Wednesday, November 23, 2011

Saturday, November 19, 2011

An Unprecedented Dilemma, A Simple Solution

We as Americans today face an unprecedented challenge.  For all of the lifestyle which surrounds us and was promised to liberate us from the degredations of animalistic challenges has become a thin, yet intricately webbed net designed specifically to demean and entrap the lives we might live.  For the promise of  ease we have allowed the slow moving political mechanisms of our supposed democracy to become so vastly complicated, that they can only be unwound and dominated by intricate liars and those with a desire only to dominate their fellow man.  For the promise of safety we have allowed the officers of our great nation to become highly militarized, heavily armed, and given them the ability to lie, cheat, and steal as badly or worse as the thugs we hoped they would arrest and remove from the public sector.

But even these glaring, seemingly irrevocable issues are naught when compared to the growing troll, the consumerist capitalism which is rising to eat alive not only the populace, but the soul and meaning of our great nation.  Step by step and day by day, a sense of what was once wonder at machination and items which add to the "ease of life" has developed into a nasty and bitter sense of entitlement and an addiction to resources like petroleum, corn and all its derrivatives, and the power to control our own existence in a world where the laws of nature say: "That will never be possible."  In a sense, the laws of capitalism, which were once supposed to allow the darwinist nature of our species to coincide with its monatary system, have replaced those same governing principles.  They have created a world where stupidity is rewarded, and originality is punished harshly.  People have changed the meanings of words so basic, like "person" to include corporations and the capital they bring.  We are, no longer slowly, loosing every bit of humanity we once hoped to uphold with ideals like liberty and justice.

That is the complaint, that is the issue facing us, that our government, our monatary system, and the people supposed to protect us all together and singly desire to dominate and enslave us for the benefit of themselves.  What can the American do?  What can individuals hope to accomplish in the meatgrinder that has been produced for the benefit of few and the dominion of many?  The answer is simple, and to all but a few, frightening.

Every day I see them, men that can still be considered men, and women who can still be considered women.  Those whom wake and work.  They walk the streets and catch the public transportations to their existences which the wealthy and powerful would call meaningless or demeaningly simple.  Those people who still work with their hands, who build something in their day, who still strive to better their world instead of profiting from the work of those "beneath" them must be emulated by all of us.  The days of calling "middle management" a career are over!  Commanding and harnessing the work of others is not a job, unless you produce proficiency and provide for an environment more conducive to excellence.  Corporations must be downsized, the overbearing size and influence of places like Target, Haliburton, etc. is a destructive and damaging element of our society.  America must return to the workforce, and produce!  Instead of outsourcing all actual labor and production to less affluent cultures. (That is why the economies of places like China are dominating our own).

The political sector must change as well.  The represenative democracy that has evolved into the monstrous aristocracy we have today must be removed.  Democracy must be restored, in absolute!  So that the voice and vote of every last american actually carries the weight it should always have.  The more complex a system is, the more prone to failure it is, and our system is dominated and controlled by those failures.  Lobbying must be abolished as a crime, if we are to survive this economically turmultuous time.  The rich must be stopped from comitting actions which to them may seem like clever ways of producing more income, but to the poor are considered acts of economic warfare.

Clairvoyant

Cards cascade across parquet
floor, a simple invitation
to a hymnal, or perhaps a beheading,
shadows quivering into skin within
shifting peripheral visions.

Slip into the scenery
slowly, as if hollowed and hovering
wholly towards some historical
unknown. A duvet groans,
garrulous as collective
unconscious, as the seas in which
we drown our conscience. Scylla
and Charybdis huddle in the metaphorical
floorboards for warmth, their memory
fading in apathetic future. Atheistic
tunes flutter in the distance, afloat
in Technicolor madness, in the striations
of rabid persistence. Listen, the spaces
between us have shifted. We are not

what we present to ourselves
pillowside, nor the reedsongs
sung steadily beneath our lies.

Monday, November 7, 2011

Flatiron

Our pupils sketched
the horizon-lines,
the somnolent zig-zag
of jagged rock
and waning day –
alighting upon
& abandoning
all the half-starved
epiphanies

(which remained in
their original packaging
as if cardboard and plastic

could become
a softer kind
of love,
a sturdier sort
of faith. )

The night taught us
more than patience.

Saturday, November 5, 2011

Back from the Snow

Stumble Frames #11

Wake up
at a salt flat
and touch the ground-sky

hold clouds
and earth-sea

salt caked
into snow-covered mountains

watch as the water moves
from green spring
to white stasis

One lake was a gift
from the cave-god to
another,
a graveyard
for old trees

the lake was a piece of
a goddess' mirror
108 pieces in total

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Fire on the Wire Wraps



Treble Clef:  The Ewer
The first of the new wire wrapping endeavors which have been occupying a vast portion of my artistic effort is the result of solid luck and rock finding.  My girlfriend and several others, (including my parents after a trip to Santa Fe) have all contributed dozens of crystals to a collection which has a fantastic variety of both geometry, shape, size, color, and purity.

Amethyst Micah
This extremely fragile piece of Micah was wrapped solely with the intent of adding a slight measure of structural integrity to the crystal which has some linear stability, but easily flakes off even with the use of fingernails.  The finished result is sound enough to act as either key-chain or pendant.

Update: Finished With the Monochromatic Man

Its taken quite a while, but I finally finished my latest piece of brushwork.  Given my involvement in murals, and the start up of my own wire-wrapping pastime, this piece sort of fell to the wayside.  However, my brother and his department at the Colorado School of Mines showed considerable interest, and have decided to hang the piece in the new building and robotics lab on campus there.  The figure has been finished, and the form holds three dimensions, also significant detail added on the head.  Final info: "New Creation," 48" x 36", Acrylic on Canvas.

Friday, October 14, 2011

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Summer '11

Alright guys, I've been somewhat negligent and have left the blog to the devices of others for some time now for a variety of reasons.  The first most being that I have been incredibly occupied with a plethora of tasks including working at the liquor store, volunteering time at the FOE 215, and spending time with my new girlfriend.  However, I have been working hard on all fronts on creative endeavors including wire wrapping, mural painting, introductions to both tattooing and glassblowing, and more to come.  Here is some of the stuff from the end of the summer, enjoy.


The Elephant :



 The Butterfly:

This was the first real wire wrapping piece I worked on, and I am extremely proud of the clasp on it, as well as the durability of the piece.  The finished product is 5"x3" and made of copper, brass, and pewter bead.




The Dragonfly:

I find that I am both obsessed and fascinated by both the fidgeted compulsiveness of the activity of making jewelry and the idea of creating objects that resemble insects.  This is derived from the near ineffectual manner with witch we regard insects.  Wearing one around the neck to me is almost as if to say, "look at what good fortune has found me." both in the capturing of the insect, and in the sense of "look at the productivity of my ecosystem to yield such a beautiful item."  Final product: 4"x3"



The Room:

Last but not least is the 8'x13' wall of my friend Sierra Weast's bedroom which has been generously donated for my artistic perrogotive.  I started only with the idea behind a dream catcher, wanting to produce dreams of magnitude and complexity, and progress has been slow, but we are approaching completion.

Friday, September 30, 2011

Widowed Scribe

The Widowed Scribe

Where are the wrinkled
forebears, the fabled pallbearers
playing Atlas with table-scrap castles,
those false rascals

of whom you coo and spew
paltry praise? You speak
in arcane phrase, your prior purpose pawned away.

