )s are cults…

any group, large or small, that believes

in off the wall

acts off the wall

IS off the wall!

We could make a list,

or we could just

listen to the comedians. 

Where’s George Carlin?

But you got yer big cults,

Catholic Church,

Uniparty, 

CCCP,

more or less worshipped.

Why that should be 

in the USA is beyond me.

Note to my readers

 I don’t know who you are. 

In October, I had thirty five thousand hits….

most were from Singapore…..? 

It feels like speaking in a cave and hearing 

a very loud echo.

My world is crumbling like the world is.

It’s hard to know who’s going to be dust first,

or which poem will be the last.

One will be. 

All I’m saying is carpe diem.

All I’m saying is you don’t have to be 

quick to live here, but, it’s over.

All I’m saying is the truth is the only thing

that can set you free.

All I’m saying is, if you’re out there somewhere,

send money.

Taking A Big Lead Off Of First Base

Anticipating the pitcher´s next move,

or, in this case, preparing for death,

the same as reaching second base.

 

Timing is everything, to be ready for the

unanticipated spontaneous moment

when the pitcher lets go,

when the doctor gives the prognosis,

when you take the last step.

 

Having a mind steeped in baseball and

meditation,

in that I got to first base,

second is not just a dream.

Time Lapse

On the wide screen

history in rapid summary

rise and fall of civilizations

in a couple of minutes…the

Plague through the industrial

revolution, the rise of cities,

industries, pollution, overcrowding,

a few robots appear in the crowd

increasing in number exponentially.

Suddenly, there are no more people

in an urban landscape

that never changes.

Another Roadside Sideshow Distraction Daydream

 

Rusty Gash was not just her stage name.

Her nickname was Rusty because she was

an inveterate Tomboy. Her name was really

Shirley, and I´m not kidding. Gash came along

after she began her career as an ecdysiast.

She came up with the name, and customers

seemed to remember. She was the original

glam-rock stripper. She could out geek Alice

Cooper, and how she mixed that with

eroticism was downright special. I can´t go into

details until I get the rights to show the video.

 

Shirley had two distinct characters: Rusty the

entertainer and as a waitress at an established

diner. Both were cliches and she enjoyed

playing both roles equally. The people that

knew her didn't really know her. What was

she doing in the basement of her brownstone?

Cooking drugs? Making I.E.Ds? Digging an

underground tunnel system…(those were all

the rage these days in all the urban

no-mans´-lands)

 

The apartment she lived in looked out the

back to a backyard that had four buildings that

cloistered the area. Shirley could look into the

windows of her neighbors´ apartments if their

shades weren't drawn and sometimes, at night,

she turned off the lights in her apartment and

look out at her neighbors to see what they might

be up to. She would do this when she took

breaks from her work in the basement.

 

And how her life ties all together is beyond me.

 

Pasolini

 Pier Pasolini´s crusade to expose the deep state in the 1950´s

got him killed. The truths he exposed in his last film, ¨Salo¨,

similar to the truths Kubric portrayed in his last movie, ¨Eyes

Wide Shut¨, about the perversion of the ruling class, was too

much for them.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XzVIs3vkVsE&t=163s

Just Another Mystery

 

Lieutenant Kershaw was the first detective to

arrive at the crime scene, which had been taped

off and guarded by patrolmen. The crime scene

was an old mansion, or, rather, what was left

of one. The body that had been found was in a

wing of the building that had been more or less

maintained. Half the building was starting to rot

and fall down. It was separated from the rest by

doors or heavy plastic curtains where there were

no doors. Downstairs in a corner of the good side

of the mansion was a study that was in and had

been in use for quite some years. It had an old

brocade sofa, a roll top desk, a stuffed chair and

a leather upholstered chair. There was a coffee

table in front of the sofa, littered with use. There

was a body on the antique Persian rug. The color

of the rug running together with the pool of dried

blood seemed to compliment each other.

 

The top five reasons people who wanted to kill

each other and did so, Krenshaw knew, were:

1.Greed 2. Jealousy 3.Jealousy

4.Jealousy and 5.Jealousy,

So, once he eliminated greed as a motive, he

knew where to look next. There was a gun next

to his right hand and the hole in his head was still

oozing blood slowly. Whether he killed himself or

it was made to look like he did, he knew he could

move on from number one.

