zoning...

It's 4am and I'm playing with hierarchical ascension mechanisms again, looking for some depth while skimming the surface of the absurd, still running headfirst into the cult of absolutes and finding zilch in the way of anything concrete beyond marginal coincidence and shear luck of the draw while hype and leverage dance amok across my horizon. I may have been able to narrow down one possible minimal absolute. It may be something to build on.

I believe it is possible there is an absolute within a brief moment within the midst of orgasm. Not the orgasm itself but a part of it. Of course, this microsecond is probably different for most, but we are talking micro. There seems to be a jettisoning of all external influence within that moment; the realm of a microsecond in a state of complete and total nothingness. We don't care how we got to that place, we don't care about the potentials of residuals when or if we ever leave it. The moment is without reference to time and space. My guess is the reason it is of such short duration is due to our greater historical existence of not being too far up on the food chain. Submerging into a moment of nothingness even for a microsecond could result in becoming a tasty morsel for some beasty a little more singly focused. I wonder if predators can sense this departure from the physical world... the one where the barbecue resides.

I think product is passe. There is too much of the same stuff being sold for the same reasons. Patents expire. Exclusivity is short-lived. Everything becomes a commodity. The only thing left is religion. We sell religion and there are millions to choose from. Basically, if one does this then that will happen. To secure this concept, one must have validation and that comes in the way of believer or follower accumulation. Ninety-nine point nine percent of the time, the admittance into the current religion of supposed choice is accomplished by the swipe of a credit card. Would it not be just too cool to be able to transcend to this place at will, to roam about conversing with others in this realm? Would the microsecond seem more like hours once you've made it to the other side? Is this the place where the invisible man resides? What would happen if our abilities and talents to tip-toe through this eye of the storm were an end all to arguments?

"Shut up... I have had way more orgasms than you and you don't know what the fuck you are talking about."

...something like that...

what goes around...

I wonder if we could

storm the house called white

undercover of darkness

and insurgent in our determination

knowing damn well

that we are doing it for the good of all

even though we never got the alls' permission

 

I ponder the possibilities

of dragging

the bush

the cheney

the rice

from zoned comfort

fortified untouchable exclusivity

into the dark

feet first

into blackwater black vans

teleported to unknown knowns

where our national security can be elevated

 

I think of potentials

water boarding our way into confessions

of the highest breaches of faith

underminings of law

dangerous decisions

manipulated truths

resulting in mayhem

death

mutilation

 

I consider the result

emasculated authority

dragged through a gauntlet on pennsylvania ave

as the new and improved axis of evil are kicked

stoned

spat upon

and then if still able

tossed into a box

kept sealed for a year

or six

no legal recourse

no defined crime

no charges brought

just doing it because it is in the best interest of

the all

and not telling the all about it

except we are doing the right thing

and not to worry

 

 shhhh...

a call to disorder...

I've been thinking lately about things that are not possible to legislate without an underlying undermining of perceived national circumstance and the core of our socio-economic-western puritan ideology. This is probably due to the rights granted by the 'free will' clause, pertaining to behaviors in the beholds and begats regions biblically laid down since the dawn of discovery, concerning what was allocated by the invisible man for the sole use of opposable-thumb primates... maybe. I'm not always so sure of my deductions.   There is no order of importance or degree to this list, it just exists in my wee pea brain:

 

Accountability in advertising... With an economic system founded on the PT Barnum principle of "a sucker born every minute", there would be a world-wide upheaval with regard to the influence of Ronco, hair growth, weight loss, and the erectile duration, length and girth industries. And since we've sent our manufacturing base overseas, we haven't all that much else to rest our recent laurels on.

 

Conversational civility...  By forcing this legislatively down the collective conscious throat, we would disenfranchise and force to the soup lines practically all the talking heads employed by FOX News. Again, more upheaval than we could possibly bear.

 

Non-agenda based concern for the public good...  To remove one's inalienable right to ascend to the pinnacle of societal ascension worship with all the perks and profits afforded such celebrity is, well... just plain anti-Entertainment Tonight.

 

CEO salary caps... Why should one person be punished for the problems of market fluctuations, stockholder revolts, earthquakes, tsunamis, and just plain bad overall management concerning the health and well being of the rank and file. Sheez.

 

Affordable equal access to health care... Let's face it, there are just some people on this planet who deserve to live longer, higher quality lives than others.

the interminable adventures of Immovable Man...

