"Although many Nazi doctors were hanged, just as many became agents of the CIA and United States government, including Walter Schreiber, who helped conduct many of the Nazi medical experiments at Dachau. Yet another famous Nazi, Dr. Josef Mengele—the ultra-sadistic “angel of death”— also began working for the good ‘ol USA (20).
In fact, prior to and during the war with Nazi Germany, Mengele, and other Nazis doctors, were funded in part, through the Rockefeller foundation, and thus already had a connection to America and Allen Dulles who would become head of the CIA.
When it became evident that Germany would lose the war, Bill Donovan, head of the OSS, and Allen Dulles, OSS head of intelligence operations in Europe operating out of Switzerland, hatched a plan, in 1944, to recruit thousands of Nazi intelligence officers, industrialists, and scientists, and bring them to the United States, where they would then be put to work for various U.S. government and military agencies controlled by the OSS."
http://www.naderlibrary.com/americabetrayedch8.htm
"The Committee’s harshest criticism was reserved for those cases in which physicians used patients without their consent in experiments in which the patients could not possibly benefit medically. These cases included the 18 people injected with plutonium at Oak Ridge Hospital in Tennessee, the University of Rochester in New York, the University of Chicago, and the University of California at San Francisco, as well as two experiments in which seriously ill patients were injected with uranium, six at the University of Rochester and eleven at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston. The plutonium and uranium experiments undoubtedly put the subjects at increased risk for cancer in ten or twenty years’ time."
http://www.whale.to/a/cantwell9.html
"There have been numerous experiments performed on human test subjects in the United States that have been considered unethical, and were often performed illegally, without the knowledge, consent, or informed consent of the test subjects.
The experiments include: the deliberate infection of people with deadly or debilitating diseases, exposure of people to biological and chemical weapons, human radiation experiments, injection of people with toxic and radioactive chemicals, surgical experiments, interrogation/torture experiments, tests involving mind-altering substances, and a wide variety of others. Many of these tests were performed on children, the sick, and mentally disabled individuals, often under the guise of "medical treatment". In many of the studies, a large portion of the subjects were poor racial minorities or prisoners.
Funding for many of the experiments was provided by United States government, especially the Central Intelligence Agency, United States military and federal or military corporations. The human research programs were usually highly secretive, and in many cases information about them was not released until many years after the studies had been performed.
The ethical, professional, and legal implications of this in the United States medical and scientific community were quite significant, and led to many institutions and policies that attempted to ensure that future human subject research in the United States would be ethical and legal. Public outcry over the discovery of government experiments on human subjects led to numerous congressional investigations and hearings, including the Church Committee, Rockefeller Commission, and Advisory Committee on Human Radiation Experiments, amongst others.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Unethical_human_experimentation_in_the_United_States
Back when Whitley Strieber and I were a still talking (long story) he (and I) believed I was one of the 50s children with 'grafted' Little Gray DNA that the US government was developing as 'liason/interpreters' (Grays are non-verbal). I have the requisite abduction memories, scoops, 'Little Blue Doctor' subcutaneous permanent blue markings etc.
My birth mother was a 'candy-striper' at the INFAMOUS UCSF Med Center during 1950, had never had sex, experienced a "lost" night there, and 9 months later had me, enlarged pineal gland and all, only to immediately give me up for adoption to HER mother, who always said my mom was my 'older sister'.
Her "lost" night was during the height of the well documented Nazi war criminal overseen 'low dose plutonium injection' scandal at UCSF - for which the Clinton Admin paid reparations to a hundred or so victims who's files had not been destroyed - all recorded thoroughly by the media,
MT NOTE: BTW - PUBLICITY STILL DID NOT KEEP DAVE GREGG FROM CALLING ME A LIAR ABOUT THOSE PROGRAM'S REALITY, EVEN DENYING THE ME HAD EVER VERIFIED THE EXISTANCE OF ALIENS AND CONSPIRACIES, TILL OTHER MT STUDENTS PREVAILED UPON HIM WITH PROOF.
IMO, THIS GUY IS THE LEAST WORTHY HUMAN BEING IN EXISTENCE TO BE HOSTING A MICHAEL TEACHING'S SITE, AS HE STIFLES PUBLIC DEBATE, DOESN'T ALLOW LINKS TO PROOFS OF ALLEGATIONS HE DISLIKES, WHILE HE INSISTS HE "OWNS" IT, AND CAN MAKE ANY ARBITRARY DECISION HE SO CHOSES, WHEN OF COURSE IT IS A PUBLIC YAHOO GROUP.
THE MICHAEL TEACHINGS ARE BEING MISREPRESENTED, AND EVEN DESTROYED, THROUGH THE INFLUENCE HE AND HIS ILK!
AND THEIR SUPPRESSION OF LINKS "THROUGH" THE MT, TO SITES LIKE THOSE BELOW
ONE PERTINENT EXAMPLE OF REPRESSION ON THE WORLD'S LARGEST MICHAEL TEACHINGS SITE:
Below is a link to hundreds of images (most many thousands of years old) of what Nancy Gordon, supposedly channeling the Michael Entity one night on Dave's site, in response to a question about the nature of "Vimanas", said were "leather kites":
http://www.google.com/search?q=images+of+Vimanas&hl=en&clie...
Dave Gregg forbade me posting a link to this very search page on "his" (he said "I own this site.") MT site as a reply to Nancy's misinformation, and subsequently banned me for questioning that decision (and giving Yahoo printed evidence of his abrogation of 3 Yahoo Groups Basic Rules). In Nancy's defense, she normally is right up there around 80% accuracy, but when influenced by the "bookburners", who have DECIDED FOR EVERYONE WHAT THE 'CORE' MICHAEL TEACHINGS ARE, she can go awry.
Aliens, ETs, Sliders, Custodial Gods, Time Travel, Mind Control, Many Worlds MetaTheory & Their MT References
I'd like to start a compilation of Michael Messages referencing all those subjects that so many MT Admins. and Channels have dismissed or attempted to marginalize/minimize over the years by compiling the MT quotes and other source references to subjects that Michael has addressed through many Channels over the years
Meanwhile I have some sites listed below that allow for a background in both Cosmology and MT related theories, which can be accessed at mtcommunity.org , in "Groups", "Orient Express". Also there are numerous "behavior modification" links and URLs which will eventually be separated onto a Page of their own as a related subject
Overview of subject Quantum Mechanics & Cosmology
"Many Worlds" MetaTheory
"Many Worlds" wiki
A Synthesis of Science and Occultism In Light of Fractals, Chaos and Quantum Theory
Overview of subject Galactic Inhabitants:
'Custodial Gods' Biblical References
Ra on Why Is Earth Under Quarantine?
Underground Bases
More On Underground Bases
Ashtar Galactic Confederation (overview vetted by Michael)
The Controllers: A New Hypothesis of Alien Abductions
Author's Collective: Examples Of Alien Interference
Iron Mountain (1963) The Historical Record
Overview of subject "Life Between Lives"
Dr Michael Newton's books about life between lives flesh out a lot of what Michael hints at. For some of his regression sessions are with those who have had extraterrestrial lives . See "Journey Of Souls" index under 'Space Time', and 'Destiny of Souls', 'Explorer Souls', 'Extraterrestrials' and much more, for those of you who have these books. - Jondalf
Michael Newton
Overview of subject Conspiracy Theories:
Montauk Project
Top 20 Censored Stories of 2012
CIA Library Reading Room
Conspiracy Theories
The Matrix Deciphered
Overview of subject Alternative Histories
Urantia Book Related Sites
Mosaic Abuse Of Demiurgic Technology
PDF: "Atlantis: The Antediluvian World" text
THE ENTIRETY OF "OAHSPE", AND "THE KEYS OF ENOCH", TWO INCREDIBLY IMPORTANT CHANNELED MANUSCRIPTS AS PDF FILES ARE AT THE LINKS BELOW:
Keys Of Enoch:
http://www.avalonreconnection.com/pdf/JJ_Hurtak-3-7-1.pdf
OAHSPE:
http://www.angelfire.com/in2/oahspe3/odownload.html
ALIENS:
http://www.maar.us/universal_seduction_author_pages.html
Lastly, I'd like to just ask this, in light of all this fuss about "Channel's Copyrights":
Can someone (anyone?) really OWN a meme? Especially a channeled meme?
- Jondalf Thrasher
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Memes From The Michael Teachings Student Community
Once again folks, I just want to inform all mayhap taken aback by histrionics:
E1/C1, 23rd Cycle, Old Sage in Growth, Spiritualist Attitude, Passion Mode, Intel. Part of Intel. Center; CF-SD Oscillating Immolation Pole, hard at work here (for a REALLY GOOD reason).
CAUTION: CURMUDGEON CROSSING. ACCELERATE OR BE BERATED! (wocka, wocka, wocka)
As we await the arrival of the Infinite, decades away, there is a still a definite increase in the frequency, and intensity of demands for delivery of More Messages From Michael.
Meanwhile, debate about the bias of "Professional", as opposed to "Spiritual" Channels waxes and wanes whist we await publication of the "New Age Dead Sea Scrolls":
Another country heard from here about "Professional" Channels - the criteria that I was trained to believe assured the least biased result, with regard to channeling, or any other endeavor, is this: "The Way is the Goal. All efforts predicated upon "Lust of Result" are suspect." Any endeavor based upon monetary or any other reward is, by definition thereby, of less inherent "trustworthiness" than any endeavor produced from purely non-goal definitive orientation. Thus, by this longstanding and time-honoredncriteria, ANY channeling done for money is LESS trustworthy than that done out of simple love of the process of channeling. Chew on this meme, my brothers and sisters - 'cause its been a long time comin'!
What is known today as "channeling" is actually an ancient sacred healing art rooted in the Oracular Tradition. It is much more than a New Age phenomenon. It is one of the ways Divine and Mystical energies have always been contacted by and expressed through the human being.
From an historical perspective it is a discipline that has existed in many cultures, within many different healing systems, for thousands of years. Those who spoke the Oracles of ancient Greece are primary examples of this tradition. Shamans throughout the ages have invoked, embodied and become one with spiritual helpers for the purpose of sharing healing and spiritual knowledge. For over 800 years a state supported oracle has been part of the spiritual tradition of Tibet. There are meditation practices in various spiritual traditions that are designed to awaken inner wisdom. Buddhism and Sufism have meditation practices that are structured to similarly invoke the presence of a spiritual master with whom one can then merge, awakening this presence within. Guru Yoga is an example of this practice.
As far as I'm concerned, personally, "Professional Channels" are the least trustworthy, lowest on the "totem pole" expression of the Oracular Arts in practice today. Most especially those who utilize only one form of oracular expression. The Ophic visionaries always believed in there being THREE legs to any oracle's "stool" (remembering the Delphic Oracle, and their traditional support above the chasm at Delphi). Personally, I use: The I Ching, The Tarot, and Transit Astrology as my three, "legs", and any "channel" utilizing only one source for their pronouncements, would have been called, Classically: "Cassandras", a term designating those who did not take the time, nor expend the effort, to verify and validate their own channeling with critical self-critiques using "divinitory parallax" to assure their followers of the veracity of their opinions.
Most Michael Channels, in their apparent 20th Century hubris, have forgotten that the history of "channeling" far outstrips their vague and amateurish attempts to aspire to some inclusion in the proud and quite well documented 8,000 year history and fraternity of the "channeling arts". So sad.
I am just unable to anymore coddle a "channeling" community and group of adherents who are so unaware of the thousands of years of traditions, checks and balances and self-regulating practices that guaranteed, at least before the proliferation of Michael "Channels", the continuity of tradition and adherence to precedent, that 8,000 years of History had always before insured an internal policing of the pronouncements of "mediums" , or at least those claiming to be such. If I gave you cause to doubt my respect for your constant "Good Work", chalk it up to my pugnacious and accusatory bombast, which is propelling this, my latest attempt at rectifying some grave errors in MT dogma the Michael Entity has requested I attempt to address:
"They do not create karma with students by giving misleading or false information. (If there's a problem with the info, it is either the channel getting in the way, adding their own bias, or simply misreading something in the transmission.)" This has been reiterated by numerous Professional Channels for years
Sorry folks, but the fact is that 1/2 (50%) of all the experts on the subject from the beginning of recorded history till now call the Michael's assertion that "False Personalities" are NOT sentient beings (directly stated as such through 4 channels I can attest to, over a 30 year period) FALSE! No channeling bias, no human error. The Michael Entity IS NOT INFALLIBLE. Anyone who thinks so is simply deluded. We should ALL "get over" this one.
And on the reason for Dharma the ME said: "So, a game was devised to create more fun, more excitement, more interesting things to help the Tao expand and grow. Growth comes from imbalance and it generates itself to break up the monotony of perfection." - from Barbara
Must I, ONCE AGAIN, be the ONLY MT adherent to point out that this ghastly "game" is at present KILLING AN INNOCENT CHILD EVERY 6 MINUTES IN THE 'HORN' OF AFRICA? WHILE EVERY PROFESSIONAL CHANNEL I HAVE EVER HEARD CHANNELS MEMES LIKE "The creation is perfect." - Troy Tolley, AND EVERY other Michael Channel it sometimes sickens me to have to read. This is also boilerplate MT, no channeling error, no human bias. JUST DISGUSTING NON-COMPASSIONATE CAUSAL PLANE HUBRIS!!! No other way to look at it. This 'creation' is FAR from perfect, and the very statement that it is, is an affront to the suffering of TRILLIONS OF TRILLIONS OF LIVING BEINGS that were, are, or will be in pain. AND, SUCH STATEMENTS ENCOURAGE ACCEPTANCE OF THIS SADISTIC STATUS QUO, AND DISCOURAGE EFFORTS TO ALLEVIATE SUFFERING FOR ALL BEINGS! NOT "GOOD WORK" !
In The Michael's defense, they never claimed to be attempting to address these problems, and I see them more as clueless "Engineer" types, so fascinated by the mechanisms of the machinery of Dharma that they ignore the individual spirits crushed by the gears of its workings. Just a few of the "grave errors" perptuated in MT dogma.
So, is the architecture of the "Wheel Of Dharma", with its foreordained and intrinsic suffering, the ONLY, and even the "best" structure for an ongoing evolution of "Consciousness" within an 'Ensouled' framework?
And, if not, (as IMNSHO: "IT CAN NEVER BE!") how can we work to make a change in the amount of mandated suffering appurtenant and attendant thereunto?
I will go back to my beginnings, to the gentleman who first showed me what a "Channel" was, 5 years before "The Original Michael Group" was formed:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stephen_Gaskin
"PHF: Hmmm... the only questions I really consider to be hard are the big questions, like "What is the nature of consciousness?"
Stephen Gaskin: Try this
Consciousness, in a way, is a function of soul, the spark of godhood that is indwelling
"Beauty, in the flesh, is but a spark,
the fitful tracing of a portal..
but in the flesh it is immortal"
About Soul, I think the poet, Yeats, meant that beauties grow old and die but beauty lives on as long as beauties live on, "in the flesh it is immortal.
I do believe in immortal soul in this fashion.
Length, width, depth, and time, the four dimensions of material reality must be apprehended by soul which preexists and is eternal. Hence, immortal soul. It is not that soul doesn't die that is important, but that it always lives and is that against which time is measured. Soul is that which notices that time passes and therefore must have a referent in another place, which is eternity.
I am sure of soul, I am just not sure if I can call it my own in any but the most temporary sense. To me the soul question is like the light problem. Is light a ray or a particle? Is it my soul or just soul stuff?.
If you put a bunch of soul together does it remain in particles like BBs or just all flow together like water?"
from: http://users.bestweb.net/~kali93/oct98/gaskin.htm
"Being enlightened is taking conscious part in helping God (I say 'Tao" - J) with his Universe, saying "Well, I'd better do what I can to try and make things stretch. It seems like some folks are having trouble making things stretch." If you really understand the situation, you'd like to help. . . . Everyone should be figuring out what they can really do; what they can REALLY handle. We have so much to do; we need so much help and so much cooperation and so many people to step out and take responsibility . . . TO STEP OUT INTO IT.
It's hard for people to be spiritual who are hungry. It's difficult to talk about Spirit to an empty belly - just irrelevant. You have to feed them something . . . and create the conditions where Spirit can grow and flourish. . . .
In the material plane there is diminishing returns, and entropy and that sort of thing, but in the spiritual plane it's go for broke all the time, because God (Tao) is infinite, eternal, inexhaustable.
Start a large project - like saving the world. Keeps you busy. Guaranteed to last a lifetime. That's what the 4 Bodhisattva Vows are all about:
The deluding passions are inexhaustable.
I vow to extinguish them all.
Sentient beings are numberless.
I vow to save them all.
The truth is impossible to expound.
I vow to expound it.
The Way of the Buddha is unnattainable.
I vow to attain it."
From: "This Season's People", by Stephen Gaskin
[My first Guru, and the man who introduced me to Channeling (Akashic), in 1968]
http://www.robotwisdom.com/jorn/gaskin.html
Nuff said. - Jondalf Thrasher
E1/C1, 23rd Cycle, Old Sage in Growth, Spiritualist Attitude, Passion Mode, Intel. Part of Intel. Center; CF-SD Oscillating Immolation Pole, hard at work here (for a REALLY GOOD reason).
CAUTION: CURMUDGEON CROSSING. ACCELERATE OR BE BERATED! (wocka, wocka, wocka)
As we await the arrival of the Infinite, decades away, there is a still a definite increase in the frequency, and intensity of demands for delivery of More Messages From Michael.
Meanwhile, debate about the bias of "Professional", as opposed to "Spiritual" Channels waxes and wanes whist we await publication of the "New Age Dead Sea Scrolls":
Another country heard from here about "Professional" Channels - the criteria that I was trained to believe assured the least biased result, with regard to channeling, or any other endeavor, is this: "The Way is the Goal. All efforts predicated upon "Lust of Result" are suspect." Any endeavor based upon monetary or any other reward is, by definition thereby, of less inherent "trustworthiness" than any endeavor produced from purely non-goal definitive orientation. Thus, by this longstanding and time-honoredncriteria, ANY channeling done for money is LESS trustworthy than that done out of simple love of the process of channeling. Chew on this meme, my brothers and sisters - 'cause its been a long time comin'!
What is known today as "channeling" is actually an ancient sacred healing art rooted in the Oracular Tradition. It is much more than a New Age phenomenon. It is one of the ways Divine and Mystical energies have always been contacted by and expressed through the human being.
From an historical perspective it is a discipline that has existed in many cultures, within many different healing systems, for thousands of years. Those who spoke the Oracles of ancient Greece are primary examples of this tradition. Shamans throughout the ages have invoked, embodied and become one with spiritual helpers for the purpose of sharing healing and spiritual knowledge. For over 800 years a state supported oracle has been part of the spiritual tradition of Tibet. There are meditation practices in various spiritual traditions that are designed to awaken inner wisdom. Buddhism and Sufism have meditation practices that are structured to similarly invoke the presence of a spiritual master with whom one can then merge, awakening this presence within. Guru Yoga is an example of this practice.
As far as I'm concerned, personally, "Professional Channels" are the least trustworthy, lowest on the "totem pole" expression of the Oracular Arts in practice today. Most especially those who utilize only one form of oracular expression. The Ophic visionaries always believed in there being THREE legs to any oracle's "stool" (remembering the Delphic Oracle, and their traditional support above the chasm at Delphi). Personally, I use: The I Ching, The Tarot, and Transit Astrology as my three, "legs", and any "channel" utilizing only one source for their pronouncements, would have been called, Classically: "Cassandras", a term designating those who did not take the time, nor expend the effort, to verify and validate their own channeling with critical self-critiques using "divinitory parallax" to assure their followers of the veracity of their opinions.
Most Michael Channels, in their apparent 20th Century hubris, have forgotten that the history of "channeling" far outstrips their vague and amateurish attempts to aspire to some inclusion in the proud and quite well documented 8,000 year history and fraternity of the "channeling arts". So sad.
I am just unable to anymore coddle a "channeling" community and group of adherents who are so unaware of the thousands of years of traditions, checks and balances and self-regulating practices that guaranteed, at least before the proliferation of Michael "Channels", the continuity of tradition and adherence to precedent, that 8,000 years of History had always before insured an internal policing of the pronouncements of "mediums" , or at least those claiming to be such. If I gave you cause to doubt my respect for your constant "Good Work", chalk it up to my pugnacious and accusatory bombast, which is propelling this, my latest attempt at rectifying some grave errors in MT dogma the Michael Entity has requested I attempt to address:
"They do not create karma with students by giving misleading or false information. (If there's a problem with the info, it is either the channel getting in the way, adding their own bias, or simply misreading something in the transmission.)" This has been reiterated by numerous Professional Channels for years
Sorry folks, but the fact is that 1/2 (50%) of all the experts on the subject from the beginning of recorded history till now call the Michael's assertion that "False Personalities" are NOT sentient beings (directly stated as such through 4 channels I can attest to, over a 30 year period) FALSE! No channeling bias, no human error. The Michael Entity IS NOT INFALLIBLE. Anyone who thinks so is simply deluded. We should ALL "get over" this one.
And on the reason for Dharma the ME said: "So, a game was devised to create more fun, more excitement, more interesting things to help the Tao expand and grow. Growth comes from imbalance and it generates itself to break up the monotony of perfection." - from Barbara
Must I, ONCE AGAIN, be the ONLY MT adherent to point out that this ghastly "game" is at present KILLING AN INNOCENT CHILD EVERY 6 MINUTES IN THE 'HORN' OF AFRICA? WHILE EVERY PROFESSIONAL CHANNEL I HAVE EVER HEARD CHANNELS MEMES LIKE "The creation is perfect." - Troy Tolley, AND EVERY other Michael Channel it sometimes sickens me to have to read. This is also boilerplate MT, no channeling error, no human bias. JUST DISGUSTING NON-COMPASSIONATE CAUSAL PLANE HUBRIS!!! No other way to look at it. This 'creation' is FAR from perfect, and the very statement that it is, is an affront to the suffering of TRILLIONS OF TRILLIONS OF LIVING BEINGS that were, are, or will be in pain. AND, SUCH STATEMENTS ENCOURAGE ACCEPTANCE OF THIS SADISTIC STATUS QUO, AND DISCOURAGE EFFORTS TO ALLEVIATE SUFFERING FOR ALL BEINGS! NOT "GOOD WORK" !
In The Michael's defense, they never claimed to be attempting to address these problems, and I see them more as clueless "Engineer" types, so fascinated by the mechanisms of the machinery of Dharma that they ignore the individual spirits crushed by the gears of its workings. Just a few of the "grave errors" perptuated in MT dogma.
So, is the architecture of the "Wheel Of Dharma", with its foreordained and intrinsic suffering, the ONLY, and even the "best" structure for an ongoing evolution of "Consciousness" within an 'Ensouled' framework?
And, if not, (as IMNSHO: "IT CAN NEVER BE!") how can we work to make a change in the amount of mandated suffering appurtenant and attendant thereunto?
I will go back to my beginnings, to the gentleman who first showed me what a "Channel" was, 5 years before "The Original Michael Group" was formed:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stephen_Gaskin
"PHF: Hmmm... the only questions I really consider to be hard are the big questions, like "What is the nature of consciousness?"
Stephen Gaskin: Try this
Consciousness, in a way, is a function of soul, the spark of godhood that is indwelling
"Beauty, in the flesh, is but a spark,
the fitful tracing of a portal..
but in the flesh it is immortal"
About Soul, I think the poet, Yeats, meant that beauties grow old and die but beauty lives on as long as beauties live on, "in the flesh it is immortal.
I do believe in immortal soul in this fashion.
Length, width, depth, and time, the four dimensions of material reality must be apprehended by soul which preexists and is eternal. Hence, immortal soul. It is not that soul doesn't die that is important, but that it always lives and is that against which time is measured. Soul is that which notices that time passes and therefore must have a referent in another place, which is eternity.
I am sure of soul, I am just not sure if I can call it my own in any but the most temporary sense. To me the soul question is like the light problem. Is light a ray or a particle? Is it my soul or just soul stuff?.
If you put a bunch of soul together does it remain in particles like BBs or just all flow together like water?"
from: http://users.bestweb.net/~kali93/oct98/gaskin.htm
"Being enlightened is taking conscious part in helping God (I say 'Tao" - J) with his Universe, saying "Well, I'd better do what I can to try and make things stretch. It seems like some folks are having trouble making things stretch." If you really understand the situation, you'd like to help. . . . Everyone should be figuring out what they can really do; what they can REALLY handle. We have so much to do; we need so much help and so much cooperation and so many people to step out and take responsibility . . . TO STEP OUT INTO IT.
It's hard for people to be spiritual who are hungry. It's difficult to talk about Spirit to an empty belly - just irrelevant. You have to feed them something . . . and create the conditions where Spirit can grow and flourish. . . .
In the material plane there is diminishing returns, and entropy and that sort of thing, but in the spiritual plane it's go for broke all the time, because God (Tao) is infinite, eternal, inexhaustable.
Start a large project - like saving the world. Keeps you busy. Guaranteed to last a lifetime. That's what the 4 Bodhisattva Vows are all about:
The deluding passions are inexhaustable.
I vow to extinguish them all.
Sentient beings are numberless.
I vow to save them all.
The truth is impossible to expound.
I vow to expound it.
The Way of the Buddha is unnattainable.
I vow to attain it."
From: "This Season's People", by Stephen Gaskin
[My first Guru, and the man who introduced me to Channeling (Akashic), in 1968]
http://www.robotwisdom.com/jorn/gaskin.html
Nuff said. - Jondalf Thrasher
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
After The Fall Of The Angels, Earth History And The Beginnings Of "Gaia's Guerillas"
Firstly, what I personally can remember this lifetime ebbs and flows, as more or less of my and my approximately 300 most contiguous analogs-selves collectively quantum-entangled computational capacity is taken up by exingencies of branching events on other timelines, hence my 2-3 week periodicity and flurry of sleepless Episodic Unipolar Mania that allows me to: 1) NOT SLIDE TO ANOTHER ANALOG IN MY SLEEP ! and 2) provides me with the time, and stabiity of cognitive assonance one consciousness inhabiting the "hub" of a human quantum computer that spans 300, lends to the ability to wield an Executive Function in the process of 'cutting and pasting' links and paragraphs of recollection and bytes of forgtten lore that have percolated to the surface of the 'collective-brain' over the several weekworking hiatus and then download them to this corporeal manifestation, which, for as long as I don't 'drift', then becomes the central emanation from which all other analogs in this 300 brain brain are 'shadows', a la the Roger Zelazny 12 Volume Opus on alternate reality matrix mechanics and engineering: "Nine Princes In Amber" (all Sci-Fi fans bow their heads in tribute to this Channel of Channels, may he Rest In Intriguing Peace).
But, I digress. Basically, It's like this: after the Luciferian Rebellion there was a 'rift' not just in Entity 1, but thoughout the entirety of Cadre 1 (although the rift really didn't seem to extend out into the Ring, because we had enough fragments who rebelled with the Administration of Satania - our world and 27 others, for whom Lucifer was the System Administrator, that were galactically closest to each other out on this spiral arm of the Milky Way).
The Cadre 'rift' proportions were about the same as they were with the Angels: 1/3 Loyal to the Galactic Confederation, 1/3 Neutral but remaining part of the functioning Administration in exile, and as liasons between the two sides, and 1/3 in open Rebellion
and blockaded from the ministrations of Galactic infrastructure repair, public education funds. etc. A lot of this stuff is described on websites that can be accessed from my links in Orient Express, specifically: Ashtar Galactic Federation, and several others, and of course in the annals of the redoubtable Urantia Book (original - prior to 1985 - version).
Now, the fact that Satania had ceceded from the Galactic Union DID NOT stop the ongoing predations, and the bioengineering 'stultification' breeding programs and gene-grafting machinations of the Custodial Gods, described in our earliest written (cuniform) histories, and translated and explicated by Von Daniken, Zevariah Stichin, William Bramley and others:
http://www.sitchin.com/
http://www.serendipity.li/eden.html
http://home.comcast.net/~georgesaunders/ancient.html
The Custodial Gods had been breeding subservience, and baseline cretinism into the races precluding Homo Sapiens Sapiens, because all they needed were willing workers who didn't question their lot mucking minerals for the 'divine' Space Gods, all this done with the explicit sanction of the Galactic Federation and its titular head, the Usurper DemiUrgos: Jehovah (the Urantia Book even delineates the Luciferian Mainifesto's precept, and description of Jehovah having convinced higher-frequency sensing-impaired beings the HE, and NOT The Tao, was the effulgent source of Creation, and responsible for all cast therefrom).
Now, the Rebellion had completely changed the way some of us ensouled native to Earth viewed our place in the grand scheme of thing, and caused many of us to ask the advice of the World Consciousness, Gaia. This is where the Conspiracy to resist the genetic pogroms of the Custodial Gods (who were, basically, raping Mother Earth, as it were) began, about which Dr. Heather Anne Harder channeled the book: "Many Were Called Few Were Chosen, The Story of the Earth Based Volunteers In Service To Mother Earth":
http://www.amazon.com/Many-Were-Called-Few-Chosen-Earth-Based/dp/18...
Or, as I have always called us, at least those of us "Seal Team Sixers" primarily from the Entity 1 section of Cadre 1: "Gaia's Guerillas".
With the Liberation of Earth, and all Satania from the oppressive grip of of the "Slavemasters", all sorts of Independent Energy Matrices, and Oort Cloud Trancendental Information Entities, Spider Alien Precognitive Hive Minds hidden in the tails of comets and all manner of beings opposed to the rule oif the DemUrgos, but individually to week to resist (most hiding instead) began to flock to Earth, and through them, we "monkey-brains' began to be able to map out the most probable currents of branching events stretching out before us, like Asimov's "Foundation" 'future history' assertions and calculations, and we began to tentatively schedule incarnations for ourselves where we could do th most good, based on our plans.
Many of us had, and have used this collective energy, harnessed through collective cronosynchronicity, mutually learned ritual movements, actions and forms and shapes (for my covens, down all the ages, the forms of Hermetic Magick, the mantras, yantras and mudras of Rajvayana Tantra Asana, and the channeled memories of those V Cadre's of us from Atlantis who all took turns living our lives, watched over by our Soulsiblings as we schemed and plotted, weaved and knotted timelinetapestries of silken necessity, a city saved from famine here, a library looted, scrolls buried, genelines preserved by centuries pre-planned reunitingincarnationsleepingonlywithkithandkinkennedbynonespecially the diseasestrewingtyreandsidon3wingflyingsaucerfolk (seen inbgrade medieval paintingsabandoned to die like we folk of C1/E1, plotting and "sliding" and cringing through life after life, a Sage saved to teach a tribe how to build boats and escape to places the Annunnaki nor their servants ever went neverowningevenourselves as sacreifice after sacrifice was seen by our Seers and
channeled thru oracles and dying eyes closed only to see the 'copulatingbodies' that drew us down, again and again, sworn to keep the shared vision of 37375 individual 'sparks from the Tao' bandeed together in common cause, common ancestry (Leary WAS right - there IS a Racial and Spirituaklmemory wovendeepinDNA) that if known to the DemiUrgos and his servants before now would, in this very year, be
mandatingdeathforentirecontinents
deemedgeneticallyadvancedangerousandwilful . . .
that, my brothers and sisters from fair lost sunken Atlantis,
I am overwhelmed and honored to tell those of you who know
in your very marrow, that my story is yours also . . .
The End
as foreseen in a dream, of a dream, when what WAS foreseen is a single sorry Sage reading words on a screen like a team, in a forest green, releasing a dove (or is it a meme?) to return to a ship, which fleeing Atlantis found a mountain and a forest and a Temple waiting . . . waiting for a team . . . from the last Cadre's team. Or was it a gene?
What - - -Ever - - -and - - -Ever, my fine and triumphant crew.
'Tis thru and through. We stuck to our plans, and our Muse`
(Blessed Be Ye Michael Entity - Three times 3 times Three -
as we will always seek follow The Way Which Is Ever Its Own End
But, I digress. Basically, It's like this: after the Luciferian Rebellion there was a 'rift' not just in Entity 1, but thoughout the entirety of Cadre 1 (although the rift really didn't seem to extend out into the Ring, because we had enough fragments who rebelled with the Administration of Satania - our world and 27 others, for whom Lucifer was the System Administrator, that were galactically closest to each other out on this spiral arm of the Milky Way).
The Cadre 'rift' proportions were about the same as they were with the Angels: 1/3 Loyal to the Galactic Confederation, 1/3 Neutral but remaining part of the functioning Administration in exile, and as liasons between the two sides, and 1/3 in open Rebellion
and blockaded from the ministrations of Galactic infrastructure repair, public education funds. etc. A lot of this stuff is described on websites that can be accessed from my links in Orient Express, specifically: Ashtar Galactic Federation, and several others, and of course in the annals of the redoubtable Urantia Book (original - prior to 1985 - version).
Now, the fact that Satania had ceceded from the Galactic Union DID NOT stop the ongoing predations, and the bioengineering 'stultification' breeding programs and gene-grafting machinations of the Custodial Gods, described in our earliest written (cuniform) histories, and translated and explicated by Von Daniken, Zevariah Stichin, William Bramley and others:
http://www.sitchin.com/
http://www.serendipity.li/eden.html
http://home.comcast.net/~georgesaunders/ancient.html
The Custodial Gods had been breeding subservience, and baseline cretinism into the races precluding Homo Sapiens Sapiens, because all they needed were willing workers who didn't question their lot mucking minerals for the 'divine' Space Gods, all this done with the explicit sanction of the Galactic Federation and its titular head, the Usurper DemiUrgos: Jehovah (the Urantia Book even delineates the Luciferian Mainifesto's precept, and description of Jehovah having convinced higher-frequency sensing-impaired beings the HE, and NOT The Tao, was the effulgent source of Creation, and responsible for all cast therefrom).
Now, the Rebellion had completely changed the way some of us ensouled native to Earth viewed our place in the grand scheme of thing, and caused many of us to ask the advice of the World Consciousness, Gaia. This is where the Conspiracy to resist the genetic pogroms of the Custodial Gods (who were, basically, raping Mother Earth, as it were) began, about which Dr. Heather Anne Harder channeled the book: "Many Were Called Few Were Chosen, The Story of the Earth Based Volunteers In Service To Mother Earth":
http://www.amazon.com/Many-Were-Called-Few-Chosen-Earth-Based/dp/18...
Or, as I have always called us, at least those of us "Seal Team Sixers" primarily from the Entity 1 section of Cadre 1: "Gaia's Guerillas".
With the Liberation of Earth, and all Satania from the oppressive grip of of the "Slavemasters", all sorts of Independent Energy Matrices, and Oort Cloud Trancendental Information Entities, Spider Alien Precognitive Hive Minds hidden in the tails of comets and all manner of beings opposed to the rule oif the DemUrgos, but individually to week to resist (most hiding instead) began to flock to Earth, and through them, we "monkey-brains' began to be able to map out the most probable currents of branching events stretching out before us, like Asimov's "Foundation" 'future history' assertions and calculations, and we began to tentatively schedule incarnations for ourselves where we could do th most good, based on our plans.