Our lazy ramparts will not dry. It has been
days; the walls fashioned of gum and imitation
clay sag and shudder in the rain. You abstain
from raids to forge a future from the fallout,
but your recycled paste of ash and glass laughs
at its past, this last homage to eunuch ancestry
nothing but a failed retreat.
Weave me a revolution, son,
lay civilization at our feet.
We’ll flabbergast history
and filibuster empires
(hands tied behind our backs);

although you have tired of the torment
of triumph, our ascendant dynamics
will not relent – your strategies
slip across my pillow, and night-ready,
I empty pauper’s pockets & prince’s petticoats,
I’ll burn bridges and banknotes.
I leave my name engraved
on the throat of paler gods,
pausing to admire the slopes
of vowel and consonant,
the intrinsic arithmetics
of muscle and mercy.

I could drizzle diamond and jade
on the cloud-caught remains
of Father Time

(a celestial array of age spots
and varicose veins). If you will not

stay for me, then remember your able hands, marred
by history; reclaim those moonside coups you’d promised me -
all in vain.

For this, you taste the
shame of man’s fairy-tale fall.



A Messy Divorce

Hello chums, it's been awhile. I hope Boulder, the Gulch, Steuben's mountain town, and Alyssa's present location are all awesome at this present moment. If not, I'm sorry. I can't say Littletown has been awesome, that's why I've been away from Littletown and overseas in the UK and Amsterdam. But I'm back now and have a silly sarcastic piece to contribute. It's my take on the restaurant business and a possible answer to why the restaurant industry loves cocaine. Enjoy, I hope.

I could spot them right away. They were angry, pissed off. Talking in hushed voices about alimony and child support over their juicy, red steak and salad. But none of it was touched. The wife hadn’t even moved her silverware. The husband, he just waved his fork around, stabbing the air at every point he was trying to make. I knew this because I wanted to go on break. But I couldn’t because of these fucking squatters. That is, leaches who sit and hold a table and prevent other customers from giving me tips.  I had been watching over this table for almost an hour and the only thing that changed from when it had been set was the little puddles of red wine spreading across the absorbent white tablecloth. I mean, I knew this guy was leaving her, but she didn’t have to make a scene and drink two bottles. 1970 was a good year for cabernet sauvignon, so what if he was cheating on her? I didn’t care, as long as I got my break. Nothing tears me apart more than having a gram of nose candy and not snorting it. Finally Silver, the owner, sees me in my desperation and says I can take five. She has no idea I’m a user, I explained my twitching as a bladder problem.
Euphoria. That’s the only to describe the feeling that comes over me the moment after I rail a line. Euphoria, in the handicapped stall of the bathroom, Euphoria, with the diaper changing board down and my tips receipt rolled up. Too bad that poor sap with his fork couldn’t feel euphoria. Too bad waterworks with her wine couldn’t feel euphoria. Maybe I should’ve offered them a bump. I felt so powerful. I felt so perfect. Of course it felt dirty to finish a line on a baby changing table. The foul odor of the recent diaper change invaded my nose. But it didn’t matter because my nose was numb. The kind of numb a nose gets after the cold weather punishes it for an hour or two. We’re talking no feeling whatsoever. I couldn’t quit snuffing. This always happens, and I hate it when Silver notices. I told her I have allergies. She’ll believe anything.
So I walked back out of the bathroom and back to the bitching couple. The same fork was still as poignant as ever. The white table cloth was ever so blotted with red wine stains. At that point I seriously considered walking over and offering them a line each. They would feel better about their situation. After all, I hated them before, and still hated them just as much then, but I didn’t care. They would’ve looked at me like I was crazy if I had offered them relief. I would’ve lost my job over euphoria. But shouldn’t I look at them crazy? I know I was a deviant. But so was she, with her two near empty bottles of cabernet and tears, and he with his near empty soul and infidelity. 

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Foxfield Races

Sailboats skim the bruised
basins of my body, sickly
tender as silken stardom,
necessary as the tabloid travesties of modern
Americana which unfurl at our feet

while my pale skin still clings
like a wasp's nest to newfound
grass-stain scent. You've seen

logic bent backwards and sent
away on converted battlefield grounds.

The sporadic tempo of hooves
resonate through late morning:
a subtle vibration, native,
navigates through sloping
strata below as if unseen

racetrack cut through our well-
dressed flesh. The autumn wind
toys with ornate hats, short hemlines -
and Trickster returns to the landscape

with a bang, not a whimper;
with a slammed shot of dollar
whisky on crowded plastic table,
barely stable in southern heels.

We jerry-rig our showboat
motions with hands bound
behind our string-led spines. Alas,

you may find yourself anew,
twined in some vacant truth,
mired in the lawschool blues.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

First Writing in Rollingsville

Stumble Frames #10

Someone stands in the rain
I can't see their face but
I see an umbrella of rain

A surveillance camera watches
a stamp, that explains the Panopticon

Stars glide over carved mountains, our galaxy
small creek and vegetation beneath the Himalayas

A woman flies while playing the piano
or
reading a book
or
pouring a cup of tea

Red water covers broken streets
but a stranger walks like there are
people living happily on the moon

explorers walk underneath a tall Banyan Tree
but fall victim to orchids
and poison dart frogs

Ninja Spacemonkeys, Chapter 2: Spacemonkeys visit Rat Town

EPISODE II - Space Monkeys Visit Rat Town

A small bush held all of the chaos the crew of the ESS Consul could handle. Preliminary life scans were nil, the planet deserted. But, Sir Walter Scott did find an anomaly, a small pinion bush full of life.

They named it “Norvegicus.” The Spacemonkeys surveyed the planet. A topographical map of mind blistering proportions was made. Areas surrounding the small pinion bush were surveilled heavily. Daily comings and goings of the Rats were put on a note buried in an envelope deposited into a safe. The Spacemonkeys were dubious of the safety of the planet.

The fired up the Transmogrifier and taught some old cogs some new tricks. Gerard lived for two weeks in the rat-haven, a miniaturized weird ass monkey rat. Transmogricafation was an important tool the Spacemonkeys utilized; one part ninjitsu, one part varied optical sensors. Ninja secrets aside, it made a monkey look like a rat. Gerard described the bush,

The indiginnes are most kind. I’ve but been here a week, but I have found honor, justice, and joy in their hearts. They do inspire awe, these Rats. Though there be injustice in life they say it’s not thine fault, there is always a Rat below you. A most noble hand holds their chin up. Litle rat chins.”

Gerard met the captain in his quarters, snapping to attention. His monkey heels knocked together in a pleasing beat.

“What do you have to report, my good man, Gerard?”

“Captain, The Bush is quite large, five kilometres or so. Inside of that bush is a mixture of dogs, cats, firecrackers, and vestibules. Oh, and the ever present Rat.” Time puckered and rippled, evidence that somewhere in the past or the future, they went through a wormhole. The door of the captain’s chambers whooshed open, and in stepped a Rat.

“You!” yelled the rat, pointing ambiguously. “Thanks to you, we are doomed!” Then, The King Of Tomorrow fell over.

The Prologue

The ninja stuff was unnecessary, but crucial to their mission. To the Spacemonkeys, now disguised as twelve simple Rats bringing a supply of miniaturized bananas to the center of The Bush, stealth was of the essence. A rat might look that way to another who was approaching on the promenade, only to see a shadow. Thus they made their way into the center of The Bush, a teeming metropolis. Rats bartering over porcupines or their quills, trading bets on cats and dogs in the arena, albino rats selling spotted rats to black rats, and everyone making a pretty profit.