Immovable Man maneuvered the Herculoid down the middle of the street with attached--the great divider: an inverted cow-catcher doing it's job, sliding under the tires of cars involuntarily stacked statically between stop lights from too many trying to fit where there is not enough room. As the Herculoid powered down Central Avenue to it's predestination, the seemingly impassable rows of cars flipped effortlessly to the side, a wave of rollover in front of a force too, well... immovable. And thus Immovable man moved toward this predestination and the more inanimate objects the Herculoid touched, the more that became non-obstacles. This mechanism attached to the front of the Herculoid looked like a cheese wedge with wings that allowed for a lift and separate of anything that came into contact. Powered by the two V-12 engines floating on a frame held up by front and rear half-tracks, Immovable Man dispatched friction and resistance at every turn. When a more abrupt response was calculated, like when a police car would attempt a road block, hydraulics lifted the divider and the sheer weight and power of the Herculoid crushed whatever stood in its way.

The objective today was a bank deposit before his last check cleared. Immovable Man hated over-draft fees. After creating his own parking spot, Immovable man left the idling Herculoid to enter the bank, opening and holding the door for an elderly woman that was having difficulties balancing herself and the weight of the door. She smiled and thanked him for as his kind patience and hobbled up to the counter. Immovable Man took the next available clerk and offered his deposit. He was then informed that a check had already bounced and an immovable over-draft fee was due, as policy stated such, even though he had rushed to correct the potential problem. An astonished gasp and then mournful moan distracted Immovable Man enough to draw his attention to the old woman who was being informed by the bank manager her Social Security check would not clear soon enough for her to pay her rent and get groceries for the weekend. Her landlord gave her today to pay up or he was tossing her out and confiscating her belongings. Her pleas for lenience were met with more insertions of the priorities of policy.

Immovable Man, with one single swift clean movement, released his sword from under his trench coat and took both the head of the clerk refusing to remove the over-draft fee and the bank manager denying the old woman of an expedient and fair solution to her problem. He then grabbed another clerk and upon placing the cold steel and razor sharp blade beneath her throat, he asked if there was any way she could see to help him and the old woman with the situation. After the over-draft fee was waived and the old woman's check was cashed, Immovable Man offered the old woman a ride to the grocer. He then thanked the clerk for her time and understanding before leaving, and after skewering the head of the bank manager on the fake rhino horn that protruded from the hood of the Herculoid, they were both Safeway bound. The old woman mentioned she thought his new and improved hood ornament was a nice touch.

it itches...

Life-trekking nearer--toward a perceived fruition, as I find my voice through the what-why that is written, the path is drenched with a symptomally undeniable increase of an infection I've incurred; maybe one thought genetically dormant, maybe one just recently picked up off someone elses discarded snot rag. A contamination most likely, and as I see the world through half-century eyes, to and fro via a future past and back, it looks as if the virus is socially terminal. I have a severe curmudgeonly infestation of hermititis, and though it is possibly in it's earliest stages, the acceleration rate is mind numbing.

This is scary; for much of my fuel for spending hours upon hours in touch with the qwerty side of this life is based on observing the lip to ear portation of human experience; the multi-level intellectual stimulations brought on by taking the time to wade through layers of the homogeneous and the weeding out of the null and void. Alas, I fear my weed-whacker is wearing out. My tolerance levels are deteriorating, succumbing to the relentless bombardments of subscription, conscription, prescription, and conniption. Within this commodity spin, I'm floating face-down in a mud puddle of contradiction; once thought a place to nurture a concept with a consciousness elevating precept, a contributory cleansing: simple, refined... rather tart, but not overbearing. And the best advice given? "Don't allow your ego to get between your product and your customer." Hrrrmph!

As I again spent the night in the shop, it occurred to me that sometimes an hourly Amtrak; a sub-routine clackity-clack, the thumpity-thump of hippish-hop through trunk lids at stop lights, and a wind tunnel wannabe furnace is enough to allow for a portal opening, a writing vestibule to sit in where I can unzip a frontal lobe, pour from a cerebral left or right goblet to be gobbled up, synapsual ramblings from less than a perky hard-ridden herky-jerk. Maybe here, maybe there... no one place, no one space that encompasses all the potential, I search for solitude amongst the white noise of the moment. Within this human disconnect and like unforgiving time and change on a sacrificial alter, a dynamic receptacle I be... antennae pulling in every all toward the point of absorption. And when I am finally drenched, over-quenched, spilling more sop than I can hold, then overflow happens...

like right now.