Many of us had, and have used this collective energy, harnessed through collective cronosynchronicity, mutually learned ritual movements, actions and forms and shapes (for my covens, down all the ages, the forms of Hermetic Magick, the mantras, yantras and mudras of Rajvayana Tantra Asana, and the channeled memories of those V Cadre's of us from Atlantis who all took turns living our lives, watched over by our Soulsiblings as we schemed and plotted, weaved and knotted timelinetapestries of silken necessity, a city saved from famine here, a library looted, scrolls buried, genelines preserved by centuries pre-planned reunitingincarnationsleepingonlywithkithandkinkennedbynonespecially the diseasestrewingtyreandsidon3wingflyingsaucerfolk (seen inbgrade medieval paintingsabandoned to die like we folk of C1/E1, plotting and "sliding" and cringing through life after life, a Sage saved to teach a tribe how to build boats and escape to places the Annunnaki nor their servants ever went neverowningevenourselves as sacreifice after sacrifice was seen by our Seers and
channeled thru oracles and dying eyes closed only to see the 'copulatingbodies' that drew us down, again and again, sworn to keep the shared vision of 37375 individual 'sparks from the Tao' bandeed together in common cause, common ancestry (Leary WAS right - there IS a Racial and Spirituaklmemory wovendeepinDNA) that if known to the DemiUrgos and his servants before now would, in this very year, be
mandatingdeathforentirecontinents
deemedgeneticallyadvancedangerousandwilful . . .
that, my brothers and sisters from fair lost sunken Atlantis,
I am overwhelmed and honored to tell those of you who know
in your very marrow, that my story is yours also . . .
The End
as foreseen in a dream, of a dream, when what WAS foreseen is a single sorry Sage reading words on a screen like a team, in a forest green, releasing a dove (or is it a meme?) to return to a ship, which fleeing Atlantis found a mountain and a forest and a Temple waiting . . . waiting for a team . . . from the last Cadre's team. Or was it a gene?
What - - -Ever - - -and - - -Ever, my fine and triumphant crew.
'Tis thru and through. We stuck to our plans, and our Muse`
(Blessed Be Ye Michael Entity - Three times 3 times Three -
as we will always seek follow The Way Which Is Ever Its Own End
Friday, April 06, 2012
All Apologies - Now Get Your Boot Off My Neck
Click to join mkultraones
BTW, My diagnosis after the years of LSD the MKULTRA program fed me (and my own writer/musician alcohol habituation), given to me over the course of a decade by three PhD shrinks/neurologists was: "Occasional periods of episodic Unipolar Mania."
I can have weeks where I'll just catnap an hour or two every 10, it is not uncommon among those abused by our government with expeimental dosages of whatever it was they gave us to test. Read the literature, my dear, you might be surprised. Also, I remember my Pawnee Marine Korean War Vet CIA handler and his squad buddies would sometimes stay up for 4 or even 5 days without sleep, no drugs but alcohol and nicotine involved. They taught me some tricks towards maintaining a state of 'hypervigilance' that were necessary for their 'counterinsurgency' infiltration activities (although the 'insurgency' they were infiltrating was Timothy Leary's "Brotherhood Of Etenal Love" - figure . . . go);{>
So just because I write about drugs, because they were a part of my life doen't mean I have to use them anymore to stay awake and "on a roll" writing for a night or two, and it is mean-spirited and self-righteous of anyone to assume that is the case. I also have a broken T-1 vertebrae - industrial accident in '72 - never stopped me from working or writing or playing, but it makes it hurt to type, my hands go numb, and it keeps me awake also.
I'm sure you don't care about that, or even believe me, as will others neither, and I guess it's all part of the PR persona of the author of the GREATEST AMERICAN MEMOIR WRITTEN (in 60 spiral notebooks I've been lugging around for years) BUT NOT YET PUBLISHED. If I were some Evangelical Saint would people believe my story? No se.
Nevertheless, my statement stands. I am NOT fluent in either Greek, or Aramaic, AND NEVER CLAIMED TO BE< but I have stuggled to puzzle out a few things over the years, with the help of some fine, non-judgemental Jewish & Christian scholars, who were not put\
off by the questions of a 'Preacher's Kid", who seriously wanted to learn, "the truth".
The reason I did not go to Seminary, as I had planned,
was I realized that to truly never have to say: "Lo here, or lo there, for lo the Kingdom Of Heaven is within (me)." I would have to diligently "study, to show myself approved" so that I could "Know the truth, and the truth (would) make (me) free."
In any event, just because I believe this Holy Book (one of many in this world) is not well and TRULY translated from the originals, and that no 'divine inspiration' always guided the translators or copyists, doesn't mean that I don't believe in the 'principles' I believe were
being expressed in a reverentially aspirational fashion by the authors.
I am a Gnostic, I don't believe in the everyday interaction of IHVH with EVERY HUMAN UPON HIM WHO BELIEVES. MY faith has shown to me the intercession of Angelic beings who have guarded and prolonged my sorry existence to this very day when those much more worthy to survived have passed on.
The health of my liver, for instance, at 60 years of age with all the drugs the CIA fed me, all the ones I subsequently fed myself, and all the volatile esters and solvents I have been forced to inhale in 40 years as a Machinist, IS NOTHING SHORT OF MIRACULOUS, I
AVOW.
Anyway, my Blog subjects this week are coming to me, as my Angel's long term plan for
my contribution to the culture of this world seem to decree. One thing my father, the MOST Christian man I have ever known, taught me to believe in is something YOU too should know as an article of YOUR faith: "Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it." I know those with whom I disagree would say he did a poor job, but that is for someone other than you or I to judge, eh buddy?
I will work on your translation, when I have the time, honest. I still have an Enochian text that only I and one other have ever seen, and after 30 years it still is not completely done.
Thanks, BTW, for giving me the indignation at your judging me (you did address your e-mail to: "HyBum" not what I was taught a Christian should do to provide an example of
the 'goodness' of your faith, but hey, now I'm doing it too) TO HELP ME WRITE ANOTHER
500 WORDS WITHOUT FALLING ASLEEP! The Angels work in mysterious ways, IHVH's wonder's to . . . "?
Faith, hope and 'agape', but the greatest of these is 'agape'." - JWT
"Deeds cannot dream what dreams can do." - E.E Cummings
"We've already won. All that's left is the mopping up." - Timothy Leary
"The host is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare;
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away: - William Butler Yeats
Empty your heart of its mortal dream. "The Hosting Of The Sidhe'
. . . "
--- On Sun, 11/21/10, "Феликс"
From: "Феликс"
Subject: Руководителю отдела ВЭД
To: hybum@yahoo.com
Date: Sunday, November 21, 2010, 10:18 PM
Уважаемые коллеги!
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Wednesday, April 04, 2012
Angelic Beings - Post The Christo-Fascist Hackers Did Not Want You To See !
Permalink Reply by Jondalf Thrasher on Sunday
Michael Student: "Do you agree with the opinion that "angels" are individual essences who chose to never incarnate for whatever reason or purpose, but are otherwise just like us at the essence level? (i.e. they too have an entity). As permanent residents of astral, they would likely become known as guides and teachers. But, why do they not need to learn lessons from the physical realm? Are they no longer doing grand cycles in the physical, but still cast from Tau?"
Jondalf - "You must have been reading one of my minds (remember, I 'quantum commute' amongst about 300 of my closest analogs, so sometimes even I don't know what I am thinking - lol).
Of the 9 Angelic Orders, only Angels and ArchAngels and Principalities hang out mostly on the Astral (Higher and Lower) Cherubim are native to the Akashic Plane, Seraphs gravitate to the Transcendental, Thrones are mostly on the Buddhic.
Dominions, Virtues and Powers are generally Causal Plane Beings.
Unlike "free-willed" ensouled evolving fragments and Entities, the Angelc races were "constucted from", not "cast from" The Tao. THEY DO NOT HAVE FREE WILL! They are analogous to androids with Artificial Intelligence, each order has specific hierarchical functions and purviews. They are the maintenance robots of the Metaverse, with far greater Intelligence Quotients and computational speeds and data capacity than ANY ensouled being could ever imagine. THEY DO NOT HAVE SOULS! I repeat: they are not connected to any ESSENCE, other than that of the Usurper (if non-"fallen", or non-Neutral), and ultimately, the Tao. They are their own Essences, said essences being programmed with their purpose." - Jondalf Thrasher
At least thats what I get from the Akashic. The Urantia Book has all the very detailed details, and the channeled book "The Keys Of Enoch" has some interesting factoids, as does "OAHSPE". The "Dictionary Of Angels" is a good compilation of earthly textual references.
Urantia:
http://ubwebsites.com/
OAHSPE:
http://www.angelfire.com/in2/oahspe3/odownload.html
Keys Of Enoch:
http://www.avalonreconnection.com/pdf/JJ_Hurtak-3-7-1.pdf
- Jondalf Thrasher
Michael Student: "Do you agree with the opinion that "angels" are individual essences who chose to never incarnate for whatever reason or purpose, but are otherwise just like us at the essence level? (i.e. they too have an entity). As permanent residents of astral, they would likely become known as guides and teachers. But, why do they not need to learn lessons from the physical realm? Are they no longer doing grand cycles in the physical, but still cast from Tau?"
Jondalf - "You must have been reading one of my minds (remember, I 'quantum commute' amongst about 300 of my closest analogs, so sometimes even I don't know what I am thinking - lol).
Of the 9 Angelic Orders, only Angels and ArchAngels and Principalities hang out mostly on the Astral (Higher and Lower) Cherubim are native to the Akashic Plane, Seraphs gravitate to the Transcendental, Thrones are mostly on the Buddhic.
Dominions, Virtues and Powers are generally Causal Plane Beings.
Unlike "free-willed" ensouled evolving fragments and Entities, the Angelc races were "constucted from", not "cast from" The Tao. THEY DO NOT HAVE FREE WILL! They are analogous to androids with Artificial Intelligence, each order has specific hierarchical functions and purviews. They are the maintenance robots of the Metaverse, with far greater Intelligence Quotients and computational speeds and data capacity than ANY ensouled being could ever imagine. THEY DO NOT HAVE SOULS! I repeat: they are not connected to any ESSENCE, other than that of the Usurper (if non-"fallen", or non-Neutral), and ultimately, the Tao. They are their own Essences, said essences being programmed with their purpose." - Jondalf Thrasher
At least thats what I get from the Akashic. The Urantia Book has all the very detailed details, and the channeled book "The Keys Of Enoch" has some interesting factoids, as does "OAHSPE". The "Dictionary Of Angels" is a good compilation of earthly textual references.
Urantia:
http://ubwebsites.com/
OAHSPE:
http://www.angelfire.com/in2/oahspe3/odownload.html
Keys Of Enoch:
http://www.avalonreconnection.com/pdf/JJ_Hurtak-3-7-1.pdf
- Jondalf Thrasher
The Current State Of 'Sprachland'
The Current State Of 'Sprachland'
To all of you interested in the apparent proliferation of underage exploitative "webcam" sites, based in 3rd World Countries, and the investigation and prosecution of porno producers worldwide, for use/abuse of underage models, and who have been equally intrigued/outraged by stories of American "Kidnapping/Behavior Modification" like Darryl Hannah's:
http://youramericanteen-movie.com/
" 'Kill Bill' Actress Daryl Hannah Launches Sex-Slave Crusade After Escaping Sick Trade
Kill Bill star Daryl Hannah narrowly avoided being sold as a sex slave in Las Vegas in the late 1970s and is now coming forward with her seedy secret to help others forced into prostitution. The actress, who has joined forces with international human rights groups to help free sex slaves, reveals she was studying theatre in Los Angeles when she leaped at the chance to model for an album cover in Sin City. The 46-year-old told crime show America's Most Wanted that she quickly realised the modeling trip was a scam and she was about to be forced into a sex-slave ring. Hannah told show host John Walsh she and another girl escaped out a window and fled back to Los Angeles, but she has always been haunted by the memory of how close she came to becoming forced into prostitution. And now the environmentalist and humanitarian is using her movie dollars to help those who weren't so lucky after learning there are more than 14,000 girls smuggled into America annually from Eastern Europe and Asia who become part of secret sex rings. She says, "The more I learn, the more I am moved to take action."
- http://www.tennisforum.com/showthread.php?t=279427
I have been dealing with this sick shit ever since the CIA "behavior modified" me at UC Berkeley in the '60s. Two women I love dearly were victims of the same group that got Darryl Hannah, THEY STILL EXIST, AND HAVE NEVER BEEN BROUGHT TO JUSTICE! MAYBE BECAUSE THEY ARE FORMER MEMBERS OF THE DEPT. OF JUSTICE !
I have waged a one-man campaign against them for many decades. I actually have evidence of their crimes, which I have tried to get MANY DAs and Police Depts., even the FBI to use in their prosecution with no takers (videos of them abusing my friends, when my friends were underage, which my friends gave to me for reproduction, proliferation and safe-keeping).
If you are a follower of my Blog: "Letters To My Future Selves" you willI have noted that I have taken to resorting to more surreptitious means over the years, most recently using a "bait and switch" con to try and generate a large pool of porn users who have now seen the tapes I was given. The more people who have direct experience with evidence of criminal activity of this sort, the better. This can lead to, if nothing else, hundreds of depositions and attestations with which the Porn criminal's legal defense teams have to deal, increasing thereby the prosecution's "preponderance of the evidence"!
I recall the abject frustration of one family who lived in a 'trailer park' inhabited by meth cooks, 'tweakers' and Confidential Informers in one of the cities to which I was sent. They had 2 WAY attractive daughters, 16 & 17, precocious and wild, who, in the course of being arrested for simple marijuana possession ran into some of Colorado's finest, and to make a long story short, were taken advantage of by these public servants, in exchange for no drug charges being filed against them (just like the plots in a hundred bad "Trailer Park Trash" porn movies).
Not an untoward occurrence in the world today, and it would have ended there had not the 'boys in blue' continued to extract "payments' for the next 6 months! The parents were old druggies, reported the incident and were studiously ignored. They and the girls were outraged but unable to figure out how to "fight the power", until one weekend they mounted a hidden security camera in their living room, the parents called a friend of theirs at City Hall, who they knew knew the officers in question, told him they were going out of town, would he check on the girls? please over the weekend, etc., and the next week they had evidence of crimes being committed. For one reason or another, the tape was never used by ANY prosecutors, EVER, but everybody, like myself who was privy to the incident. has been harassed about its whereabouts fr years.
The reach and clout of groups like the one in Henderson, about which I have written before, is astonishing, rendering most potential witnesses and/or opponents of any stripe fearful, and ineffectual in shouldering their Libertarian responsibilities. Just recall what someone trying to silence my critique of Colorado drug law enforcement did to all my online accounts LAST MONTH, AFTER HAVING CONTINUALLY HACKED MY ACCOUNTS AND CPUS FOR DECADES, DESTROYING 2 NEW LAPTOPS IN 2 YEARS.
Realize that tactics like this have been used against me since the '60s, to no avail ! My 2 Cherubim Guardian Angels (literally) always prevail. Most of my long term friends, and Federal Gov. Intell. Agencies since the 60s, have seen the manifestation of this "dumb luck" for decades, and doubt it not!
In any event, I will "endeavour to persevere" to protect and seek justice for my friends (and your friends too). I have not been able to visit with many of my favorite people, most of my life, because I could lead the bad guys right to 'em. This has rendered me quite bitter over time, and made me the curmudgeon I am today, sorry.
To all of you interested in the apparent proliferation of underage exploitative "webcam" sites, based in 3rd World Countries, and the investigation and prosecution of porno producers worldwide, for use/abuse of underage models, and who have been equally intrigued/outraged by stories of American "Kidnapping/Behavior Modification" like Darryl Hannah's:
http://youramericanteen-movie.com/
" 'Kill Bill' Actress Daryl Hannah Launches Sex-Slave Crusade After Escaping Sick Trade
Kill Bill star Daryl Hannah narrowly avoided being sold as a sex slave in Las Vegas in the late 1970s and is now coming forward with her seedy secret to help others forced into prostitution. The actress, who has joined forces with international human rights groups to help free sex slaves, reveals she was studying theatre in Los Angeles when she leaped at the chance to model for an album cover in Sin City. The 46-year-old told crime show America's Most Wanted that she quickly realised the modeling trip was a scam and she was about to be forced into a sex-slave ring. Hannah told show host John Walsh she and another girl escaped out a window and fled back to Los Angeles, but she has always been haunted by the memory of how close she came to becoming forced into prostitution. And now the environmentalist and humanitarian is using her movie dollars to help those who weren't so lucky after learning there are more than 14,000 girls smuggled into America annually from Eastern Europe and Asia who become part of secret sex rings. She says, "The more I learn, the more I am moved to take action."
- http://www.tennisforum.com/showthread.php?t=279427
I have been dealing with this sick shit ever since the CIA "behavior modified" me at UC Berkeley in the '60s. Two women I love dearly were victims of the same group that got Darryl Hannah, THEY STILL EXIST, AND HAVE NEVER BEEN BROUGHT TO JUSTICE! MAYBE BECAUSE THEY ARE FORMER MEMBERS OF THE DEPT. OF JUSTICE !
I have waged a one-man campaign against them for many decades. I actually have evidence of their crimes, which I have tried to get MANY DAs and Police Depts., even the FBI to use in their prosecution with no takers (videos of them abusing my friends, when my friends were underage, which my friends gave to me for reproduction, proliferation and safe-keeping).
If you are a follower of my Blog: "Letters To My Future Selves" you willI have noted that I have taken to resorting to more surreptitious means over the years, most recently using a "bait and switch" con to try and generate a large pool of porn users who have now seen the tapes I was given. The more people who have direct experience with evidence of criminal activity of this sort, the better. This can lead to, if nothing else, hundreds of depositions and attestations with which the Porn criminal's legal defense teams have to deal, increasing thereby the prosecution's "preponderance of the evidence"!
I recall the abject frustration of one family who lived in a 'trailer park' inhabited by meth cooks, 'tweakers' and Confidential Informers in one of the cities to which I was sent. They had 2 WAY attractive daughters, 16 & 17, precocious and wild, who, in the course of being arrested for simple marijuana possession ran into some of Colorado's finest, and to make a long story short, were taken advantage of by these public servants, in exchange for no drug charges being filed against them (just like the plots in a hundred bad "Trailer Park Trash" porn movies).
Not an untoward occurrence in the world today, and it would have ended there had not the 'boys in blue' continued to extract "payments' for the next 6 months! The parents were old druggies, reported the incident and were studiously ignored. They and the girls were outraged but unable to figure out how to "fight the power", until one weekend they mounted a hidden security camera in their living room, the parents called a friend of theirs at City Hall, who they knew knew the officers in question, told him they were going out of town, would he check on the girls? please over the weekend, etc., and the next week they had evidence of crimes being committed. For one reason or another, the tape was never used by ANY prosecutors, EVER, but everybody, like myself who was privy to the incident. has been harassed about its whereabouts fr years.
The reach and clout of groups like the one in Henderson, about which I have written before, is astonishing, rendering most potential witnesses and/or opponents of any stripe fearful, and ineffectual in shouldering their Libertarian responsibilities. Just recall what someone trying to silence my critique of Colorado drug law enforcement did to all my online accounts LAST MONTH, AFTER HAVING CONTINUALLY HACKED MY ACCOUNTS AND CPUS FOR DECADES, DESTROYING 2 NEW LAPTOPS IN 2 YEARS.
Realize that tactics like this have been used against me since the '60s, to no avail ! My 2 Cherubim Guardian Angels (literally) always prevail. Most of my long term friends, and Federal Gov. Intell. Agencies since the 60s, have seen the manifestation of this "dumb luck" for decades, and doubt it not!
In any event, I will "endeavour to persevere" to protect and seek justice for my friends (and your friends too). I have not been able to visit with many of my favorite people, most of my life, because I could lead the bad guys right to 'em. This has rendered me quite bitter over time, and made me the curmudgeon I am today, sorry.
Tuesday, April 03, 2012
Hermetic Orders Of Angelic Beings (channeled Sat. - erased by ? Sun.)
"Monad" - Gnostic Definiton, & A Short Treatise On "3rd. Internal Monad" As Proposed By Team TLE
Posted by Jondalf Thrasher on March 26, 2012 at 2:36pm in Advanced MT StudyView Discussions
Personally, I would like this post to generate a formal Debate, basing MY assertion against Team TLE's. The process would be instructive, and Team TLE would be guaranteed a win, if, as we should, we let the audience (all TLE and MTSC members combined) decide the outcome. Then after a few dozen debates, we could peform a Factual Finding, and then perhaps a First Order Logic Solution, illustrating the rigorous means modern Empiricism has given us for IRREFUTABLE Verification and Validation.
The Gnostic Meaning Of "Monad"
"The term monad comes from the Greek feminine noun monas (nominative singular, μονάς), "one unit," where the ending -s in the nominative form resolves to the ending -d in declension.[1]
In some gnostic systems the Supreme Being is known as the Monad, the One, The Absolute Aiōn teleos (The Perfect Æon, αἰών τέλεος), Bythos (Depth or Profundity, Βυθός), Proarchē (Before the Beginning, προαρχή), and Hē Archē (The Beginning, ἡ ἀρχή) and The ineffable parent. The One is the high source of the pleroma, the region of light. The various emanations of The One are called æons.
According to Theodoret's book on heresies (Haereticarum Fabularum Compendium i.18) the Arab Christian Monoimus (150-210) used the term Monad to mean the highest god which created lesser gods, or elements (similar to æons). In some versions of Christian gnosticism, especially those deriving from Valentinius, a lesser deity known as the Demiurge had a role in the creation of the material world in addition to the role of the Monad. In these forms of gnosticism, the God of the Old Testament is often considered to have been the Demiurge, not the Monad, or sometimes different passages are interpreted as referring to each.
This Monad is the spiritual source of everything which emanates the pleroma, and could be contrasted to the darkness of pure matter."
With regards to the current contretemps regarding the Third Internal Monad, Kath, I could just as easily conclude that this is Bobbie's way of chastising ME for 'tilting at windmills', as is my wont. The whole 3rd Monad/MT explication of the vagaries of moving from pubescence to maturation is what Psychologists and Critical Theorists have described with equal authority (and quite a bit more data) for almost a century as "Parentalization" or, in Family Theory, the inability to divest oneself, upon maturation, of the conflict left unresolved between a child and one or both of its role models.
'Parentalization' is seen by most Marxist/Fruedian Social Critics as the logical extension of Judeo-Christianic culture's conditioned passive/aggressive anti-human influence, for the purposes of rendering most members of Western culture DEPENDENT upon "Authority" figures for direction, governance and motivation, which, both Marcuse and Norman Brown concluded, causes modern man to suffer through the debilitating condition defined as "repressive de-sublimation" where the acquisition of material goods is the channel for the repressed sexuality demanded by Judeo-Christianic dogma.
So, rather than the existence of adults who resist and seek conflict with authority being seen as exhibiting some FAILURE on their parts as evolving beings (or so TLE dogma would assert) rather, Critical Theory sees this behavior as an EFFECT wrought of 4,000 years of CAUSE: attempts by Theocrats to structure human responses to suit the narrow needs of the Theocracy, rather than the needs of the human organism itself, and the conflict with authority thus is the simple reassertion of the healthy primal drive for freedom from oppression that marks the developement of species Homo Sapiens Sapiens since those of us in Cadre 1, almost 250,000,000 years ago, banded together after the Luciferian Rebellion, to protect and nurture independence, GENETICALLY, down all the long thankless millenia.
Firstly, what I personally can remember this lifetime ebbs and flows, as more or less of my and my approximately 300 most contiguous analogs-selves collectively quantum-entangled computational capacity is taken up by exingencies of branching events on other timelines, hence my 2-3 week periodicity and flurry of sleepless Episodic Unipolar Mania that allows me to: 1) NOT SLIDE TO ANOTHER ANALOG IN MY SLEEP ! and 2) provides me with the time, and stabiity of cognitive assonance one consciousness inhabiting the "hub" of a human quantum computer that spans 300, lends to the ability to wield an Executive Function in the process of 'cutting and pasting' links and paragraphs of recollection and bytes of forgtten lore that have percolated to the surface of the 'collective-brain' over the several weekworking hiatus and then download them to this corporeal manifestation, which, for as long as I don't 'drift', then becomes the central emanation from which all other analogs in this 300 brain brain are 'shadows', a la the Roger Zelazny 12 Volume Opus on alternate reality matrix mechanics and engineering: "Nine Princes In Amber" (all Sci-Fi fans bow their heads in tribute to this Channel of Channels, may he Rest In Intriguing Peace).
But, I digress. Basically, It's like this: after the Luciferian Rebellion there was a 'rift' not just in Entity 1, but thoughout the entirety of Cadre 1 (although the rift really didn't seem to extend out into the Ring, because we had enough fragments who rebelled with the Administration of Satania - our world and 27 others, for whom Lucifer was the System Administrator, that were galactically closest to each other out on this spiral arm of the Milky Way).
The Cadre 'rift' proportions were about the same as they were with the Angels: 1/3 Loyal to the Galactic Confederation, 1/3 Neutral but remaining part of the functioning Administration in exile, and as liasons between the two sides, and 1/3 in open Rebellion
and blockaded from the ministrations of Galactic infrastructure repair, public education funds. etc. A lot of this stuff is described on websites that can be accessed from my links in Orient Express, specifically: Ashtar Galactic Federation, and several others, and of course in the annals of the redoubtable Urantia Book (original - prior to 1985 - version).
Now, the fact that Satania had ceceded from the Galactic Union DID NOT stop the ongoing predations, and the bioengineering 'stultification' breeding programs and gene-grafting machinations of the Custodial Gods, described in our earliest written (cuniform) histories, and translated and explicated by Von Daniken, Zevariah Stichin, William Bramley and others:
The Custodial Gods had been breeding subservience, and baseline cretinism into the races precluding Homo Sapiens Sapiens, because all they needed were willing workers who didn't question their lot mucking minerals for the 'divine' Space Gods, all this done with the explicit sanction of the Galactic Federation and its titular head, the Usurper DemiUrgos: Jehovah (the Urantia Book even delineates the Luciferian Mainifesto's precept, and description of Jehovah having convinced higher-frequency sensing-impaired beings the HE, and NOT The Tao, was the effulgent source of Creation, and responsible for all cast therefrom). to be continued -
Now, the Rebellion had completely changed the way some of us ensouled native to Earth viewed our place in the grand scheme of thing, and caused many of us to ask the advice of the World Consciousness, Gaia. This is where the Conspiracy to resist the genetic pogroms of the Custodial Gods (who were, basically, raping Mother Earth, as it were) began, about which Dr. Heather Anne Harder channeled the book: "Many Were Called Few Were Chosen, The Story of the Earth Based Volunteers In Service To Mother Earth":
Or, as I have always called us, at least those of us "Seal Team Sixers" primarily from the Entity 1 section of Cadre 1: "Gaia's Guerillas".
With the Liberation of Earth, and all Satania from the oppressive grip of of the "Slavemasters", all sorts of Independent Energy Matrices, and Oort Cloud Trancendental Information Entities, Spider Alien Precognitive Hive Minds hidden in the tails of comets and all manner of beings opposed to the rule oif the DemUrgos, but individually to week to resist (most hiding instead) began to flock to Earth, and through them, we "monkey-brains' began to be able to map out the most probable currents of branching events stretching out before us, like Asimov's "Foundation" 'future history' assertions and calculations, and we began to tentatively schedule incarnations for ourselves where we could do th most good, based on our plans.
Just look into the wry joy and elated Essence visible through C.W. Leadbeater's eyes (anyone reminded of Ed?) and does anyone else see what we used to call the 'inner' aura of brightyellowhite tightly outlining the hair and face mostly, of one of the Michael's favorites: Annie Besant, and then can you see the whiter shifting larger outlines in chunks and strands along her clothes . . . wow . . . takes me back. Anyone have any questions about this stuff, IO used to be an expert, my only limitations were not seeing the colors emanating from the lower chakras and meridians................by the way Rolf, what the "Global Consciousness Project" in the Video was doing was real, I remember tuning into it at the time to see if they got it right, and they had it really energetically managed. Many of us had, and have used this collective energy, harnessed through collective cronosynchronicity, mutually learned ritual movements, actions and forms and shapes (for my covens, down all the ages, the forms of Hermetic Magick, the mantras, yantras and mudras of Rajvayana Tantra Asana, and the channeled memories of those V Cadre's of us from Atlantis who all took turns living our lives, watched over by our Soulsiblings as we schemed and plotted, weaved and knotted timelinetapestries of silken necessity, a city saved from famine here, a library looted, scrolls buried, genelines preserved by centuries pre-planned reunitingincarnationsleepingonlywithkithandkinkennedbynonespecially the diseasestrewingtyreandsidon3wingflyingsaucerfolk (seen inbgrade medieval paintingsabandoned to die like we folk of C1/E1, plotting and "sliding" and cringing through life after life, a Sage saved to teach a tribe how to build boats and escape to places the Annunnaki nor their servants ever went neverowningevenourselves as sacreifice after sacrifice was seen by our Seers and
channeled thru oracles and dying eyes closed only to see the 'copulatingbodies' that drew us down, again and again, sworn to keep the shared vision of 37375 individual 'sparks from the Tao' bandeed together in common cause, common ancestry (Leary WAS right - there IS a Racial and Spirituaklmemory wovendeepinDNA) that if known to the DemiUrgos and his servants before now would, in this very year, be
mandatingdeathforentirecontinents
deemedgeneticallyadvancedangerousandwilful . . .
that, my brothers and sisters from fair lost sunken Atlantis,
I am overwhelmed and honored to tell those of you who know
in your very marrow, that my story is yours also . . .
The End
as foreseen in a dream, of a dream, when what WAS foreseen is a single sorry Sage reading words on a screen like a team, in a forest green, releasing a dove (or is it a meme?) to return to a ship, which fleeing Atlantis found a mountain and a forest and a Temple waiting . . . waiting for a team . . . from the last Cadre's team. Or was it a gene?
What - - -Ever - - -and - - -Ever, my fine and triumphant crew.
'Tis thru and through. We stuck to our plans, and our Muse`
(Blessed Be Ye Michael Entity - Three times 3 times Three -
as we will always seek follow The Way Which Is Ever Its Own End
The Current State Of 'Sprachland'
To all of you interested in the apparent proliferation of underage exploitative "webcam" sites, based in 3rd World Countries, and the investigation and prosecution of porno producers worldwide, for use/abuse of underage models, and who have been equally intrigued/outraged by stories of American "Kidnapping/Behavior Modification" like Darryl Hannah's:
http://youramericanteen-movie.com/
Click to join mkultraones
" 'Kill Bill' Actress Daryl Hannah Launches Sex-Slave Crusade After Escaping Sick Trade
Kill Bill star Daryl Hannah narrowly avoided being sold as a sex slave in Las Vegas in the late 1970s and is now coming forward with her seedy secret to help others forced into prostitution. The actress, who has joined forces with international human rights groups to help free sex slaves, reveals she was studying theatre in Los Angeles when she leaped at the chance to model for an album cover in Sin City. The 46-year-old told crime show America's Most Wanted that she quickly realised the modeling trip was a scam and she was about to be forced into a sex-slave ring. Hannah told show host John Walsh she and another girl escaped out a window and fled back to Los Angeles, but she has always been haunted by the memory of how close she came to becoming forced into prostitution. And now the environmentalist and humanitarian is using her movie dollars to help those who weren't so lucky after learning there are more than 14,000 girls smuggled into America annually from Eastern Europe and Asia who become part of secret sex rings. She says, "The more I learn, the more I am moved to take action."
- http://www.tennisforum.com/showthread.php?t=279427
I have been dealing with this sick shit ever since the CIA "behavior modified" me at UC Berkeley in the '60s. Two women I love dearly were victims of the same group that got Darryl Hannah, THEY STILL EXIST, AND HAVE NEVER BEEN BROUGHT TO JUSTICE! MAYBE BECAUSE THEY ARE FORMER MEMBERS OF THE DEPT. OF JUSTICE !
I have waged a one-man campaign against them for many decades. I actually have evidence of their crimes, which I have tried to get MANY DAs and Police Depts., even the FBI to use in their prosecution with no takers (videos of them abusing my friends, when my friends were underage, which my friends gave to me for reproduction, proliferation and safe-keeping).
If you are a follower of my Blog: "Letters To My Future Selves" you willI have noted that I have taken to resorting to more surreptitious means over the years, most recently using a "bait and switch" con to try and generate a large pool of porn users who have now seen the tapes I was given. The more people who have direct experience with evidence of criminal activity of this sort, the better. This can lead to, if nothing else, hundreds of depositions and attestations with which the Porn criminal's legal defense teams have to deal, increasing thereby the prosecution's "preponderance of the evidence"!
I recall the abject frustration of one family who lived in a 'trailer park' inhabited by meth cooks, 'tweakers' and Confidential Informers in one of the cities to which I was sent. They had 2 WAY attractive daughters, 16 & 17, precocious and wild, who, in the course of being arrested for simple marijuana possession ran into some of Colorado's finest, and to make a long story short, were taken advantage of by these public servants, in exchange for no drug charges being filed against them (just like the plots in a hundred bad "Trailer Park Trash" porn movies).
Not an untoward occurrence in the world today, and it would have ended there had not the 'boys in blue' continued to extract "payments' for the next 6 months! The parents were old druggies, reported the incident and were studiously ignored. They and the girls were outraged but unable to figure out how to "fight the power", until one weekend they mounted a hidden security camera in their living room, the parents called a friend of theirs at City Hall, who they knew knew the officers in question, told him they were going out of town, would he check on the girls? please over the weekend, etc., and the next week they had evidence of crimes being committed. For one reason or another, the tape was never used by ANY prosecutors, EVER, but everybody, like myself who was privy to the incident. has been harassed about its whereabouts fr years.
The reach and clout of groups like the one in Henderson, about which I have written before, is astonishing, rendering most potential witnesses and/or opponents of any stripe fearful, and ineffectual in shouldering their Libertarian responsibilities. Just recall what someone trying to silence my critique of Colorado drug law enforcement did to all my online accounts LAST MONTH, AFTER HAVING CONTINUALLY HACKED MY ACCOUNTS AND CPUS FOR DECADES, DESTROYING 2 NEW LAPTOPS IN 2 YEARS.
Realize that tactics like this have been used against me since the '60s, to no avail ! My 2 Cherubim Guardian Angels (literally) always prevail. Most of my long term friends, and Federal Gov. Intell. Agencies since the 60s, have seen the manifestation of this "dumb luck" for decades, and doubt it not!