Through these tangled streets of the Bush the Spacemonkeys ventured, realizing that the rags they had seen on the outside of The Bush were only those of the lower classes and that as one went deeper, the threads of the denizens grew in quality with each step. A little ninja trickery, some pickpocketting, and a knife fight later, the Spacemonkeys stood in finery at the foot of a great castle.

A guard rat, a wicked mean rat by the look of him, held the entryway. Garbed entirely in black, he drew his sword upon the Spacemonkeyrats. “None shall pass.”

The crew of the ESS Consul were quick on the draw themselves, swords, scimitars, and katanas within easy reach. Paws held hilts, but Balthazar kept their deadly blades within their scabbards with a gesture. “My good Rat, we beseech you, pray look into this basket.” With that he pulled the checkered cloth from the basket he carried, revealing a mound of cereal.

“Will this grant us an audience with the king?” The guard’s mouth was visibly watering.

“It might, granted it be a few bits lighter upon it’s arrival. Young ones to feed and all.” Balthazar nodded, the Spacemonkeyrats walked through the gates, and Balthazar crossed his arms in both directions, pointing, and three shadows disappeared.

The King of Tomorrow’s whiskers twiddled about, noticing an oddity in the air.

“These are no ordinary travelers who have entered my throne room, present them to me,” he ordained. So it was that the crew was ushered in, their hoods removed. Customarily, the ninja Spacemonkeyrats presented their weapons. “I see nine rats here, where have the others gone?” Guards checked their manifests, only to see that the original number of twelve had been crossed out and replaced with a nine instead.

“Me lord, nine were originally recorded. Must have been a bit of a mix up, if I may say,” A simple guard with a large build reported.

“Absentminded, but very good,” spoke the king. “And they bring bounty?” Another twitch of the whiskers.

“A great bounty sir, more cereal than we’ve seen in a blue moon, sire.” Said the guard. With that he presented the nineteen flakes of Kellogg’s Corn Flakes, huge as dinner saucers within The Bush, as they had not been miniaturized. A gasp resounded throughout the hall.

The King of Tomorrow regained his composure, despite the lingering aroma of cereal in the air. “And how did you rats find this treasure? And how, being rats, did you bring it me?” His beady little eyes targeted the best dressed of the monkeyrats.

Balthazar stepped forward, still awkward in his ratsuit. “May I speak honestly, King of Tomorrow?”

The King of Tomorrow blemished. “There is no other way to speak to me, my subject. I am the adjudicator, the absolver, the forgiver. There is no honesty that I cannot judge.”

“We are not Rats. We are Spacemonkeys wearing rat suits.” There was a great hubbub.

The King of Tomorrow waved a hand, and the racket and rabble fell away. “And you assume, Spacemonkeys, that you can buy my allegiance with tempting, awesome bits of cereal?” There was a shrill anger in his voice.

“Neigh, honorable king, there is much that we have to offer other than cereal.” The King turned up his chin. “We have technology, we have a vast knowledge of the stars,” the King’s interest was waning. “We have more bananas than you can count.” The King’s interest was renewed, imagining bananas on cornflakes.

“Oh, hell,” muttered Sir Walter Scott under his breath.

Meanwhile, several Spacemonkeyrats, Simon John, Duncan, and Malachi, stole into the sewers of the castle. They were able to disable some sewer guard rats with ninjitsu, others with kung fu, still some more with wing chun and san soo. The further they went down into the sewers, into the dark bowels of the castle, the more guards they confronted. But, to their delight, the guards were always trying to keep rats in, never thinking to keep rats out.

“This is a most heinous place,” Duncan said as he laid a prostrate guard down, spine broken in several places.

“Something most curious is afoot here,” smacked a rebellious Simon John.

Malachi, the quiet one, lay down a guard most gently. “Can you hear that?”

And they could, the shrill cries of a billion rats, every single cry a cry for freedom. Malachi twisted his feet to break the neck of the guard at his feet. The sharp crack served as a contrast to the drone of misery below them, a drone most corrosive to the souls of the Spacemonkeys.

“We must go deeper.” Malachi said.

The bargaining at the King of Tomorrow’s Table was most ferocious. Balthazar offered his Kellogg’s Corn Flakes, his bananas (sliced), and yet the King of Tomorrow refused to give anything in return. For the king had seen the dropship ESS Louie arrive, and was a shrewd politician, he knew the best way to deal with foreigners was to make sure that they couldn’t go home. The bartering was a silly jest, the rat king was merely wasting time, finding a way onto the Consul, as that was the best bargain he could hope to accomplish. The bartering continued as rats mounted on Chihuahuas charged to the ESS Louie, the ears of the dogs flailing as the whips of the rats that rode them.

The three subterranean ninja spy rats looked down upon a great candle-lit domicile for the spotted rats. They were fed bits of cereal indigestible by most, only digestible by the poor spotted rats that subsided upon such heinous feed. For it was the only food available to them, due to their mottled coats.

Malachi, with the help of his trusty crossbow, was able to disarm the top-most guards in the sanctuary. As the ninja raiding party moved down, ever downward, into the beehive that was the slave/work machine of spotted rat labour, they killed each and every one of the guards. Not for hate, nor vengeance. They killed out of love for each and every soul imprisoned in any universe anywhere. Simon John was most violent, slashing and stabbing more than a good monkey should.

That was when he started wearing a clothing pin in his ear.

Balthazar’s patience was worn thin. The King of Tomorrow kept throwing oblique terminology at him, offering him the cereal already given to him, plus a discount, and the bananas, and the King offered to go down with the ship (no small thing in Rat terms). Balthazar’s patience hurt.

“I will,” the King of Tomorrow continued, “as such, allow you to give me cereal! The gift you have departed shall mind my paws in good form! Aha! And the bananas! It’s best with cream.”

“I can get you cream as well.” Balthazar immediately regretted his forgone promise.

A wave of ecstasy ripped its way across the King of Tomorrow’s face. “Oh, it shall be.” His whiskers probed wildly at the air around them.

The King of Tomorrow beckoned Balthazar up to his throne. He whispered into Balthazar’s monkey-cum-hologram-of-a-rat’s ear while commanding a parade march to begin. As rats, the Black Guarde as well as the White Guarde, marched with fortitude, glory, and pride; their formations were perfect squares, their eyes never meeting the king. A cannon was fired and the ceremony was over.

“Come with me, Captain Balthazar, there’s something I’d like to show you.”

Their Chihuahua dogs digging in the shade, three extra special Guardes of the Black found the transport ship ESS Louie deserted. The Black Guardes gathered up some kindling and started a signal fire indicating that they were now in command of the spacemonkey's ride home.

The concentric circles of the massive vestibule that Simon John, Byron, and Malachi charged down were but the dormitories for the slave rats. Hundreds of the poor little buggers were in each room, packed tightly and fighting over the meager scraps their guards fed them. Simon John picked the locks on the cages as they went, his fury growing with each sad soul he saw shackled. The doors were flung open and a great march of spotted rats charged up the ramp, heading for the comfort of the sewers.

“Who’s in charge here?” Byron kept hollering, only to be ignored by the rats running from their slave quarters.

“Methinks nobody is charge here,” Malachi ventured.

“Nobody chooses to be a slave, my good monkey. Nobody.” Simon John was spray-painting “God Save the Queen” on the wall.

At last the final gate was thrown open and the last wave of spotted rats were set free. The vestibule was alive with their chatter. “We’re free!” “Let’s go see the sunlight!” and “I never really liked it down there.”