Bar Scene Z-Bar

 

 

¨Barmey,¨ said Nick, the bartender,

nodding his head towards the front door, at

the gent that had just come in out of the rain.

¨What, you know the guy?¨

¨No. I just got a sense for these things…who´s

coming in that door that could be trouble.¨

The man who had come in, was nicely dressed

in a grey suit and raincoat, folding his umbrella.

There were maybe twenty people in the bar,

which was pretty busy for two in the afternoon.

Five people at a table at the side wall were

celebrating something…their jobs…some

nefarious plot to take down city hall or steal

from a union…it was hard to tell. A few regulars

sat like life-like mannequins at the bar. Nick

worked alone. Always had.

The man in the grey suit sat alone at a table.

He sat upright, his hands clasped on the table,

looking straight ahead.

¨What about him? He looks OK to me.¨

¨Grey suit?¨ said Nick and smiled conspiratorially.

¨One only wears a suit like that at Ascot or if you

are going to a funeral. He´s up to something. He´s

just here now because he´s waiting  and doesn't

want to be seen yet...wherever he´s going.¨

¨You get all that from just looking at him? It

sounds as if you know him.¨

 

¨I do. He´s my brother.¨

¨Whaaaaaaaat?¨

 

¨Yes. He had an accident, has amnesia, and has

a completely different, new life. He lives in the

same neighborhood he used to, comes into this

bar like he did…but, he´s not the same person,

and he doesn't remember me. He´s a killer for

hire, I believe, at least, that´s what it seems like.

He doesn't talk to many people. We don't have

a relationship now, but it´s nice he comes around

once in a while and I can see him.¨

 

¨How do you know he's a serial killer?¨

 

Nick looked around.:  ¨The bodies?  No, I mean,

there are things you pick up on in my business.

Being a bartender is like being a detective: you´re

actually watching the crimes being plotted,

committed, and discussed in front of you. You have

to learn to listen what people are saying. Grey

suit will mind his business while he´s in here. Best

to not get in his way.¨

 

Mysterious Illusion

 

Aren´t they all? No, seriously, It was creepy when he

walked into the old man´s private man-cave and caught

the vibes of ancient machinations of complexity; old 

brass fittings, leather bound manuscripts, illuminated 

portfolios, a twenty foot long oaken table strewn with 

implements for various disciplines; writing, calligraphy, 

drawing, mapping. There were a few dusty floor lamps, 

several oversized chairs. The windows let in the light, but 

were smudged over, dirty, seemingly intentionally, adding 

to the pastel atmosphere.

 

There was nobody else there. He could hear doom

jazz on a player a few rooms away. A smoky haze in the 

room, a flat layer of cloud drifted four feet below the 

ceiling.  He felt a synesthesia, as if the smoke was the 

music…as  if the music was the flavor of the smoke, the 

atmosphere  of the room, a complete hologram of all 

sensations at once, bathed in sensation, perception of 

the quantum whole as any part of the sum.

 

¨Oh, really? Are You sure? Do you have any idea what 

you´re talking about?¨

 

¨Not really, but……..neither do they….

…just kidding. 

Of course I´m sure. I was there!!¨

Neo-Gnostic

 

My practice is going towards the light

wherever I see it shine

like a moth to a flame: proverbial,

constant reminders of the course to take,

like a pilgrim in an allegory: how did

they know what steps to make in what

direction except for the heat of the heart,

knowing right from wrong,

the truth which is the light,

which they say is the Way,

but I wouldn´t know because

I´m not really a Christian, you see.

I´m a Vajrayana Buddhist, in a way

almost Gnostic…¨God is love.¨

y´all.

The Universe Raises More Questions Than It Answers

 

It certainly raises those that ask the questions.

If you have intelligence, it asks questions…but why?

That´s part of the nature of intelligence?

¨Life energy asks questions.¨      (1974)

It´s not the same as machine learning.

What makes us think we can find the answers we´re

looking for?

When our minds are inseparable from the universe,

what questions could possibly arise?

There´s nothing but the ephemeral arising and

subsiding of phenomenon from fecund emptiness.

¨NOW You tell me?¨

 

This Year The Darwin Award Goes To:

 Everyone who took the Covid vaccine.