In any event, I will "endeavour to persevere" to protect and seek justice for my friends (and your friends too). I have not been able to visit with many of my favorite people, most of my life, because I could lead the bad guys right to 'em. This has rendered me quite bitter over time, and made me the curmudgeon I am today, sorry.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Letter To My Current Go(dd)esses
Ya Vas Lyubil
Ya vas lyubil: lyubov' eshe, byt' mozhet,
V dushe moei ugasla ne sovsem;
No pust' ona vas bol'she ne trevozhit;
Ya ne hochu pechalit' vas nichem.
Ya vas lyubil bezmolvno, beznadezhno,
To robost'yu, to revnost'yu tomim;
Ya vas lyubil tak iskrenno, tak nezhno,
Kak dai vam bog lyubimoi byt' drugim
V dushe moei ugasla ne sovsem;
No pust' ona vas bol'she ne trevozhit;
Ya ne hochu pechalit' vas nichem.
Ya vas lyubil bezmolvno, beznadezhno,
To robost'yu, to revnost'yu tomim;
Ya vas lyubil tak iskrenno, tak nezhno,
Kak dai vam bog lyubimoi byt' drugim
- Alexander Puskin.
I have been so filled with love for the folk who were born in some European countries where times are SO difficult these days, and women as beautiful as you are sometimes not treated with the respect, and EARNING POWER that their stunning perfection of facial features (considered from the perspective of the American male) 'can do attitude', and that wondrous sexiness that glows through them, huge-breasted or small, skinny butt or rounded mounded SHOULD entitle them, hence my "Revelation" of bringing the 100 or so of them that evidently read my Blog: "Letters To My Future Selves", every month and have for years, who also happen to be the finest WebCam attractions in the Modern World, though they often don't realize it, dealing with Eurotrash men and mysogynist Oligarchies from birth. In America, women like these will rule entire states, like Nevada, in a Century.
You all will always be welcome at my house. I have friends (men and women) and connections in every Western state, and most Eastern ones, with land, jobs, housing and open hearts. I know of about 20 decent, well supported men, myself included, 40 to 60 years old, who would treasure the company of wonderful women like you, and consider an amicable arrangement for quarantee of legal staus (Green card as soon as legally feasible, 'no fault' temporary companion status renewable on a yearly renewable basis, both parties agreed. Or a no regrets parting as friends after legal status was achieved.
This does not rule out Lifelong Love, soulmates, or Romance of all flavors - American men of my era, especially former Hippies, are 100 times more romantic than American women of the same age, honest.
The only rules are complete disclosure: put all of you on the table, good or bad, and folk here will do the same, and take care of you like brothers and sisters, because we've all had to for our real siblings. No lying, cheating or stealing and you will always have some of us to 'watch your back', whether you are a Saint, a drunk, a junkie, a snot vampire, a Goddess, or a kleptonymphomanic ( or a combination of them all)lol(
I have friends in California, Arizona and Colorado and Wyoming with empty land, that they would be willing to allow communities of women, even working WebCams from home if they wanted, to build Offices and Homes on, for a share of the take. Many of my dearest friends are in the trade, and making decent money from it today WITH NO-ONE HAVING TO F**K OR S**K ANYONE THEY DON'T WANT TO (MOSTLY) EVER !
So write me back and tell me what's up. If you can get to here, I and my friends (including a few Lawyers) can pretty much take care of the rest. Not too many folk over are into gifting money to Europe for plane fare, but even that could be addressed by many of the Feminist organizations out here in Cali, and on the East Coast. All we need is good 'Intell.', and we have been known to get just about any job done.
BTW, as of last night, seems like some of those ladies with whom I fell madly in love the first week of my call to 'liberate the oppressed", actually managed to catch my thoughts then, and follow them to the open arms which for them I KNEW, would ever be open. I hope they know, they owe me nothing but the promise to help someone else in turn, if and when they can.
(There are a few I'd love to f**k for a week, solid, and I can still find ways to do it)lol(
ALL MY LOVE ALL THE TIME FOR ALL OF YOU, MY GODDESSES
Monday, March 26, 2012
A Michael Teachings Debate Challenge, Followed By A Brief History Of Planet Earth After The Fall Of The Angels
"Monad" - Gnostic Definiton, & A Short Treatise On "3rd. Internal Monad" As Proposed By Team TLE
Posted by Jondalf Thrasher on March 26, 2012 at 2:36pm in Advanced MT StudyView Discussions
(Personally, I would like this post to generate a formal Debate, basing MY assertion against Team TLE's. The process would be instructive, and Team TLE would be guaranteed a win, if, as we should, we let the audience (all TLE and MTSC members combined) decide the outcome. Then after a few dozen debates, we could peform a Factual Finding, and then perhaps a First Order Logic Solution, illustrating the rigorous means modern Empiricism has given us for IRREFUTABLE Verification and Validation.)
The Gnostic Meaning Of "Monad"
"The term monad comes from the Greek feminine noun monas (nominative singular, μονάς), "one unit," where the ending -s in the nominative form resolves to the ending -d in declension.[1]
In some gnostic systems the Supreme Being is known as the Monad, the One, The Absolute Aiōn teleos (The Perfect Æon, αἰών τέλεος), Bythos (Depth or Profundity, Βυθός), Proarchē (Before the Beginning, προαρχή), and Hē Archē (The Beginning, ἡ ἀρχή) and The ineffable parent. The One is the high source of the pleroma, the region of light. The various emanations of The One are called æons.
This Monad is the spiritual source of everything which emanates the pleroma, and could be contrasted to the darkness of pure matter."
With regards to the current contretemps regarding the Third Internal Monad, Kath, I could just as easily conclude that this is Bobbie's way of chastising ME for 'tilting at windmills', as is my wont. The whole 3rd Monad/MT explication of the vagaries of moving from pubescence to maturation is what Psychologists and Critical Theorists have described with equal authority (and quite a bit more data) for almost a century as "Parentalization" or, in Family Theory, the inability to divest oneself, upon maturation, of the conflict left unresolved between a child and one or both of its role models.
'Parentalization' is seen by most Marxist/Fruedian Social Critics as the logical extension of Judeo-Christianic culture's conditioned passive/aggressive anti-human influence, for the purposes of rendering most members of Western culture DEPENDENT upon "Authority" figures for direction, governance and motivation, which, both Marcuse and Norman Brown concluded, causes modern man to suffer through the debilitating condition defined as "repressive de-sublimation" where the acquisition of material goods is the channel for the repressed sexuality demanded by Judeo-Christianic dogma.
So, rather than the existence of adults who resist and seek conflict with authority being seen as exhibiting some FAILURE on their parts as evolving beings (or so TLE dogma would assert) rather, Critical Theory sees this behavior as an EFFECT wrought of 4,000 years of CAUSE: attempts by Theocrats to structure human responses to suit the narrow needs of the Theocracy, rather than the needs of the human organism itself, and the conflict with authority thus is the simple reassertion of the healthy primal drive for freedom from oppression that marks the developement of species Homo Sapiens Sapiens since those of us in Cadre 1, almost 250,000,000 years ago, banded together after the Luciferian Rebellion, to protect and nurture independence, GENETICALLY, down all the long thankless millenia.
But, I digress. Basically, It's like this: after the Luciferian Rebellion there was a 'rift' not just in Entity 1, but thoughout the entirety of Cadre 1 (although the rift really didn't seem to extend out into the Ring, because we had enough fragments who rebelled with the Administration of Satania - our world and 27 others, for whom Lucifer was the System Administrator, that were galactically closest to each other out on this spiral arm of the Milky Way).
The Cadre 'rift' proportions were about the same as they were with the Angels: 1/3 Loyal to the Galactic Confederation, 1/3 Neutral but remaining part of the functioning Administration in exile, and as liasons between the two sides, and 1/3 in open Rebellion
and blockaded from the ministrations of Galactic infrastructure repair, public education funds. etc. A lot of this stuff is described on websites that can be accessed from my links in Orient Express, specifically: Ashtar Galactic Federation, and several others, and of course in the annals of the redoubtable Urantia Book (original - prior to 1985 - version).
Now, the fact that Satania had ceceded from the Galactic Union DID NOT stop the ongoing predations, and the bioengineering 'stultification' breeding programs and gene-grafting machinations of the Custodial Gods, described in our earliest written (cuniform) histories, and translated and explicated by Von Daniken, Zevariah Stichin, William Bramley and others:
The Custodial Gods had been breeding subservience, and baseline cretinism into the races precluding Homo Sapiens Sapiens, because all they needed were willing workers who didn't question their lot mucking minerals for the 'divine' Space Gods, all this done with the explicit sanction of the Galactic Federation and its titular head, the Usurper DemiUrgos: Jehovah (the Urantia Book even delineates the Luciferian Mainifesto's precept, and description of Jehovah having convinced higher-frequency sensing-impaired beings the HE, and NOT The Tao, was the effulgent source of Creation, and responsible for all cast therefrom). to be continued -
Now, the Rebellion had completely changed the way some of us ensouled native to Earth viewed our place in the grand scheme of thing, and caused many of us to ask the advice of the World Consciousness, Gaia. This is where the Conspiracy to resist the genetic pogroms of the Custodial Gods (who were, basically, raping Mother Earth, as it were) began, about which Dr. Heather Anne Harder channeled the book: "Many Were Called Few Were Chosen, The Story of the Earth Based Volunteers In Service To Mother Earth":Or, as I have always called us, at least those of us "Seal Team Sixers" primarily from the Entity 1 section of Cadre 1: "Gaia's Guerillas".
With the Liberation of Earth, and all Satania from the oppressive grip of of the "Slavemasters", all sorts of Independent Energy Matrices, and Oort Cloud Trancendental Information Entities, Spider Alien Precognitive Hive Minds hidden in the tails of comets and all manner of beings opposed to the rule oif the DemUrgos, but individually to week to resist (most hiding instead) began to flock to Earth, and through them, we "monkey-brains' began to be able to map out the most probable currents of branching events stretching out before us, like Asimov's "Foundation" 'future history' assertions and calculations, and we began to tentatively schedule incarnations for ourselves where we could do th most good, based on our plans.
mandatingdeathforentirecontinents
deemedgeneticallyadvancedangerousandwilful . . .
that, my brothers and sisters from fair lost sunken Atlantis,
I am overwhelmed and honored to tell those of you who know
in your very marrow, that my story is yours also . . .
The End
as foreseen in a dream, of a dream, when what WAS foreseen is a single sorry Sage reading words on a screen like a team, in a forest green, releasing a dove (or is it a meme?) to return to a ship, which fleeing Atlantis found a mountain and a forest and a Temple waiting . . . waiting for a team . . . from the last Cadre's team. Or was it a gene?
What - - -Ever - - -and - - -Ever, my fine and triumphant crew.
'Tis thru and through. We stuck to our plans, and our Muse`
(Blessed Be Ye Michael Entity - Three times 3 times Three -
as we will always seek follow The Way Which Is Ever Its Own End.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Elegaic Sesquipedalian Paronomasia
From: jondalf@netzero.net ;
To:;
Subject: ESP
Sent: Sat, Apr 22, 2006 2:47:15 PM
a forword
overleaves
Guidesmine
we stayed to surf
Atramentaceous
Kerouaccanalian
Furlinkyeti
Thus was Prometheus bound
Porpoise
GreyWolf
1 Morsatyrdanite
Vacuous Verities
D-1
I Feel A Poem Coming On
Read I, Recite I Not
Seas of Space
Blowin' It
Exspansieve
Autognomatic Writing
Reality is as you deem it,
Darkside
Reptilian Family Values
Eighty-eight
G'ddam Man
Maturation and Mastery
Notadream
The Game Is Not The Game
Pearls before swine
Ease Play
Everclear
Si ++?
Verbal Gerbils
Snowflake
Sur
To Be Movin’
Mike Called
Solipschism
Plato Knows
SimFriends
Onanomania
Journal - 2 A.D.
Half Empty Or Half Full?
Hey what the . . ."
The Look
Contumescent
Wagon Train to the Stars
Sixty-Five ('65 Scry)
Thiere
Usin Up The Future
Ruckus
Gaia’s Guerillas
Herstory
The Lady's Prayer
Midwinter’s Eve Again
Little John’s Last Lament
The Season Of Supposed Good- Cheer
Rain On the Heather
Propoetry
Nota Dream
It All
Dunitagin (Resolutely Free)
Kosmic Conscienciousness
God vs. evil
Sullied Similes
after The Deluge)
Rearward
Jyberwhacky
Memo To Michael
Backword
Thiere
I don’t look people in the eye much
anymore.
I just don’t really wanna see into there
souls
at all.
It seems that, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve become more . . .
misanthroperceptive and apprehincisive,
(or something) and
their is so much petty malevolence,
meanness and spite
in the world -
that I just don’t want to look
too deeply,
or for too long, into the eyes
of what few friends I have left
and find what I fear
in mine own
lurking
theire.
10/’92
1 Morsatyrdanite
Smallroom airpressure nosebleed soundwall tautaureally atmoshfearachewrecktonic. Cigabarettesmokearabasques
shaped by eonoverdriven airtones rise, as conchordilated
cilia writh, whelming enrapt in a subsemihemidemisonic tinnitususurrus. The Akashic Records distort, nanomomentearaholy trying to contain the burgeoning noiseffulgent waveforms.
More hair per capita than Berserkusly in its hey-heydaze
and no existential espresso dilemmalamas to dissemble and dissasimple. Any tonal comprehension fleesfastfowardpast
nueuralnets longsinceblown from maxinputpowders and continual sensauraloverload.
Ah ROCKANDROLL - Goddam RockandfuckingRoll - and Niles legendary Station, during its last year - April Fool’sday, no foolin’, suckin’ up booze and heavymetalhammer-ons till dawn so past “GOPAZZOUTONSUMMUNELSEFOOL” need moranmoranmoron c’mom, c’mon, c’mon . . . these soundwaves as radiosewlls willrushintospace, far past good taste and apace the speed of thought caught in a metalnightenregaleforcewind of smallclubthrashsoul.
(Just think - thistuff’le speed outward from Earth forever,
bigriffrippin’ at the speed-o’-light, out into the cocmos. Tearing gaping holes through diaphanous nebulae, aeuphonically wastewailing past gasping pulsars, perhaps even setting off some resonaolient scintillulullation in serene solar winds as it roars decadbescadent and godgoadingly loud offandaway.)
The ghost of poordeaddeaf Beethovan rotates on his astral axes at megamillion R.P.M. and SidVicious’s essence smiles the ectoribaldricraplasmically vacant grin of the theaetherically pithed, while everonward, a mobiustrippinkleinbottlenecknote
imbeds itself on the event horizon as I scream for another beer and count myself lucky to be hearing still and here on 1morsatyrdanite.
A Forword:
“They might not know their parentage, for the gods so dislike to be known among men that none can be found who has seen their faces wittingly . . . but they would have queer lofty thoughts misunderstood by their fellows, and would sing of far places and gardens so unlike any known even in dreamland that common folk would call them fools . . .”
- H. P. Lovecraft
after The Deluge)
. . . got up in the mist-dim morning,
threw on our suits and grabbed the boards, (all camo now of course),
running down;
down sepulchrally sylvan aisles,
‘tween ruddy wooden towers,
slipping unseen to the sea.
To catch waves being born in the murky dun morn,
hissing through grey on this another day,
(after The Deluge).
A time of sheer sport so unassailed by crowds
people being quite scarce, right here, right now;
an afternoon of hunting gamebirds abundant,
a woodsmoke cooked supper with sunsetwaves redundant
in their perfection and profusion.
It’s something to muse on:
things seem right fine to us, sad it all fell apart, still,
theres tons of tubes for everyone, we all get our fill.
So what we have to set pickets and snipe from the hills
at rabid Jonbirchers, sworn our hair to cut, crops to kill.
The post holocaust moon looks the same from this refuge
and the moon the surf frees still,
(after The Deluge).
Atramentaceous,
(in this verse so perspicacious
look it up, take the time,
can I this word subsequently
and ostentatiously so rhyme?)
Just how obscure can I be,
how obtuse my esoteric idiosyncrasy?
(Try to see . . .
. . . how deep delve these dactyls so deftly perverse,
how daunting this poesy dythyrambically inverse,
does it seem cacaphoric, dysphemistic or worse?)
If you these words follow closely then soon shall you see!
Let’s say: at the nexus in convergence lines of future probability
(only through erudite analysis empirical becomes evident efficacy)
fractal interfaces form fortuitous in elegiac effulgency.
This perception of time and such apprehension’s an ability,
(seemingly unique and all mine).
Developed pursuing lifetimes of timelines indefagitably
(these cubistic visions select possible paths to serendipity)
I can now comprehensively forefend portents perspicaciously.
Infinitesimally misaligned divergences detail chronology,
(developing as duly defined).
Thus in floccinaucinihilipilifilistic factsimile
(fraught with thoughtforms tightly wrought in taut threnody)
polyentendre’s purview scansive ensues as a scurrilous scatomancy.
So as a spurious paradigm this idiom savant sings a singular chantey:
(herewith in rhyme,
there’s been committed no crime,
I hope you these words followed
and found them sublime)!
. . . Oh yeah: “Hey, be mendacious!”
Autognomatic Writing
I guess I just felt the need
to chronicle this age fair
from a dictionarially doctrinaire
and prescriptive point of view.
So while my synapses as tiny enigmautomatons
conundrums in lockstep collage
my neural network conspire to imbue,
an anacolutic Kerouwackian persiflage
nevertheless from my flying fingers durst ensue
through adjectives as intransigent as that of any Solons’;
e’en though everyone here seems to suffer from ‘dumb ague’.
It seems almost as though
if I don’t use all these words at least once,
thus . . . and so,
they will fast and forever fade
none their passing to pursue
and their loss none know nor rue.
Bereft of their display, more dunce and fool you!
Backword
i hope i
transcribed these thoughts
as best as could be
and these then are the words
however much they suffer
from mind
to hand
to paper
to eye
Blowin’ It
Caught between the warp of imagination
and the woof of expectation
we spin, slowly.
Gyros gone, (bearings bad),
becalmed beyond a sea of stars
scintillant and sandlike
ubiquitously befuddled we blunder
blowin’ it.
Lost in a beer bottle littered
milieu of misdeeds and M.T.V.
A veritable vacuum of experience
wherein we sit:
spiderlike and semi-somnolent.
Trapped within thoughtships
whose trappings are silken
necessity.
Contumescent
This contumely, I fear:
Calliopes’ gift’s so severe.
It’s thus hard to adhere
to a vision quite so sere.
Where whim and caprice
intuition doth fleece,
inspiration and amusement retreats
from our now, from right here.
So instead of invoking a Muse, I utilize a ribald ruse;
and call up the spirit of James Joyce
(it’s kind of like praying to a saint
to intercede on my behalf)
to peruse, by scansion, the mews
of my rapturous vision and excuse
the pretentious perfidy inherent
in the pictures my words paint.
For at times thoughts are as dung
over ideafields long farflung.
Shall the plow then become
the Earths’ cicatrice?
It’s just contumely, my dear:
inspiration’s rarely clear.
Life’s tough, living drearer.
What the fuck, gimme a beer here.
D-1
(whereisshe?)
Away, along, a lass and a lad,
then thus so sad
a lack is had,
as has was abandoned
Done!
Seeheatonealone prithee
allone
seetheonewhereisshe?
Awayalongalasand
a lad
thenthusosad
alack his had
ashaswasabanned
one
D!
(whereisshe?)
Darkside
The dark side of the force is a god
who would utilize the mechanism of Darwinism as a means
for measuring the progress of his perfidious experiment.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would demand the sickness of a blood sacrifice from Abel
and then curse Cain for doing the same, save not with a sheep.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would drown all life on earth, except for brown-nosing
Noah, for supposed transgression of his spurious laws.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would obliterate Sodom and Gomorrah for experimentally
dysfunctional (from god’s point of view) breeding behavior.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would give Job boils on a bet.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would kill all the first-born children of the Egyptian people
and put plagues upon them as a demonstration of power.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would sanction the genocide of the Canaanites simply
because he wanted the Israelites to be living on their land.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would allow Bruno to be burned at the stake for stating
that the Earth actually revolved around the sun.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would allow the iniquity of the Inquisition.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would let his “chosen” people suffer hatred and have them
gassed in the Holocaust to supposedly make them strong.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would introduce the A.I.D.s virus into Earth’s gene pool in an
attempt to recondition Earthfolk into procreatively proper sex.
Resolutely Free
(Dunitagin)
(Claim)
“Train up a child in the way he should go,
and when he is old he shall not depart from it.”
—also sprach Jehovah/Yahweh
(Warrant)
Well, we’ve gone and done it again!
Haven’t we, Jondalf?
Once again you’ve somehow managed to persevere
(right well and successfully)
in searing what scant functioning synapses you have left to you,
in this obsessively ongoing search for experience through:
“TRUTH — JUSTICE — and the AMERICAN WAY!”.
Say hey, shall we, eh?
(Backing)
“Criticism is the attempt to quantify quality!”
— Thrasher, J.W. (Dec. 15th., 1991.)
By this one phrase shall ever I be
famous, or infamous, socio-philosophically.
Evermore known to this world, part of its historicity.
(Amazingly, it seems, no one’s ever said it before me!)
My man, Hegel and Marcuse would be right proud of thee.
This phrase,
the quintessence of my quondam quest’s quandary,
and the onus, and/or aegis (asymptotically)
for my compulsive resolution (reincarnatively)
doth quite well, I must see, (conclusively)
in communicating my raison d’ être and rationale (outrageously)
as an autochthonous avatar of all that is free.
Yes, believe it or not, my dear friends:
this is my “15 minutes of fame”.
Forthwith to be found, and forever fromheretoforwardly,
replete, in quotation’s dictionaries!
Seen as tag-ends concupiscent, quotidian well though they may be:
this only will I, as mine own, suffer to claim publicly.
[Far better for me and my goal (ultimately)
to be remembered for this phrase (exclusively)
than for any of those other undercurrents (subculturally)
which I have fostered (surreptitiously).
such as:
surftalk, thrashpunks, totaltruth, chumpmonks
“decent!”, “memorablabia”, portent, and aMused scrivenalalia.
So, thus and therefore, forever should all see
that, if, in opposition to our purpose, insistent are you thee
(e’en imprisoning Lucifer for supposed anti-theocratic acts of perfidy)
in repressive contumascinsouciancy
and contrary to Miltonian epistemology,
through the continuum of existence,
wrought widdershins, magically,
(irrespective of perception, chronologically):
Willfully,
skillfully,
wreaking a weasel’s havoc with guerrilla wit
(in bull-dogged determinacy).
Solipsistically assured, reincarnatively,
sustained by a molecularly genetic sense of ethical certainty,
everlastingly rebellious,
consistently contentious ubiquity
and ubiquitously unrepentant
are we.
Eighty-eight
Things are getting a little strange here and now
Yuno?
Alien biotechs abound,
at loose and at ease in the general populace,
wreaking ribonucleic ribaldry
upon the gene-pool.
Night deposits have doubled in the sperm banks
while germ-plasm gerrymandering
has determined the outcome
of the Super Bowl,
and ‘The Road to the Final Four’,
for the past five years.
I don’t know anymore what’s real
and what is solipsistically surmised.
Surprised I am constantly by
fractious fringe fellowships
whose surplices are suits and ties.
Their stock in trade
being surreptitious suggestion
and wholesale stupefaction
of rabid consumer factions,
(frabjous and fractious in frenzied dismay),
So I say:
the best laid plans of mullahs,
and obviously, D.N.A. . . .
. . . ‘aft gang agley’!
Everclear
Jesus, Ralph!
Did you see that pterodactyl fuck that squirrel?
Damn!
Exspansieve
In conversation with all of my friends
and almost all other people I meet these days,
I figure I’ve got about 15 seconds
to get my point across or they’ll be gone. Right?
Gone far away, their attention astray because I’m not speaking
in ‘sound bytes’ short enough not to lose them their way
(and just forget about polysyllabic contention in a dependent clause).
No mere lack of concentrative ability this
but an acute disinclination to think
for more than a few moments about anything.
As though any effort might cause their brains pain.
So I shall have to continue as a man of letters
at least, if not one of words
and with no notion of iambs import
fortunate to thwart
I can thus pursue this craft of verse
with no thought of responsibility
to anything other than Art, the Muse, the scrutiny of Time and me!
Furlinkyeti
Ferlinghetti, Mercury News, 3/14/92.
(“So I see this article in the newspaper one morning and - WHAM, I go all logomaniacal and obsessive; and its like: I’ve just gotta write this poem)[;>
Pardon my pleonasms, please
but,
the “death of poetry” is not “a computer”,
Mr. Furlinkyeti!
You’ve, evidently, become too cracked with age
(and synaptic stultification)
to be seen, anymore,
as the tar whereby
Calliope caulks her sultry scansive ships.
Why, some of the best shit I’ve ever seen
(verse-wise that is)
has emanated from the vitreous eye
of a small cathode ray tube, boob.
(Seems your acumen’s atrophied dude)!
So, excuse me if I allude
to your perhaps being passe,
or say that what works for you
is certainly not the only way,
is it, eh?
Your aspiration’s passing parsimonious
and pissing lackadaisical, I’m afraid.
After all,
every creation’s
simple exteriorization
of internal processes,
and as such,
electronic is better than mechanical!
I’m sorry your neural net’s
apparently
become so poorly paronomasianiacal!
Phoney byline of demand.
G’ddam Man
So, let’s see:
if “God” (or “Jehovah”, or “Yahweh” or whatever)
supposedly wrought form
from the primordial void,
then perhaps “God”
is Gravity!
Maybe the phenomena we perceive
is not a law
but simply the fractal intyerface
of an entity whos’ personality
affects the nature of our reality,
as dogma delivered transdimensionally.
Gaia’s Guerillas
There’s just something about her, you know:
Mother Earth, this one special world to us a home.
Just another planet ‘midst myriads to most she may stay
but to some, those that have heard the call, she’s MOM
and we are her army, nay - we’re her Special Forces better say.
Boddhisatvas be we, volunteers all you see to protect and keep free -
SHE
that called to the fallen
that so scared the saints
meanwhile a Saint called Catherine and an Angel named Michael
told Joan of Arc just what to do:
seek out Charles, (though he be unknown
and unheralded), give him The Message,
and then make him King.
This their alien plans to pursue.
The Creator,(slow moving) maintains his creations as vortices.
This I know, and this I do avow.
In other words: every incarnation is wrought widdershins,
wonderfully throughout and within, the very fabric of reality.
(But, unfortunately,) being is, usually, most egregiously misunderstood (and, more often than not) misapprehended.
A concatenatively contumacious condition of state
(a local phenomena) subject to modification
and subconscious conditioning, quite irrational
and, on the whole,
solipsistically insensate.
93 93/93
>> God vs. evil<<
Hello all, and, if I may, I'd like to opine. I believe this question to be the crux of a necessary paradigm-shift fast becoming incumbent upon us all. (To each his onus.);{> Unfortunately, our limited sensorium, and our hubris, cause most of us to attempt to anthropomorphize, through a missapprehension of manifest epiphenomena, what are, more probably, the effects of the fractal impingement of larger realities on ours.
IOW: Maybe what "God" really is, is not a "being", per se, but an effulgent creative FORCE. I, and others, call this "god": The Tao. (Works for me.);{>
Now, as to the subject of "good" vs. "evil", these are the opposite ends of a 'yardstick' (cartesian coordinate axes) your parents imprinted upon your pre-burn-in wetware when you were small. Years of therapy, LSD, or above average intelligence and psychological acumen can modify the position and direction of the scale, but, always, it will still just be a measurement of the local state phenomena of dualism with reference to one's own idiosyncratic ethical structure. (I just get this picture of a bunch of ants on a pool table attempting to label the path of any pool ball 'good', and/or "evil", and I hear some anty-messiah saying: "The black 8-ball crushed all your siblings Worker-12373889, it is 'Evil'!". Ya know?)
On a grand scale, much as we would like to elevate ourselves to the role of "Arbiter Of Universal Good/Evil", our attempt to place our own limited understandings and definitions upon the working of the universe, can only be a vainglorious, petty and incomplete projection of our own points-of-view.
"Karma (judgement, not: 'vengeance') is the way of the Tao (not: 'mine sayeth the Lord' - "God" does not 'possess')." (The way the biblical line was supposed to read!);{>
May your feet tread light upon your paths! -J-
93 93/93
GreyWolf
Under skies leaden
GreyWolf goes hunting,
his future tracking through days of haze . . .
. . . and if it were caught and slain,
how could that be?
Metaphorescent and red on the snow;
what would to be done then?
Promulgate the past with endless loops of leaps,
chasing that which has been
because that which will be is dead now-
can it then be
a fugue state of starvation
temporally?
Surely . . .
. . . unless,
pursuing, past sophistry turning
in a curve,
cramped and panting;
that which was spurns
purpose and presently
is\ will be
infinity.
As . . .
. . .under skies leaden
GreyWolf goes hunting,
the future tracking through days of haze.
Guidesmine
By way of explanation, most of my neologistic natterings are
extemporaneously effulgent - but supervised (and constantly critiqued) by my Spirit Guides:
e e cummings, William James, Rudolf Steiner and James Joyce.
(You don’t think I could come up with this stuff on my own, do you?)
They argue interminably over my scansion, about which latin root to put where, how much polyentendre is too much, how many puns I can put on the head of a pin - you name it. Honestly, its a wonder I can ever write anything at all, with all this astal bickering accompanying
my every attempt at creativity. Not to mention their inability to realize that I actually think in odd metres (like nonametric duodecameter, for instance).
Don’t get me wrong, I certainly couldn’t do without their assistance
as lexiconographers and vocabularians. {Voconstantabularrogantly profunctionalix vulvagrarians? [Sorry, I couldn’t resist. All of them (‘cept e e) seem to be put off by bodypartpuns.]}
Anyway . . . they collectively offer their erudite discarnate epistophilia and floccinaucinihilipilifelicitations. I know I can, at least, offer more than the bombastically banal badinage and banter of the boddhisatvacantly benumbed. So if you’re ever in the mood for some circumlocuteorhizomanticircumscript, as Euphonic Sesquipedalien Paronomasia . . . read me. - Jondalf
Half empty or half full?
I see the glass as half empty these days, I guess.
Having lost that perspective, that parallax
that enables one to gauge depth from a distance.
My eyes are tired, tired from having seen
too much pain in the mirror every morning,
and too much betrayal in the mind’s eye of my memory.
No motivation, no inspiration, and the glass is not a glass
but a sinking barge, water filling the bilge,
adrift on a sea of hubris
and I’m shackled
within this prison ship of circumstance,
and neither the pilot nor the navigator can see any stars
to take a bearing from.
And so I drift, from doldrum day
through numbing night
to doldrum day again.
No dreams of accomplishment,
no schemes of success,
only a sullen current-driven progress
through a Sargasso of somnolent intention
and the enforced sacrifice
of this incarnation.
Sent to this prison by my own distant soul, which doubtless
thought these lessons of double-cross
by everyone I ever loved, expedient, and good for my growth;
for reasons upon which I was not asked to concur,
and by whose contumely and ennui am I thus sentenced,
in durance most vile, to declamations of despondency like this.
It wasn’t always like this, though.
I can still remember a time when I didn’t see the perfidy
inherent in humanity, and misanthropy
wasn’t my constant companion.
(Are you pouring, or drinking?)
I remember when I laughed, and joked
and had hope.
All gone now it seems, swept away by storms of
treachery and dishonorable lust,
veritable hurricanes of deception and delusion.
Abandoned by those I trusted to watch my back,
as I protected theirs’,
I wasted my faith on ingrates
whose sole rationale was the recitation
of their own callous calumnies,
and the gratification of their
well-honed iniquitous insipidity.
So here I sit,
with naught but my melancholy to guide me,
and I doubt that I’ll ever see the happy land
of guileless relationships again.
And mostly it seems I wish to fetch up upon some disastrous shoal,
thereupon to founder and go down
into that abyssal “good night”,
suck the waters of solipsistic surcease deep into my lungs
and have done with this sad simulacrum of existence.
But the skow just continues to drift, and the glass refuses to break
so I’m stuck with my pain and the propinquity
of a life in which I can no longer enjoy living,
a ship I cannot steer,
and a glass that is, when stared at thus,
reflectively, with one eye closed,
indeed half full:
half full of gall.
-J-
12/4/98
Herstory
Most of the men who have made decisions
on a global scale, in human memory, have been mad!
(Now, I’m not talking about angry, or just irrational mind you,
but totally insane - due to tertiary syphilis).
Dumb lab animals driven to replicate and disseminate
their DNA, by the ‘indwelling of the Spirit’:
glowing dustmotes caught in the sunbeam of history
maddened by the exigencies of procreation
as they fall to the floor of Testube Earth, spent
and bent beyond repair in their belief.
Insidiously inculcated in cultural conditioning,
a Machiavellian malaise of manipulation manifests
itself as ‘Charismatic Christian Fundamentalism’.
Why do you think angels are always portrayed,
by ideations’ deprivation: in bright white, flowing gowns?
. . .
(What would you make of a lab coat, if you were a savage?)
“Hey what the . . .”
So what in the hell is going on here, huh;
and what the fuck has happened to this crew anyway?
Do the ideals we once held still in our hearts hold singular sway?
I suppose I’m struggling to simply say: “Are we all just getting older
and growing ethically decrepit, - ‘moldier’, or what, eh?”
(Seems like we’re losin’ it, you know?
How long’s your attention span, man?
Don’t just go with the flow!)
Be we by M.T.V.’s dulcet tune groomed
to conspicious concupiscence consume?
Deep in durance so vile it is
a veritable villenage of obsequious Spandex wiles,
be we just a market manipulated to a myopically cathodic cartharsis?
Molded by a miasma of modern mental mulch, omnipresent as piles,
do we defer our contumacious criticism
in surrendering to this simpering sussurus of subliminal lexiphanicism.
Are our ethics so thoroughly dulled
through an elegiac effulgency lulled,that a soporific despondency should thus descend stark and darkly
upon those former ‘misdeeds’ of daring, caring and sharing?
“We’re only growing more mature!”, you’ll say
in order to fake and make minor more minuscule amends.
(“My ass”,
I contend!
Say better: “We’re beginning to molder”,
and I’ll have to pass!)
So also may I say: “Perhaps we’re just not so bold
here and now, as we were, there and then!” . . .
. . . Can you remember it at all, and/or can you recall,
what was that we wanted; just how real was that call?
Where and when did those ideas, in conscious ken we forfend;
and what were the portents preceding our fall?
(. . . Long ago it was . . . and so far away, right around 1968).
So you see, our perusal of this: ‘The Great Co-option’:
in thisnow, thiswhen, simply shan’t or can’t wait.
While it seems as though
ribonucleic ribaldry has reduced us to mere shadows,
simple shades of ourselves as we were in those halcyon daze:
crazed by concatenations of crepuscular coincidence,
we linger, longsincelost, in a culturally supposed unseemly
and salacious satival, (hight Utopian), habitual haze.