One, well, one and half rats stayed. “We in charge,” said a black midget rat sitting on the shoulders of hulking, retarded black rat.

Simon John snarled and cracked his knuckles. “You run this slave house?”

“I run Rat Town.” The Master Ratter spoke matter-of-factly.

“But what of your king?” Simon John wasn’t sure whom to punch, and that bothered him.

Balthazar looked upon a great pile of riches, everything from broken wire, old string, scraps of cardboard and the like. Not riches to men, but to rats, this horde was a grand treasure. “Yes, this trove has been in my family for generations. In exchange for your good will, I will let you take any one thing from this room.”

Balthazar looked to the king, “You’re too kind, my liege.” Just then, a booming voice came over the intercom within the castle.

“Who run Rat Town?” The voice of Master Ratter echoed through the halls of the castle.

The king lost his composure and blushed in front of Balthazar. “Pardon me, kind guest.” The king walked over to the intercom and mumbled something into the receiver.

“Say loud.” The voice blared again. “Who run Rat Town?”

The king swallowed his pride. “Master Ratter runs Rat Town!”

“Wrong. You do. All the slaves escaped, I quit.” The intercom turned off.

A pallor crept over the king’s face, his whiskers twitched, his eyes closed. He paced back and forth and put a paw to his narrow rat chin. After a pregnant pause of consternation, he jumped into action. “Guards!”

He sprinted back into the main hall followed by Balthazar. Upon entering, he tripped and fell on a pile of rat bodies. Rejoined by Simon John, Byron and Malachi, the spacemonkeys stood over the dead, cleaning their blades. The White Guarde, the Black Guarde, all dead.

“Good God, monkeys.” Balthazar was just as befuddled as the king by the slaughter before him. The king ran away screaming. Well, not as befuddled. “What happened?”

Master Ratter was the first to answer. “Justice. Justice happened. King no like spotted rat, king throw in prison under castle, make work. Make work, dig up cardboard and bits of string for himself. No more. Spotted rats are free.”

Balthazar looked to Simon John. “I told you to reconnoiter the area! What’s this I hear, you started an insurrection?”

Simon John shrugged. “I don’t know what I want, but I know how to get it.”

And all was set right in the kingdom of Rat Town. Master Ratter was a good leader, setting up work relief programs to help the newly freed spotted rats find decent jobs. He set up a public works system, and converted the old slave chambers under the castle into a fine museum displaying the fallen king’s riches for all to see. The Bush was more alive than ever, the pulse and energy of the market even more chaotic than before. As the Spacemonkeys were escorted out of town heroes, they saw the good that they had done and were warmed in their monkey hearts, hidden beneath the veneer of a rat suit. The past was dark, but the future was bright for the Bush.

At the edge of the Bush, Master Ratter saluted them with tears in his beady little eyes. The spotted rats sang them a song, their emotions so powerful that many of them could not finish the Ode to the Spacemonkeys. The Bush was a better place.

At the ESS Consul, The King of Tomorrow lay in wait. His three Black Guardes were armed with pikes and swords and spears and daggers; he would get his revenge. As the Spacemonkeys approached the dropship, they spied the King. Balthazar was quick to remind his men that diplomacy and good will always should precede any violent acts.

“Oh, King of Tomorrow. Your kingdom is a better place. There are no slaves, the economy is picking up, and the Bush is fervent with hope. For that is the new king of Rat Town, Hope. Hope shall be the king of tomorrow.”

“You Spacemonkeys think you’re so wise, with your space ships and transmogrifiers and huge flakes of cereal. But we shall see how wise you truly are. Attack!” The three Black Guardes rode out from their cover on their noble steeds, the Chihuahua. The dogs were snarling beasts, chomping at the bit, charging at the defenseless Spacemonkeys.

Simon John had held his anger long enough. He stepped forward, turned off his transmogrifier, and showed the King of Tomorrow the true face of a Spacemonkey. Huge and horrible, four feet tall, he towered over the rats, their massive Chihuahuas now more like silly little dogs. With a scream, Simon John kicked once, twice, three times; he knew it wasn’t cool to kick a dog, but he was also punk rock. The King of Tomorrow wailed.

“Let us leave this place. It’s getting a little bizarre.”

On the ESS Consul, the Spacemonkeys were jubilant. There were many cheers for a job well done. A hip, hip hooray and banana champagne were both in order. After much celebration, Balthazar returned to his quarters, and perched in his tree. There was a knock on the cabin door. In stepped Gerard, his heels knocking together with a pleasing snap.

“Sir, scans of the Bush show it be in good order. That was awful kind of you to beam down that box of corn flakes, I’m sure the Bush thanks you.” Behind Gerard, a rat stumbled into Balthazar’s chamber.

“You!” yelled the rat, pointing ambiguously. “Thanks to you, we are doomed!” Then, The King Of Tomorrow fell over.

Gerard looked down at him. “Pardon him sir, too much banana champagne for his little rat body.” Balthazar picked up the rat and placed him in his cage, nestled in sawdust. Gerard watched, curious. “Sir, the men feel that it be odd to keep a prisoner like that. After all, he tried to kill us.”

“Dear Gerard, this is no prisoner, but a pet. I feel that the general demeanor on this ship would be for the better were we to have a mascot. And what better mascot than the King of Tomorrow? Wouldn’t you say so?” The two looked down upon the rat, dozing in his cage, and Gerard knew that his captain was right; they were better to have a pet, and rats make great pets, especially for monkeys.

“I do say so, sir.” Gerard moved to exit the cabin.

“Oh, ”

“Yes, my captain?”

“Tell Sir Walter Scott to aim the laser at the wormhole, there is much to be done.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

With that, the doors whooshed close. Balthazar turned out his lights and got comfortable on his tree. And so the ESS Consul travelled on into the stars, fighting for justice and rectitude, while onboard a little black rat slept dreaming only of revenge and murder.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

Bicycle Trade Union Excerpts: Man With a Flag, Exhaustion

---
It is so green, it is frightening.  I keep returning to the images of my childhood, sometimes in pondering, sometimes in fast, fraught flashbacks.  The sky is exploding with color, as the rain comes monsoon in a dark soot purple.  Intentionally and immediately followed by a green of slime & verdance which flows over every inch puckered by a white and yellow which remains unfound in man's vast & mechanical incorporation.

Watching rivers consume bridges and buildings and fields, rocks reclaiming roadways in tumultuous torrents, brings a beautiful flurry of fear and momentum to the cozy reality of most.  It makes me feel free, my lungs un-free without the humidity of the jungle and uncomfortable with the differece peace brings from cataclysmic, churning, calm.

I am an artist, a thief, a soldier and a thinker, a degenerate, a drunken addict, a fool and a murderer.  When I wake up here and put the music on my ears I am a champion for at least this cause of mine.  The green hands of the trees lay their wet fingers upon me, a single man parade in the weepings of the sky.  I feel as if I am about to leave the city on horseback, for the bicycle is the makings of a man into a steed.  Leaving for a conflict, for an environment from which he might not return. I am indeed, leaving for a domain I claim in part as mine.  The illicit, that which is said to be wrong and despot, feared and demented, crushed up and unnatural.

If you make a journey there, into the unknown and frightful, into a place that is new because no one can prepare you for it, they don't even know how to find it.  I do.  You will find me there, in a military cap, on a bicycle of all black, holding a flag both beconing and foreboding.

I am only here to help, not to push people into anything or anything into people.  We all must go this way, to explore something fresh, so I offer easy access and stern, clinical warning.  I am better than your pharmacist.