All Sound Is Music

 

Asserted by Varese, Cage, Satie, Eno,

Buddha, who said all sound is mantra,

meaning music at the quantum level.

Zappa, who said the universe is a single

note; why not? Nobody knows for sure.

Might as well could have been.

 

I´d rather sing than speak from now on,

as if all the world was a musical farce,

which it is. It´s not the right era to be such

an oddball….maybe Paris in the Gilded Age,

me and Jarry cutting capers in the street.

 

¨Timing is everything.¨ the Quantum Guru

Serial Killing As Therapy

 

I don´t drink anymore, so, occasionally, I go

out and kill a few people. Killing serves the

same purpose as drinking, but is directed

outward rather than inward. It feels much

more healthy to me.

 

I don´t get a sexual or power rush out of

killing. It does seem to assuage my anger

at our stupid society and the stupid people

running it, which is, without the killing,

uncontrollable. The people I kill aren´t the

people I´m furious with. Those are mostly

politicians, who are far too visible. I have to

be content with insurance salesmen if I can

get them. As far as the people I kill goes, I

don´t worry about them. They were going to 

die anyway, and should have been expecting 

it. Over time, my blood lust seems to be 

diminishing, so the therapy seems to

be working.

And I thought it up all by myself!

My only question is can I get a following like

Jane Fonda´s Workout?

The Clay Tablets Of Vladichevsky: A Mystery Koan

 

He walked into the tea house in Odessa, the same

one where he had lost big playing Texas Hold ´Em  

twenty years ago. A strata of smoke floats in the air

about three feet from the ceiling. The moka/opium

perfume greets his nostrils like an old lover. It looks

like even the same people are there…shoremen

coats, pipes and long whiskers, drinking their steins

of beer…a few middle aged ladies who might be there

for any number of reasons…a old man in a corner,

book cased by two thugs…the eternal domino players.

 

He sat at a table, ordered whisky and majoun and

sucked in the Satie atmosphere…pre industrial (hell,

pre electrical!) sounds of animals, rope tightening,

water slapping the shore, creak of wagons, human

noises.

 

He was very close to the war. Sometimes he saw

distant lights of bombs going off at night from his

hotel window. He was there to collect something

of value to his team. It was all very spy like. What

he was involved with was known only to him and

his superior. He was a first time spy, a sleeper, not

know to the other side for any activity. He was a

¨burner¨….use once and throw away. That was

fine with him.

 

The location was perfect…old town, narrow dark

streets and alleys that curved and branched

continuously…hard to follow someone and easy

to get lost. He didn´t know whom he was waiting

for, or how they´d recognize him. That wasn´t his

problem. He had no problem just then. He just had

to sit and wait.

 

An old white lady came into the café, slowly, with

several bags of various descriptions and walked

over to his table.

 

¨Oh, young man, do you think that I could share

your table with you?  I´m a bit tired of walking.¨

she said, very grandmotherly like.

 

¨Certainly, please do. So, what is a sophisticated

older lady like you doing in this humble coffee

spot?¨

 

The old lady leans over and whispers in Jake´s

ear in a surprisingly masculine voice:  ¨Take the

green bag. Then, I´ll leave.¨

 

The lady turns into grandma smiles again and

hands Jake (not his name) a green bag. She

then pretends to make small talk, looks at her

watch and goes ¨OH!¨ makes apologetic sounds

and slips out of the shoppe.

 

Jake picks up the bag, but doesn´t look in it.

Whatever is in it weighs a few pounds. He

doesn´t want to know what it is. All he knows

is he has to get on the plane to St. Petersburg

tomorrow to catch a military plane to Florida.

Higher Education Note

 

¨The ever growing bureaucracy devoted to diversity

recommends more time and energy on these issues.

The obvious lack of diversity, political diversity, is an

 issue which clearly affects their ability. to analyze

many issues and should be addressed....¨. Gutfeld 12/12/23

That statement by Fareed was awesome, correct,

and all that needed to be said about higher education

 in the USA. They´re going to have to reboot at some point.

Loved the comment that Hahvard´s president is like Urkel!

Hahvard represents the entire Chinese higher education

system infiltration. Problem is.....many of the older rich

elites that went to those institutions are Communists who

allowed (helped?) this to happen. Joe McCarthy was right.