Thus I necessarily insist, I now know and must inimitably so say:
“Real the vision, real the feeling, real the lustre of those days!
True the world-view, to ‘The Establishments’ rue,
true the myriad different ways,
we discovered: of perceiving and pursuing conditioning seen anew!
Through psychoneurologies intentionally changed for the better
by ‘acid’ and this then, our milieu!”
Bolstered so by these philosophicquizical realizations
so abundant and assiduously accrued,
we perspicaciously assumed personal ‘Aspects’ wherein
with ‘Attributes’ we were indubitably imbued.
Remember:
(back when there were innumerable people, quite cogent,
who believed religiously in everything that we then did;
while in believing and behaving as though we all were normal
nevertheless our neuralchemistry’s augmentation we,
for survival’s sake, habitually and unheroically hid).
So to this very day,
when we refuse to gainsay these sundry fool’s ruses,
abnegation disabilitating our plight,
still the calibration of perception compels us to conclude:
that chemical adjustment of ones own senses, whatever ensues,
is for all time in no way crude or rude
but fulsome and fine, (not dysfunctional), I opine;
and furthermore,
should be ours, and everyones, right!
I Feel A Poem Coming On
(as metamorphic metaphor)
Last night it was wet:
saltmist, a grey shroud, covering the coast
and in wonder we wandered around, mouthing animal boasts,
wending our feral way under transformers gone pellucid, aglow in shadow, way above our heads.
Watching sparks arc, high up on the telephone poles.
Like hungry early morning mutant current moles
we moved, snouts held high,
wanting somehow to chew through the heavy air
there, to sink teeth in those electric static snacks
snapping and sizzling in the seafog.
Wanting to wish the damp air to dirt so we could ascend,
burrowing to that wide open circuit, (whisker ends
quivering, lit up like little lightning rods in a storm,
forms pawing past buried muses sublime mired in phosphorescent fungal rhyme)
feeding like ravenous voles
on the edge of some rodential incandescence,
all the time.
Till, limned in lucent lemming forms we emerged on the voracious shores of that eclectic dielectric, where the eventides rime
(and our moldy souls
like those tall poles)
in constant ecstatic and solipsistic surfeit shine.
- Journal of the Second Year A.D. (After Divorce) -
8/8/95:
It still amazes me that I can wake up from a dead sleep, turn on my side, and worry, for a moment, at why she is not asleep beside me. Was she working late and never came home? Did we have another fight and she’s staying at a friend’s? My memory then groggily kicks in, and I once again relive the entire sequence of her leaving. But it’s been a whole year now, and if I’m getting over it, this sure is a slow and painful process.
I’ve had a few affairs, sure, but I’ve just never invested the time and/or energy in them that would turn them into relationships. I seem to be less than enthusiastic about entering into a new one when I can’t free myself of memories of the old.
I’m Fine
Do I fear people, places
or time?
The sublime torment of an intrigued,
or intiguing
glance, makes me wary of my own temerity,
and my reticence
belies my loneliness.
I do know
(this at least)
that I still strongly long for passion,
for languid interludes of loving
and lavish displays of affection.
Yet it seems so fearfully fraught with peril -
this touching of skin,
and soul -
this vulnerable vilification of
well wrought defenses,
that
although the desire is there
I wonder where
it all may end
(in more heartache? - undoubtedly.)
and I fair fear my self
laid bare, again,
one more time.
But . . .
. . .I’m fine, I swear
I’m fine.
- 7/1/95
I’m feeling very Bukowskian these days, worship of the grape provides some scant surcease from the brutal confrontation of reality with my long-cherished romantic ideals, and I’m getting some decent poetry written, actual poetry, mind, not the sesquipedalian paronomasia I’m so known for, but stuff about the human condition, replete with imagery even, (and few 40 letter neologisms). So I don’t know, ‘cogito ergo spud’, I guess (I think, therefore, I yam), or ‘spud ergo spud’ (I yam what I yam), something like that.
15th. Anniversary
I seem to have no past, at least
I can’t recall any details
of the last 15 years.
It seems gone, all gone.
Replaced by some
dull existential ache
that accompanies memory
these daze.
My memories of my marriage are
lost in some dim limbo of
aduous argumentationan
inefficacious communication that
cast a pusillanimous pall over
the wealth of shared detail
that 15 years of shared experience
should have
synaptically stored
and preserved in the privacy of one’s
mental make-up, my love, Diann, at times I
can’t even see your face in my mind. . .
. . . Alas (a lass), and alack (a lack)
A way, a long, a lass and
a lad, see?
Then thus,
so sad,
a lack is had, as he has/was abandoned.
Done!
Seetheeatonealone,
(prithee - allone?)
atoneality alongingone
seetheonewhereisshe?
Awayalongalassand
a lad,
thenthusosad
alackishad
asheaswasaband
one
d!
Where is she? . . .
. . . An apparent lack of recall recalls my marriage
a vague miasma of uneasy
truces, and eneluctable ennui
and hubris,
interspersed, here and there,
with the bright colours of
vacations to wonderfully scenic places,
and the scent of shared laughter
(at well spaced intervals, of course).
Away, along, alas, alack. Do I remember stuff like this when I am dis-incarnate? I wonder - do all the agreements I make between lives take these heartaches into account? For growth’s sake? ‘Tis the only reason I would ever agree to so much pain. To be betrayed and abandoned, again and again, in one life, by the women I love, am I paying off old debts, or chalking up karmic credit? I don’t know.
They say the soul is distant, unfeeling - I think this must be so, for I cannot imagine a feeling caring part of my being consigning my conciousness to such struggle as my due for so much caring, and sharing, and giving on my part. I have attempted to share as much of what I have learned about the cosmos, thru my 5,000 years of incarnative Sage-experiential existance with all I meet, and yet . . . and yet . . .
all I ever want in return
is some small appreciation
for data well gathered,
for dogma comparatively studied
and well discarded
for well wrought hypotheses,
and incisive leaps of faith.
. . . sometimes though, I do grow weary of the constant struggle to understand, and count myself no more than human, if I am occasionally beset with doubts, and overpowering moments of melancholia . . . sigh . . . ah well, struggling ever onward and upward as:
. . . vapid, variegated and verisimilitudenous
we vy,
and,
plying the repetitive metaphor of mannerism
we move,
through the sullied simile of being.
- Jondalf, © 1995
Jyberwhacky AI
TECHTESTTEXT
. . . and so that’s the story of how I was vested with the Bukowski
Chair at the WWW Univerity Of “n”th Dimensional Creative Neuraethiology© Physics. I passed my Orals with a rather lacklustre (I felt) 10 hour recital of my Onaneopus©: “Moribundant Museschatology©” (shortform); and was subsequently elected Salutightorian© of the obligatory Grand Piano Vomitory. But, needless to say, I digress.
Anyway, so, when the Angelic Host (Luciferian Rebels inclusive) manifestly decloaked on 9/9/99, and the ensuing ‘World Tao-Zones Index’© plummeted, my wetware startup company ThrashArt© went cortex-up, AND, then, my 1+?+? year Marriage Contract with ‘Celeclonal Drew Barrymore(©)#427’© was terminated in its third month for nonpayment of premiums, I felt pretty low. Lower than a dysmounted© HOLOSIMM on a melted microchip, I tell you true. Nevertheless, I rented a cheap cubi next to the downtown ‘Toke-It-Topium’© pissoir and dug in my plasteelheels, rationing my expenditures and flailing frantically, round the 10 hour metriclock©, with the ‘waldo(©)trol’© of my cubi’s holographic V-keyboard, trying to spewout enough CDopy© pusillanimous persiflage (at ¥1,000,000/word@Uscale) to keep me in tofusteaks, and trying to transmute my melancholy into something resembling remuneration. Transcribed pain always pays mohbettah bucks, brauae.
It was about that time, if you will recall, that President Hanks, just back from a State visit to Neowobblyville©, capital of the L-5 Republic, gave his now infamous “Religeosity-Industratareal Simplex (type XII)”© speech, which, I might add, was a freelance collabberation© of William Safire(©)wareAI23© and yours truly, and all heaven broke loose.
Feeling the heat of the Nutluddite© Fringe’s Basque ninjas on my exculpatory trail, I had my trendy Maoriyogibear-facitattoo© redone with a more inconspicuous mtlflkechatoyantGuernica-epicreep©, and decided to go hang out at ClubMadHedonism© Bayonne for a while, under a psuedonominative© personality rented from gNom-De-Plumes-R-Oui©.
Things just got stranger and stranger though. I ran into my 43rd wife
there, sporting new mams (she, not me), and a new beau (some codpiece-enhanced crackreek© CPA from Tierra Del Fuego North©, with a contiguwuss© eyebrow and betelnutrotted© plasteeth), at the nightly ‘JackoffJill Disco’©; humped them both perverunctoreally© (for Deco-rhum’s© sake) and ended up whipped and wayoverhung© at the Club’s Breakfastorgybar gimme-Buffet© trying to choke down a plate of ‘MagnoliaThunderpussy(©)Pooptarts’© and fresh jizcream©, while unSteadmanly dodgering© the OTTOmaided© cat-o-mime-tails© wilding Elviituvla’s© that were working the buffetline.
It was then that I had my now much valleywho-Op-ed© epiepiphany©, in an effuallgent© flash of agenbitinwitsitu©-IRMWsckt©-shortedtoground-threw-brainspam© so perspirinvidiouscicacious© that if froze the Synthlymph© in my stunned and reeling hydro-enSETHalamic© AIemplants©!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! - :
. . . “THE BANNED”©!!!!!!!!!!!!
I HAD TO PUT “THE BANNED”© BACK TOGETHER AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!
I was on a MISSION FROM COD!!!!!! I had regained my Guerilla WittgenSteiner© cummingsynsenessence© of NOHthrupFryedlike© centracontraility© of mythooze©, and myonaninkarnakitive© concupissantequiproseleGaiaSet-E©!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!GNARLYASSFASTANDSLIPFINFREECOOLDOODY©!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
WAYRADITWAS, and well, the rest is herstory, as y’ll know, but those were theodoronodaze© my frskens, and that was how it all CAymendooBBing@. I gHesse© chew jest ad two Bea “ARThiere”©, don’cha’gnome©, don’cha’gnoumenon©! It’s just like Tiny Dr. Tim and/or Gandalf said, longague© in Fairway Park: ‘We’ve already won, all that’s left is the moppin’ up.”! The viewture will be shapesifted by GrindingrungrunniongrinninAOLollywaillin© young ThrasheRs with wetwirednetskateboards©.
{IMNSHO, there’s no reasonably probable [IOW: none now having greater than what I calcululate© to be an 11% (±2%) chance of consensocioccurrence© (percentages having permutatively decreased in conformance with the vaticinaderivation© of a geomatriaxially© continuiguous© AINcontraverticestringfractal-inaccessationablequationmodel© since ‘65)] bifurconcatenation©/line-of-’futurehistory’-force-vector-sum that will escape the substantive influence of of the 60’s, so get over it, already, all you fundittoheads and nostalgia buffs.} Progress, don’t repress or regress. ‘YAH don’t need TA wHETherman, for ‘lo, ‘WITCH-WAY’ this wind blows.’} -J- );{>
All comments cheerfully solicited - just a short one this, but this is what I feel I do best, I can, and will, if asked, define and/or explain any of the Neologisms hereinbefore created/used, and some of the polyentendre. Please though, be patient, I do have a “just-a-cog-in-the-gears-of-the-GNP” stultifyingly non-creative day job and some scant semblance of a life. Namaste.
*BTW - The Test: How many of the identified new words above can be attributed to citable sources previous to this publication? How does a Neologist make money from Neology? I haven’t a clue. Do you? Anyway, “(t)hank you for encouraging my behavior.” *
Kerouaccachanalian
There appears a definitive proclivity
to Bardic tradition so strong in me
it must inculcated be
in my chromosomal memory,
(spliced genetically).
Therefore modern ignorance be damned,
all my poems be Dithyrambs:
hymns of praise to all things Dionysian
whereby our spirits we raise,
invocations as free verse paeans
tersely sung, (in periastrophe).
So what if all allusive ability
on the part of the populace is in atrophy
we revel here in a philosophy
long predating Christianity,
and better by far seems it to me
than that dysfunctional eschatology,
(the one and only truly idiotic ideology!).
"Kosmic Conscienciousness": (transitive nominative),
an epiphanthetic compendium of perceptive/projective circumspection concomitant with an attempt at conscious apprehension and solipsistic calibration of, at least, a major portion of the collectively consensual conceivable totality of ongoing concatenate fractal oscillatory epiphenoumena.
Unfortunately, any rhetorician's prescriptive lexicography here may seem circumlocution, as the subject, intrinsically, appears almost ineffably abstruse . . . nevertheless, the concept is asymptotically accessible to hypothecation as an hyperbole involving a summary summation of the condign quondam probability-force-vector-calculus collegia effulgent, and, alas, will be comprehensively communicable colloquy only within commensurate shared sentient logomantic sets,
(the most perspicacious transliteration notwithstanding).
IOW: "The name that can be named is not THE Name".
Existentially speaking, "Cosmic Consciousness" may be experienced,
but not really well described.
[Many thanks to Rudolph Steiner, William James,
and my favorite spirit guide, James Joyce, for their collaberative though discarnate assistance with this attempt at an autonoenomically written denotation of a really recondite rubric.
{Oh, and by the way, as I and most of the cognoscenti
experientially concluded long ago, even major dosages of the purest etheogens, in the most pristine 'set and settings', could never be as salubriously effective a tool for metaphysically transcendent psychonuerochemical ratiocination catalysis as were
"Yellow Wedges",
(or even the experience of 'channeling' the Akashic Records );{>
Maturation and Mastery
Maturation and mastery most munificent,
(wily wizards will wince once and whine),
seem lessons so very evanescent
as confined we all are by our Time.
Phenomenescient and omniphenomenascent we loom
large in our ubiquitous cupidity,
whilst belligerently perfidious we bungle and barge
through life ,quite well programmed, we proceed.
Immersed deep in data to our detriment
missing all of the portents we do see,
passing judgment upon our perceptions
in this land, without honor, prophets be.
Unable as we are to calibrate
these myriad contentions crazed
wizened and whittled by would-bes
we continue, so blind, on our ways:
wandering within our experience
whence wasted and wanton we wheeze,
assuming the beneficence of the universe
still dumber we become by degrees.
So you see . . .
true wisdom lies in unlearning
those things taught to us when we’re wee;
thus life, and its’ living is suspect,
as we struggle, so hard, to be free.
Remember the 21st. of December
(Midwinter’s Eve Again)
This season, hight “Christmas”, has rolled round once more
And we’d like to remind you, as you’re shopping in stores,
That long ‘fore Christ’s religion co-opted this rite,
Down through thousands of years, allaying all fears:
The Winter Solstice a pagan holiday was, all day and all night.
Folks stayed up to celebrate, till dawn, with their friends.
Making sure Sun would come back, again and again.
Through cold rain and snow, ‘round fires all night long,
They sang songs and waited, misty breath unabated:
A vigil fair maintained, assuring naught would go wrong.
Thus we wish you good fortune, good cheer and fine plight,
And we wish so, remembrance, of this night’s true respite:
From the forces of Darkness, stagnation’s requite.
Enlightenment we evoke, from ignorance to invoke:
“Be excellent to each other!” and “Party down!”, its your right!
Mike Called
Sorry, but Michael wanted to interjectoplasmicate something to the effect that in almost all of theses cases a soul-fragment'(s)' "abdication" of either an incarnative vehicular choice, or a combination of primary, secondary, tert. etc. etc. had/ave caused an abrogation of the term's material manifest destinociation.
Rare instances of Taoic intervention, and/or entropry-embaptism due to mutualienexculpation (coruscantenative intentropic vortexveldtwellwall nexiall concresenthermiations, as it WereWilled).
For instance: the DNAvehicle this fragment now inhabituates was abandonated after clinical death, at 6 months of age, from anasthmaticpnuemenonalmalignment of the original bidder, in favor of the probibliorecombinawry "Gaiawilla-wit" of the present inhabitant within the projected purview of its milieau - body and new essence-extension revived, all traces of asthma and pnuemofAI;lure gone.
(A very rare, but quintesessentienThelemmaic Taoperoration:
AsinequantumnonetransmutantAeoneologikalicanthropaeagainAl'sLiberintentruedeathshun);{>
MR. V’S ONANOMANIA
Pound on, wonderbunswomen !
The future is about to come crashing down
on your seminalien Socraticed concupiscience:
gobs of bluecheeseviralslimeswallowing
sumshucksters circle revenently ‘round the women’s bidet
for a just a whiff of vintagestiff deathlustcurdcrust.
[ . . . meanwhile,, in an adjoining abbatoir,
carmelized all-iris-eyes shining with:
“Love me ‘cause I can lick my own, slick”; her ogleobsessed bloatedbratwursthunghusband
was whanking furiously on his priapic principles,
diddling with the livefeed display
where his wife was splayed and playing, plying her suckcesspool sublimnanalwitherkneeling succubusiness
whilst he watched, wondering who would get off
thisincarnatiedyad dharmaweal fistfirst . . . ]
‘Snatcwhoreorally, carnalicklewdin on this The Kid wasnot.
In Seminalaryan school all they had tauthemabutt booty
hardonly swerved to cunfewes him,
so he neversuspeckerheaded a thing,
banalthewile the massturdebaiting pimpherinhell
washaving herscrewineveryoneoncue, druggedandfrugged, whenever he could, consequimsays be dammed. Gofrigurs.
Anall this took f’revher to fingerout, buttwhim headiddled tit, tolerant hey new twat was twat, so nutbesotted gnomewhorewashe, she shed “whank who’s berrymunch” hand they wend their hairy ways.
The Kid’n’er leftownan lovived awiledinsin enemafarther
outinthewayback untrying two hurts to make amends
till atlassed they true grue apheart teachotheransplit.
Amoral? . . . dumbtotryno . . . I guess the testis:
en crudite verite.
Pearls Before Swine
“A prophet is not without honor, save in his own country.”
Funny, that a biblical phrase would be so apropos
with regard to one who is so opposed to the intent,
and efficacy,
of biblical prose.
Ah well,
what the hell,
even the Christians had some good ideas,
occasionally.
But, paronomastically, perhaps,
the perspicacity of my mental,
and verbal,
perambulations,
preclude my peers ability to perceive
their wherewithal and worth.
And the dearth of their perceptive acuity,
accrues to the conditioning inherent
(promulgated in perpetuity)
which is partially attributable to,
their inculcate inability to see
the acumen intrinsic in me,
and the syllogistic scrutiny wherewith I do view
this particular experience of reality.
Plato Knows
I seek not Truth
(other than in some ancillary fashion)
but rather Beauty
in order to bind Her to me
with strands of silken euphony
right well woven about
the corners of my consciousness
like a spider spins a web
with wonder for warp
and whimsy for woof
a fragile tapestry to trap
inspiration like a filigreed fly
buzzing inadvertent
into those strands
and sticking fast
to the fringes of my Art
PORPOISE
Our highest purpose
is to have no purpose
for in having no purpose
we imitate nature
in it’s great purposelessness.
Propoetry
The prime task of the poet
and the primal operation of poetry
is as with any birth:
to deliver the poem,
(conceived in some mystic mindspace
somnolent, nurtured and gestated in Id),
in as undamaged a form
as is possible.
(This,
and perhaps a possible predilection
to the sordid sin of solecism.)
Rain On The Heather
(For Wendy, a partial payment for future editorial services tendered.)
Silent silver rain
on blooming
purple heather
illuminates the day,
whatever my internal weather.
When I read your fructating phraseology ,
I feel your feelings ferally flowering
whether
you know it or not.
So this paltry poesy’s the
only way I have to say:
that your winsome wordsmythic worth
has been inspirative to me,
as a silent silver rain
somehow concantenatively constrains
the enternally effulgent coruscative lustre
of blooming purple heather.
Read I, Recite I Not
Not meant
most of my work is
to be read
loutloud.
Mind to mind’s what
I’d rather, and what
this stuff’s all about.
I feel I need not touch
your eyes your eyes
your your your
ears nose ears
your mouth
your your
. .
breasts breasts
*
Instead,
I wanna inject myself
straight into your synapses.
No chance of any dataloss,
no carnative delay
there, its right-
-here
one thought alone away.
So then, the hell with this
Iambic pentameter shit, its
way predictable, like
a time signature in 4/4
despondent and bored on a page—
—were talkin’ jazz as
instant apprehension here.
Politician’s gotta lie, just as cops’re always late,
only occasionally do I stand up and sing
(and then its usually in some odd time thing
like 5/4, 7/2 or 19/11/8).
And sometimes
through gaping scansive holes
In my verbiage
I fall . . .
. . . and I am, yes,
quite also unilaterally unkind
to my verbs, and smitten
with a monomaniacal mnemania
for modifiers.
And I don’t do
imagery
either!
A thousand words
(well said)
are worth more
than the sum of
ten-thousand light splashed
Seurat’s
plus one “Guernica”
added to seven Warhol’s
and a handprint
on that
philosophically absquatulate
and ineluctably infamous
cave wall.
Reality is as you deem it,
and I certainly won’t leave my footprints
in the proverbial, (or literal), sands of time
for,
being slightly cautious,
and wanting me and my ideas to survive;
I don’t feel like being followed, or hunted
down all the long lonely years (and incarnations)
by those who deem differently than I do
whilst accomplishing that which I Will.
Rearword
‘When a man has withdrawn from the world, it’s tumult often becomes unbearable to him. There are many people who in a noble pride hold themselves aloof from all that is low and rebuff it brusquely wherever it comes to meet them. Such persons are reproached for being proud and distant, but since active duties no longer hold them to the world, this does not greatly matter. They know how to bear the dislike of the masses with composure.’
- #44, Kou: Coming to Meet
(Nine at the top)
I Ching -
The Lady's Prayer
Our Mother,
who Art - The Earth;
hallowed be THY name!
Land green under Sun,
THY Will be done,
in the heavens
as well as on earth.
Give us this day
our daily breads,
and educate us past our ignorance,
as we may educate those who are ignorant to us.
Lead us not into degradation,
but deliver us from selfishness.
For thine is the effulgence,
and the power,
and the glory, eternally.
Awomaen.
The Look
As you walked out of the room where we first met,
glancing back on that place so filled with pleas and healing
met mine did your sad eyes from ceaseless weeping wet,
the look that you gave me sent my cringing wits reeling.
I saw compassion (and fear), interest (despair), and hope:
onlythelonely eyes through your long hair’s sultry strophe
with one look seared my heart’s cicatrice; ash and smoke
on the pyre of my misanthropy phoenixlike, feeling awoke.
I knew you not at all, nor did you know me
Unexpected and unbidden, began hopes wanton to grow
as stirred in me, something did, when you I first saw
and ignore it could I not, believing: ‘Love Is The Law’.
That one glance, as: “The Look”, always may I recall.
For looks such as that, forsaking Heaven , did Angels fall.
Of consequences heedless Helens’ tumble Troys’ walls,
as still for any chance of Love will fools Hope, and risk all.
Then I walked out of the room (where we never met),
glancing back I filled the room with wishes worth stealing.
No eyes met mine (still from ceaseless sad weeping wet),
so I imagined “The Look” I wanted so much to be feeling.
The Season Of Supposed Good Cheer
Well folks, once again, it is that time of year.
So let me tell you all a story, steeped, ages deep, in vainglory,
about this season of supposed good cheer:
Long, long ago when this world was quite young,
most people believed in a religion that said man and nature were one.
The symbol of this synthesis was half-animal and half man.
A totally harmless, flute playing sprite who reveled in life,
worshiping only the light, and all the folk called him—Pan.
Goat horned and hooved was he, a simple illustration, you see,
of the wide world in balance, nature and human life in close harmony.
But then a new religion arose, calling the innocent old faith perfidy,
based upon a concept of life as anthro(as opposed to eco)centricity.
With intolerance was it rife, and after its god it did hight—Christianity.
Thereupon, the folk all were told (andforced to say it was true)
that all the old ways were wrong, that the new god was so strong.
Thus the god of the older faith became the “devil” of the new!
Gross cruelty and persecution did then begin, and thereafter did ensue
the evil times, “The Dark Ages”, and more all should, to this day, rue.
So for all the gentle souls who were tortured, or at the stake burned,
for believing intheir religion, for persevering about Nature to care,
let us offer up a paean (or call it a prayer) to whatever god you dare:
that from theocentricity, hatred and bigotry be all religions turned;
that, no longer should anyone, because of their faith, have to fear!
Then this season might truly be, for all , one of good cheer!
Prometheus Bound
“Hey man, here,
think, damn you, think!” . . .
. . . and thus was Prometheus bound.
Un Canto De Desconsoledad
(Hello my friends. save this one for when you're 'up', and into trying to understand the experience OF despair - it's one of my better works, but, unfortunately, its quite depressing. . . . oh well, "Pain Pays", as they say);{>
Oigolo Pablo, y lo siento.
My lips like truculent tumescent clamshells,
bent on expelling that blue otherworldliness
that is sky,
purse and blow,
bilabially fricative IN seahoarsely proportions
(as real as romance was ever my wont-
AS WELL YOU KNOW);{>,
see me, imagine this man,
and watch me face my fate:
wending my wounded way through my thislife.
using what’s left of my wit I try to reply entertainingly to all the shallow conversational gambits that Bloviate my way of late . . .
So Still I hunker down,
digging my way backwards into the tubewormstrewn
notfullyfathomed muck
that is my memory of marriage..
Nada, nada, nada y algo nada de menos:
mi alma.
Even the gulls veer away
when they smell the decay of my dreams:
washed up on Eroded beaches of Passion Past eviscerated and gelatinous,
delaquesing weakly red
over thereandthen here - thinly blue, translucent jellies Delicately dying
strewn across the dunes,
Evanascent nacre, staining the clean sardonyx sand and
steaming in the sullen ochre sun.
That puling weak insignificant star
never quite dispells the oleaginous fog
that greyes my daze,
my gaze, my temples,
and my beard, Frosted by chill winters full of loves Feckless and fey, and aft gang agley
as once again happiness, in a most contumacious hauteur, hath fled.
Sputum of the sea, sputum of the sea -
sea that has become the world's sewer,
cover me with a placenta of courage
made from greenglowing E-coli soup.
Las gaviotas se mueren lo crepusculo.
Muda, mi amor matamese.
Tht waste-treatment plant that was
my heart,
still pumps sludge through Life’s outfall,
burying tiny pallid crustaceans of caring
in an effluvium of emotive tedium,
yet I totter down the dun dunes onward still.
in the waning sun of thiswhens afternoon
i stu,mble, numbly leprous as the ubiquity of unhappiness saps strength and spirit,
hair matted with seawrack
spattered gullshatseaweed covering my head like a caul.
Un hombre sin esperanza
que la mar sin las olas, y sin una playa.
Oigolo Pablo, y lo siento,
lo siento, lo siento tambien.
- Jondalf
Vacuous Verities
This judicious crafting of verse,
howsoever it seems hard and perverse,
appears as a whole universe, interior, to me.
Seeing people as paltry planets,
thoughts stratified like schistgreygranite,
with only writers able to transcend gravity.
So writing as such
produces just enough thrust
to achieve an escape velocity;
and ‘long starlanes seldom traveled
a myriad mysteries nebulous unravel
before our mindseyes’ trained inherent clarity.
(I mean, it’s kinda like latching on
to the tail of a comet
and being solarwindwhipped about
ones’ own ganglial galaxy!
If only all could, as I can, such scenes see!)
Writin’ by the light of dyin’ synapses firing’,
riding iceballs of insight so austere:
(probin’ parsecs of molecular dusts’ memory)
kalpas of nothingness becoming history,
pictures by mental instrumentality captured clear.
This singular stellar addiction to mindscrying transcription
warpdrives thoughts,through wrought wormholes of words,
as thoughtships’ cargo carrying visions back here to me.
So from spaced interdictions’ interpolation to pure fiction
it’s as fine a mindscape as had can be.
(Still the thrill of the ride, so damn dopplerdifficult to describe.)
These then must be only:
Vacuous Verities.
Verbal Gerbils
You know, it’s always such a tragedy when gerbils die.
Such innocuous vapidity and cretinous rodential cuteness
deserves a better fate than to decay to inconsequential dust
in some landfill far from home.
Rather they should perhaps ossify and then dessicate
to blow away dandelionlike on the breeze:
small clouds of tiny germinal gerbil spoors,
buff puffs of fecundity flying afar
and falling on fallow fields to root and grow . . .
. . . a new generation of gerbils who, kinda like lemmings
on their way to the sea, on a certain morning in May
emerge from their fields in various areas to line up,
all in a row, little paws outstretched, one dumpling digit extended
alongside roads leading to towns with pet shops, hitching rides,
and having reached the aforementioned shops they would present themselves to be bought and brought home
for the idle amusement of dimwits who have nothing better to do
than raise these microencephaletic, unresponsive
and totally vacuous examples of rodentia.
Then again,
good thing the little farts aren’t any smarter than they already are and exceptional good luck that they don’t talk,
or their ennervatingly endearing and pathetic presence
might provoke their being noticed more as animals
and not nearly so often as dustballs.
Can you imagine?
Verbal gerbils.
What a thought!
They’d most probably be incredibly sarcastic too.
I mean, after all,
these are the creatures who somehow,
down aeons of our evolution
convinced us to take care of them for no real reason I can fathom,
so their attitude
would probably be inversely proportional
to their size.
Think of the scandal if anybody ever found out
what animals really thought about us:
thousands of previously unsuspecting pet owners
awakening one day to the realization
that those small furry mounds of momentous mundanity
micturating on the mulch in the corner of their cages,
were actually acutely mawkish malingerers
who had millennia ago had malevolently manipulated mankind
into making a place for them, rent free!
Whee! What a sight that all those fallen faces would be.
That’s why the death of any gerbil is such a tragedy to me, you see.
Wagon Train to the Stars
So simple (really!), life is, shan’t you see,
though there will always be those
(and almost all shall they be)
who do a mockery make
of its compliasimplicity.
[Through philosophistry
(seen as historicity)
forever teleontology recapitulates
filialphilogeniessency]!
Thus, there’s naught that is aught,
save that that which one wills;
(no-thing happens from skills)
as all you cause to occur.
(For being is doing,
and ne’er Fate need aver)!
Nothing can you do
save that which ensues
from your choice
as incarnate, in full voice
and fine vision are we boist
(fair effulgent thus we foist),
our lifescry
according to our ken.
None and nothing can gainsay
this our purpose to purvey
failure save we learn
(and in learnings’ array allay)
that which caused us to here come:
from the humdrum ethereal down to here
forsaking every errant, migrant fear . . .
. . . we whilst whence we are wont
(for eternity’s contained within a tear).
we stayed to surf
What say,
the waves are totally buff
and some kinda’ tuff thiswhen, eh?
Waycool!
So hey,
while we in wonder wander willful
‘long these sandy shores of force
the oleaginous ontological ocean
betide, becomes our sole recourse.
Say what?
See,
we supposedly bogus beachbums be downright decent
at slashin’ glassmoothfast gnarlyass tubes,
cutback chiaroscuros’ limned liquidlucent
some nasty moves done by us demigod dharmadudes:
slithering sideslips to lipstrikes wanton freefin,
whitewater spumewhipped to windward away,
screamin’ ‘cross vortices breaking wildly widdershins,
shreddin’ swellwalls spunaesthetic in hyperspray!
Try to focus and understand:
that on the sands of time certain realities abide as ripples,
(epiphenomenological swirls microgranular in sand),
whose appearance and purpose permutate supereal
the ethereal collective unconscious and its’ surface tension
through scansion surreal and the expansion we feel’s
everdue our ideal.
So therefore,
when sometimes we with booze petition the muse,
of self induced epigramatic sententiousness we’re subtly subdued.
Still, as abundant as virgin births are these daze,
so we as metaviral avatars abide and abound.
Couched in our dangerous comedic sheathing we are found
to be ribonucleic acid gone awry!
Why?! . . :
‘Cause our vaticinal skew, thislife, thiswhen, thismilieau
is to train, and in training to remain:
warrior platelets, (everbidden), to nobility hagridden;
surfing waves on these seas in our brains,
surely our domain and dominion we claim.
While towards escape from replical overlordships’ repression
we move and the expression is: “slash the seratonin”;
(boards backlit and burnished by the light
of nightly neurotransmitterlit sessions).
I guess we gotta go for the ganglia gang. Trapped behind enemy timelines we play, hanging out and hanging in there.
Where?
Right here by this solipsistic surf
An ominous, but numbly numinous, sense of divinity ubiquitously
bitchin’, like catchin’ the best swell of the day, beckons:
one nerve,
one single synapse,
(‘just one more wave, eh’,)
away.
So you see:
we stayed to surf.
a forword
overleaves
Guidesmine
we stayed to surf
Atramentaceous
Kerouaccanalian
Furlinkyeti
Thus was Prometheus bound
Porpoise
GreyWolf
1 Morsatyrdanite
Vacuous Verities
D-1
I Feel A Poem Coming On
Read I, Recite I Not
Seas of Space
Blowin' It
Exspansieve
Autognomatic Writing
Reality is as you deem it,
Darkside
Reptilian Family Values
Eighty-eight
G'ddam Man
Maturation and Mastery
Notadream
The Game Is Not The Game
Pearls before swine
Ease Play
Everclear
Si ++?
Verbal Gerbils
Snowflake
Sur
To Be Movin�
Mike Called
Solipschism
Plato Knows
SimFriends
Onanomania
Journal - 2 A.D.
Half Empty Or Half Full?
Hey what the . . ."
The Look
Contumescent
Wagon Train to the Stars
Sixty-Five ('65 Scry)
Thiere
Usin Up The Future
Ruckus
Gaia�s Guerillas
Herstory
The Lady's Prayer
Midwinter�s Eve Again
Little John�s Last Lament
The Season Of Supposed Good- Cheer
Rain On the Heather
Propoetry
Nota Dream
It All
Dunitagin (Resolutely Free)
Kosmic Conscienciousness
God vs. evil
Sullied Similes
after The Deluge)
Rearward
Jyberwhacky
Memo To Michael
Backword
Thiere
I don�t look people in the eye much
anymore.
I just don�t really wanna see into there
souls
at all.
It seems that, as I�ve gotten older, I�ve become more . . .
misanthroperceptive and apprehincisive,
(or something) and
their is so much petty malevolence,
meanness and spite
in the world -
that I just don�t want to look
too deeply,
or for too long, into the eyes
of what few friends I have left
and find what I fear
in mine own
lurking
theire.
10/�92
1 Morsatyrdanite
Smallroom airpressure nosebleed soundwall tautaureally atmoshfearachewrecktonic. Cigabarettesmokearabasques
shaped by eonoverdriven airtones rise, as conchordilated
cilia writh, whelming enrapt in a subsemihemidemisonic tinnitususurrus. The Akashic Records distort, nanomomentearaholy trying to contain the burgeoning noiseffulgent waveforms.