---
I am exhausted, like nothing before.  There is no rolling out of bed, only crawling, dragging, pleading escape from the drug sleep has become.  Sleep deprivation, and the endless circling, trolling miles bicycle backed...  There is a misery to it, and a cold; but there is a schedule, a masochism, a suffurating pleasure to it.

Riding the bike to work, to the liquor store, there are helicopters in the sky.  Giant, dragonflied, double rotor troop transports floating onward across the state.  They are a firm reminder that when the states fall, Colorado will be the Afghanistan, it will be unbreakable.  The people here know that the land and weather a fickle, and its inhabitants even more so.  There are enough of us left who see those helicopters as big birds.  Guessing if we could take one out with a 30-06.

I feel the instinct to run, to get up and give up on everything.  I feel so alone, abandoned by even my memories.  Those which remain are of lovers & friends departing, violent arguements, vivid & frightening hallucinations, and the anthropophagi of the world.  It is a treatise of blood, and I see it now and wish it were different.  And I am fucked because I am more comfortable and enjoying of violence than love.

I am smoking cigarettes constantly, until they turn my tongue black.  Each time hoping the next one will stop my breathing.  I can't remember the last time I felt happy.  Part of me believes that I have simply forgotten, that it has all been wiped from my mind and memory, but the other part belies that it has never been and I have never felt joy.

That is the feeling, endless, hopeless exhaustion.  You are the architect of your reality, and you cannot change it because you cannot get yourself up off the floor.  Fear, fear is not in the heart, nor is there hope.  They are both shit, predicting and exaserbating reality.  There is only knowledge, that I have been hit once, and I will be hit again.  There is knowledge that I am trapped until I find a way to either kill this feeling, or kill myself.  So abandon, my friends, the lusting for something better, forget the idea of should...  Thats what it is, that is the feeling.  I don't care what is supposed to happen, just this, just fight. just:

Give me fire, give me wine, give me love & give me crime.

Saturday, September 10, 2011

Things take ages

New York City>Boulder

People bounce around
like bumper cars: or
the city is everyone's individual game of pinball

Switch locations:

I hear water
Cairns I saw were balanced
like a kabob
The highways were vacant
and ducks floated
or pruned their feathers
with silence

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

90 pills in a bottle,

different states of corruption

iodine, carotene, calcium lactate ooze out of my soul

Saturday, August 20, 2011

Quick Bake

She was picking up a quick bake casserole for her husband at the grocery. He never complimented her slow steamed chicken thighs, marinated in sultry peppers for many hours over the course of an afternoon. So he was just getting quick bake. After plopping the clumsy box into her cart in the dried foods aisle, she hurried to the end and caught a curious whiff from the fresh produce section. Moving her body through rows of fruit, she forgot her time crunch to her husband. There were so many possibilities. Sensuous mangoes, sweet and vibrant pears, ripe plums ready to burst, but she shed these flirtations when she caught the same curious whiff a second time.

Investigating, she cautiously approached the fresh vegetables being misted to a vibrant shine. The celery glistened. She picked up a bunch and smelled the aroma. Next she moved over to the cilantro and breathed in the bushel’s strong scent. The bright orange carrots flashed in her peripherals, the yellow and red peppers made a display. She stepped away from the misters and breathed in the curious whiff a third time. She had to have it all, the vegetables, the fruits. She snatched them up and placed them ashamedly into her cart. She had done this once before. Checking her watch as she finished paying the cashier she hurried out. Married only a year and she had already been late to dinner once before. Oh well, it’s only dry bake.

Ninja Spacemonkeys, Chapter 1

Episode I - Ninja Monkeys in the Fourth Dimension

Balthazar tried frantically to collate the streams of information pouring out of the multiple monitors in front of him. The ship was quickly approaching an unknown space object, invisible to the eye, but so dense with gravity that one couldn’t help but notice it. The magnetism and neutrino measurements were off the charts, but there were no readings on the life meters. Balthazar tried to make sense of all of this, when Basil stormed onto the bridge.

“Sir, the maps weren’t complete! Yonder wormhole doth have a number of smaller wormholes scattered around it like so much salt on chips.” He was frantic, his big lips straining to express his emotions.

Balthazar paced. “Perhaps we shall abandon this reckless exploration, perhaps we shall turn back.” The bridge fell silent, and all eyes fell upon their weary captain. His small forehead scrunched up and he placed his fist under his chin, as if to support an all too heavy weight. “Nay, for we have been chosen, we have been trained, we are the Earth’s emissary to the stars and heavens. If we cannot tackle this problem, humanity shall be most scorned, and the brotherhood of humanity shall not abide weakness. We shall go forth, get thee to thine stations!” And there was a great cheer on the deck, “Hip hip hooray!” Chants of “excelsior” and “per aspera ad astra” rung through the halls.

Suddenly, Byron burst through on the intercom, “Holy Poop! Guys, did you know that cargo bay 1 is full of bananas?!”

Oh wait…

Prologue

After the space elevators were assembled, interplanetary travel was a far less daunting endeavor. The hardest part of getting off of Earth was Earth itself, it’s mass had such a drain of gravity that exiting the atmosphere was a real bugger. Hence, space elevators, huge columns of architecture that projected far off the horizon into the thin, thin air above. From there, anything could be assembled to travel into the far.

After many travels with fuels pulled from the earth, the fuel of explosions so powerful on Earth were struck with the awe of the nothingness it confronted. Several expeditions went as far as possible on those simple explosions, only to report back: there was nothing out there. So, mankind sidestepped the issue of fuel and tried again with tact and foresight. They built a system that could shoot a laser, packed with all of the information man could accumulate, and they then shot that laser into space, all over space. Conveniently, one laser was sent back to earth with more information than earth could handle; information about the true layout of the stars, what planets lay around them, and most importantly information about a system of wormholes, conveniently stewn about the universe. Also included in this awesome data packet was a method of uploaded sentient beings, real living organisms into a laser like the one first sent out. Whole planets could be loaded into the lasers, beamed into the wormholes, only to be assembled on the other side. All of mankind was hopeful for the future, but scared by it as well. So, like in man’s first attempt at the cosmos, monkeys went first.

The monkeys were selected and given nanomyte brain growth serums, still in the experimental phase. The serums worked with startling results, propelling the monkeys’ intelligence far beyond that afforded most humans, the monkeys’ love of learning only outweighed by their love of bananas. And boy, did they love bananas.

They became voracious readers, finding the works of Milton and Shakespeare the most rewarding, though they also loved the works of Victorian era. As their intelligence expanded, the humans became fearful; when the monkeys started learning martial arts, the humans’ first thought was, “we’ve got to get these monkeys out of here.” So, after a formal ceremony where the Queen of England knighted one monkey Sir Walter Scott, (as he had the same eyes as the intrepid explorer) the monkeys were loaded into the space elevators and shipped into the great beyond. From orbit, they were moved into their quarters on the deck of mankind’s greatest adventure, the ESS Consul. A massive cube, built just outside of Earth voracious gravitational maw, the Consul was massive in every sense of the word. It was roughly ten cubic kilometers, mostly empty space to be filled with bounty from the distant stars.

So it was that we made first contact. The ship was uploaded into the beam and shot at the nearest wormhole.