We now return you to your regular scheduled program...

flat...

the dogs of depression are upon us this morning,
a pack in search of a scavenge
or maybe something fresher,
they are doing their best

I'm not sure what the cause is...
but there is a heavy air thick
with feelings of impending doom
of course, doom is contextual...
meaning one person's doom
is another person's hiccup

I think it's our addiction to caffeine
and our lack of it the last two mornings,
we have been slurping on decaf
since we can't seem to remember
to get to the store for the real stuff

our last legal high
and maybe because it's legal,
it's still too boring to buy
we need the risk and intrigue and drama
then the coffee will really buzz

thru the drive-thru...

written for me
represented for you
my truth, wrapped
in a lie
for you to grasp
a fist--
full of food

discoupling...

single threads--
seamingly suited
a tailor-made constant
pressed for time
stitched in time
merge entwined
spooled from spins
the ever looming, draped-
layered over
change
will unravel

fade in... fade out...

I'll sometimes drift backwards into a deeper past and the chill of north wind jars me, shivering into an uncomfortable awakening, and then I'll realize where I am. The pelts covering our bodies in this reality are far more than enough. The smells of smoke and seared meat and spent lust fill my senses and I know Odin prepares me this way... his way. For tomorrow the houses of the four northern tribes unite to move once again on the western isles. Only this time, there will be no siege. With two more armies within our horde we will overrun them, and we will take their meat and women and plant the seeds for warrior sons and daughters to follow. It is Odin's will.

The old Druid priests can no longer control the Goths and they still hurl their worn truth at the army marching from up from south. We will soon meet them in battle, but not now. Tomorrow we set the long boats westward and tonight Odin gives us meat and women to feast upon until he doesn't.

Tomorrow the Celts feel our swords, and I have inventory and receipts to enter into the system.

year end report...

I'm supposedly getting a day supposedly away from the money hunt, that realm where the deflections of reflections are dispatched with stark prejudice; fended off by offensive honed daggers and defensive polished shields, where moments of inner awareness are easily ricocheted off the hallowed walls in halls of mercantile madness, commercial enhanced gladness... for some, and gladiator consumo-wrestling... for others. I'm supposedly now enabled, disconnecting from survival economics and switching make or break into the creative landscape where I have supposedly more important work to do. Fat chance.

So instead of a stream of consciousness rally, I'm more in the mood for making a tally. For 'tis the season to be taking stock, sifting through accumulations of crock and I'm not sure how I got so overwhelmingly-informed. A formula to ponder; maybe accessibility plus curiosity plus an in-the-know voracity and the aggregate to the right of the equal sign is less than the truth of the tape, the proof in the pudding, or a book judged by it's cover. Did the eggs hatch before I got them counted? Someone says they did. It just flashed across the bottom of the screen.

I heard or read, however I was fed, the truthiness of intellectual honesty as presented by pundits of spin, who insist on the win, is an opinion served up as a fact, but never sent back to the kitchen as over-cooked. For failure is a misconception of lesser-be's in the no-know. Someone was just lobbing an honest perception, and got paid for it's conception, rebuttals supplied for an equal access deception, as disclaimers of liability follow, until the next spatula sticks to the pan.

Such a preposterous dissemination of nano-speed information is up to the beholder... and what do I behold looming lowbrow under the radar within this threshold? I evoke the power of 'It':

If it's one or the other, it's probably a little of both and really not worth the bother. That's the problem with non-absolutes. You can't go to war over them.

If it's touted as a buy, it's more than likely a sell. Because a few people with very fast machines have more to make getting out as the many you are getting in.

Bandwagons are for tone deaf people without alternative transportation and an ipod.

The only absolute is change. As I just found some in my pants pocket, what more proof do you need?

It's not what we make that is as important as what we buy, especially if it's made somewhere else by people who can't afford it.

It's getting colder as things get globally warmer and the water is rising as the wells are dying up. Our soggy bone-dry cups runneth over.

It didn't used to be this way, but food tastes better when it's cheap and made by somebody else.

It either patron, or advocate, or manipulator be
build it and it will be bought
mass consolidation sought
hang that on your plastic xmas tree

Now if I can just figure out what 'It' is.