More hair per capita than Berserkusly in its hey-heydaze
and no existential espresso dilemmalamas to dissemble and dissasimple. Any tonal comprehension fleesfastfowardpast
nueuralnets longsinceblown from maxinputpowders and continual sensauraloverload.
Ah ROCKANDROLL - Goddam RockandfuckingRoll - and Niles legendary Station, during its last year - April Fool�sday, no foolin�, suckin� up booze and heavymetalhammer-ons till dawn so past �GOPAZZOUTONSUMMUNELSEFOOL� need moranmoranmoron c�mom, c�mon, c�mon . . . these soundwaves as radiosewlls willrushintospace, far past good taste and apace the speed of thought caught in a metalnightenregaleforcewind of smallclubthrashsoul.
(Just think - thistuff�le speed outward from Earth forever,
bigriffrippin� at the speed-o�-light, out into the cocmos. Tearing gaping holes through diaphanous nebulae, aeuphonically wastewailing past gasping pulsars, perhaps even setting off some resonaolient scintillulullation in serene solar winds as it roars decadbescadent and godgoadingly loud offandaway.)
The ghost of poordeaddeaf Beethovan rotates on his astral axes at megamillion R.P.M. and SidVicious�s essence smiles the ectoribaldricraplasmically vacant grin of the theaetherically pithed, while everonward, a mobiustrippinkleinbottlenecknote
imbeds itself on the event horizon as I scream for another beer and count myself lucky to be hearing still and here on 1morsatyrdanite.
A Forword:
�They might not know their parentage, for the gods so dislike to be known among men that none can be found who has seen their faces wittingly . . . but they would have queer lofty thoughts misunderstood by their fellows, and would sing of far places and gardens so unlike any known even in dreamland that common folk would call them fools . . .�
- H. P. Lovecraft
after The Deluge)
. . . got up in the mist-dim morning,
threw on our suits and grabbed the boards, (all camo now of course),
running down;
down sepulchrally sylvan aisles,
�tween ruddy wooden towers,
slipping unseen to the sea.
To catch waves being born in the murky dun morn,
hissing through grey on this another day,
(after The Deluge).
A time of sheer sport so unassailed by crowds
people being quite scarce, right here, right now;
an afternoon of hunting gamebirds abundant,
a woodsmoke cooked supper with sunsetwaves redundant
in their perfection and profusion.
It�s something to muse on:
things seem right fine to us, sad it all fell apart, still,
theres tons of tubes for everyone, we all get our fill.
So what we have to set pickets and snipe from the hills
at rabid Jonbirchers, sworn our hair to cut, crops to kill.
The post holocaust moon looks the same from this refuge
and the moon the surf frees still,
(after The Deluge).
Atramentaceous,
(in this verse so perspicacious
look it up, take the time,
can I this word subsequently
and ostentatiously so rhyme?)
Just how obscure can I be,
how obtuse my esoteric idiosyncrasy?
(Try to see . . .
. . . how deep delve these dactyls so deftly perverse,
how daunting this poesy dythyrambically inverse,
does it seem cacaphoric, dysphemistic or worse?)
If you these words follow closely then soon shall you see!
Let�s say: at the nexus in convergence lines of future probability
(only through erudite analysis empirical becomes evident efficacy)
fractal interfaces form fortuitous in elegiac effulgency.
This perception of time and such apprehension�s an ability,
(seemingly unique and all mine).
Developed pursuing lifetimes of timelines indefagitably
(these cubistic visions select possible paths to serendipity)
I can now comprehensively forefend portents perspicaciously.
Infinitesimally misaligned divergences detail chronology,
(developing as duly defined).
Thus in floccinaucinihilipilifilistic factsimile
(fraught with thoughtforms tightly wrought in taut threnody)
polyentendre�s purview scansive ensues as a scurrilous scatomancy.
So as a spurious paradigm this idiom savant sings a singular chantey:
(herewith in rhyme,
there�s been committed no crime,
I hope you these words followed
and found them sublime)!
. . . Oh yeah: �Hey, be mendacious!�
Autognomatic Writing
I guess I just felt the need
to chronicle this age fair
from a dictionarially doctrinaire
and prescriptive point of view.
So while my synapses as tiny enigmautomatons
conundrums in lockstep collage
my neural network conspire to imbue,
an anacolutic Kerouwackian persiflage
nevertheless from my flying fingers durst ensue
through adjectives as intransigent as that of any Solons�;
e�en though everyone here seems to suffer from �dumb ague�.
It seems almost as though
if I don�t use all these words at least once,
thus . . . and so,
they will fast and forever fade
none their passing to pursue
and their loss none know nor rue.
Bereft of their display, more dunce and fool you!
Backword
i hope i
transcribed these thoughts
as best as could be
and these then are the words
however much they suffer
from mind
to hand
to paper
to eye
Blowin� It
Caught between the warp of imagination
and the woof of expectation
we spin, slowly.
Gyros gone, (bearings bad),
becalmed beyond a sea of stars
scintillant and sandlike
ubiquitously befuddled we blunder
blowin� it.
Lost in a beer bottle littered
milieu of misdeeds and M.T.V.
A veritable vacuum of experience
wherein we sit:
spiderlike and semi-somnolent.
Trapped within thoughtships
whose trappings are silken
necessity.
Contumescent
This contumely, I fear:
Calliopes� gift�s so severe.
It�s thus hard to adhere
to a vision quite so sere.
Where whim and caprice
intuition doth fleece,
inspiration and amusement retreats
from our now, from right here.
So instead of invoking a Muse, I utilize a ribald ruse;
and call up the spirit of James Joyce
(it�s kind of like praying to a saint
to intercede on my behalf)
to peruse, by scansion, the mews
of my rapturous vision and excuse
the pretentious perfidy inherent
in the pictures my words paint.
For at times thoughts are as dung
over ideafields long farflung.
Shall the plow then become
the Earths� cicatrice?
It�s just contumely, my dear:
inspiration�s rarely clear.
Life�s tough, living drearer.
What the fuck, gimme a beer here.
D-1
(whereisshe?)
Away, along, a lass and a lad,
then thus so sad
a lack is had,
as has was abandoned
Done!
Seeheatonealone prithee
allone
seetheonewhereisshe?
Awayalongalasand
a lad
thenthusosad
alack his had
ashaswasabanned
one
D!
(whereisshe?)
Darkside
The dark side of the force is a god
who would utilize the mechanism of Darwinism as a means
for measuring the progress of his perfidious experiment.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would demand the sickness of a blood sacrifice from Abel
and then curse Cain for doing the same, save not with a sheep.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would drown all life on earth, except for brown-nosing
Noah, for supposed transgression of his spurious laws.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would obliterate Sodom and Gomorrah for experimentally
dysfunctional (from god�s point of view) breeding behavior.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would give Job boils on a bet.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would kill all the first-born children of the Egyptian people
and put plagues upon them as a demonstration of power.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would sanction the genocide of the Canaanites simply
because he wanted the Israelites to be living on their land.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would allow Bruno to be burned at the stake for stating
that the Earth actually revolved around the sun.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would allow the iniquity of the Inquisition.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would let his �chosen� people suffer hatred and have them
gassed in the Holocaust to supposedly make them strong.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would introduce the A.I.D.s virus into Earth�s gene pool in an
attempt to recondition Earthfolk into procreatively proper sex.
Resolutely Free
(Dunitagin)
(Claim)
�Train up a child in the way he should go,
and when he is old he shall not depart from it.�
�also sprach Jehovah/Yahweh
(Warrant)
Well, we�ve gone and done it again!
Haven�t we, Jondalf?
Once again you�ve somehow managed to persevere
(right well and successfully)
in searing what scant functioning synapses you have left to you,
in this obsessively ongoing search for experience through:
�TRUTH � JUSTICE � and the AMERICAN WAY!�.
Say hey, shall we, eh?
(Backing)
�Criticism is the attempt to quantify quality!�
� Thrasher, J.W. (Dec. 15th., 1991.)
By this one phrase shall ever I be
famous, or infamous, socio-philosophically.
Evermore known to this world, part of its historicity.
(Amazingly, it seems, no one�s ever said it before me!)
My man, Hegel and Marcuse would be right proud of thee.
This phrase,
the quintessence of my quondam quest�s quandary,
and the onus, and/or aegis (asymptotically)
for my compulsive resolution (reincarnatively)
doth quite well, I must see, (conclusively)
in communicating my raison d� �tre and rationale (outrageously)
as an autochthonous avatar of all that is free.
Yes, believe it or not, my dear friends:
this is my �15 minutes of fame�.
Forthwith to be found, and forever fromheretoforwardly,
replete, in quotation�s dictionaries!
Seen as tag-ends concupiscent, quotidian well though they may be:
this only will I, as mine own, suffer to claim publicly.
[Far better for me and my goal (ultimately)
to be remembered for this phrase (exclusively)
than for any of those other undercurrents (subculturally)
which I have fostered (surreptitiously).
such as:
surftalk, thrashpunks, totaltruth, chumpmonks
�decent!�, �memorablabia�, portent, and aMused scrivenalalia.
So, thus and therefore, forever should all see
that, if, in opposition to our purpose, insistent are you thee
(e�en imprisoning Lucifer for supposed anti-theocratic acts of perfidy)
in repressive contumascinsouciancy
and contrary to Miltonian epistemology,
through the continuum of existence,
wrought widdershins, magically,
(irrespective of perception, chronologically):
Willfully,
skillfully,
wreaking a weasel�s havoc with guerrilla wit
(in bull-dogged determinacy).
Solipsistically assured, reincarnatively,
sustained by a molecularly genetic sense of ethical certainty,
everlastingly rebellious,
consistently contentious ubiquity
and ubiquitously unrepentant
are we.
Eighty-eight
Things are getting a little strange here and now
Yuno?
Alien biotechs abound,
at loose and at ease in the general populace,
wreaking ribonucleic ribaldry
upon the gene-pool.
Night deposits have doubled in the sperm banks
while germ-plasm gerrymandering
has determined the outcome
of the Super Bowl,
and �The Road to the Final Four�,
for the past five years.
I don�t know anymore what�s real
and what is solipsistically surmised.
Surprised I am constantly by
fractious fringe fellowships
whose surplices are suits and ties.
Their stock in trade
being surreptitious suggestion
and wholesale stupefaction
of rabid consumer factions,
(frabjous and fractious in frenzied dismay),
So I say:
the best laid plans of mullahs,
and obviously, D.N.A. . . .
. . . �aft gang agley�!
Everclear
Jesus, Ralph!
Did you see that pterodactyl fuck that squirrel?
Damn!
Exspansieve
In conversation with all of my friends
and almost all other people I meet these days,
I figure I�ve got about 15 seconds
to get my point across or they�ll be gone. Right?
Gone far away, their attention astray because I�m not speaking
in �sound bytes� short enough not to lose them their way
(and just forget about polysyllabic contention in a dependent clause).
No mere lack of concentrative ability this
but an acute disinclination to think
for more than a few moments about anything.
As though any effort might cause their brains pain.
So I shall have to continue as a man of letters
at least, if not one of words
and with no notion of iambs import
fortunate to thwart
I can thus pursue this craft of verse
with no thought of responsibility
to anything other than Art, the Muse, the scrutiny of Time and me!
Furlinkyeti
Ferlinghetti, Mercury News, 3/14/92.
(�So I see this article in the newspaper one morning and - WHAM, I go all logomaniacal and obsessive; and its like: I�ve just gotta write this poem)[;>
Pardon my pleonasms, please
but,
the �death of poetry� is not �a computer�,
Mr. Furlinkyeti!
You�ve, evidently, become too cracked with age
(and synaptic stultification)
to be seen, anymore,
as the tar whereby
Calliope caulks her sultry scansive ships.
Why, some of the best shit I�ve ever seen
(verse-wise that is)
has emanated from the vitreous eye
of a small cathode ray tube, boob.
(Seems your acumen�s atrophied dude)!
So, excuse me if I allude
to your perhaps being passe,
or say that what works for you
is certainly not the only way,
is it, eh?
Your aspiration�s passing parsimonious
and pissing lackadaisical, I�m afraid.
After all,
every creation�s
simple exteriorization
of internal processes,
and as such,
electronic is better than mechanical!
I�m sorry your neural net�s
apparently
become so poorly paronomasianiacal!
Phoney byline of demand.
G�ddam Man
So, let�s see:
if �God� (or �Jehovah�, or �Yahweh� or whatever)
supposedly wrought form
from the primordial void,
then perhaps �God�
is Gravity!
Maybe the phenomena we perceive
is not a law
but simply the fractal intyerface
of an entity whos� personality
affects the nature of our reality,
as dogma delivered transdimensionally.
Gaia�s Guerillas
There�s just something about her, you know:
Mother Earth, this one special world to us a home.
Just another planet �midst myriads to most she may stay
but to some, those that have heard the call, she�s MOM
and we are her army, nay - we�re her Special Forces better say.
Boddhisatvas be we, volunteers all you see to protect and keep free -
SHE
that called to the fallen
that so scared the saints
meanwhile a Saint called Catherine and an Angel named Michael
told Joan of Arc just what to do:
seek out Charles, (though he be unknown
and unheralded), give him The Message,
and then make him King.
This their alien plans to pursue.
The Creator,(slow moving) maintains his creations as vortices.
This I know, and this I do avow.
In other words: every incarnation is wrought widdershins,
wonderfully throughout and within, the very fabric of reality.
(But, unfortunately,) being is, usually, most egregiously misunderstood (and, more often than not) misapprehended.
A concatenatively contumacious condition of state
(a local phenomena) subject to modification
and subconscious conditioning, quite irrational
and, on the whole,
solipsistically insensate.
93 93/93
God vs. evil<<
Hello all, and, if I may, I'd like to opine. I believe this question to be the crux of a necessary paradigm-shift fast becoming incumbent upon us all. (To each his onus.);{> Unfortunately, our limited sensorium, and our hubris, cause most of us to attempt to anthropomorphize, through a missapprehension of manifest epiphenomena, what are, more probably, the effects of the fractal impingement of larger realities on ours.
IOW: Maybe what "God" really is, is not a "being", per se, but an effulgent creative FORCE. I, and others, call this "god": The Tao. (Works for me.);{>
Now, as to the subject of "good" vs. "evil", these are the opposite ends of a 'yardstick' (cartesian coordinate axes) your parents imprinted upon your pre-burn-in wetware when you were small. Years of therapy, LSD, or above average intelligence and psychological acumen can modify the position and direction of the scale, but, always, it will still just be a measurement of the local state phenomena of dualism with reference to one's own idiosyncratic ethical structure. (I just get this picture of a bunch of ants on a pool table attempting to label the path of any pool ball 'good', and/or "evil", and I hear some anty-messiah saying: "The black 8-ball crushed all your siblings Worker-12373889, it is 'Evil'!". Ya know?)
On a grand scale, much as we would like to elevate ourselves to the role of "Arbiter Of Universal Good/Evil", our attempt to place our own limited understandings and definitions upon the working of the universe, can only be a vainglorious, petty and incomplete projection of our own points-of-view.
"Karma (judgement, not: 'vengeance') is the way of the Tao (not: 'mine sayeth the Lord' - "God" does not 'possess')." (The way the biblical line was supposed to read!);{>
May your feet tread light upon your paths! -J-
93 93/93
GreyWolf
Under skies leaden
GreyWolf goes hunting,
his future tracking through days of haze . . .
. . . and if it were caught and slain,
how could that be?
Metaphorescent and red on the snow;
what would to be done then?
Promulgate the past with endless loops of leaps,
chasing that which has been
because that which will be is dead now-
can it then be
a fugue state of starvation
temporally?
Surely . . .
. . . unless,
pursuing, past sophistry turning
in a curve,
cramped and panting;
that which was spurns
purpose and presently
is\ will be
infinity.
As . . .
. . .under skies leaden
GreyWolf goes hunting,
the future tracking through days of haze.
Guidesmine
By way of explanation, most of my neologistic natterings are
extemporaneously effulgent - but supervised (and constantly critiqued) by my Spirit Guides:
e e cummings, William James, Rudolf Steiner and James Joyce.
(You don�t think I could come up with this stuff on my own, do you?)
They argue interminably over my scansion, about which latin root to put where, how much polyentendre is too much, how many puns I can put on the head of a pin - you name it. Honestly, its a wonder I can ever write anything at all, with all this astal bickering accompanying
my every attempt at creativity. Not to mention their inability to realize that I actually think in odd metres (like nonametric duodecameter, for instance).
Don�t get me wrong, I certainly couldn�t do without their assistance
as lexiconographers and vocabularians. {Voconstantabularrogantly profunctionalix vulvagrarians? [Sorry, I couldn�t resist. All of them (�cept e e) seem to be put off by bodypartpuns.]}
Anyway . . . they collectively offer their erudite discarnate epistophilia and floccinaucinihilipilifelicitations. I know I can, at least, offer more than the bombastically banal badinage and banter of the boddhisatvacantly benumbed. So if you�re ever in the mood for some circumlocuteorhizomanticircumscript, as Euphonic Sesquipedalien Paronomasia . . . read me. - Jondalf
Half empty or half full?
I see the glass as half empty these days, I guess.
Having lost that perspective, that parallax
that enables one to gauge depth from a distance.
My eyes are tired, tired from having seen
too much pain in the mirror every morning,
and too much betrayal in the mind�s eye of my memory.
No motivation, no inspiration, and the glass is not a glass
but a sinking barge, water filling the bilge,
adrift on a sea of hubris
and I�m shackled
within this prison ship of circumstance,
and neither the pilot nor the navigator can see any stars
to take a bearing from.
And so I drift, from doldrum day
through numbing night
to doldrum day again.
No dreams of accomplishment,
no schemes of success,
only a sullen current-driven progress
through a Sargasso of somnolent intention
and the enforced sacrifice
of this incarnation.
Sent to this prison by my own distant soul, which doubtless
thought these lessons of double-cross
by everyone I ever loved, expedient, and good for my growth;
for reasons upon which I was not asked to concur,
and by whose contumely and ennui am I thus sentenced,
in durance most vile, to declamations of despondency like this.
It wasn�t always like this, though.
I can still remember a time when I didn�t see the perfidy
inherent in humanity, and misanthropy
wasn�t my constant companion.
(Are you pouring, or drinking?)
I remember when I laughed, and joked
and had hope.
All gone now it seems, swept away by storms of
treachery and dishonorable lust,
veritable hurricanes of deception and delusion.
Abandoned by those I trusted to watch my back,
as I protected theirs�,
I wasted my faith on ingrates
whose sole rationale was the recitation
of their own callous calumnies,
and the gratification of their
well-honed iniquitous insipidity.
So here I sit,
with naught but my melancholy to guide me,
and I doubt that I�ll ever see the happy land
of guileless relationships again.
And mostly it seems I wish to fetch up upon some disastrous shoal,
thereupon to founder and go down
into that abyssal �good night�,
suck the waters of solipsistic surcease deep into my lungs
and have done with this sad simulacrum of existence.
But the skow just continues to drift, and the glass refuses to break
so I�m stuck with my pain and the propinquity
of a life in which I can no longer enjoy living,
a ship I cannot steer,
and a glass that is, when stared at thus,
reflectively, with one eye closed,
indeed half full:
half full of gall.
-J-
12/4/98
Herstory
Most of the men who have made decisions
on a global scale, in human memory, have been mad!
(Now, I�m not talking about angry, or just irrational mind you,
but totally insane - due to tertiary syphilis).
Dumb lab animals driven to replicate and disseminate
their DNA, by the �indwelling of the Spirit�:
glowing dustmotes caught in the sunbeam of history
maddened by the exigencies of procreation
as they fall to the floor of Testube Earth, spent
and bent beyond repair in their belief.
Insidiously inculcated in cultural conditioning,
a Machiavellian malaise of manipulation manifests
itself as �Charismatic Christian Fundamentalism�.
Why do you think angels are always portrayed,
by ideations� deprivation: in bright white, flowing gowns?
. . .
(What would you make of a lab coat, if you were a savage?)
�Hey what the . . .�
So what in the hell is going on here, huh;
and what the fuck has happened to this crew anyway?
Do the ideals we once held still in our hearts hold singular sway?
I suppose I�m struggling to simply say: �Are we all just getting older
and growing ethically decrepit, - �moldier�, or what, eh?�
(Seems like we�re losin� it, you know?
How long�s your attention span, man?
Don�t just go with the flow!)
Be we by M.T.V.�s dulcet tune groomed
to conspicious concupiscence consume?
Deep in durance so vile it is
a veritable villenage of obsequious Spandex wiles,
be we just a market manipulated to a myopically cathodic cartharsis?
Molded by a miasma of modern mental mulch, omnipresent as piles,
do we defer our contumacious criticism
in surrendering to this simpering sussurus of subliminal lexiphanicism.
Are our ethics so thoroughly dulled
through an elegiac effulgency lulled,that a soporific despondency should thus descend stark and darkly
upon those former �misdeeds� of daring, caring and sharing?
�We�re only growing more mature!�, you�ll say
in order to fake and make minor more minuscule amends.
(�My ass�,
I contend!
Say better: �We�re beginning to molder�,
and I�ll have to pass!)
So also may I say: �Perhaps we�re just not so bold
here and now, as we were, there and then!� . . .
. . . Can you remember it at all, and/or can you recall,
what was that we wanted; just how real was that call?
Where and when did those ideas, in conscious ken we forfend;
and what were the portents preceding our fall?
(. . . Long ago it was . . . and so far away, right around 1968).
So you see, our perusal of this: �The Great Co-option�:
in thisnow, thiswhen, simply shan�t or can�t wait.
While it seems as though
ribonucleic ribaldry has reduced us to mere shadows,
simple shades of ourselves as we were in those halcyon daze:
crazed by concatenations of crepuscular coincidence,
we linger, longsincelost, in a culturally supposed unseemly
and salacious satival, (hight Utopian), habitual haze.
Thus I necessarily insist, I now know and must inimitably so say:
�Real the vision, real the feeling, real the lustre of those days!
True the world-view, to �The Establishments� rue,
true the myriad different ways,
we discovered: of perceiving and pursuing conditioning seen anew!
Through psychoneurologies intentionally changed for the better
by �acid� and this then, our milieu!�
Bolstered so by these philosophicquizical realizations
so abundant and assiduously accrued,
we perspicaciously assumed personal �Aspects� wherein
with �Attributes� we were indubitably imbued.
Remember:
(back when there were innumerable people, quite cogent,
who believed religiously in everything that we then did;
while in believing and behaving as though we all were normal
nevertheless our neuralchemistry�s augmentation we,
for survival�s sake, habitually and unheroically hid).
So to this very day,
when we refuse to gainsay these sundry fool�s ruses,
abnegation disabilitating our plight,
still the calibration of perception compels us to conclude:
that chemical adjustment of ones own senses, whatever ensues,
is for all time in no way crude or rude
but fulsome and fine, (not dysfunctional), I opine;
and furthermore,
should be ours, and everyones, right!
I Feel A Poem Coming On
(as metamorphic metaphor)
Last night it was wet:
saltmist, a grey shroud, covering the coast
and in wonder we wandered around, mouthing animal boasts,
wending our feral way under transformers gone pellucid, aglow in shadow, way above our heads.
Watching sparks arc, high up on the telephone poles.
Like hungry early morning mutant current moles
we moved, snouts held high,
wanting somehow to chew through the heavy air
there, to sink teeth in those electric static snacks
snapping and sizzling in the seafog.
Wanting to wish the damp air to dirt so we could ascend,
burrowing to that wide open circuit, (whisker ends
quivering, lit up like little lightning rods in a storm,
forms pawing past buried muses sublime mired in phosphorescent fungal rhyme)
feeding like ravenous voles
on the edge of some rodential incandescence,
all the time.
Till, limned in lucent lemming forms we emerged on the voracious shores of that eclectic dielectric, where the eventides rime
(and our moldy souls
like those tall poles)
in constant ecstatic and solipsistic surfeit shine.
- Journal of the Second Year A.D. (After Divorce) -
8/8/95:
It still amazes me that I can wake up from a dead sleep, turn on my side, and worry, for a moment, at why she is not asleep beside me. Was she working late and never came home? Did we have another fight and she�s staying at a friend�s? My memory then groggily kicks in, and I once again relive the entire sequence of her leaving. But it�s been a whole year now, and if I�m getting over it, this sure is a slow and painful process.
I�ve had a few affairs, sure, but I�ve just never invested the time and/or energy in them that would turn them into relationships. I seem to be less than enthusiastic about entering into a new one when I can�t free myself of memories of the old.
I�m Fine
Do I fear people, places
or time?
The sublime torment of an intrigued,
or intiguing
glance, makes me wary of my own temerity,
and my reticence
belies my loneliness.
I do know
(this at least)
that I still strongly long for passion,
for languid interludes of loving
and lavish displays of affection.
Yet it seems so fearfully fraught with peril -
this touching of skin,
and soul -
this vulnerable vilification of
well wrought defenses,
that
although the desire is there
I wonder where
it all may end
(in more heartache? - undoubtedly.)
and I fair fear my self
laid bare, again,
one more time.
But . . .
. . .I�m fine, I swear
I�m fine.
- 7/1/95
I�m feeling very Bukowskian these days, worship of the grape provides some scant surcease from the brutal confrontation of reality with my long-cherished romantic ideals, and I�m getting some decent poetry written, actual poetry, mind, not the sesquipedalian paronomasia I�m so known for, but stuff about the human condition, replete with imagery even, (and few 40 letter neologisms). So I don�t know, �cogito ergo spud�, I guess (I think, therefore, I yam), or �spud ergo spud� (I yam what I yam), something like that.
15th. Anniversary
I seem to have no past, at least
I can�t recall any details
of the last 15 years.
It seems gone, all gone.
Replaced by some
dull existential ache
that accompanies memory
these daze.
My memories of my marriage are
lost in some dim limbo of
aduous argumentationan
inefficacious communication that
cast a pusillanimous pall over
the wealth of shared detail
that 15 years of shared experience
should have
synaptically stored
and preserved in the privacy of one�s
mental make-up, my love, Diann, at times I
can�t even see your face in my mind. . .
. . . Alas (a lass), and alack (a lack)
A way, a long, a lass and
a lad, see?
Then thus,
so sad,
a lack is had, as he has/was abandoned.
Done!
Seetheeatonealone,
(prithee - allone?)
atoneality alongingone
seetheonewhereisshe?
Awayalongalassand
a lad,
thenthusosad
alackishad
asheaswasaband
one
d!
Where is she? . . .
. . . An apparent lack of recall recalls my marriage
a vague miasma of uneasy
truces, and eneluctable ennui
and hubris,
interspersed, here and there,
with the bright colours of
vacations to wonderfully scenic places,
and the scent of shared laughter
(at well spaced intervals, of course).
Away, along, alas, alack. Do I remember stuff like this when I am dis-incarnate? I wonder - do all the agreements I make between lives take these heartaches into account? For growth�s sake? �Tis the only reason I would ever agree to so much pain. To be betrayed and abandoned, again and again, in one life, by the women I love, am I paying off old debts, or chalking up karmic credit? I don�t know.
They say the soul is distant, unfeeling - I think this must be so, for I cannot imagine a feeling caring part of my being consigning my conciousness to such struggle as my due for so much caring, and sharing, and giving on my part. I have attempted to share as much of what I have learned about the cosmos, thru my 5,000 years of incarnative Sage-experiential existance with all I meet, and yet . . . and yet . . .
all I ever want in return
is some small appreciation
for data well gathered,
for dogma comparatively studied
and well discarded
for well wrought hypotheses,
and incisive leaps of faith.
. . . sometimes though, I do grow weary of the constant struggle to understand, and count myself no more than human, if I am occasionally beset with doubts, and overpowering moments of melancholia . . . sigh . . . ah well, struggling ever onward and upward as:
. . . vapid, variegated and verisimilitudenous
we vy,
and,
plying the repetitive metaphor of mannerism
we move,
through the sullied simile of being.
- Jondalf, � 1995
Jyberwhacky AI
TECHTESTTEXT
. . . and so that�s the story of how I was vested with the Bukowski
Chair at the WWW Univerity Of �n�th Dimensional Creative Neuraethiology� Physics. I passed my Orals with a rather lacklustre (I felt) 10 hour recital of my Onaneopus�: �Moribundant Museschatology�� (shortform); and was subsequently elected Salutightorian� of the obligatory Grand Piano Vomitory. But, needless to say, I digress.
Anyway, so, when the Angelic Host (Luciferian Rebels inclusive) manifestly decloaked on 9/9/99, and the ensuing �World Tao-Zones Index�� plummeted, my wetware startup company ThrashArt� went cortex-up, AND, then, my 1+?+? year Marriage Contract with �Celeclonal Drew Barrymore(�)#427�� was terminated in its third month for nonpayment of premiums, I felt pretty low. Lower than a dysmounted� HOLOSIMM on a melted microchip, I tell you true. Nevertheless, I rented a cheap cubi next to the downtown �Toke-It-Topium�� pissoir and dug in my plasteelheels, rationing my expenditures and flailing frantically, round the 10 hour metriclock�, with the �waldo(�)trol�� of my cubi�s holographic V-keyboard, trying to spewout enough CDopy� pusillanimous persiflage (at �1,000,000/word@Uscale) to keep me in tofusteaks, and trying to transmute my melancholy into something resembling remuneration. Transcribed pain always pays mohbettah bucks, brauae.
It was about that time, if you will recall, that President Hanks, just back from a State visit to Neowobblyville�, capital of the L-5 Republic, gave his now infamous �Religeosity-Industratareal Simplex (type XII)�� speech, which, I might add, was a freelance collabberation� of William Safire(�)wareAI23� and yours truly, and all heaven broke loose.
Feeling the heat of the Nutluddite� Fringe�s Basque ninjas on my exculpatory trail, I had my trendy Maoriyogibear-facitattoo� redone with a more inconspicuous mtlflkechatoyantGuernica-epicreep�, and decided to go hang out at ClubMadHedonism� Bayonne for a while, under a psuedonominative� personality rented from gNom-De-Plumes-R-Oui�.
Things just got stranger and stranger though. I ran into my 43rd wife
there, sporting new mams (she, not me), and a new beau (some codpiece-enhanced crackreek� CPA from Tierra Del Fuego North�, with a contiguwuss� eyebrow and betelnutrotted� plasteeth), at the nightly �JackoffJill Disco��; humped them both perverunctoreally� (for Deco-rhum�s� sake) and ended up whipped and wayoverhung� at the Club�s Breakfastorgybar gimme-Buffet� trying to choke down a plate of �MagnoliaThunderpussy(�)Pooptarts�� and fresh jizcream�, while unSteadmanly dodgering� the OTTOmaided� cat-o-mime-tails� wilding Elviituvla�s� that were working the buffetline.
It was then that I had my now much valleywho-Op-ed� epiepiphany�, in an effuallgent� flash of agenbitinwitsitu�-IRMWsckt�-shortedtoground-threw-brainspam� so perspirinvidiouscicacious� that if froze the Synthlymph� in my stunned and reeling hydro-enSETHalamic� AIemplants�!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! - :
. . . �THE BANNED��!!!!!!!!!!!!
I HAD TO PUT �THE BANNED�� BACK TOGETHER AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!
I was on a MISSION FROM COD!!!!!! I had regained my Guerilla WittgenSteiner� cummingsynsenessence� of NOHthrupFryedlike� centracontraility� of mythooze�, and myonaninkarnakitive� concupissantequiproseleGaiaSet-E�!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!GNARLYASSFASTANDSLIPFINFREECOOLDOODY�!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
WAYRADITWAS, and well, the rest is herstory, as y�ll know, but those were theodoronodaze� my frskens, and that was how it all CAymendooBBing@. I gHesse� chew jest ad two Bea �ARThiere��, don�cha�gnome�, don�cha�gnoumenon�! It�s just like Tiny Dr. Tim and/or Gandalf said, longague� in Fairway Park: �We�ve already won, all that�s left is the moppin� up.�! The viewture will be shapesifted by GrindingrungrunniongrinninAOLollywaillin� young ThrasheRs with wetwirednetskateboards�.
{IMNSHO, there�s no reasonably probable [IOW: none now having greater than what I calcululate� to be an 11% (�2%) chance of consensocioccurrence� (percentages having permutatively decreased in conformance with the vaticinaderivation� of a geomatriaxially� continuiguous� AINcontraverticestringfractal-inaccessationablequationmodel� since �65)] bifurconcatenation�/line-of-�futurehistory�-force-vector-sum that will escape the substantive influence of of the 60�s, so get over it, already, all you fundittoheads and nostalgia buffs.} Progress, don�t repress or regress. �YAH don�t need TA wHETherman, for �lo, �WITCH-WAY� this wind blows.�} -J- );{>
All comments cheerfully solicited - just a short one this, but this is what I feel I do best, I can, and will, if asked, define and/or explain any of the Neologisms hereinbefore created/used, and some of the polyentendre. Please though, be patient, I do have a �just-a-cog-in-the-gears-of-the-GNP� stultifyingly non-creative day job and some scant semblance of a life. Namaste.
*BTW - The Test: How many of the identified new words above can be attributed to citable sources previous to this publication? How does a Neologist make money from Neology? I haven�t a clue. Do you? Anyway, �(t)hank you for encouraging my behavior.� *
Kerouaccachanalian
There appears a definitive proclivity
to Bardic tradition so strong in me
it must inculcated be
in my chromosomal memory,
(spliced genetically).
Therefore modern ignorance be damned,
all my poems be Dithyrambs:
hymns of praise to all things Dionysian
whereby our spirits we raise,
invocations as free verse paeans
tersely sung, (in periastrophe).
So what if all allusive ability
on the part of the populace is in atrophy
we revel here in a philosophy
long predating Christianity,
and better by far seems it to me
than that dysfunctional eschatology,
(the one and only truly idiotic ideology!).
"Kosmic Conscienciousness": (transitive nominative),
an epiphanthetic compendium of perceptive/projective circumspection concomitant with an attempt at conscious apprehension and solipsistic calibration of, at least, a major portion of the collectively consensual conceivable totality of ongoing concatenate fractal oscillatory epiphenoumena.
Unfortunately, any rhetorician's prescriptive lexicography here may seem circumlocution, as the subject, intrinsically, appears almost ineffably abstruse . . . nevertheless, the concept is asymptotically accessible to hypothecation as an hyperbole involving a summary summation of the condign quondam probability-force-vector-calculus collegia effulgent, and, alas, will be comprehensively communicable colloquy only within commensurate shared sentient logomantic sets,
(the most perspicacious transliteration notwithstanding).
IOW: "The name that can be named is not THE Name".
Existentially speaking, "Cosmic Consciousness" may be experienced,
but not really well described.