Upon the beam’s arrival at the wormhole after a three month trip at the speed of light to just outside of the Oort cloud, things got complicated. The Consul affronted with not one wormhole, but a series of wormholes, all in concentric orbits around the main wormhole. After a short hesitation, the captain of the ship, Balthazar ordered the ship into the nearest wormhole, as one abyss was just as good as another. The ship, that massive cube, fell into the wormhole and the crew were the first to watch time and space collapse in front of their eyes. Then, they watched it expand, showing the intrepid monkey explorers the dimensions concealed to normal eyes. They watched quasars explode and could see the radiation and neutrinos pour out of pulsars like the surf crashing on the rocks. Sir Walter Scott, the communications officer was able to record the images for further analysis, or for recreational drug use back on Earth.

And just like that, they entered the galaxy that was to be named Pterodactyl by the taxonomists on Earth. They were running out of names for celestial bodies and dinosaurs had pretty cool names, so they ran with it. The galaxy Pterodactyl was a fruitful galaxy with many planets capable of supporting life, just within that narrow distance from the stars central to the solar systems. The first solar system the Consul approached was a goldmine, quite literally. There was a planet made almost entirely of gold.

The deck of the ship was alive with hubbub. The monkeys were jumping up and down and shrieking, “What great fortune! A bounty beyond any treasure hidden within the mind of Scheherazade!” Balthazar was distraught though.

“What have we found here, but the greatest lure of man’s insatiable lust for money? Is there any monkey here who can say a treasure this great could be a purely good thing, or is it rather a gilded evil? I do say it is gold, but methinks it lacks a glitter found in that purest of intentions.” And so it was that the monkeys voted not to upload the planet and beam it back to Earth, as humans were simple creatures and could do without a planet made of gold right next door.

“Lo, what fools these mortals be. Let us venture farther on. Navigation!”

Archibald, navigation officer responded, “Awaiting cooridinates, captain o captain.”

“Let’s go over there.”

They went over there to find a verdant planet, a planet lush with life, overloading the life meters. They sent down a shuttle onto the planet Iggy, named by Byron, who was into punk rock. Upon their arrival, they were greeted by a emissary of the dominant form of life on the planet, the Baraka. The Baraka were a kind and peaceful people, simple in the way of the early South American cultures on Earth. They wore festive colors, beautiful headdresses, and walked tall and proud. The aliens, well, the natives, were initially fearful of the Consul’s crew, for they had a prophecy of hairy travelers from the stars that were to destroy and enslave their people. When Balthazar promised them it wasn’t so, they rejoiced, for they had a prophecy for that too, one where the travelers liberated and unified the Baraka from their bitter infighting.

The monkeys were led to the great metropolis of Romero, where they were met with great fanfare and celebration, and the city rejoiced long into the night. Balthazar was granted a personal audience with the king, as they had much to talk over.

“Balthazar, what a joy it is to meet the man of the prophecy,” said the king from his throne.

“Sooth be said, your majesty, it is I who is joyous, for we are the makers of history with these words we speak.” Balthazar spoke as he bowed with a flourish.

“Tell me, then, space man…”

“Monkey, my lord, space monkey.”

“Yes. Spacemonkey, tell me, have to come to fulfill the prophecy foretold so many eons ago?” The kindly king asked with trepidation, a quiver of fear in his voice.

Balthazar answered very carefully. “Your exaltedness, I know not of the prophecy you speak, but I can assure you that we are on an expedition of noble and fine intent. We seek to bring peace to all, and share what we may with the planets and beings we meet.”

The king clapped his hands and danced a silly jig. “Ah, then it is so! You shall unite the Baraka, you shall show us how to live in peace and harmony as it was told by the prophets of old.” He ran down to Balthazar and embraced him, laying a sloppy kiss on his big old monkey lips.

The king gazed into the monkeys’ brown eyes and squealed, “Well, we must get you to the armory, for your travails must begin. What a beautiful species you are, surely the Spacemonkey is the greatest being in all of the heavens!” He was weeping openly with joy now.

“I do not intend to call your great wisdom into question, oh king, but there is a greater species yet: Homo Sapiens. Our mission and intellect is our debt to them, rulers of Earth. They are the next step in evolution above us, no doubt, for look at the bizarre way in which we walk.” Balthazar then did an awkward monkey walk in front of the throne.

The king giggled. “Okay, yeah, that is actually pretty funny. Homo sapiens, you say? A rather queer name for a species, I like Spacemonkeys far more.”

“Your kindness knows no ends, my liege. But, I must inquire in all humility, what may I send home to the humans to show your benevolence and kindness?” Balthazar bowed low again.

“Ah, so that is why the humans sent you? Bounty, reward?” A disdain crept onto the king’s face, a rigidity found his spine.

“King, I can assure you we are a noble and kind planet, but not without temptation. We have much to share in the sciences, arts, and fashions. Take this awesome suit, for doth it not have the cut of an enlightened mind?” The king looked at the Spacemonkey, and was duly impressed by the cut of his jib. A bespoke three-piece pinstripe adorned the little furry monkey, complemented with a bowler hat and an engraved ebony cane.

The king was put at ease, as the prophecy did tell of the finery of the space traveler’s garments and the bounty that would be bestowed upon the Baraka once the prophecy was fulfilled. Yes, it was both planets interest to establish communications and trade routes, but that had to wait, for there was the trial yet to come.

“Balthazar, our planet is in turmoil. We bicker and fight amongst our tribes, battling constantly. It has worn my soul thin, like a parchment scraped too many times. The prophecy speaks of your arrival, and the battle that shall ensue that shall end all battles. Will you fight for our species?” The king drew his sword.

“Yes, I will fight for peace.”

“At what cost?”

“My king, you shall know how best to reward us.”

“We have a lot of bananas.”

“You have a deal.”

The next day was to be the day of the battle, the details of which the Spacemonkeys were still a little fuzzy on. Talk of the prophecy and the great wonders always distracting the conversation away from the battle, though the one thing they were able to glean from every conversation was that it was to be a great battle. Great can mean a lot of different things. In a moment of anticipation, Balthazar sent Sir Walter Scott back into orbit on the Consul in the event that a quick extraction was necessary, he could pull the monkeys out of the battle.

The space monkeys were taken to the armory, where they were given the finest weapons in the land. Balthazar was equipped with a claymore, Byron a katana, Bartleby a chainsaw, Mortimer got a machete, Gerard a mighty battleaxe and so on and so forth. The monkeys were then taken to the temple.

The temple was older than time itself, according the Baraka. Hewn of massive stones, none knew how or why or when it was built, only that it was huge and majestic. Water poured from a spring atop the ziggaurat, feeding lush gardens of vines and palm below where virgins frolicked and played. The Spacemonkey warriors were anointed with sacred oils, read prayers and psalms from the old books, and recited the chant of the warrior gods. After this ceremony they were carried by rickshaw to the center of the city to delight of the citizens.

Gerard, the nervous sort, couldn’t help but ask Balthazar, “Do you have any idea what the hell we’re doing?”

Balthazar grinned and shook his head, “My dear Gerard, doth thou doubt the nobility of our mission? We are greeted here as liberators, and we shall act as such.” Gerard went back to sharpening his battleaxe, meditating on the words of his leader.

In the center of the city, the Spacemonkeys were affronted with a structure that made the temple they just visited look like a dollhouse. It was a massive coliseum, the roar of the crowd inside audible from a kilometer away, drowning out all conversation amongst the intrepid crew of the ESS Consul. They were taken in through a gate which was closed behind them with a raised porticullis inside. The king came to shake their hands and wish them well.

“It warms my heart to know that today, we shall see the dawn of a new age. An age of peace, an age wherein warlords and the infighting shall be cast away, like a cloak. We shall feast tonight!” Tears were streaming down his cheeks.

