Vulgar Brains

When there are no more buttered rolls to go around once more, and the polite conversation has run through the usual grist that becomes such occasions, then perhaps the addled craniums will crank toward the green and leaking sky and someone will mutter to a senator that it 'is going to help the economy'. I can imagine an evening flock of bipartisans peering from a white house window. The smell is of papers and aftershave. Then later, when the air-tight suited contamination gauging crews from a corporation with stocks of now inestimable worth go scouting through the wilds of various downtowns, or the beaches of Massachusetts - relaying their reports to the leftover people, settlers of the future, then vulgar brains will silently calculate the profit margins, and the innovative ingenuity of an investment made possible.

END OF THE WORLD SEEMS LIKE

The pickled carriage of reality has again trampled the grapes of opulence, and the whittling dwarf at your barber shop steps isn't communicating with you anymore. He just makes figurines of the pope and whistles Irish folk songs. The boat you drive around in doesn't feel safe anymore, now that you put a television inside, why did you do that? It's so hard to turn it off, and the kids will always want to watch something. Now when you see potholes, you aim for them and hope to jar something loose, not in the car, but in your mind. For weeks it's felt like something wasn't right in there, that something had overlapped something else, and that something essential wasn't there. In fact, something feels superficial about just thinking, just letting your mind wander - it almost feels fake. But if that's fake, then what isn't? Once in awhile you roll through for a fast-burger or two and when it's over you can't remember anything distinctive about the trip, nothing can distinguish it from the last, the last one, the last time, the last act... Where have your senses gone, when you pick up L. Ron and he just isn't cutting it. All these books you never read and all this information you won't have any time or interest in assimilating. What act are we in? Secure your belt, hold up your pants, keep you self strapped into your gasoline powered boat. You're in the middle of the continent, secure as a fox in a chicken coop, the farmer dead. But the sky turns a little greener and a gnawing in the stomach reminds you your senses do work - they work to fear. The great horrorfilm suspensefilm dramafilm spacefilm climax, the boom we've been trained to wait for, we can sense the possibility of that. The do-nothing that can only be our reaction when the mideast sh-t hits the fan, the india pakistan sh-t, the china sh-t, the sh-t from russia, is our destined perogative - but for now we vote under Montana sky, smile at mom when she brings more lemonade, we can support raising the stakes and a slobbery description of moral imperative - John Wayne will by god I reckon fix er up before nightfall, ride off into the sunset without askin for anything. On the other hand, if it's the end, ever, there's always the basic - Jesus gonna be here real soon. If you can speed this up by bringing on the apocalypse, that'd be real dandy. Brandish your arms, citizens!

Crumbling Testimonial

"Eh," mouthed Captain Francois de la Soul. I think therefore I have feet, he reasoned silently, but not even this could obscure the aweful vision that had prompted that original 'eh'. Because the horizon was descending and the red of it's edge like blood pressed from a razor cut and the broken ridge of wires houses trees airplanes dropped at an unexpected rate when you went without moving long enough and just when the sky bleached pink the air currents entered the senses - was it the movement or the touch of wind or the sound of it first was hard to recall but there was the culmination of these too or the various connections that held experience together - not that it matters to the wind what you think but all the same it's blowing from someone else's face don't you know it.

What is the nature of this?

The ever-large world gates itself behind the scene of everydayness that like an omnipresent mask coats the collectivity of mind. What is it then with dog manure or sled runners? Nothing doing basically, I reckon. Basically there are two options with which to divide the possible futures. Unless there are more. Like actuality the fringe benefits appeal only to the extinctified relics of yesteryear. Or is it so? Rather the marginal gains appeal to the codified class of lusting greeders, the absent-souled fakers. The non-entrepreneurial sorts are giving McBlanold'sis a bad name. Visage this, cheap-thrill-mongers! Mark my frozen, no trans-fat tamalies, cumbersome demagogology won't stand! But mostly it does. Shredded dispositions of babysitting iron-clads mean nothing to the Franks of the world. They come on with a thing going but leave without knowing the way back in. History-manglers! But what am I on about?

AFFECTING THE STARS

A recent study of 37 people who were all born as infants in the city of Barcelona between a certain period of days, proves something. We got them all in a room and gave them some questions. On the handout they all answered, for example that they "...are able to stand back and look impartially at matters which call for an impartial judgment to be made on them." This confirms that, for one, there are stars. They are big fiery objects that fizzle. I hasten to add to my case. In the survey, the Barcelonians turned out to be similiar in that "They have elegance, charm and good taste, are naturally kind, very gentle, and lovers of beauty, harmony (both in music and social living) and the pleasures that these bring." All 37 answered 'yes' to this yes/no question! Who'd have guessed that these Barcelonians would prove that their influence upon the stars with such profundity? They all agreed that they could 'degenerate into gamblers', 'are sensitive to the needs of others', 'show an understanding of the other person's points of view'. The reality is mind-boggling! WHAT COULD SUCH A GIGANTIC COINCIDENCE MEAN?? Don't tell me it doesn't offer a definite confirmation of the existence of stars, at least! Could we have a clearer-cut example please? I.E, we know that a physical body affects us less the further it is away from us, but there's relativity too, so we're obviously affecting the stars. Furthermore, the Barcelonans were all born in the same period of days. So excuse me, but... Can I get a 'duh'?