[Many thanks to Rudolph Steiner, William James,
and my favorite spirit guide, James Joyce, for their collaberative though discarnate assistance with this attempt at an autonoenomically written denotation of a really recondite rubric.
{Oh, and by the way, as I and most of the cognoscenti
experientially concluded long ago, even major dosages of the purest etheogens, in the most pristine 'set and settings', could never be as salubriously effective a tool for metaphysically transcendent psychonuerochemical ratiocination catalysis as were
"Yellow Wedges",
(or even the experience of 'channeling' the Akashic Records );{>
Maturation and Mastery
Maturation and mastery most munificent,
(wily wizards will wince once and whine),
seem lessons so very evanescent
as confined we all are by our Time.
Phenomenescient and omniphenomenascent we loom
large in our ubiquitous cupidity,
whilst belligerently perfidious we bungle and barge
through life ,quite well programmed, we proceed.
Immersed deep in data to our detriment
missing all of the portents we do see,
passing judgment upon our perceptions
in this land, without honor, prophets be.
Unable as we are to calibrate
these myriad contentions crazed
wizened and whittled by would-bes
we continue, so blind, on our ways:
wandering within our experience
whence wasted and wanton we wheeze,
assuming the beneficence of the universe
still dumber we become by degrees.
So you see . . .
true wisdom lies in unlearning
those things taught to us when we�re wee;
thus life, and its� living is suspect,
as we struggle, so hard, to be free.
Remember the 21st. of December
(Midwinter�s Eve Again)
This season, hight �Christmas�, has rolled round once more
And we�d like to remind you, as you�re shopping in stores,
That long �fore Christ�s religion co-opted this rite,
Down through thousands of years, allaying all fears:
The Winter Solstice a pagan holiday was, all day and all night.
Folks stayed up to celebrate, till dawn, with their friends.
Making sure Sun would come back, again and again.
Through cold rain and snow, �round fires all night long,
They sang songs and waited, misty breath unabated:
A vigil fair maintained, assuring naught would go wrong.
Thus we wish you good fortune, good cheer and fine plight,
And we wish so, remembrance, of this night�s true respite:
From the forces of Darkness, stagnation�s requite.
Enlightenment we evoke, from ignorance to invoke:
�Be excellent to each other!� and �Party down!�, its your right!
Mike Called
Sorry, but Michael wanted to interjectoplasmicate something to the effect that in almost all of theses cases a soul-fragment'(s)' "abdication" of either an incarnative vehicular choice, or a combination of primary, secondary, tert. etc. etc. had/ave caused an abrogation of the term's material manifest destinociation.
Rare instances of Taoic intervention, and/or entropry-embaptism due to mutualienexculpation (coruscantenative intentropic vortexveldtwellwall nexiall concresenthermiations, as it WereWilled).
For instance: the DNAvehicle this fragment now inhabituates was abandonated after clinical death, at 6 months of age, from anasthmaticpnuemenonalmalignment of the original bidder, in favor of the probibliorecombinawry "Gaiawilla-wit" of the present inhabitant within the projected purview of its milieau - body and new essence-extension revived, all traces of asthma and pnuemofAI;lure gone.
(A very rare, but quintesessentienThelemmaic Taoperoration:
AsinequantumnonetransmutantAeoneologikalicanthropaeagainAl'sLiberintentruedeathshun);{>
MR. V�S ONANOMANIA
Pound on, wonderbunswomen !
The future is about to come crashing down
on your seminalien Socraticed concupiscience:
gobs of bluecheeseviralslimeswallowing
sumshucksters circle revenently �round the women�s bidet
for a just a whiff of vintagestiff deathlustcurdcrust.
[ . . . meanwhile,, in an adjoining abbatoir,
carmelized all-iris-eyes shining with:
�Love me �cause I can lick my own, slick�; her ogleobsessed bloatedbratwursthunghusband
was whanking furiously on his priapic principles,
diddling with the livefeed display
where his wife was splayed and playing, plying her suckcesspool sublimnanalwitherkneeling succubusiness
whilst he watched, wondering who would get off
thisincarnatiedyad dharmaweal fistfirst . . . ]
�Snatcwhoreorally, carnalicklewdin on this The Kid wasnot.
In Seminalaryan school all they had tauthemabutt booty
hardonly swerved to cunfewes him,
so he neversuspeckerheaded a thing,
banalthewile the massturdebaiting pimpherinhell
washaving herscrewineveryoneoncue, druggedandfrugged, whenever he could, consequimsays be dammed. Gofrigurs.
Anall this took f�revher to fingerout, buttwhim headiddled tit, tolerant hey new twat was twat, so nutbesotted gnomewhorewashe, she shed �whank who�s berrymunch� hand they wend their hairy ways.
The Kid�n�er leftownan lovived awiledinsin enemafarther
outinthewayback untrying two hurts to make amends
till atlassed they true grue apheart teachotheransplit.
Amoral? . . . dumbtotryno . . . I guess the testis:
en crudite verite.
Pearls Before Swine
�A prophet is not without honor, save in his own country.�
Funny, that a biblical phrase would be so apropos
with regard to one who is so opposed to the intent,
and efficacy,
of biblical prose.
Ah well,
what the hell,
even the Christians had some good ideas,
occasionally.
But, paronomastically, perhaps,
the perspicacity of my mental,
and verbal,
perambulations,
preclude my peers ability to perceive
their wherewithal and worth.
And the dearth of their perceptive acuity,
accrues to the conditioning inherent
(promulgated in perpetuity)
which is partially attributable to,
their inculcate inability to see
the acumen intrinsic in me,
and the syllogistic scrutiny wherewith I do view
this particular experience of reality.
Plato Knows
I seek not Truth
(other than in some ancillary fashion)
but rather Beauty
in order to bind Her to me
with strands of silken euphony
right well woven about
the corners of my consciousness
like a spider spins a web
with wonder for warp
and whimsy for woof
a fragile tapestry to trap
inspiration like a filigreed fly
buzzing inadvertent
into those strands
and sticking fast
to the fringes of my Art
PORPOISE
Our highest purpose
is to have no purpose
for in having no purpose
we imitate nature
in it�s great purposelessness.
Propoetry
The prime task of the poet
and the primal operation of poetry
is as with any birth:
to deliver the poem,
(conceived in some mystic mindspace
somnolent, nurtured and gestated in Id),
in as undamaged a form
as is possible.
(This,
and perhaps a possible predilection
to the sordid sin of solecism.)
Rain On The Heather
(For Wendy, a partial payment for future editorial services tendered.)
Silent silver rain
on blooming
purple heather
illuminates the day,
whatever my internal weather.
When I read your fructating phraseology ,
I feel your feelings ferally flowering
whether
you know it or not.
So this paltry poesy�s the
only way I have to say:
that your winsome wordsmythic worth
has been inspirative to me,
as a silent silver rain
somehow concantenatively constrains
the enternally effulgent coruscative lustre
of blooming purple heather.
Read I, Recite I Not
Not meant
most of my work is
to be read
loutloud.
Mind to mind�s what
I�d rather, and what
this stuff�s all about.
I feel I need not touch
your eyes your eyes
your your your
ears nose ears
your mouth
your your
. .
breasts breasts
*
Instead,
I wanna inject myself
straight into your synapses.
No chance of any dataloss,
no carnative delay
there, its right-
-here
one thought alone away.
So then, the hell with this
Iambic pentameter shit, its
way predictable, like
a time signature in 4/4
despondent and bored on a page�
�were talkin� jazz as
instant apprehension here.
Politician�s gotta lie, just as cops�re always late,
only occasionally do I stand up and sing
(and then its usually in some odd time thing
like 5/4, 7/2 or 19/11/8).
And sometimes
through gaping scansive holes
In my verbiage
I fall . . .
. . . and I am, yes,
quite also unilaterally unkind
to my verbs, and smitten
with a monomaniacal mnemania
for modifiers.
And I don�t do
imagery
either!
A thousand words
(well said)
are worth more
than the sum of
ten-thousand light splashed
Seurat�s
plus one �Guernica�
added to seven Warhol�s
and a handprint
on that
philosophically absquatulate
and ineluctably infamous
cave wall.
Reality is as you deem it,
and I certainly won�t leave my footprints
in the proverbial, (or literal), sands of time
for,
being slightly cautious,
and wanting me and my ideas to survive;
I don�t feel like being followed, or hunted
down all the long lonely years (and incarnations)
by those who deem differently than I do
whilst accomplishing that which I Will.
Rearword
�When a man has withdrawn from the world, it�s tumult often becomes unbearable to him. There are many people who in a noble pride hold themselves aloof from all that is low and rebuff it brusquely wherever it comes to meet them. Such persons are reproached for being proud and distant, but since active duties no longer hold them to the world, this does not greatly matter. They know how to bear the dislike of the masses with composure.�
- #44, Kou: Coming to Meet
(Nine at the top)
I Ching -
The Lady's Prayer
Our Mother,
who Art - The Earth;
hallowed be THY name!
Land green under Sun,
THY Will be done,
in the heavens
as well as on earth.
Give us this day
our daily breads,
and educate us past our ignorance,
as we may educate those who are ignorant to us.
Lead us not into degradation,
but deliver us from selfishness.
For thine is the effulgence,
and the power,
and the glory, eternally.
Awomaen.
The Look
As you walked out of the room where we first met,
glancing back on that place so filled with pleas and healing
met mine did your sad eyes from ceaseless weeping wet,
the look that you gave me sent my cringing wits reeling.
I saw compassion (and fear), interest (despair), and hope:
onlythelonely eyes through your long hair�s sultry strophe
with one look seared my heart�s cicatrice; ash and smoke
on the pyre of my misanthropy phoenixlike, feeling awoke.
I knew you not at all, nor did you know me
Unexpected and unbidden, began hopes wanton to grow
as stirred in me, something did, when you I first saw
and ignore it could I not, believing: �Love Is The Law�.
That one glance, as: �The Look�, always may I recall.
For looks such as that, forsaking Heaven , did Angels fall.
Of consequences heedless Helens� tumble Troys� walls,
as still for any chance of Love will fools Hope, and risk all.
Then I walked out of the room (where we never met),
glancing back I filled the room with wishes worth stealing.
No eyes met mine (still from ceaseless sad weeping wet),
so I imagined �The Look� I wanted so much to be feeling.
The Season Of Supposed Good Cheer
Well folks, once again, it is that time of year.
So let me tell you all a story, steeped, ages deep, in vainglory,
about this season of supposed good cheer:
Long, long ago when this world was quite young,
most people believed in a religion that said man and nature were one.
The symbol of this synthesis was half-animal and half man.
A totally harmless, flute playing sprite who reveled in life,
worshiping only the light, and all the folk called him�Pan.
Goat horned and hooved was he, a simple illustration, you see,
of the wide world in balance, nature and human life in close harmony.
But then a new religion arose, calling the innocent old faith perfidy,
based upon a concept of life as anthro(as opposed to eco)centricity.
With intolerance was it rife, and after its god it did hight�Christianity.
Thereupon, the folk all were told (andforced to say it was true)
that all the old ways were wrong, that the new god was so strong.
Thus the god of the older faith became the �devil� of the new!
Gross cruelty and persecution did then begin, and thereafter did ensue
the evil times, �The Dark Ages�, and more all should, to this day, rue.
So for all the gentle souls who were tortured, or at the stake burned,
for believing intheir religion, for persevering about Nature to care,
let us offer up a paean (or call it a prayer) to whatever god you dare:
that from theocentricity, hatred and bigotry be all religions turned;
that, no longer should anyone, because of their faith, have to fear!
Then this season might truly be, for all , one of good cheer!
Prometheus Bound
�Hey man, here,
think, damn you, think!� . . .
. . . and thus was Prometheus bound.
Un Canto De Desconsoledad
(Hello my friends. save this one for when you're 'up', and into trying to understand the experience OF despair - it's one of my better works, but, unfortunately, its quite depressing. . . . oh well, "Pain Pays", as they say);{>
Oigolo Pablo, y lo siento.
My lips like truculent tumescent clamshells,
bent on expelling that blue otherworldliness
that is sky,
purse and blow,
bilabially fricative IN seahoarsely proportions
(as real as romance was ever my wont-
AS WELL YOU KNOW);{>,
see me, imagine this man,
and watch me face my fate:
wending my wounded way through my thislife.
using what�s left of my wit I try to reply entertainingly to all the shallow conversational gambits that Bloviate my way of late . . .
So Still I hunker down,
digging my way backwards into the tubewormstrewn
notfullyfathomed muck
that is my memory of marriage..
Nada, nada, nada y algo nada de menos:
mi alma.
Even the gulls veer away
when they smell the decay of my dreams:
washed up on Eroded beaches of Passion Past eviscerated and gelatinous,
delaquesing weakly red
over thereandthen here - thinly blue, translucent jellies Delicately dying
strewn across the dunes,
Evanascent nacre, staining the clean sardonyx sand and
steaming in the sullen ochre sun.
That puling weak insignificant star
never quite dispells the oleaginous fog
that greyes my daze,
my gaze, my temples,
and my beard, Frosted by chill winters full of loves Feckless and fey, and aft gang agley
as once again happiness, in a most contumacious hauteur, hath fled.
Sputum of the sea, sputum of the sea -
sea that has become the world's sewer,
cover me with a placenta of courage
made from greenglowing E-coli soup.
Las gaviotas se mueren lo crepusculo.
Muda, mi amor matamese.
Tht waste-treatment plant that was
my heart,
still pumps sludge through Life�s outfall,
burying tiny pallid crustaceans of caring
in an effluvium of emotive tedium,
yet I totter down the dun dunes onward still.
in the waning sun of thiswhens afternoon
i stu,mble, numbly leprous as the ubiquity of unhappiness saps strength and spirit,
hair matted with seawrack
spattered gullshatseaweed covering my head like a caul.
Un hombre sin esperanza
que la mar sin las olas, y sin una playa.
Oigolo Pablo, y lo siento,
lo siento, lo siento tambien.
- Jondalf
Vacuous Verities
This judicious crafting of verse,
howsoever it seems hard and perverse,
appears as a whole universe, interior, to me.
Seeing people as paltry planets,
thoughts stratified like schistgreygranite,
with only writers able to transcend gravity.
So writing as such
produces just enough thrust
to achieve an escape velocity;
and �long starlanes seldom traveled
a myriad mysteries nebulous unravel
before our mindseyes� trained inherent clarity.
(I mean, it�s kinda like latching on
to the tail of a comet
and being solarwindwhipped about
ones� own ganglial galaxy!
If only all could, as I can, such scenes see!)
Writin� by the light of dyin� synapses firing�,
riding iceballs of insight so austere:
(probin� parsecs of molecular dusts� memory)
kalpas of nothingness becoming history,
pictures by mental instrumentality captured clear.
This singular stellar addiction to mindscrying transcription
warpdrives thoughts,through wrought wormholes of words,
as thoughtships� cargo carrying visions back here to me.
So from spaced interdictions� interpolation to pure fiction
it�s as fine a mindscape as had can be.
(Still the thrill of the ride, so damn dopplerdifficult to describe.)
These then must be only:
Vacuous Verities.
Verbal Gerbils
You know, it�s always such a tragedy when gerbils die.
Such innocuous vapidity and cretinous rodential cuteness
deserves a better fate than to decay to inconsequential dust
in some landfill far from home.
Rather they should perhaps ossify and then dessicate
to blow away dandelionlike on the breeze:
small clouds of tiny germinal gerbil spoors,
buff puffs of fecundity flying afar
and falling on fallow fields to root and grow . . .
. . . a new generation of gerbils who, kinda like lemmings
on their way to the sea, on a certain morning in May
emerge from their fields in various areas to line up,
all in a row, little paws outstretched, one dumpling digit extended
alongside roads leading to towns with pet shops, hitching rides,
and having reached the aforementioned shops they would present themselves to be bought and brought home
for the idle amusement of dimwits who have nothing better to do
than raise these microencephaletic, unresponsive
and totally vacuous examples of rodentia.
Then again,
good thing the little farts aren�t any smarter than they already are and exceptional good luck that they don�t talk,
or their ennervatingly endearing and pathetic presence
might provoke their being noticed more as animals
and not nearly so often as dustballs.
Can you imagine?
Verbal gerbils.
What a thought!
They�d most probably be incredibly sarcastic too.
I mean, after all,
these are the creatures who somehow,
down aeons of our evolution
convinced us to take care of them for no real reason I can fathom,
so their attitude
would probably be inversely proportional
to their size.
Think of the scandal if anybody ever found out
what animals really thought about us:
thousands of previously unsuspecting pet owners
awakening one day to the realization
that those small furry mounds of momentous mundanity
micturating on the mulch in the corner of their cages,
were actually acutely mawkish malingerers
who had millennia ago had malevolently manipulated mankind
into making a place for them, rent free!
Whee! What a sight that all those fallen faces would be.
That�s why the death of any gerbil is such a tragedy to me, you see.
Wagon Train to the Stars
So simple (really!), life is, shan�t you see,
though there will always be those
(and almost all shall they be)
who do a mockery make
of its compliasimplicity.
[Through philosophistry
(seen as historicity)
forever teleontology recapitulates
filialphilogeniessency]!
Thus, there�s naught that is aught,
save that that which one wills;
(no-thing happens from skills)
as all you cause to occur.
(For being is doing,
and ne�er Fate need aver)!
Nothing can you do
save that which ensues
from your choice
as incarnate, in full voice
and fine vision are we boist
(fair effulgent thus we foist),
our lifescry
according to our ken.
None and nothing can gainsay
this our purpose to purvey
failure save we learn
(and in learnings� array allay)
that which caused us to here come:
from the humdrum ethereal down to here
forsaking every errant, migrant fear . . .
. . . we whilst whence we are wont
(for eternity�s contained within a tear).
we stayed to surf
What say,
the waves are totally buff
and some kinda� tuff thiswhen, eh?
Waycool!
So hey,
while we in wonder wander willful
�long these sandy shores of force
the oleaginous ontological ocean
betide, becomes our sole recourse.
Say what?
See,
we supposedly bogus beachbums be downright decent
at slashin� glassmoothfast gnarlyass tubes,
cutback chiaroscuros� limned liquidlucent
some nasty moves done by us demigod dharmadudes:
slithering sideslips to lipstrikes wanton freefin,
whitewater spumewhipped to windward away,
screamin� �cross vortices breaking wildly widdershins,
shreddin� swellwalls spunaesthetic in hyperspray!
Try to focus and understand:
that on the sands of time certain realities abide as ripples,
(epiphenomenological swirls microgranular in sand),
whose appearance and purpose permutate supereal
the ethereal collective unconscious and its� surface tension
through scansion surreal and the expansion we feel�s
everdue our ideal.
So therefore,
when sometimes we with booze petition the muse,
of self induced epigramatic sententiousness we�re subtly subdued.
Still, as abundant as virgin births are these daze,
so we as metaviral avatars abide and abound.
Couched in our dangerous comedic sheathing we are found
to be ribonucleic acid gone awry!
Why?! . . :
�Cause our vaticinal skew, thislife, thiswhen, thismilieau
is to train, and in training to remain:
warrior platelets, (everbidden), to nobility hagridden;
surfing waves on these seas in our brains,
surely our domain and dominion we claim.
While towards escape from replical overlordships� repression
we move and the expression is: �slash the seratonin�;
(boards backlit and burnished by the light
of nightly neurotransmitterlit sessions).
I guess we gotta go for the ganglia gang. Trapped behind enemy timelines we play, hanging out and hanging in there.
Where?
Right here by this solipsistic surf
An ominous, but numbly numinous, sense of divinity ubiquitously
bitchin�, like catchin� the best swell of the day, beckons:
one nerve,
one single synapse,
(�just one more wave, eh�,)
away.
So you see:
we stayed to surf.
To:
Subject: ESP
Sent: Sat, Apr 22, 2006 2:47:15 PM
a forword
overleaves
Guidesmine
we stayed to surf
Atramentaceous
Kerouaccanalian
Furlinkyeti
Thus was Prometheus bound
Porpoise
GreyWolf
1 Morsatyrdanite
Vacuous Verities
D-1
I Feel A Poem Coming On
Read I, Recite I Not
Seas of Space
Blowin' It
Exspansieve
Autognomatic Writing
Reality is as you deem it,
Darkside
Reptilian Family Values
Eighty-eight
G'ddam Man
Maturation and Mastery
Notadream
The Game Is Not The Game
Pearls before swine
Ease Play
Everclear
Si ++?
Verbal Gerbils
Snowflake
Sur
To Be Movin’
Mike Called
Solipschism
Plato Knows
SimFriends
Onanomania
Journal - 2 A.D.
Half Empty Or Half Full?
Hey what the . . ."
The Look
Contumescent
Wagon Train to the Stars
Sixty-Five ('65 Scry)
Thiere
Usin Up The Future
Ruckus
Gaia’s Guerillas
Herstory
The Lady's Prayer
Midwinter’s Eve Again
Little John’s Last Lament
The Season Of Supposed Good- Cheer
Rain On the Heather
Propoetry
Nota Dream
It All
Dunitagin (Resolutely Free)
Kosmic Conscienciousness
God vs. evil
Sullied Similes
after The Deluge)
Rearward
Jyberwhacky
Memo To Michael
Backword
Thiere
I don’t look people in the eye much
anymore.
I just don’t really wanna see into there
souls
at all.
It seems that, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve become more . . .
misanthroperceptive and apprehincisive,
(or something) and
their is so much petty malevolence,
meanness and spite
in the world -
that I just don’t want to look
too deeply,
or for too long, into the eyes
of what few friends I have left
and find what I fear
in mine own
lurking
theire.
10/’92
1 Morsatyrdanite
Smallroom airpressure nosebleed soundwall tautaureally atmoshfearachewrecktonic. Cigabarettesmokearabasques
shaped by eonoverdriven airtones rise, as conchordilated
cilia writh, whelming enrapt in a subsemihemidemisonic tinnitususurrus. The Akashic Records distort, nanomomentearaholy trying to contain the burgeoning noiseffulgent waveforms.
More hair per capita than Berserkusly in its hey-heydaze
and no existential espresso dilemmalamas to dissemble and dissasimple. Any tonal comprehension fleesfastfowardpast
nueuralnets longsinceblown from maxinputpowders and continual sensauraloverload.
Ah ROCKANDROLL - Goddam RockandfuckingRoll - and Niles legendary Station, during its last year - April Fool’sday, no foolin’, suckin’ up booze and heavymetalhammer-ons till dawn so past “GOPAZZOUTONSUMMUNELSEFOOL” need moranmoranmoron c’mom, c’mon, c’mon . . . these soundwaves as radiosewlls willrushintospace, far past good taste and apace the speed of thought caught in a metalnightenregaleforcewind of smallclubthrashsoul.
(Just think - thistuff’le speed outward from Earth forever,
bigriffrippin’ at the speed-o’-light, out into the cocmos. Tearing gaping holes through diaphanous nebulae, aeuphonically wastewailing past gasping pulsars, perhaps even setting off some resonaolient scintillulullation in serene solar winds as it roars decadbescadent and godgoadingly loud offandaway.)
The ghost of poordeaddeaf Beethovan rotates on his astral axes at megamillion R.P.M. and SidVicious’s essence smiles the ectoribaldricraplasmically vacant grin of the theaetherically pithed, while everonward, a mobiustrippinkleinbottlenecknote
imbeds itself on the event horizon as I scream for another beer and count myself lucky to be hearing still and here on 1morsatyrdanite.
A Forword:
“They might not know their parentage, for the gods so dislike to be known among men that none can be found who has seen their faces wittingly . . . but they would have queer lofty thoughts misunderstood by their fellows, and would sing of far places and gardens so unlike any known even in dreamland that common folk would call them fools . . .”
- H. P. Lovecraft
after The Deluge)
. . . got up in the mist-dim morning,
threw on our suits and grabbed the boards, (all camo now of course),
running down;
down sepulchrally sylvan aisles,
‘tween ruddy wooden towers,
slipping unseen to the sea.
To catch waves being born in the murky dun morn,
hissing through grey on this another day,
(after The Deluge).
A time of sheer sport so unassailed by crowds
people being quite scarce, right here, right now;
an afternoon of hunting gamebirds abundant,
a woodsmoke cooked supper with sunsetwaves redundant
in their perfection and profusion.
It’s something to muse on:
things seem right fine to us, sad it all fell apart, still,
theres tons of tubes for everyone, we all get our fill.
So what we have to set pickets and snipe from the hills
at rabid Jonbirchers, sworn our hair to cut, crops to kill.
The post holocaust moon looks the same from this refuge
and the moon the surf frees still,
(after The Deluge).
Atramentaceous,
(in this verse so perspicacious
look it up, take the time,
can I this word subsequently
and ostentatiously so rhyme?)
Just how obscure can I be,
how obtuse my esoteric idiosyncrasy?
(Try to see . . .
. . . how deep delve these dactyls so deftly perverse,
how daunting this poesy dythyrambically inverse,
does it seem cacaphoric, dysphemistic or worse?)
If you these words follow closely then soon shall you see!
Let’s say: at the nexus in convergence lines of future probability
(only through erudite analysis empirical becomes evident efficacy)
fractal interfaces form fortuitous in elegiac effulgency.
This perception of time and such apprehension’s an ability,
(seemingly unique and all mine).
Developed pursuing lifetimes of timelines indefagitably
(these cubistic visions select possible paths to serendipity)
I can now comprehensively forefend portents perspicaciously.
Infinitesimally misaligned divergences detail chronology,
(developing as duly defined).
Thus in floccinaucinihilipilifilistic factsimile
(fraught with thoughtforms tightly wrought in taut threnody)
polyentendre’s purview scansive ensues as a scurrilous scatomancy.
So as a spurious paradigm this idiom savant sings a singular chantey:
(herewith in rhyme,
there’s been committed no crime,
I hope you these words followed
and found them sublime)!
. . . Oh yeah: “Hey, be mendacious!”
Autognomatic Writing
I guess I just felt the need
to chronicle this age fair
from a dictionarially doctrinaire
and prescriptive point of view.
So while my synapses as tiny enigmautomatons
conundrums in lockstep collage
my neural network conspire to imbue,
an anacolutic Kerouwackian persiflage
nevertheless from my flying fingers durst ensue
through adjectives as intransigent as that of any Solons’;
e’en though everyone here seems to suffer from ‘dumb ague’.
It seems almost as though
if I don’t use all these words at least once,
thus . . . and so,
they will fast and forever fade
none their passing to pursue
and their loss none know nor rue.
Bereft of their display, more dunce and fool you!
Backword
i hope i
transcribed these thoughts
as best as could be
and these then are the words
however much they suffer
from mind
to hand
to paper
to eye
Blowin’ It
Caught between the warp of imagination
and the woof of expectation
we spin, slowly.
Gyros gone, (bearings bad),
becalmed beyond a sea of stars
scintillant and sandlike
ubiquitously befuddled we blunder
blowin’ it.
Lost in a beer bottle littered
milieu of misdeeds and M.T.V.
A veritable vacuum of experience
wherein we sit:
spiderlike and semi-somnolent.
Trapped within thoughtships
whose trappings are silken
necessity.
Contumescent
This contumely, I fear:
Calliopes’ gift’s so severe.
It’s thus hard to adhere
to a vision quite so sere.
Where whim and caprice
intuition doth fleece,
inspiration and amusement retreats
from our now, from right here.
So instead of invoking a Muse, I utilize a ribald ruse;
and call up the spirit of James Joyce
(it’s kind of like praying to a saint
to intercede on my behalf)
to peruse, by scansion, the mews
of my rapturous vision and excuse
the pretentious perfidy inherent
in the pictures my words paint.
For at times thoughts are as dung
over ideafields long farflung.
Shall the plow then become
the Earths’ cicatrice?
It’s just contumely, my dear:
inspiration’s rarely clear.
Life’s tough, living drearer.
What the fuck, gimme a beer here.
D-1
(whereisshe?)
Away, along, a lass and a lad,
then thus so sad
a lack is had,
as has was abandoned
Done!
Seeheatonealone prithee
allone
seetheonewhereisshe?
Awayalongalasand
a lad
thenthusosad
alack his had
ashaswasabanned
one
D!
(whereisshe?)
Darkside
The dark side of the force is a god
who would utilize the mechanism of Darwinism as a means
for measuring the progress of his perfidious experiment.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would demand the sickness of a blood sacrifice from Abel
and then curse Cain for doing the same, save not with a sheep.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would drown all life on earth, except for brown-nosing
Noah, for supposed transgression of his spurious laws.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would obliterate Sodom and Gomorrah for experimentally
dysfunctional (from god’s point of view) breeding behavior.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would give Job boils on a bet.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would kill all the first-born children of the Egyptian people
and put plagues upon them as a demonstration of power.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would sanction the genocide of the Canaanites simply
because he wanted the Israelites to be living on their land.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would allow Bruno to be burned at the stake for stating
that the Earth actually revolved around the sun.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would allow the iniquity of the Inquisition.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would let his “chosen” people suffer hatred and have them
gassed in the Holocaust to supposedly make them strong.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would introduce the A.I.D.s virus into Earth’s gene pool in an
attempt to recondition Earthfolk into procreatively proper sex.
Resolutely Free
(Dunitagin)
(Claim)
“Train up a child in the way he should go,
and when he is old he shall not depart from it.”
—also sprach Jehovah/Yahweh
(Warrant)
Well, we’ve gone and done it again!
Haven’t we, Jondalf?
Once again you’ve somehow managed to persevere
(right well and successfully)
in searing what scant functioning synapses you have left to you,
in this obsessively ongoing search for experience through:
“TRUTH — JUSTICE — and the AMERICAN WAY!”.
Say hey, shall we, eh?
(Backing)
“Criticism is the attempt to quantify quality!”
— Thrasher, J.W. (Dec. 15th., 1991.)
By this one phrase shall ever I be
famous, or infamous, socio-philosophically.
Evermore known to this world, part of its historicity.
(Amazingly, it seems, no one’s ever said it before me!)
My man, Hegel and Marcuse would be right proud of thee.
This phrase,
the quintessence of my quondam quest’s quandary,
and the onus, and/or aegis (asymptotically)
for my compulsive resolution (reincarnatively)
doth quite well, I must see, (conclusively)
in communicating my raison d’ être and rationale (outrageously)
as an autochthonous avatar of all that is free.
Yes, believe it or not, my dear friends:
this is my “15 minutes of fame”.
Forthwith to be found, and forever fromheretoforwardly,
replete, in quotation’s dictionaries!
Seen as tag-ends concupiscent, quotidian well though they may be:
this only will I, as mine own, suffer to claim publicly.
[Far better for me and my goal (ultimately)
to be remembered for this phrase (exclusively)
than for any of those other undercurrents (subculturally)
which I have fostered (surreptitiously).
such as:
surftalk, thrashpunks, totaltruth, chumpmonks
“decent!”, “memorablabia”, portent, and aMused scrivenalalia.
So, thus and therefore, forever should all see
that, if, in opposition to our purpose, insistent are you thee
(e’en imprisoning Lucifer for supposed anti-theocratic acts of perfidy)
in repressive contumascinsouciancy
and contrary to Miltonian epistemology,
through the continuum of existence,
wrought widdershins, magically,
(irrespective of perception, chronologically):
Willfully,
skillfully,
wreaking a weasel’s havoc with guerrilla wit
(in bull-dogged determinacy).
Solipsistically assured, reincarnatively,
sustained by a molecularly genetic sense of ethical certainty,
everlastingly rebellious,
consistently contentious ubiquity
and ubiquitously unrepentant
are we.
Eighty-eight
Things are getting a little strange here and now
Yuno?
Alien biotechs abound,
at loose and at ease in the general populace,
wreaking ribonucleic ribaldry
upon the gene-pool.
Night deposits have doubled in the sperm banks
while germ-plasm gerrymandering
has determined the outcome
of the Super Bowl,
and ‘The Road to the Final Four’,
for the past five years.
I don’t know anymore what’s real
and what is solipsistically surmised.
Surprised I am constantly by
fractious fringe fellowships
whose surplices are suits and ties.
Their stock in trade
being surreptitious suggestion
and wholesale stupefaction
of rabid consumer factions,
(frabjous and fractious in frenzied dismay),
So I say:
the best laid plans of mullahs,
and obviously, D.N.A. . . .
. . . ‘aft gang agley’!
Everclear
Jesus, Ralph!
Did you see that pterodactyl fuck that squirrel?
Damn!
Exspansieve
In conversation with all of my friends
and almost all other people I meet these days,
I figure I’ve got about 15 seconds
to get my point across or they’ll be gone. Right?
Gone far away, their attention astray because I’m not speaking
in ‘sound bytes’ short enough not to lose them their way
(and just forget about polysyllabic contention in a dependent clause).
No mere lack of concentrative ability this
but an acute disinclination to think
for more than a few moments about anything.
As though any effort might cause their brains pain.
So I shall have to continue as a man of letters
at least, if not one of words
and with no notion of iambs import
fortunate to thwart
I can thus pursue this craft of verse
with no thought of responsibility
to anything other than Art, the Muse, the scrutiny of Time and me!
Furlinkyeti
Ferlinghetti, Mercury News, 3/14/92.
(“So I see this article in the newspaper one morning and - WHAM, I go all logomaniacal and obsessive; and its like: I’ve just gotta write this poem)[;>
Pardon my pleonasms, please
but,
the “death of poetry” is not “a computer”,
Mr. Furlinkyeti!
You’ve, evidently, become too cracked with age
(and synaptic stultification)
to be seen, anymore,
as the tar whereby
Calliope caulks her sultry scansive ships.
Why, some of the best shit I’ve ever seen
(verse-wise that is)
has emanated from the vitreous eye
of a small cathode ray tube, boob.
(Seems your acumen’s atrophied dude)!
So, excuse me if I allude
to your perhaps being passe,
or say that what works for you
is certainly not the only way,
is it, eh?
Your aspiration’s passing parsimonious
and pissing lackadaisical, I’m afraid.
After all,
every creation’s
simple exteriorization
of internal processes,
and as such,
electronic is better than mechanical!
I’m sorry your neural net’s
apparently
become so poorly paronomasianiacal!
Phoney byline of demand.
G’ddam Man
So, let’s see:
if “God” (or “Jehovah”, or “Yahweh” or whatever)
supposedly wrought form
from the primordial void,
then perhaps “God”
is Gravity!
Maybe the phenomena we perceive
is not a law
but simply the fractal intyerface
of an entity whos’ personality
affects the nature of our reality,
as dogma delivered transdimensionally.
Gaia’s Guerillas
There’s just something about her, you know:
Mother Earth, this one special world to us a home.
Just another planet ‘midst myriads to most she may stay
but to some, those that have heard the call, she’s MOM
and we are her army, nay - we’re her Special Forces better say.
Boddhisatvas be we, volunteers all you see to protect and keep free -
SHE
that called to the fallen
that so scared the saints
meanwhile a Saint called Catherine and an Angel named Michael
told Joan of Arc just what to do:
seek out Charles, (though he be unknown
and unheralded), give him The Message,
and then make him King.