Gerard was still gripped by an uneasy trepidation. “My king, pray do tell, what the hell is going on here?”

“Ah, yes, of course! All the warlords have assembled their finest warriors and we shall battle until all are dead. You know, a gladiator battle.” And with that, he shook their hands and walked away.

“Oh.” Gerard went back to sharpening his axe.

There were hundreds of warlords, all with their own warriors, all hoping that they could prevail and seize control of all. Some had great beasts, some had Baraka trained into warriors, some battled in their own name. The king, from his high perch, addressed the coliseum with a booming voice.

“Today, we gather again for the annual battle to determine supremacy, but today is different. For today, under the banner of the king fight the Spacemonkeys, travelers from a distant star come to unite us in peace. And so, let the battle royale begin!” A cannon was fired and chaos descended upon the Spacemonkeys.

All the warlords knew that if they were to defeat the Spacemonkeys, they would show the prophecy to be false, and they would be king and more; they would be gods. So, without further ado, they all attacked the Spacemonkeys. They surged, but the phalanx of monkeys held.

Balthazar roared and fought with grace and cunning. “Cry Havok!”

“Well said, sir!” Byron replied as he sliced through opponents with adept strokes of his katana. Blood and gore surrounded them, the warriors piled up at the feet of the monkeys, yet more and new warriors still attacked. But the monkeys fought on, bantering amongst themselves all the while.

“And what style of pugilism is that you’ve adopted?” “I do say, tiger style, good man.” “I’ve always found myself a might partial to ninjitsu, if I may.” “Pip, pip! A mighty blow!” “And to you!” “Take that, thy knave!”

Hours passed, and soon the battle was beginning to quiet, the spectators in the crowd also beginning to chant, “Spacemonkeys! Spacemonkeys!” until at last there was one warlord left. Well, not a warlord, but his pet.

“Oh my, they have a rancor!” And Bartleby was right. They had a massive, slimy beast, drool dripping down its chin, chomping on the dead that filled the coliseum. “I’d rather not fight that beast, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Nay, Bartleby, these are the times that try monkeys souls, and we must persevere. I only a wish I had a horse. What I wouldn’t give…” Balthazar formulated a plan in his head, a mad and ludicrous plan, but a plan. “Quickly, Gerard, run to the gate!”

Gerard had no trouble in doing so, and the rancor quickly dropped the warlord it was snacking on and chased after him. Balthazar snatched Bartleby’s chainsaw and chased in hot pursuit after the rancor. The beast had trapped Gerard in the tunnel to the gate, its huge jaws snapping in his face. The rancor struggled to get its head farther into the tunnel, but was held back by the width of its shoulders. Balthazar dashed to the wire mechanism aside the tunnel, revving the chainsaw and hacking through the cables. They unwound with a snap, and down came the porticullis up on the rancor’s skull. It let out a sigh and died.

The crowd rejoiced, and there was much alien honey wine poured throughout the coliseum. The king wept, for there would be no more wars, no more need for war. The Spacemonkeys were hoisted high on the shoulders of the people, their names written carved into the stones of the temple, made immortal in history.

The king was right, there was quite a feast that night, and the crew of the Consul was given chairs of honor. Early the next day, on dawn’s first light, the crew assembled again on the steps of the ziggaurat, and was saluted by the benevolent king one last time. The king kowtowed to each of them individually, presenting them each with the weapons they wielded so well in battle, now cast in gold, for Iggy no longer needed any weapons. The stores and granary had been opened, and twenty tonnes of bananas were presented to the monkeys as payment, but also as thanks. With a tear in his eye, Balthazar waxed, “it is with great chagrin that we leaves your comfortable hospices, most wise and kind king of the Baraka. We shall tell tales of your benevolence and worth throughout the galaxies, for me must travel on. The universe is a big place, and our noble excursion is merely beginning.”

The king smiled and said, “Our debt to you is a great one, one that we shall live in our hearts forever. May all of the cosmos know the honor you hold in your hearts.”

And with that, Balthazar called up to Sir Walter Scott on the Consul. “Beam us up.”

“Beam us up what?” replied Balthazar’s communicator.

“Beam us up, Sir.” Nothing. “Beam us up, Sir Walter Scott.” In a flash, the Spacemonkeys disappeared, off to traverse the galaxy. They aimed the ship towards the nearest wormhole and fired through. On the other side they stared in wonder at the nest of wormholes in front of them, wondering which of the paths they should explore.

And there was a great cheer on the deck, “Hip hip hooray!” Chants of “excelsior” and “per aspera ad astra” rang through the halls.

Suddenly, Byron burst through on the intercom, “Holy Poop! Guys, did you know that cargo bay 1 is full of bananas?!”

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Bicycle Trade Union Excerpt: Policing

Providence evolves from destruction. We feel like death so we make color. Flexibility & complexity are procreated to overcome what once would have broken more staunch & stalwart positions and fortifications. Our robber-baron republic has evolved into aristocracy. It is an effective mechanism of persecution and repression, but it has not learned a truth of humanity as old & true as time itself: the harder you press, the more you fight & argue, the more ingrained it will become.

That is why the puritanism based justice here has failed, and will fail every day until it dies, to remove me & my ilk. I am... we are flexible. I will learn you, and it, and the back alleys & ways between and around all of it. They will just tell you, "No, you are bad because somebody once said somewhere, probably in another completely different context, that this was wrong." Fuck that, fuck them. A toddler has more common sense than most of the district attorneys & all of the judges who have let our country become a police state... Fucking capitalists.

The worst of the thing is the, "Preventative law." You will be arrested for this because this drug supposedly makes you into someone who is more likely to commit crimes... That tends to happen when you start making things that are not crimes illegal. It should be illegal to instruct others on what they can do to themselves, of their own accord with no effect on anyone else.

I hate police, all police. Every last damned one of them. I hate any man who feels that his view of the world is better than another's and then enforces it on them. I hate ignorance. Does anyone who doesn't live in a white-picket suburban brainwashed shithole actually feel safe when the P.D. is around? You aren't. It is class warfare. They are all morons who believe that being legally justified is synonymous with being morally justified & superior.

That is my take, my opinion, and my experience. It is why I will do anything to undermine authority. Anarchy is the most bigoted, misunderstood & slandering word. When you say it to someone they see riots & murder & the end of the world behind their eyes. But that isn't anarchy, that is some bastard in Hollywood's perverse take on playing to people's sheepish fears and indolence. Nobody knows what anarchy is. Anarchy has never been. The only reason we evolved to communicate is so we could tell the other stupid cavemen what to do.

Don't be afraid. Don't be a coward. Change is scary, but change is good. If you don't step off the sidewalk you will only be walking in the footsteps of other men, on courses charted & planned & built by still more men. Nothing good ever comes of such things, only wasted lives as paste fed to the ant pile.

Good job London, keep on rioting

Sunday, August 14, 2011

The Night is hot

Stumble Frames #9

London clocktower
and dusk at the bridge
dream of dusk
things to do in Europe

an abstract mosaic
a paper reef
abstract dream sequences:
one sleeps under a streetlight
with a blanket of snow
cliffs and river turn into city buildings and streets
a library opens doors
to other worlds
seamless pictures of color

films that question
reality mindfuck:
cats that play instruments
a face painted with oil
a stone gateway stays,
surrounded by birch trees
and fallen leaves
a lone house in Iceland
sleeps under clouds
and far away the sun
unveils a Buddhist temple

Saturday, August 13, 2011

Bicycle Trade Union Excerpt: Vertigo

Keep having dreams of falling, waking up grasping and slapping for walls and lamps.  Vertigo, a slicing, biting collapse of reality into downwardness.  I thought it was just a dream, so I looked it up in an interperative book, said something about being cast out, adversity to overcome.  I was comforted by that, because it made sense, made me feel that the cold waves of rain were a part of something with meaning.  The vertigo though, it comes in waves, sometimes making me vomit off the bridges or dragging me from my bike into the gutter.