Clamps with purposes

Tougher than the tough, and meaner than the knarly streets of Brooklyn or Catalina Springs, the ever glowering towering pines of New England or the sodomized streets of downtown wherever. That was it, trucked in by dawn, a heavy frost and a whirling spatter of blizzard remains. Erudite mosquitoes had a few bandits on the run by noon, and the old folks were up in arms again, waving the flag, stomping their feet, carrying on on the tube about biases and contortions of truth such that would make your folicles stand on end. The grandpas were snorting and shuffling about, badgering the bridge players with snide running commenteries about the 'state of the union' and generally making a racket with squirt guns and water balloons until the next door ranchers drove them off with a caravan of silver mercedes. "Dang," and old guy was heard to remark, in the wake of the nasty onslaught. A few anxious grandmas wept like banshees over the 'pointless loss' when a few grandads seemed afterward to have lost their sense of hearing. This was due, they eagerly reasoned, to the rapid torpedo fire sound of heavy engines backfiring during the event that happened. Suddenly, later on, a giant bomber appeared in the sky, from which was sprayed a really big torrent of pamphlets about safe-sex and guns. Then there was a lot of ruckus over nothing, when a troop of brigades and platoons ended up coming for breakfast, and the elderlies just hadn't had TIME to get anything prepared. Nevertheless, a swell output of pancakes, lardbuttercrumb-waffles, jam torte thingies, egg scramble how-you-like-ems and toasts brightened the sturdy lads day considerably. Aces.

Crap-shoot Festival!

Churlish whirls of slivered onion curls! Some yackity-mouthed, base-brained buffoon-louse, self-appointed muck-loather on yonder alleged height hath heckled our pomegranite cloud heavens! May his phasic characterological underpinnings be churned hereby into heaps of vaguely brown idiot-mulch!! The days of ANAPHASE are hencerightly numbered invisibly by symbols of amounts - may the crap-shoot festival of it's months be forewarned of approaching airborne diseases, of apocalyptic tides of magnitude! May the stench of aforesaid decadent pseudo-anonymity carrion be decimated by the extreme doom of funnel clouds, hurricanic water blooms, earth-shattering quakes, fiery tornadoes from the earth bowels, and spit. (The spit of an undiscovered creature whose saliva is very acidic and burns through just about anything, including stupidity.) Thus saith us.

LARD INGESTION

Once upon a small day in a town known for its circumference, which stretched like an planetary trajectory except for the part where it wobbled a bit through a patch of more rocky terrain, there was a man. His name was Gawd. Now Gawd was a neo-nazi skinhead for a very important reason. It had to do with rocks, and especially, with breaking them. But now, he reasoned, it had to do with far more reasons, reasons that sprung up from the cool, unreasoning earth in great sprouting masses of green and then, too, other colors. Once he had made his way into the governing body, and applied superstring economics to WTO policies, invented fancier hamburgers, and burgaled back a few stolen toy washing machines, by heavens, the radishes of bounty would belong to him alone. "Huh," said Gawd to himself one crispy afternoon, as he stood up straight, overlooking the verifiable depths of a valley that made its depression before him, "I do like an explanation." There was a good one, too, it came from Ludwig the alien. Yes, Ludwig had explained everything that day in pure and inconcievably accurate terms. They all made sense, the terms, each unto itself, so that the whole could not be denied its reality of truth. How could you not say that the influence of Pluto (and the stars) had created a secret race of snake-men bent on ruling the planet by controlling the thoughts of the only intelligent people left!? It was only a miracle he had survived the cataclysms that occured sometime when he wasn't looking and got to read the book by Ludwig the alien, who had recently appeared in person, giving him a holy task to fufill, namely, to brandish the weapon of his choosing and flog the enemy reptile-persons. He sure would, jeez! Leave it to me, he imagined, and began the work of listing the reptiles, in order of descending importance, alphabetically. Umm, he was going to help the world get on its feet again? Duh, he realized. He was the one.

Welcome

To a place where things smell like themselves, and no one is letting you know why.
Not only that, skyscraper-watchers, but things look like they are. Are they like they look too? Could we but are.
The real question I have to ask really is just why aren't they breathing? They took so long getting together
the remains and the cupid-mongers really shone on the astro-turf, so where's the deal? Deep caverns of despair gulped the ashes like dandruff flakes, like crumbs or something into some creature mouth. Bikini-clad nuns aren't the solution to the dirty air. What gives? A fat man with an umbrella is telling some five year old that liberal/conservative is a false dichotomy invented by slave-trading warlords to propagandize vegetables. He's on to something, but there's hail falling and I gotta run.

Welcome to the place.