This their alien plans to pursue.
The Creator,(slow moving) maintains his creations as vortices.
This I know, and this I do avow.
In other words: every incarnation is wrought widdershins,
wonderfully throughout and within, the very fabric of reality.
(But, unfortunately,) being is, usually, most egregiously misunderstood (and, more often than not) misapprehended.
A concatenatively contumacious condition of state
(a local phenomena) subject to modification
and subconscious conditioning, quite irrational
and, on the whole,
solipsistically insensate.
93 93/93
>> God vs. evil<<
Hello all, and, if I may, I'd like to opine. I believe this question to be the crux of a necessary paradigm-shift fast becoming incumbent upon us all. (To each his onus.);{> Unfortunately, our limited sensorium, and our hubris, cause most of us to attempt to anthropomorphize, through a missapprehension of manifest epiphenomena, what are, more probably, the effects of the fractal impingement of larger realities on ours.
IOW: Maybe what "God" really is, is not a "being", per se, but an effulgent creative FORCE. I, and others, call this "god": The Tao. (Works for me.);{>
Now, as to the subject of "good" vs. "evil", these are the opposite ends of a 'yardstick' (cartesian coordinate axes) your parents imprinted upon your pre-burn-in wetware when you were small. Years of therapy, LSD, or above average intelligence and psychological acumen can modify the position and direction of the scale, but, always, it will still just be a measurement of the local state phenomena of dualism with reference to one's own idiosyncratic ethical structure. (I just get this picture of a bunch of ants on a pool table attempting to label the path of any pool ball 'good', and/or "evil", and I hear some anty-messiah saying: "The black 8-ball crushed all your siblings Worker-12373889, it is 'Evil'!". Ya know?)
On a grand scale, much as we would like to elevate ourselves to the role of "Arbiter Of Universal Good/Evil", our attempt to place our own limited understandings and definitions upon the working of the universe, can only be a vainglorious, petty and incomplete projection of our own points-of-view.
"Karma (judgement, not: 'vengeance') is the way of the Tao (not: 'mine sayeth the Lord' - "God" does not 'possess')." (The way the biblical line was supposed to read!);{>
May your feet tread light upon your paths! -J-
93 93/93
GreyWolf
Under skies leaden
GreyWolf goes hunting,
his future tracking through days of haze . . .
. . . and if it were caught and slain,
how could that be?
Metaphorescent and red on the snow;
what would to be done then?
Promulgate the past with endless loops of leaps,
chasing that which has been
because that which will be is dead now-
can it then be
a fugue state of starvation
temporally?
Surely . . .
. . . unless,
pursuing, past sophistry turning
in a curve,
cramped and panting;
that which was spurns
purpose and presently
is\ will be
infinity.
As . . .
. . .under skies leaden
GreyWolf goes hunting,
the future tracking through days of haze.
Guidesmine
By way of explanation, most of my neologistic natterings are
extemporaneously effulgent - but supervised (and constantly critiqued) by my Spirit Guides:
e e cummings, William James, Rudolf Steiner and James Joyce.
(You don’t think I could come up with this stuff on my own, do you?)
They argue interminably over my scansion, about which latin root to put where, how much polyentendre is too much, how many puns I can put on the head of a pin - you name it. Honestly, its a wonder I can ever write anything at all, with all this astal bickering accompanying
my every attempt at creativity. Not to mention their inability to realize that I actually think in odd metres (like nonametric duodecameter, for instance).
Don’t get me wrong, I certainly couldn’t do without their assistance
as lexiconographers and vocabularians. {Voconstantabularrogantly profunctionalix vulvagrarians? [Sorry, I couldn’t resist. All of them (‘cept e e) seem to be put off by bodypartpuns.]}
Anyway . . . they collectively offer their erudite discarnate epistophilia and floccinaucinihilipilifelicitations. I know I can, at least, offer more than the bombastically banal badinage and banter of the boddhisatvacantly benumbed. So if you’re ever in the mood for some circumlocuteorhizomanticircumscript, as Euphonic Sesquipedalien Paronomasia . . . read me. - Jondalf
Half empty or half full?
I see the glass as half empty these days, I guess.
Having lost that perspective, that parallax
that enables one to gauge depth from a distance.
My eyes are tired, tired from having seen
too much pain in the mirror every morning,
and too much betrayal in the mind’s eye of my memory.
No motivation, no inspiration, and the glass is not a glass
but a sinking barge, water filling the bilge,
adrift on a sea of hubris
and I’m shackled
within this prison ship of circumstance,
and neither the pilot nor the navigator can see any stars
to take a bearing from.
And so I drift, from doldrum day
through numbing night
to doldrum day again.
No dreams of accomplishment,
no schemes of success,
only a sullen current-driven progress
through a Sargasso of somnolent intention
and the enforced sacrifice
of this incarnation.
Sent to this prison by my own distant soul, which doubtless
thought these lessons of double-cross
by everyone I ever loved, expedient, and good for my growth;
for reasons upon which I was not asked to concur,
and by whose contumely and ennui am I thus sentenced,
in durance most vile, to declamations of despondency like this.
It wasn’t always like this, though.
I can still remember a time when I didn’t see the perfidy
inherent in humanity, and misanthropy
wasn’t my constant companion.
(Are you pouring, or drinking?)
I remember when I laughed, and joked
and had hope.
All gone now it seems, swept away by storms of
treachery and dishonorable lust,
veritable hurricanes of deception and delusion.
Abandoned by those I trusted to watch my back,
as I protected theirs’,
I wasted my faith on ingrates
whose sole rationale was the recitation
of their own callous calumnies,
and the gratification of their
well-honed iniquitous insipidity.
So here I sit,
with naught but my melancholy to guide me,
and I doubt that I’ll ever see the happy land
of guileless relationships again.
And mostly it seems I wish to fetch up upon some disastrous shoal,
thereupon to founder and go down
into that abyssal “good night”,
suck the waters of solipsistic surcease deep into my lungs
and have done with this sad simulacrum of existence.
But the skow just continues to drift, and the glass refuses to break
so I’m stuck with my pain and the propinquity
of a life in which I can no longer enjoy living,
a ship I cannot steer,
and a glass that is, when stared at thus,
reflectively, with one eye closed,
indeed half full:
half full of gall.
-J-
12/4/98
Herstory
Most of the men who have made decisions
on a global scale, in human memory, have been mad!
(Now, I’m not talking about angry, or just irrational mind you,
but totally insane - due to tertiary syphilis).
Dumb lab animals driven to replicate and disseminate
their DNA, by the ‘indwelling of the Spirit’:
glowing dustmotes caught in the sunbeam of history
maddened by the exigencies of procreation
as they fall to the floor of Testube Earth, spent
and bent beyond repair in their belief.
Insidiously inculcated in cultural conditioning,
a Machiavellian malaise of manipulation manifests
itself as ‘Charismatic Christian Fundamentalism’.
Why do you think angels are always portrayed,
by ideations’ deprivation: in bright white, flowing gowns?
. . .
(What would you make of a lab coat, if you were a savage?)
“Hey what the . . .”
So what in the hell is going on here, huh;
and what the fuck has happened to this crew anyway?
Do the ideals we once held still in our hearts hold singular sway?
I suppose I’m struggling to simply say: “Are we all just getting older
and growing ethically decrepit, - ‘moldier’, or what, eh?”
(Seems like we’re losin’ it, you know?
How long’s your attention span, man?
Don’t just go with the flow!)
Be we by M.T.V.’s dulcet tune groomed
to conspicious concupiscence consume?
Deep in durance so vile it is
a veritable villenage of obsequious Spandex wiles,
be we just a market manipulated to a myopically cathodic cartharsis?
Molded by a miasma of modern mental mulch, omnipresent as piles,
do we defer our contumacious criticism
in surrendering to this simpering sussurus of subliminal lexiphanicism.
Are our ethics so thoroughly dulled
through an elegiac effulgency lulled,that a soporific despondency should thus descend stark and darkly
upon those former ‘misdeeds’ of daring, caring and sharing?
“We’re only growing more mature!”, you’ll say
in order to fake and make minor more minuscule amends.
(“My ass”,
I contend!
Say better: “We’re beginning to molder”,
and I’ll have to pass!)
So also may I say: “Perhaps we’re just not so bold
here and now, as we were, there and then!” . . .
. . . Can you remember it at all, and/or can you recall,
what was that we wanted; just how real was that call?
Where and when did those ideas, in conscious ken we forfend;
and what were the portents preceding our fall?
(. . . Long ago it was . . . and so far away, right around 1968).
So you see, our perusal of this: ‘The Great Co-option’:
in thisnow, thiswhen, simply shan’t or can’t wait.
While it seems as though
ribonucleic ribaldry has reduced us to mere shadows,
simple shades of ourselves as we were in those halcyon daze:
crazed by concatenations of crepuscular coincidence,
we linger, longsincelost, in a culturally supposed unseemly
and salacious satival, (hight Utopian), habitual haze.
Thus I necessarily insist, I now know and must inimitably so say:
“Real the vision, real the feeling, real the lustre of those days!
True the world-view, to ‘The Establishments’ rue,
true the myriad different ways,
we discovered: of perceiving and pursuing conditioning seen anew!
Through psychoneurologies intentionally changed for the better
by ‘acid’ and this then, our milieu!”
Bolstered so by these philosophicquizical realizations
so abundant and assiduously accrued,
we perspicaciously assumed personal ‘Aspects’ wherein
with ‘Attributes’ we were indubitably imbued.
Remember:
(back when there were innumerable people, quite cogent,
who believed religiously in everything that we then did;
while in believing and behaving as though we all were normal
nevertheless our neuralchemistry’s augmentation we,
for survival’s sake, habitually and unheroically hid).
So to this very day,
when we refuse to gainsay these sundry fool’s ruses,
abnegation disabilitating our plight,
still the calibration of perception compels us to conclude:
that chemical adjustment of ones own senses, whatever ensues,
is for all time in no way crude or rude
but fulsome and fine, (not dysfunctional), I opine;
and furthermore,
should be ours, and everyones, right!
I Feel A Poem Coming On
(as metamorphic metaphor)
Last night it was wet:
saltmist, a grey shroud, covering the coast
and in wonder we wandered around, mouthing animal boasts,
wending our feral way under transformers gone pellucid, aglow in shadow, way above our heads.
Watching sparks arc, high up on the telephone poles.
Like hungry early morning mutant current moles
we moved, snouts held high,
wanting somehow to chew through the heavy air
there, to sink teeth in those electric static snacks
snapping and sizzling in the seafog.
Wanting to wish the damp air to dirt so we could ascend,
burrowing to that wide open circuit, (whisker ends
quivering, lit up like little lightning rods in a storm,
forms pawing past buried muses sublime mired in phosphorescent fungal rhyme)
feeding like ravenous voles
on the edge of some rodential incandescence,
all the time.
Till, limned in lucent lemming forms we emerged on the voracious shores of that eclectic dielectric, where the eventides rime
(and our moldy souls
like those tall poles)
in constant ecstatic and solipsistic surfeit shine.
- Journal of the Second Year A.D. (After Divorce) -
8/8/95:
It still amazes me that I can wake up from a dead sleep, turn on my side, and worry, for a moment, at why she is not asleep beside me. Was she working late and never came home? Did we have another fight and she’s staying at a friend’s? My memory then groggily kicks in, and I once again relive the entire sequence of her leaving. But it’s been a whole year now, and if I’m getting over it, this sure is a slow and painful process.
I’ve had a few affairs, sure, but I’ve just never invested the time and/or energy in them that would turn them into relationships. I seem to be less than enthusiastic about entering into a new one when I can’t free myself of memories of the old.
I’m Fine
Do I fear people, places
or time?
The sublime torment of an intrigued,
or intiguing
glance, makes me wary of my own temerity,
and my reticence
belies my loneliness.
I do know
(this at least)
that I still strongly long for passion,
for languid interludes of loving
and lavish displays of affection.
Yet it seems so fearfully fraught with peril -
this touching of skin,
and soul -
this vulnerable vilification of
well wrought defenses,
that
although the desire is there
I wonder where
it all may end
(in more heartache? - undoubtedly.)
and I fair fear my self
laid bare, again,
one more time.
But . . .
. . .I’m fine, I swear
I’m fine.
- 7/1/95
I’m feeling very Bukowskian these days, worship of the grape provides some scant surcease from the brutal confrontation of reality with my long-cherished romantic ideals, and I’m getting some decent poetry written, actual poetry, mind, not the sesquipedalian paronomasia I’m so known for, but stuff about the human condition, replete with imagery even, (and few 40 letter neologisms). So I don’t know, ‘cogito ergo spud’, I guess (I think, therefore, I yam), or ‘spud ergo spud’ (I yam what I yam), something like that.
15th. Anniversary
I seem to have no past, at least
I can’t recall any details
of the last 15 years.
It seems gone, all gone.
Replaced by some
dull existential ache
that accompanies memory
these daze.
My memories of my marriage are
lost in some dim limbo of
aduous argumentationan
inefficacious communication that
cast a pusillanimous pall over
the wealth of shared detail
that 15 years of shared experience
should have
synaptically stored
and preserved in the privacy of one’s
mental make-up, my love, Diann, at times I
can’t even see your face in my mind. . .
. . . Alas (a lass), and alack (a lack)
A way, a long, a lass and
a lad, see?
Then thus,
so sad,
a lack is had, as he has/was abandoned.
Done!
Seetheeatonealone,
(prithee - allone?)
atoneality alongingone
seetheonewhereisshe?
Awayalongalassand
a lad,
thenthusosad
alackishad
asheaswasaband
one
d!
Where is she? . . .
. . . An apparent lack of recall recalls my marriage
a vague miasma of uneasy
truces, and eneluctable ennui
and hubris,
interspersed, here and there,
with the bright colours of
vacations to wonderfully scenic places,
and the scent of shared laughter
(at well spaced intervals, of course).
Away, along, alas, alack. Do I remember stuff like this when I am dis-incarnate? I wonder - do all the agreements I make between lives take these heartaches into account? For growth’s sake? ‘Tis the only reason I would ever agree to so much pain. To be betrayed and abandoned, again and again, in one life, by the women I love, am I paying off old debts, or chalking up karmic credit? I don’t know.
They say the soul is distant, unfeeling - I think this must be so, for I cannot imagine a feeling caring part of my being consigning my conciousness to such struggle as my due for so much caring, and sharing, and giving on my part. I have attempted to share as much of what I have learned about the cosmos, thru my 5,000 years of incarnative Sage-experiential existance with all I meet, and yet . . . and yet . . .
all I ever want in return
is some small appreciation
for data well gathered,
for dogma comparatively studied
and well discarded
for well wrought hypotheses,
and incisive leaps of faith.
. . . sometimes though, I do grow weary of the constant struggle to understand, and count myself no more than human, if I am occasionally beset with doubts, and overpowering moments of melancholia . . . sigh . . . ah well, struggling ever onward and upward as:
. . . vapid, variegated and verisimilitudenous
we vy,
and,
plying the repetitive metaphor of mannerism
we move,
through the sullied simile of being.
- Jondalf, © 1995
Jyberwhacky AI
TECHTESTTEXT
. . . and so that’s the story of how I was vested with the Bukowski
Chair at the WWW Univerity Of “n”th Dimensional Creative Neuraethiology© Physics. I passed my Orals with a rather lacklustre (I felt) 10 hour recital of my Onaneopus©: “Moribundant Museschatology©” (shortform); and was subsequently elected Salutightorian© of the obligatory Grand Piano Vomitory. But, needless to say, I digress.
Anyway, so, when the Angelic Host (Luciferian Rebels inclusive) manifestly decloaked on 9/9/99, and the ensuing ‘World Tao-Zones Index’© plummeted, my wetware startup company ThrashArt© went cortex-up, AND, then, my 1+?+? year Marriage Contract with ‘Celeclonal Drew Barrymore(©)#427’© was terminated in its third month for nonpayment of premiums, I felt pretty low. Lower than a dysmounted© HOLOSIMM on a melted microchip, I tell you true. Nevertheless, I rented a cheap cubi next to the downtown ‘Toke-It-Topium’© pissoir and dug in my plasteelheels, rationing my expenditures and flailing frantically, round the 10 hour metriclock©, with the ‘waldo(©)trol’© of my cubi’s holographic V-keyboard, trying to spewout enough CDopy© pusillanimous persiflage (at ¥1,000,000/word@Uscale) to keep me in tofusteaks, and trying to transmute my melancholy into something resembling remuneration. Transcribed pain always pays mohbettah bucks, brauae.
It was about that time, if you will recall, that President Hanks, just back from a State visit to Neowobblyville©, capital of the L-5 Republic, gave his now infamous “Religeosity-Industratareal Simplex (type XII)”© speech, which, I might add, was a freelance collabberation© of William Safire(©)wareAI23© and yours truly, and all heaven broke loose.
Feeling the heat of the Nutluddite© Fringe’s Basque ninjas on my exculpatory trail, I had my trendy Maoriyogibear-facitattoo© redone with a more inconspicuous mtlflkechatoyantGuernica-epicreep©, and decided to go hang out at ClubMadHedonism© Bayonne for a while, under a psuedonominative© personality rented from gNom-De-Plumes-R-Oui©.
Things just got stranger and stranger though. I ran into my 43rd wife
there, sporting new mams (she, not me), and a new beau (some codpiece-enhanced crackreek© CPA from Tierra Del Fuego North©, with a contiguwuss© eyebrow and betelnutrotted© plasteeth), at the nightly ‘JackoffJill Disco’©; humped them both perverunctoreally© (for Deco-rhum’s© sake) and ended up whipped and wayoverhung© at the Club’s Breakfastorgybar gimme-Buffet© trying to choke down a plate of ‘MagnoliaThunderpussy(©)Pooptarts’© and fresh jizcream©, while unSteadmanly dodgering© the OTTOmaided© cat-o-mime-tails© wilding Elviituvla’s© that were working the buffetline.
It was then that I had my now much valleywho-Op-ed© epiepiphany©, in an effuallgent© flash of agenbitinwitsitu©-IRMWsckt©-shortedtoground-threw-brainspam© so perspirinvidiouscicacious© that if froze the Synthlymph© in my stunned and reeling hydro-enSETHalamic© AIemplants©!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! - :
. . . “THE BANNED”©!!!!!!!!!!!!
I HAD TO PUT “THE BANNED”© BACK TOGETHER AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!
I was on a MISSION FROM COD!!!!!! I had regained my Guerilla WittgenSteiner© cummingsynsenessence© of NOHthrupFryedlike© centracontraility© of mythooze©, and myonaninkarnakitive© concupissantequiproseleGaiaSet-E©!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!GNARLYASSFASTANDSLIPFINFREECOOLDOODY©!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
WAYRADITWAS, and well, the rest is herstory, as y’ll know, but those were theodoronodaze© my frskens, and that was how it all CAymendooBBing@. I gHesse© chew jest ad two Bea “ARThiere”©, don’cha’gnome©, don’cha’gnoumenon©! It’s just like Tiny Dr. Tim and/or Gandalf said, longague© in Fairway Park: ‘We’ve already won, all that’s left is the moppin’ up.”! The viewture will be shapesifted by GrindingrungrunniongrinninAOLollywaillin© young ThrasheRs with wetwirednetskateboards©.
{IMNSHO, there’s no reasonably probable [IOW: none now having greater than what I calcululate© to be an 11% (±2%) chance of consensocioccurrence© (percentages having permutatively decreased in conformance with the vaticinaderivation© of a geomatriaxially© continuiguous© AINcontraverticestringfractal-inaccessationablequationmodel© since ‘65)] bifurconcatenation©/line-of-’futurehistory’-force-vector-sum that will escape the substantive influence of of the 60’s, so get over it, already, all you fundittoheads and nostalgia buffs.} Progress, don’t repress or regress. ‘YAH don’t need TA wHETherman, for ‘lo, ‘WITCH-WAY’ this wind blows.’} -J- );{>
All comments cheerfully solicited - just a short one this, but this is what I feel I do best, I can, and will, if asked, define and/or explain any of the Neologisms hereinbefore created/used, and some of the polyentendre. Please though, be patient, I do have a “just-a-cog-in-the-gears-of-the-GNP” stultifyingly non-creative day job and some scant semblance of a life. Namaste.
*BTW - The Test: How many of the identified new words above can be attributed to citable sources previous to this publication? How does a Neologist make money from Neology? I haven’t a clue. Do you? Anyway, “(t)hank you for encouraging my behavior.” *
Kerouaccachanalian
There appears a definitive proclivity
to Bardic tradition so strong in me
it must inculcated be
in my chromosomal memory,
(spliced genetically).
Therefore modern ignorance be damned,
all my poems be Dithyrambs:
hymns of praise to all things Dionysian
whereby our spirits we raise,
invocations as free verse paeans
tersely sung, (in periastrophe).
So what if all allusive ability
on the part of the populace is in atrophy
we revel here in a philosophy
long predating Christianity,
and better by far seems it to me
than that dysfunctional eschatology,
(the one and only truly idiotic ideology!).
"Kosmic Conscienciousness": (transitive nominative),
an epiphanthetic compendium of perceptive/projective circumspection concomitant with an attempt at conscious apprehension and solipsistic calibration of, at least, a major portion of the collectively consensual conceivable totality of ongoing concatenate fractal oscillatory epiphenoumena.
Unfortunately, any rhetorician's prescriptive lexicography here may seem circumlocution, as the subject, intrinsically, appears almost ineffably abstruse . . . nevertheless, the concept is asymptotically accessible to hypothecation as an hyperbole involving a summary summation of the condign quondam probability-force-vector-calculus collegia effulgent, and, alas, will be comprehensively communicable colloquy only within commensurate shared sentient logomantic sets,
(the most perspicacious transliteration notwithstanding).
IOW: "The name that can be named is not THE Name".
Existentially speaking, "Cosmic Consciousness" may be experienced,
but not really well described.
[Many thanks to Rudolph Steiner, William James,
and my favorite spirit guide, James Joyce, for their collaberative though discarnate assistance with this attempt at an autonoenomically written denotation of a really recondite rubric.
{Oh, and by the way, as I and most of the cognoscenti
experientially concluded long ago, even major dosages of the purest etheogens, in the most pristine 'set and settings', could never be as salubriously effective a tool for metaphysically transcendent psychonuerochemical ratiocination catalysis as were
"Yellow Wedges",
(or even the experience of 'channeling' the Akashic Records );{>
Maturation and Mastery
Maturation and mastery most munificent,
(wily wizards will wince once and whine),
seem lessons so very evanescent
as confined we all are by our Time.
Phenomenescient and omniphenomenascent we loom
large in our ubiquitous cupidity,
whilst belligerently perfidious we bungle and barge
through life ,quite well programmed, we proceed.
Immersed deep in data to our detriment
missing all of the portents we do see,
passing judgment upon our perceptions
in this land, without honor, prophets be.
Unable as we are to calibrate
these myriad contentions crazed
wizened and whittled by would-bes
we continue, so blind, on our ways:
wandering within our experience
whence wasted and wanton we wheeze,
assuming the beneficence of the universe
still dumber we become by degrees.
So you see . . .
true wisdom lies in unlearning
those things taught to us when we’re wee;
thus life, and its’ living is suspect,
as we struggle, so hard, to be free.
Remember the 21st. of December
(Midwinter’s Eve Again)
This season, hight “Christmas”, has rolled round once more
And we’d like to remind you, as you’re shopping in stores,
That long ‘fore Christ’s religion co-opted this rite,
Down through thousands of years, allaying all fears:
The Winter Solstice a pagan holiday was, all day and all night.
Folks stayed up to celebrate, till dawn, with their friends.
Making sure Sun would come back, again and again.
Through cold rain and snow, ‘round fires all night long,
They sang songs and waited, misty breath unabated:
A vigil fair maintained, assuring naught would go wrong.
Thus we wish you good fortune, good cheer and fine plight,
And we wish so, remembrance, of this night’s true respite:
From the forces of Darkness, stagnation’s requite.
Enlightenment we evoke, from ignorance to invoke:
“Be excellent to each other!” and “Party down!”, its your right!
Mike Called
Sorry, but Michael wanted to interjectoplasmicate something to the effect that in almost all of theses cases a soul-fragment'(s)' "abdication" of either an incarnative vehicular choice, or a combination of primary, secondary, tert. etc. etc. had/ave caused an abrogation of the term's material manifest destinociation.
Rare instances of Taoic intervention, and/or entropry-embaptism due to mutualienexculpation (coruscantenative intentropic vortexveldtwellwall nexiall concresenthermiations, as it WereWilled).
For instance: the DNAvehicle this fragment now inhabituates was abandonated after clinical death, at 6 months of age, from anasthmaticpnuemenonalmalignment of the original bidder, in favor of the probibliorecombinawry "Gaiawilla-wit" of the present inhabitant within the projected purview of its milieau - body and new essence-extension revived, all traces of asthma and pnuemofAI;lure gone.
(A very rare, but quintesessentienThelemmaic Taoperoration:
AsinequantumnonetransmutantAeoneologikalicanthropaeagainAl'sLiberintentruedeathshun);{>
MR. V’S ONANOMANIA
Pound on, wonderbunswomen !
The future is about to come crashing down
on your seminalien Socraticed concupiscience:
gobs of bluecheeseviralslimeswallowing
sumshucksters circle revenently ‘round the women’s bidet
for a just a whiff of vintagestiff deathlustcurdcrust.
[ . . . meanwhile,, in an adjoining abbatoir,
carmelized all-iris-eyes shining with:
“Love me ‘cause I can lick my own, slick”; her ogleobsessed bloatedbratwursthunghusband
was whanking furiously on his priapic principles,
diddling with the livefeed display
where his wife was splayed and playing, plying her suckcesspool sublimnanalwitherkneeling succubusiness
whilst he watched, wondering who would get off
thisincarnatiedyad dharmaweal fistfirst . . . ]
‘Snatcwhoreorally, carnalicklewdin on this The Kid wasnot.
In Seminalaryan school all they had tauthemabutt booty
hardonly swerved to cunfewes him,
so he neversuspeckerheaded a thing,
banalthewile the massturdebaiting pimpherinhell
washaving herscrewineveryoneoncue, druggedandfrugged, whenever he could, consequimsays be dammed. Gofrigurs.
Anall this took f’revher to fingerout, buttwhim headiddled tit, tolerant hey new twat was twat, so nutbesotted gnomewhorewashe, she shed “whank who’s berrymunch” hand they wend their hairy ways.
The Kid’n’er leftownan lovived awiledinsin enemafarther
outinthewayback untrying two hurts to make amends
till atlassed they true grue apheart teachotheransplit.
Amoral? . . . dumbtotryno . . . I guess the testis:
en crudite verite.
Pearls Before Swine
“A prophet is not without honor, save in his own country.”
Funny, that a biblical phrase would be so apropos
with regard to one who is so opposed to the intent,
and efficacy,
of biblical prose.
Ah well,
what the hell,
even the Christians had some good ideas,
occasionally.
But, paronomastically, perhaps,
the perspicacity of my mental,
and verbal,
perambulations,
preclude my peers ability to perceive
their wherewithal and worth.
And the dearth of their perceptive acuity,
accrues to the conditioning inherent
(promulgated in perpetuity)
which is partially attributable to,
their inculcate inability to see
the acumen intrinsic in me,
and the syllogistic scrutiny wherewith I do view
this particular experience of reality.
Plato Knows
I seek not Truth
(other than in some ancillary fashion)
but rather Beauty
in order to bind Her to me
with strands of silken euphony
right well woven about
the corners of my consciousness
like a spider spins a web
with wonder for warp
and whimsy for woof
a fragile tapestry to trap
inspiration like a filigreed fly
buzzing inadvertent
into those strands
and sticking fast
to the fringes of my Art
PORPOISE
Our highest purpose
is to have no purpose
for in having no purpose
we imitate nature
in it’s great purposelessness.
Propoetry
The prime task of the poet
and the primal operation of poetry
is as with any birth:
to deliver the poem,
(conceived in some mystic mindspace
somnolent, nurtured and gestated in Id),
in as undamaged a form
as is possible.
(This,
and perhaps a possible predilection
to the sordid sin of solecism.)
Rain On The Heather
(For Wendy, a partial payment for future editorial services tendered.)
Silent silver rain
on blooming
purple heather
illuminates the day,
whatever my internal weather.
When I read your fructating phraseology ,
I feel your feelings ferally flowering
whether
you know it or not.
So this paltry poesy’s the
only way I have to say:
that your winsome wordsmythic worth
has been inspirative to me,
as a silent silver rain
somehow concantenatively constrains
the enternally effulgent coruscative lustre
of blooming purple heather.
Read I, Recite I Not
Not meant
most of my work is
to be read
loutloud.
Mind to mind’s what
I’d rather, and what
this stuff’s all about.
I feel I need not touch
your eyes your eyes
your your your
ears nose ears
your mouth
your your
. .
breasts breasts
*
Instead,
I wanna inject myself
straight into your synapses.
No chance of any dataloss,
no carnative delay
there, its right-
-here
one thought alone away.
So then, the hell with this
Iambic pentameter shit, its
way predictable, like
a time signature in 4/4
despondent and bored on a page—
—were talkin’ jazz as
instant apprehension here.
Politician’s gotta lie, just as cops’re always late,
only occasionally do I stand up and sing
(and then its usually in some odd time thing
like 5/4, 7/2 or 19/11/8).
And sometimes
through gaping scansive holes
In my verbiage
I fall . . .
. . . and I am, yes,
quite also unilaterally unkind
to my verbs, and smitten
with a monomaniacal mnemania
for modifiers.
And I don’t do
imagery
either!
A thousand words
(well said)
are worth more
than the sum of
ten-thousand light splashed
Seurat’s
plus one “Guernica”
added to seven Warhol’s
and a handprint
on that
philosophically absquatulate
and ineluctably infamous
cave wall.
Reality is as you deem it,
and I certainly won’t leave my footprints
in the proverbial, (or literal), sands of time
for,
being slightly cautious,
and wanting me and my ideas to survive;
I don’t feel like being followed, or hunted
down all the long lonely years (and incarnations)
by those who deem differently than I do
whilst accomplishing that which I Will.
Rearword
‘When a man has withdrawn from the world, it’s tumult often becomes unbearable to him. There are many people who in a noble pride hold themselves aloof from all that is low and rebuff it brusquely wherever it comes to meet them. Such persons are reproached for being proud and distant, but since active duties no longer hold them to the world, this does not greatly matter. They know how to bear the dislike of the masses with composure.’
- #44, Kou: Coming to Meet
(Nine at the top)
I Ching -
The Lady's Prayer
Our Mother,
who Art - The Earth;
hallowed be THY name!
Land green under Sun,
THY Will be done,
in the heavens
as well as on earth.
Give us this day
our daily breads,
and educate us past our ignorance,
as we may educate those who are ignorant to us.
Lead us not into degradation,
but deliver us from selfishness.
For thine is the effulgence,
and the power,
and the glory, eternally.
Awomaen.
The Look
As you walked out of the room where we first met,
glancing back on that place so filled with pleas and healing
met mine did your sad eyes from ceaseless weeping wet,
the look that you gave me sent my cringing wits reeling.
I saw compassion (and fear), interest (despair), and hope:
onlythelonely eyes through your long hair’s sultry strophe
with one look seared my heart’s cicatrice; ash and smoke
on the pyre of my misanthropy phoenixlike, feeling awoke.
I knew you not at all, nor did you know me
Unexpected and unbidden, began hopes wanton to grow
as stirred in me, something did, when you I first saw
and ignore it could I not, believing: ‘Love Is The Law’.
That one glance, as: “The Look”, always may I recall.
For looks such as that, forsaking Heaven , did Angels fall.
Of consequences heedless Helens’ tumble Troys’ walls,
as still for any chance of Love will fools Hope, and risk all.
Then I walked out of the room (where we never met),
glancing back I filled the room with wishes worth stealing.
No eyes met mine (still from ceaseless sad weeping wet),
so I imagined “The Look” I wanted so much to be feeling.
The Season Of Supposed Good Cheer
Well folks, once again, it is that time of year.
So let me tell you all a story, steeped, ages deep, in vainglory,
about this season of supposed good cheer:
Long, long ago when this world was quite young,
most people believed in a religion that said man and nature were one.
The symbol of this synthesis was half-animal and half man.
A totally harmless, flute playing sprite who reveled in life,
worshiping only the light, and all the folk called him—Pan.
Goat horned and hooved was he, a simple illustration, you see,
of the wide world in balance, nature and human life in close harmony.
But then a new religion arose, calling the innocent old faith perfidy,
based upon a concept of life as anthro(as opposed to eco)centricity.
With intolerance was it rife, and after its god it did hight—Christianity.
Thereupon, the folk all were told (andforced to say it was true)
that all the old ways were wrong, that the new god was so strong.
Thus the god of the older faith became the “devil” of the new!
Gross cruelty and persecution did then begin, and thereafter did ensue
the evil times, “The Dark Ages”, and more all should, to this day, rue.
So for all the gentle souls who were tortured, or at the stake burned,
for believing intheir religion, for persevering about Nature to care,
let us offer up a paean (or call it a prayer) to whatever god you dare:
that from theocentricity, hatred and bigotry be all religions turned;
that, no longer should anyone, because of their faith, have to fear!
Then this season might truly be, for all , one of good cheer!
Prometheus Bound
“Hey man, here,
think, damn you, think!” . . .
. . . and thus was Prometheus bound.
Un Canto De Desconsoledad
(Hello my friends. save this one for when you're 'up', and into trying to understand the experience OF despair - it's one of my better works, but, unfortunately, its quite depressing. . . . oh well, "Pain Pays", as they say);{>
Oigolo Pablo, y lo siento.
My lips like truculent tumescent clamshells,
bent on expelling that blue otherworldliness
that is sky,
purse and blow,
bilabially fricative IN seahoarsely proportions
(as real as romance was ever my wont-
AS WELL YOU KNOW);{>,
see me, imagine this man,
and watch me face my fate:
wending my wounded way through my thislife.
using what’s left of my wit I try to reply entertainingly to all the shallow conversational gambits that Bloviate my way of late . . .
So Still I hunker down,
digging my way backwards into the tubewormstrewn
notfullyfathomed muck
that is my memory of marriage..
Nada, nada, nada y algo nada de menos:
mi alma.
Even the gulls veer away
when they smell the decay of my dreams:
washed up on Eroded beaches of Passion Past eviscerated and gelatinous,
delaquesing weakly red
over thereandthen here - thinly blue, translucent jellies Delicately dying
strewn across the dunes,
Evanascent nacre, staining the clean sardonyx sand and
steaming in the sullen ochre sun.
That puling weak insignificant star
never quite dispells the oleaginous fog
that greyes my daze,
my gaze, my temples,
and my beard, Frosted by chill winters full of loves Feckless and fey, and aft gang agley
as once again happiness, in a most contumacious hauteur, hath fled.