Because it began in a dream, I now find it harder and harder to determine what it is that is concrete in my reality.  I have begun to wonder if it is all sudden figments of flashing dreams clotted together to try and attempt to be something solid.  It has brought me back to basics.  I shaved my head, like a monkey who has spent to much time in space.  Omnia mea mecum porto, I carry with me all my things.  If you want to try to take my backpack, I will kill you.  I am as prepared as I can be for anything, because anything and everything may just appear.

I don't know what it is about me, something in my face?  Maybe it is something in me which lets them all see that no matter the bad or ill they feel that I can always tell them a story that will make them scared.  Everyone tells me something.  They open their mouths and without even knowing it, all the things they never wanted to or will not say have been spat across into the air between us.  In the end, despite the small perks of transparency, the ability to create honesty and trust spontaneously has turned me into a boatman.  A man trolling and dredging a quagmire of sadness and violence and painful fear in people's secrets.  I am a seeker for that which is unfindable, and a keeper, a cache of shared broken dreams.

There is a violence growing in me, like none I have felt before.  Not like a knife fight, not like a shotgun or pistol.  This rainy place, all the endless miles pounded out on the legs, all the bleeding in the streets waiting after the bicycle hits a tree...  This purgatory, this place I have fallen to, to serve and bleed and pray to things I do not even believe in.  It is a violence of a bottle filled with gasoline and rag.  It is a violence of a violin watching a fire.  It is a violence that will put their children in a blender.

Monday, August 1, 2011

Whiskey Bar

I’ve been cooped up, smothered like a chicken in a room ten feet by ten feet for days now. With no sense of reality to the outdoor world, to conversation, to responsibility, to action, I despair. I have a plan of action and initiating it isn’t hard. The chicken is squeezed out of the coop and shoved in a persuading manner to the runway. The weapons are loaded, fuel pumped, compass coordinated with map, and propeller spun. The chicken roars down the runway. This part is easy to initiate, to energize the soul to get started on productivity. It’s when the time comes for kamikaze dive bomb sequence that I get distracted and despaired and stair out of the window wondering about the “Lost Generation” or who was the man behind Jack Daniel’s whiskey in figure and not in name obviously as that would be a wasteful wondering, a waste of time.

But then there are more proper and pertinent expenditures of time, like buying orange juice in a store several miles from home and riding on trains away from the center of the city. Yes these things are a better expenditure of time. But what about deadlines and the planning of action to meet these deadlines? This dwarfs when compared to the whiskey bar.

The wall to the rear of the bar lined with bourbon, rye whiskey, corn whiskey, low balls, and high balls. The mirror directly central in the whiskey bar reflects light blinding my sight. It channels and routes energy, the excitement, the bru-ha-ha, bravery found sipping an ale. My words flow to her like leaves and soot in the autumn wind. We smoke cigarettes. We talk of zodiac signs and horoscopes. She informs me of my horoscope as I am unfamiliar with my own. I ask her pointless things.

“What kind of music do you like?”

“That is somewhat random, as we were discussing marketing.”

“I know.”

I assess her lip piercing and her shoes, assuming she had acquired a specific taste for tunes. I’m not worried about my question.

“Well sir, I like all kinds of music”

The response is vague and bleak. I can’t tell if she’s mocking, kidding, or dead serious. I report back to my ale for a second opinion, a fresh set of eyes if you will. My ale fails me. Ales tend to be deceptive and inconsistent with their effects on the avid whiskey bar attendee, never quite giving that desired effect of confidence and suave. There’s always some sort of desperate effect.

The next day the festival is over. Back to responsibility, back to nine to five, back to the ten by ten chicken coop room after the nine to five. Only I don’t want it. I want the whiskey bar: the red oak veneer on the walls and high vaulted ceilings portraying spaghetti westerns with the piano man playing Roadhouse Blues. Instead I sit wondering the whereabouts of old peers and even older classmates. I wonder what to eat for lunch and whether or not I will get work done. Should I put the pencil to the paper? I watch the lead paint the page, part permanent, part crumbling into dust.

Thursday, July 21, 2011

Bicycle Trade Union 1

This is the first two chapters in my coming compendium of short nonfiction which includes a chronologically scattered discussion on my inability to drive and the massive archive of illicit retail experience I have and currently am attempting to accrue.  I hope you enjoy: Bicycle Trade Union.

1
The rains have returned again, like they were when I was a child, like they were sent and meant to instill an awe and reverence in the fortuity of natural process.  Combined with both the rivers, teeming at their banks, frothing with aquatic & avian creatures, this old home of mine has returned to its being as a place of water.

This is an obstacle to me, but even this ample deterrent is but a flinch, a discomfort; not sharp enough to slow efficiency.

The best gift for a drug dealer is a road bike.  It removes him from the authorities field of focus, regulation, and play: the automobile.  In a place as small as this, with only about 8000 permanent residents, it makes him not only safer, but faster & more willingly mobile than the competition.

I am, and have always been a skilled, intelligent, first-rate criminal, as well as a prime retail opportunist and customer service advocate.  Here, now, there is such an abundance of supply, especially for someone as amiable & nonabrasive as myself.  Combined with a strict & rigid over-policing with the intent for social engineering this has created an optimum environment and a need.  These and many other, darker, more complex contributions make me ideal for the transportation & trafficking of illicits, contraband, and unfindables.  That last word, that is really what i retail, information; the knowing of him & her, and where to find it & them.  The question, where my business begins and the common blandness of social structure ends is always the same: "Do you know where I can find ______?"


"I don't know," is always the answer they receive, because mine is a business based on the flawed and inexact  nature of man, and the fact that I really don't like saying, "yes."




2
I work at a liquor store, on the weekends, it is most likely where I am now, writing all of this.  It is not that the work is up to my potential, or that I am forced to be here.  Rather it is that I find the work fitting, an adequate involvement in the party, the industry stable & constant, and the lack of background investigation in a small business is suitable for someone with my clottery of past and present follies.  I find it ironic, some kind of punitive, and almost therapeutic that my alcoholic, D.U.I. received body serve a tenancy here.  Forced to stay involved in the frivolity, but also banished from it, and always made to observe even the smallest regulation or rule upon it.

It is not that I have any problem with the rules & regulations.  When they are meant to protect us, and the dominions of our persons and humanity, I follow them diligently, with fervor.  However, one of the first lessons of the thief & deviant is that the government is a capitalist entity, and its agents, organization, and evolution are based to that end.  I have my own law, my own rigid constituency & consistency which I uphold even as un-law.  Morality is always before legality, even for me with all my crimes... there is still an honor amongst them, a criminal chivalry of sorts.

I have committed all of the supposed sins in fresh, varied, and creative ways.  Now though, i find myself trying to legitimize, to make some sort of life out of what many call mistakes, but I simply know as the skills of life.  Change is difficult, and we resist it, even if we do not realize.  So I hold tenuously onto the clandestine, operations of which have molded me into a skilled artisan, a master thief, and a member of the illicit cognoscenti.