Too bad he had to be so loud and alone and drunk.

World Events Note

 

It´s amazing to me that Israel is fighting for freedom

...of the world, really, while at the same time being a

vital locus of the deep state (Mossad) trying to control

the USA. I don´t get how that works. Maybe it´s like the

Rothschilds; playing and profiting from both sides of a

conflict. Runs in the blood, I guess.

Any Day Is Good If You´re Dead

 

Sometimes the title only is enough said, but,

anyway, not much to say when you´re dead,

not affected by anything. We´re talking about

your life, after which, and here´s the question:
does it cease to matter?

 

Does it matter if we´re remembered, have a

plaque, a statue, a street, fifty children to

our name?  Not if we´re dead?

 

Is a snapshot of life the same degree of

separation from life as death is to a snapshot? 

On a scale of life to death, is a snapshot somewhere

in the middle? Is there a sliding scale somewhere

that shows you how alive you are? Just a question

like so many other things our parents didn´t tell us.

But we shouldn´t blame them because 

they only believed what they were told. 

Shoot The Reader

 

What else could Rimbaud, Burroughs, DeQuincy, Dylan

have done

when faced

with a culture

cultivated in the dark

of self aggrandizement?

Prevert saw some of them.

 

Classicism was fine when you had a semi-educated,

semi-sophisticated class of citizens in a somewhat

stable political atmosphere who would buy that crap.

 

Artists, who are always prophets, saw what was

coming as the first World War. The poetry of Yeats

and Elliot, the Dadaists and the Cubists and the

Surrealists were all showing the ocean recede

before the great tidal wave of world wars.

At least, that´s the way the Quantum Mages see it.

 

So, shoot the reader.

The reader must die

and be reborn

into openness.

The Fairy Feller´s Masterstroke

 

It´s a painting done by a lunatic…

….look it up https://artsandculture.google.com

/asset/the-fairy-feller-s-master-stroke

/6AGSqNzESPSSYw?hl=en-GB.

 

The point being………..

it only takes one stroke

one look,

one word,

one gesture,

one realization,

one recognition,

to change everything.

Timescape

 

Frank was a top notch timescape artist. He could create

a forties noir bar, a Roman feast, or a picnic watching the

first battle of Bull Run with equal aplomb. Virtual reality

had evolved so far that you could be anywhere at any era

you wanted, as long as you had the money, of course.

Now, the idle rich would never be bored.

 

The other ¨people¨ in the timescape, aside from invited

guests were, autonomous A.I.s, so the illusion of reality

was complete. One could input level of difficulty as well

as other qualities such as ¨romance¨ or ¨intrigue¨ to 

nudge the story line in a certain direction. Unlike in 

Neuromancer, where the clients were immobilized for 

their emersion, the timescape hardware was a chip 

(of course) implanted in the brain. The client was free 

to move around as he/she wished. Timescape used the 

existing environment and made it seem like somewhere 

else. A door would remain a door so one could function. 

Where the door was, what era, and where it led was

the magic of Timescape.

Dimensions

 

We perceive three dimensions and see

the consequences of a fourth. That´s all

the dimensions we seem to need to survive

and evolve, and isn´t it hard enough to keep

things straight having just those?

 

You want more?

Sure you do.

That´s why we took LSD.

 

Why does the brain function at a fraction of

its capacity?

Is it so you don´t hurt yourself…and others?

Isn´t there plenty of room to grow into 

if you only knew how?

 

Where else would other dimensions be except

in your mind?

Isn´t that where the ones we have are now?

Isn´t that what the meditators and yogis

discovered thousands of year ago?

Isn´t that what the Zen Master is pointing to

when he goes:  ¨Mu!¨.  or,  ¨Kwatzi¨.

 

It´s like Kurt V´s story where Martians land

on a farm, see the barn is on fire, run to the

front door of the house to warn the people.

When the farmer comes to the door, the

Martians, who communicate by farting and

tap dancing, are doing that frantically. The

farmer grabs his shotgun by the door

and shoots them.  Many people are like that

farmer about most things to which they´re 

not accustomed.

 

¨You ain´t gonna learn what you don´t

wanna know.¨. Gerry Garcia