Sputum of the sea, sputum of the sea -
sea that has become the world's sewer,
cover me with a placenta of courage
made from greenglowing E-coli soup.
Las gaviotas se mueren lo crepusculo.
Muda, mi amor matamese.
Tht waste-treatment plant that was
my heart,
still pumps sludge through Life’s outfall,
burying tiny pallid crustaceans of caring
in an effluvium of emotive tedium,
yet I totter down the dun dunes onward still.
in the waning sun of thiswhens afternoon
i stu,mble, numbly leprous as the ubiquity of unhappiness saps strength and spirit,
hair matted with seawrack
spattered gullshatseaweed covering my head like a caul.
Un hombre sin esperanza
que la mar sin las olas, y sin una playa.
Oigolo Pablo, y lo siento,
lo siento, lo siento tambien.
- Jondalf
Vacuous Verities
This judicious crafting of verse,
howsoever it seems hard and perverse,
appears as a whole universe, interior, to me.
Seeing people as paltry planets,
thoughts stratified like schistgreygranite,
with only writers able to transcend gravity.
So writing as such
produces just enough thrust
to achieve an escape velocity;
and ‘long starlanes seldom traveled
a myriad mysteries nebulous unravel
before our mindseyes’ trained inherent clarity.
(I mean, it’s kinda like latching on
to the tail of a comet
and being solarwindwhipped about
ones’ own ganglial galaxy!
If only all could, as I can, such scenes see!)
Writin’ by the light of dyin’ synapses firing’,
riding iceballs of insight so austere:
(probin’ parsecs of molecular dusts’ memory)
kalpas of nothingness becoming history,
pictures by mental instrumentality captured clear.
This singular stellar addiction to mindscrying transcription
warpdrives thoughts,through wrought wormholes of words,
as thoughtships’ cargo carrying visions back here to me.
So from spaced interdictions’ interpolation to pure fiction
it’s as fine a mindscape as had can be.
(Still the thrill of the ride, so damn dopplerdifficult to describe.)
These then must be only:
Vacuous Verities.
Verbal Gerbils
You know, it’s always such a tragedy when gerbils die.
Such innocuous vapidity and cretinous rodential cuteness
deserves a better fate than to decay to inconsequential dust
in some landfill far from home.
Rather they should perhaps ossify and then dessicate
to blow away dandelionlike on the breeze:
small clouds of tiny germinal gerbil spoors,
buff puffs of fecundity flying afar
and falling on fallow fields to root and grow . . .
. . . a new generation of gerbils who, kinda like lemmings
on their way to the sea, on a certain morning in May
emerge from their fields in various areas to line up,
all in a row, little paws outstretched, one dumpling digit extended
alongside roads leading to towns with pet shops, hitching rides,
and having reached the aforementioned shops they would present themselves to be bought and brought home
for the idle amusement of dimwits who have nothing better to do
than raise these microencephaletic, unresponsive
and totally vacuous examples of rodentia.
Then again,
good thing the little farts aren’t any smarter than they already are and exceptional good luck that they don’t talk,
or their ennervatingly endearing and pathetic presence
might provoke their being noticed more as animals
and not nearly so often as dustballs.
Can you imagine?
Verbal gerbils.
What a thought!
They’d most probably be incredibly sarcastic too.
I mean, after all,
these are the creatures who somehow,
down aeons of our evolution
convinced us to take care of them for no real reason I can fathom,
so their attitude
would probably be inversely proportional
to their size.
Think of the scandal if anybody ever found out
what animals really thought about us:
thousands of previously unsuspecting pet owners
awakening one day to the realization
that those small furry mounds of momentous mundanity
micturating on the mulch in the corner of their cages,
were actually acutely mawkish malingerers
who had millennia ago had malevolently manipulated mankind
into making a place for them, rent free!
Whee! What a sight that all those fallen faces would be.
That’s why the death of any gerbil is such a tragedy to me, you see.
Wagon Train to the Stars
So simple (really!), life is, shan’t you see,
though there will always be those
(and almost all shall they be)
who do a mockery make
of its compliasimplicity.
[Through philosophistry
(seen as historicity)
forever teleontology recapitulates
filialphilogeniessency]!
Thus, there’s naught that is aught,
save that that which one wills;
(no-thing happens from skills)
as all you cause to occur.
(For being is doing,
and ne’er Fate need aver)!
Nothing can you do
save that which ensues
from your choice
as incarnate, in full voice
and fine vision are we boist
(fair effulgent thus we foist),
our lifescry
according to our ken.
None and nothing can gainsay
this our purpose to purvey
failure save we learn
(and in learnings’ array allay)
that which caused us to here come:
from the humdrum ethereal down to here
forsaking every errant, migrant fear . . .
. . . we whilst whence we are wont
(for eternity’s contained within a tear).
we stayed to surf
What say,
the waves are totally buff
and some kinda’ tuff thiswhen, eh?
Waycool!
So hey,
while we in wonder wander willful
‘long these sandy shores of force
the oleaginous ontological ocean
betide, becomes our sole recourse.
Say what?
See,
we supposedly bogus beachbums be downright decent
at slashin’ glassmoothfast gnarlyass tubes,
cutback chiaroscuros’ limned liquidlucent
some nasty moves done by us demigod dharmadudes:
slithering sideslips to lipstrikes wanton freefin,
whitewater spumewhipped to windward away,
screamin’ ‘cross vortices breaking wildly widdershins,
shreddin’ swellwalls spunaesthetic in hyperspray!
Try to focus and understand:
that on the sands of time certain realities abide as ripples,
(epiphenomenological swirls microgranular in sand),
whose appearance and purpose permutate supereal
the ethereal collective unconscious and its’ surface tension
through scansion surreal and the expansion we feel’s
everdue our ideal.
So therefore,
when sometimes we with booze petition the muse,
of self induced epigramatic sententiousness we’re subtly subdued.
Still, as abundant as virgin births are these daze,
so we as metaviral avatars abide and abound.
Couched in our dangerous comedic sheathing we are found
to be ribonucleic acid gone awry!
Why?! . . :
‘Cause our vaticinal skew, thislife, thiswhen, thismilieau
is to train, and in training to remain:
warrior platelets, (everbidden), to nobility hagridden;
surfing waves on these seas in our brains,
surely our domain and dominion we claim.
While towards escape from replical overlordships’ repression
we move and the expression is: “slash the seratonin”;
(boards backlit and burnished by the light
of nightly neurotransmitterlit sessions).
I guess we gotta go for the ganglia gang. Trapped behind enemy timelines we play, hanging out and hanging in there.
Where?
Right here by this solipsistic surf
An ominous, but numbly numinous, sense of divinity ubiquitously
bitchin’, like catchin’ the best swell of the day, beckons:
one nerve,
one single synapse,
(‘just one more wave, eh’,)
away.
So you see:
we stayed to surf.
a forword
overleaves
Guidesmine
we stayed to surf
Atramentaceous
Kerouaccanalian
Furlinkyeti
Thus was Prometheus bound
Porpoise
GreyWolf
1 Morsatyrdanite
Vacuous Verities
D-1
I Feel A Poem Coming On
Read I, Recite I Not
Seas of Space
Blowin' It
Exspansieve
Autognomatic Writing
Reality is as you deem it,
Darkside
Reptilian Family Values
Eighty-eight
G'ddam Man
Maturation and Mastery
Notadream
The Game Is Not The Game
Pearls before swine
Ease Play
Everclear
Si ++?
Verbal Gerbils
Snowflake
Sur
To Be Movin�
Mike Called
Solipschism
Plato Knows
SimFriends
Onanomania
Journal - 2 A.D.
Half Empty Or Half Full?
Hey what the . . ."
The Look
Contumescent
Wagon Train to the Stars
Sixty-Five ('65 Scry)
Thiere
Usin Up The Future
Ruckus
Gaia�s Guerillas
Herstory
The Lady's Prayer
Midwinter�s Eve Again
Little John�s Last Lament
The Season Of Supposed Good- Cheer
Rain On the Heather
Propoetry
Nota Dream
It All
Dunitagin (Resolutely Free)
Kosmic Conscienciousness
God vs. evil
Sullied Similes
after The Deluge)
Rearward
Jyberwhacky
Memo To Michael
Backword
Thiere
I don�t look people in the eye much
anymore.
I just don�t really wanna see into there
souls
at all.
It seems that, as I�ve gotten older, I�ve become more . . .
misanthroperceptive and apprehincisive,
(or something) and
their is so much petty malevolence,
meanness and spite
in the world -
that I just don�t want to look
too deeply,
or for too long, into the eyes
of what few friends I have left
and find what I fear
in mine own
lurking
theire.
10/�92
1 Morsatyrdanite
Smallroom airpressure nosebleed soundwall tautaureally atmoshfearachewrecktonic. Cigabarettesmokearabasques
shaped by eonoverdriven airtones rise, as conchordilated
cilia writh, whelming enrapt in a subsemihemidemisonic tinnitususurrus. The Akashic Records distort, nanomomentearaholy trying to contain the burgeoning noiseffulgent waveforms.
More hair per capita than Berserkusly in its hey-heydaze
and no existential espresso dilemmalamas to dissemble and dissasimple. Any tonal comprehension fleesfastfowardpast
nueuralnets longsinceblown from maxinputpowders and continual sensauraloverload.
Ah ROCKANDROLL - Goddam RockandfuckingRoll - and Niles legendary Station, during its last year - April Fool�sday, no foolin�, suckin� up booze and heavymetalhammer-ons till dawn so past �GOPAZZOUTONSUMMUNELSEFOOL� need moranmoranmoron c�mom, c�mon, c�mon . . . these soundwaves as radiosewlls willrushintospace, far past good taste and apace the speed of thought caught in a metalnightenregaleforcewind of smallclubthrashsoul.
(Just think - thistuff�le speed outward from Earth forever,
bigriffrippin� at the speed-o�-light, out into the cocmos. Tearing gaping holes through diaphanous nebulae, aeuphonically wastewailing past gasping pulsars, perhaps even setting off some resonaolient scintillulullation in serene solar winds as it roars decadbescadent and godgoadingly loud offandaway.)
The ghost of poordeaddeaf Beethovan rotates on his astral axes at megamillion R.P.M. and SidVicious�s essence smiles the ectoribaldricraplasmically vacant grin of the theaetherically pithed, while everonward, a mobiustrippinkleinbottlenecknote
imbeds itself on the event horizon as I scream for another beer and count myself lucky to be hearing still and here on 1morsatyrdanite.
A Forword:
�They might not know their parentage, for the gods so dislike to be known among men that none can be found who has seen their faces wittingly . . . but they would have queer lofty thoughts misunderstood by their fellows, and would sing of far places and gardens so unlike any known even in dreamland that common folk would call them fools . . .�
- H. P. Lovecraft
after The Deluge)
. . . got up in the mist-dim morning,
threw on our suits and grabbed the boards, (all camo now of course),
running down;
down sepulchrally sylvan aisles,
�tween ruddy wooden towers,
slipping unseen to the sea.
To catch waves being born in the murky dun morn,
hissing through grey on this another day,
(after The Deluge).
A time of sheer sport so unassailed by crowds
people being quite scarce, right here, right now;
an afternoon of hunting gamebirds abundant,
a woodsmoke cooked supper with sunsetwaves redundant
in their perfection and profusion.
It�s something to muse on:
things seem right fine to us, sad it all fell apart, still,
theres tons of tubes for everyone, we all get our fill.
So what we have to set pickets and snipe from the hills
at rabid Jonbirchers, sworn our hair to cut, crops to kill.
The post holocaust moon looks the same from this refuge
and the moon the surf frees still,
(after The Deluge).
Atramentaceous,
(in this verse so perspicacious
look it up, take the time,
can I this word subsequently
and ostentatiously so rhyme?)
Just how obscure can I be,
how obtuse my esoteric idiosyncrasy?
(Try to see . . .
. . . how deep delve these dactyls so deftly perverse,
how daunting this poesy dythyrambically inverse,
does it seem cacaphoric, dysphemistic or worse?)
If you these words follow closely then soon shall you see!
Let�s say: at the nexus in convergence lines of future probability
(only through erudite analysis empirical becomes evident efficacy)
fractal interfaces form fortuitous in elegiac effulgency.
This perception of time and such apprehension�s an ability,
(seemingly unique and all mine).
Developed pursuing lifetimes of timelines indefagitably
(these cubistic visions select possible paths to serendipity)
I can now comprehensively forefend portents perspicaciously.
Infinitesimally misaligned divergences detail chronology,
(developing as duly defined).
Thus in floccinaucinihilipilifilistic factsimile
(fraught with thoughtforms tightly wrought in taut threnody)
polyentendre�s purview scansive ensues as a scurrilous scatomancy.
So as a spurious paradigm this idiom savant sings a singular chantey:
(herewith in rhyme,
there�s been committed no crime,
I hope you these words followed
and found them sublime)!
. . . Oh yeah: �Hey, be mendacious!�
Autognomatic Writing
I guess I just felt the need
to chronicle this age fair
from a dictionarially doctrinaire
and prescriptive point of view.
So while my synapses as tiny enigmautomatons
conundrums in lockstep collage
my neural network conspire to imbue,
an anacolutic Kerouwackian persiflage
nevertheless from my flying fingers durst ensue
through adjectives as intransigent as that of any Solons�;
e�en though everyone here seems to suffer from �dumb ague�.
It seems almost as though
if I don�t use all these words at least once,
thus . . . and so,
they will fast and forever fade
none their passing to pursue
and their loss none know nor rue.
Bereft of their display, more dunce and fool you!
Backword
i hope i
transcribed these thoughts
as best as could be
and these then are the words
however much they suffer
from mind
to hand
to paper
to eye
Blowin� It
Caught between the warp of imagination
and the woof of expectation
we spin, slowly.
Gyros gone, (bearings bad),
becalmed beyond a sea of stars
scintillant and sandlike
ubiquitously befuddled we blunder
blowin� it.
Lost in a beer bottle littered
milieu of misdeeds and M.T.V.
A veritable vacuum of experience
wherein we sit:
spiderlike and semi-somnolent.
Trapped within thoughtships
whose trappings are silken
necessity.
Contumescent
This contumely, I fear:
Calliopes� gift�s so severe.
It�s thus hard to adhere
to a vision quite so sere.
Where whim and caprice
intuition doth fleece,
inspiration and amusement retreats
from our now, from right here.
So instead of invoking a Muse, I utilize a ribald ruse;
and call up the spirit of James Joyce
(it�s kind of like praying to a saint
to intercede on my behalf)
to peruse, by scansion, the mews
of my rapturous vision and excuse
the pretentious perfidy inherent
in the pictures my words paint.
For at times thoughts are as dung
over ideafields long farflung.
Shall the plow then become
the Earths� cicatrice?
It�s just contumely, my dear:
inspiration�s rarely clear.
Life�s tough, living drearer.
What the fuck, gimme a beer here.
D-1
(whereisshe?)
Away, along, a lass and a lad,
then thus so sad
a lack is had,
as has was abandoned
Done!
Seeheatonealone prithee
allone
seetheonewhereisshe?
Awayalongalasand
a lad
thenthusosad
alack his had
ashaswasabanned
one
D!
(whereisshe?)
Darkside
The dark side of the force is a god
who would utilize the mechanism of Darwinism as a means
for measuring the progress of his perfidious experiment.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would demand the sickness of a blood sacrifice from Abel
and then curse Cain for doing the same, save not with a sheep.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would drown all life on earth, except for brown-nosing
Noah, for supposed transgression of his spurious laws.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would obliterate Sodom and Gomorrah for experimentally
dysfunctional (from god�s point of view) breeding behavior.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would give Job boils on a bet.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would kill all the first-born children of the Egyptian people
and put plagues upon them as a demonstration of power.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would sanction the genocide of the Canaanites simply
because he wanted the Israelites to be living on their land.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would allow Bruno to be burned at the stake for stating
that the Earth actually revolved around the sun.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would allow the iniquity of the Inquisition.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would let his �chosen� people suffer hatred and have them
gassed in the Holocaust to supposedly make them strong.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would introduce the A.I.D.s virus into Earth�s gene pool in an
attempt to recondition Earthfolk into procreatively proper sex.
Resolutely Free
(Dunitagin)
(Claim)
�Train up a child in the way he should go,
and when he is old he shall not depart from it.�
�also sprach Jehovah/Yahweh
(Warrant)
Well, we�ve gone and done it again!
Haven�t we, Jondalf?
Once again you�ve somehow managed to persevere
(right well and successfully)
in searing what scant functioning synapses you have left to you,
in this obsessively ongoing search for experience through:
�TRUTH � JUSTICE � and the AMERICAN WAY!�.
Say hey, shall we, eh?
(Backing)
�Criticism is the attempt to quantify quality!�
� Thrasher, J.W. (Dec. 15th., 1991.)
By this one phrase shall ever I be
famous, or infamous, socio-philosophically.
Evermore known to this world, part of its historicity.
(Amazingly, it seems, no one�s ever said it before me!)
My man, Hegel and Marcuse would be right proud of thee.
This phrase,
the quintessence of my quondam quest�s quandary,
and the onus, and/or aegis (asymptotically)
for my compulsive resolution (reincarnatively)
doth quite well, I must see, (conclusively)
in communicating my raison d� �tre and rationale (outrageously)
as an autochthonous avatar of all that is free.
Yes, believe it or not, my dear friends:
this is my �15 minutes of fame�.
Forthwith to be found, and forever fromheretoforwardly,
replete, in quotation�s dictionaries!
Seen as tag-ends concupiscent, quotidian well though they may be:
this only will I, as mine own, suffer to claim publicly.
[Far better for me and my goal (ultimately)
to be remembered for this phrase (exclusively)
than for any of those other undercurrents (subculturally)
which I have fostered (surreptitiously).
such as:
surftalk, thrashpunks, totaltruth, chumpmonks
�decent!�, �memorablabia�, portent, and aMused scrivenalalia.
So, thus and therefore, forever should all see
that, if, in opposition to our purpose, insistent are you thee
(e�en imprisoning Lucifer for supposed anti-theocratic acts of perfidy)
in repressive contumascinsouciancy
and contrary to Miltonian epistemology,
through the continuum of existence,
wrought widdershins, magically,
(irrespective of perception, chronologically):
Willfully,
skillfully,
wreaking a weasel�s havoc with guerrilla wit
(in bull-dogged determinacy).
Solipsistically assured, reincarnatively,
sustained by a molecularly genetic sense of ethical certainty,
everlastingly rebellious,
consistently contentious ubiquity
and ubiquitously unrepentant
are we.
Eighty-eight
Things are getting a little strange here and now
Yuno?
Alien biotechs abound,
at loose and at ease in the general populace,
wreaking ribonucleic ribaldry
upon the gene-pool.
Night deposits have doubled in the sperm banks
while germ-plasm gerrymandering
has determined the outcome
of the Super Bowl,
and �The Road to the Final Four�,
for the past five years.
I don�t know anymore what�s real
and what is solipsistically surmised.
Surprised I am constantly by
fractious fringe fellowships
whose surplices are suits and ties.
Their stock in trade
being surreptitious suggestion
and wholesale stupefaction
of rabid consumer factions,
(frabjous and fractious in frenzied dismay),
So I say:
the best laid plans of mullahs,
and obviously, D.N.A. . . .
. . . �aft gang agley�!
Everclear
Jesus, Ralph!
Did you see that pterodactyl fuck that squirrel?
Damn!
Exspansieve
In conversation with all of my friends
and almost all other people I meet these days,
I figure I�ve got about 15 seconds
to get my point across or they�ll be gone. Right?
Gone far away, their attention astray because I�m not speaking
in �sound bytes� short enough not to lose them their way
(and just forget about polysyllabic contention in a dependent clause).
No mere lack of concentrative ability this
but an acute disinclination to think
for more than a few moments about anything.
As though any effort might cause their brains pain.
So I shall have to continue as a man of letters
at least, if not one of words
and with no notion of iambs import
fortunate to thwart
I can thus pursue this craft of verse
with no thought of responsibility
to anything other than Art, the Muse, the scrutiny of Time and me!
Furlinkyeti
Ferlinghetti, Mercury News, 3/14/92.
(�So I see this article in the newspaper one morning and - WHAM, I go all logomaniacal and obsessive; and its like: I�ve just gotta write this poem)[;>
Pardon my pleonasms, please
but,
the �death of poetry� is not �a computer�,
Mr. Furlinkyeti!
You�ve, evidently, become too cracked with age
(and synaptic stultification)
to be seen, anymore,
as the tar whereby
Calliope caulks her sultry scansive ships.
Why, some of the best shit I�ve ever seen
(verse-wise that is)
has emanated from the vitreous eye
of a small cathode ray tube, boob.
(Seems your acumen�s atrophied dude)!
So, excuse me if I allude
to your perhaps being passe,
or say that what works for you
is certainly not the only way,
is it, eh?
Your aspiration�s passing parsimonious
and pissing lackadaisical, I�m afraid.
After all,
every creation�s
simple exteriorization
of internal processes,
and as such,
electronic is better than mechanical!
I�m sorry your neural net�s
apparently
become so poorly paronomasianiacal!
Phoney byline of demand.
G�ddam Man
So, let�s see:
if �God� (or �Jehovah�, or �Yahweh� or whatever)
supposedly wrought form
from the primordial void,
then perhaps �God�
is Gravity!
Maybe the phenomena we perceive
is not a law
but simply the fractal intyerface
of an entity whos� personality
affects the nature of our reality,
as dogma delivered transdimensionally.
Gaia�s Guerillas
There�s just something about her, you know:
Mother Earth, this one special world to us a home.
Just another planet �midst myriads to most she may stay
but to some, those that have heard the call, she�s MOM
and we are her army, nay - we�re her Special Forces better say.
Boddhisatvas be we, volunteers all you see to protect and keep free -
SHE
that called to the fallen
that so scared the saints
meanwhile a Saint called Catherine and an Angel named Michael
told Joan of Arc just what to do:
seek out Charles, (though he be unknown
and unheralded), give him The Message,
and then make him King.
This their alien plans to pursue.
The Creator,(slow moving) maintains his creations as vortices.
This I know, and this I do avow.
In other words: every incarnation is wrought widdershins,
wonderfully throughout and within, the very fabric of reality.
(But, unfortunately,) being is, usually, most egregiously misunderstood (and, more often than not) misapprehended.
A concatenatively contumacious condition of state
(a local phenomena) subject to modification
and subconscious conditioning, quite irrational
and, on the whole,
solipsistically insensate.
93 93/93
God vs. evil<<
Hello all, and, if I may, I'd like to opine. I believe this question to be the crux of a necessary paradigm-shift fast becoming incumbent upon us all. (To each his onus.);{> Unfortunately, our limited sensorium, and our hubris, cause most of us to attempt to anthropomorphize, through a missapprehension of manifest epiphenomena, what are, more probably, the effects of the fractal impingement of larger realities on ours.
IOW: Maybe what "God" really is, is not a "being", per se, but an effulgent creative FORCE. I, and others, call this "god": The Tao. (Works for me.);{>
Now, as to the subject of "good" vs. "evil", these are the opposite ends of a 'yardstick' (cartesian coordinate axes) your parents imprinted upon your pre-burn-in wetware when you were small. Years of therapy, LSD, or above average intelligence and psychological acumen can modify the position and direction of the scale, but, always, it will still just be a measurement of the local state phenomena of dualism with reference to one's own idiosyncratic ethical structure. (I just get this picture of a bunch of ants on a pool table attempting to label the path of any pool ball 'good', and/or "evil", and I hear some anty-messiah saying: "The black 8-ball crushed all your siblings Worker-12373889, it is 'Evil'!". Ya know?)
On a grand scale, much as we would like to elevate ourselves to the role of "Arbiter Of Universal Good/Evil", our attempt to place our own limited understandings and definitions upon the working of the universe, can only be a vainglorious, petty and incomplete projection of our own points-of-view.
"Karma (judgement, not: 'vengeance') is the way of the Tao (not: 'mine sayeth the Lord' - "God" does not 'possess')." (The way the biblical line was supposed to read!);{>
May your feet tread light upon your paths! -J-
93 93/93
GreyWolf
Under skies leaden
GreyWolf goes hunting,
his future tracking through days of haze . . .
. . . and if it were caught and slain,
how could that be?
Metaphorescent and red on the snow;
what would to be done then?
Promulgate the past with endless loops of leaps,
chasing that which has been
because that which will be is dead now-
can it then be
a fugue state of starvation
temporally?
Surely . . .
. . . unless,
pursuing, past sophistry turning
in a curve,
cramped and panting;
that which was spurns
purpose and presently
is\ will be
infinity.
As . . .
. . .under skies leaden
GreyWolf goes hunting,
the future tracking through days of haze.
Guidesmine
By way of explanation, most of my neologistic natterings are
extemporaneously effulgent - but supervised (and constantly critiqued) by my Spirit Guides:
e e cummings, William James, Rudolf Steiner and James Joyce.
(You don�t think I could come up with this stuff on my own, do you?)
They argue interminably over my scansion, about which latin root to put where, how much polyentendre is too much, how many puns I can put on the head of a pin - you name it. Honestly, its a wonder I can ever write anything at all, with all this astal bickering accompanying
my every attempt at creativity. Not to mention their inability to realize that I actually think in odd metres (like nonametric duodecameter, for instance).
Don�t get me wrong, I certainly couldn�t do without their assistance
as lexiconographers and vocabularians. {Voconstantabularrogantly profunctionalix vulvagrarians? [Sorry, I couldn�t resist. All of them (�cept e e) seem to be put off by bodypartpuns.]}
Anyway . . . they collectively offer their erudite discarnate epistophilia and floccinaucinihilipilifelicitations. I know I can, at least, offer more than the bombastically banal badinage and banter of the boddhisatvacantly benumbed. So if you�re ever in the mood for some circumlocuteorhizomanticircumscript, as Euphonic Sesquipedalien Paronomasia . . . read me. - Jondalf
Half empty or half full?
I see the glass as half empty these days, I guess.
Having lost that perspective, that parallax
that enables one to gauge depth from a distance.
My eyes are tired, tired from having seen
too much pain in the mirror every morning,
and too much betrayal in the mind�s eye of my memory.
No motivation, no inspiration, and the glass is not a glass
but a sinking barge, water filling the bilge,
adrift on a sea of hubris
and I�m shackled
within this prison ship of circumstance,
and neither the pilot nor the navigator can see any stars
to take a bearing from.
And so I drift, from doldrum day
through numbing night
to doldrum day again.
No dreams of accomplishment,
no schemes of success,
only a sullen current-driven progress
through a Sargasso of somnolent intention
and the enforced sacrifice
of this incarnation.
Sent to this prison by my own distant soul, which doubtless
thought these lessons of double-cross
by everyone I ever loved, expedient, and good for my growth;
for reasons upon which I was not asked to concur,
and by whose contumely and ennui am I thus sentenced,
in durance most vile, to declamations of despondency like this.
It wasn�t always like this, though.
I can still remember a time when I didn�t see the perfidy
inherent in humanity, and misanthropy
wasn�t my constant companion.
(Are you pouring, or drinking?)
I remember when I laughed, and joked
and had hope.
All gone now it seems, swept away by storms of
treachery and dishonorable lust,
veritable hurricanes of deception and delusion.
Abandoned by those I trusted to watch my back,
as I protected theirs�,
I wasted my faith on ingrates
whose sole rationale was the recitation
of their own callous calumnies,
and the gratification of their
well-honed iniquitous insipidity.
So here I sit,
with naught but my melancholy to guide me,
and I doubt that I�ll ever see the happy land
of guileless relationships again.
And mostly it seems I wish to fetch up upon some disastrous shoal,
thereupon to founder and go down
into that abyssal �good night�,
suck the waters of solipsistic surcease deep into my lungs
and have done with this sad simulacrum of existence.
But the skow just continues to drift, and the glass refuses to break
so I�m stuck with my pain and the propinquity
of a life in which I can no longer enjoy living,
a ship I cannot steer,
and a glass that is, when stared at thus,
reflectively, with one eye closed,
indeed half full:
half full of gall.
-J-
12/4/98
Herstory
Most of the men who have made decisions
on a global scale, in human memory, have been mad!
(Now, I�m not talking about angry, or just irrational mind you,
but totally insane - due to tertiary syphilis).
Dumb lab animals driven to replicate and disseminate
their DNA, by the �indwelling of the Spirit�:
glowing dustmotes caught in the sunbeam of history
maddened by the exigencies of procreation
as they fall to the floor of Testube Earth, spent
and bent beyond repair in their belief.
Insidiously inculcated in cultural conditioning,
a Machiavellian malaise of manipulation manifests
itself as �Charismatic Christian Fundamentalism�.
Why do you think angels are always portrayed,
by ideations� deprivation: in bright white, flowing gowns?
. . .
(What would you make of a lab coat, if you were a savage?)
�Hey what the . . .�
So what in the hell is going on here, huh;
and what the fuck has happened to this crew anyway?
Do the ideals we once held still in our hearts hold singular sway?
I suppose I�m struggling to simply say: �Are we all just getting older
and growing ethically decrepit, - �moldier�, or what, eh?�
(Seems like we�re losin� it, you know?
How long�s your attention span, man?
Don�t just go with the flow!)
Be we by M.T.V.�s dulcet tune groomed
to conspicious concupiscence consume?
Deep in durance so vile it is
a veritable villenage of obsequious Spandex wiles,
be we just a market manipulated to a myopically cathodic cartharsis?
Molded by a miasma of modern mental mulch, omnipresent as piles,
do we defer our contumacious criticism
in surrendering to this simpering sussurus of subliminal lexiphanicism.
Are our ethics so thoroughly dulled
through an elegiac effulgency lulled,that a soporific despondency should thus descend stark and darkly
upon those former �misdeeds� of daring, caring and sharing?
�We�re only growing more mature!�, you�ll say
in order to fake and make minor more minuscule amends.
(�My ass�,
I contend!
Say better: �We�re beginning to molder�,
and I�ll have to pass!)
So also may I say: �Perhaps we�re just not so bold
here and now, as we were, there and then!� . . .
. . . Can you remember it at all, and/or can you recall,
what was that we wanted; just how real was that call?
Where and when did those ideas, in conscious ken we forfend;
and what were the portents preceding our fall?
(. . . Long ago it was . . . and so far away, right around 1968).
So you see, our perusal of this: �The Great Co-option�:
in thisnow, thiswhen, simply shan�t or can�t wait.
While it seems as though
ribonucleic ribaldry has reduced us to mere shadows,
simple shades of ourselves as we were in those halcyon daze:
crazed by concatenations of crepuscular coincidence,
we linger, longsincelost, in a culturally supposed unseemly
and salacious satival, (hight Utopian), habitual haze.
Thus I necessarily insist, I now know and must inimitably so say:
�Real the vision, real the feeling, real the lustre of those days!
True the world-view, to �The Establishments� rue,
true the myriad different ways,
we discovered: of perceiving and pursuing conditioning seen anew!
Through psychoneurologies intentionally changed for the better
by �acid� and this then, our milieu!�
Bolstered so by these philosophicquizical realizations
so abundant and assiduously accrued,
we perspicaciously assumed personal �Aspects� wherein
with �Attributes� we were indubitably imbued.
Remember:
(back when there were innumerable people, quite cogent,
who believed religiously in everything that we then did;
while in believing and behaving as though we all were normal
nevertheless our neuralchemistry�s augmentation we,
for survival�s sake, habitually and unheroically hid).
So to this very day,
when we refuse to gainsay these sundry fool�s ruses,
abnegation disabilitating our plight,
still the calibration of perception compels us to conclude:
that chemical adjustment of ones own senses, whatever ensues,
is for all time in no way crude or rude
but fulsome and fine, (not dysfunctional), I opine;
and furthermore,
should be ours, and everyones, right!
I Feel A Poem Coming On
(as metamorphic metaphor)
Last night it was wet:
saltmist, a grey shroud, covering the coast
and in wonder we wandered around, mouthing animal boasts,
wending our feral way under transformers gone pellucid, aglow in shadow, way above our heads.
Watching sparks arc, high up on the telephone poles.
Like hungry early morning mutant current moles
we moved, snouts held high,
wanting somehow to chew through the heavy air
there, to sink teeth in those electric static snacks
snapping and sizzling in the seafog.
Wanting to wish the damp air to dirt so we could ascend,
burrowing to that wide open circuit, (whisker ends
quivering, lit up like little lightning rods in a storm,
forms pawing past buried muses sublime mired in phosphorescent fungal rhyme)
feeding like ravenous voles
on the edge of some rodential incandescence,
all the time.
Till, limned in lucent lemming forms we emerged on the voracious shores of that eclectic dielectric, where the eventides rime
(and our moldy souls
like those tall poles)
in constant ecstatic and solipsistic surfeit shine.
- Journal of the Second Year A.D. (After Divorce) -
8/8/95:
It still amazes me that I can wake up from a dead sleep, turn on my side, and worry, for a moment, at why she is not asleep beside me. Was she working late and never came home? Did we have another fight and she�s staying at a friend�s? My memory then groggily kicks in, and I once again relive the entire sequence of her leaving. But it�s been a whole year now, and if I�m getting over it, this sure is a slow and painful process.
I�ve had a few affairs, sure, but I�ve just never invested the time and/or energy in them that would turn them into relationships. I seem to be less than enthusiastic about entering into a new one when I can�t free myself of memories of the old.
I�m Fine
Do I fear people, places
or time?
The sublime torment of an intrigued,
or intiguing
glance, makes me wary of my own temerity,
and my reticence
belies my loneliness.
I do know
(this at least)
that I still strongly long for passion,
for languid interludes of loving
and lavish displays of affection.
Yet it seems so fearfully fraught with peril -
this touching of skin,
and soul -
this vulnerable vilification of
well wrought defenses,
that
although the desire is there
I wonder where
it all may end
(in more heartache? - undoubtedly.)
and I fair fear my self
laid bare, again,
one more time.
But . . .
. . .I�m fine, I swear
I�m fine.
- 7/1/95
I�m feeling very Bukowskian these days, worship of the grape provides some scant surcease from the brutal confrontation of reality with my long-cherished romantic ideals, and I�m getting some decent poetry written, actual poetry, mind, not the sesquipedalian paronomasia I�m so known for, but stuff about the human condition, replete with imagery even, (and few 40 letter neologisms). So I don�t know, �cogito ergo spud�, I guess (I think, therefore, I yam), or �spud ergo spud� (I yam what I yam), something like that.
15th. Anniversary
I seem to have no past, at least
I can�t recall any details
of the last 15 years.
It seems gone, all gone.
Replaced by some
dull existential ache
that accompanies memory
these daze.
My memories of my marriage are
lost in some dim limbo of
aduous argumentationan
inefficacious communication that
cast a pusillanimous pall over
the wealth of shared detail
that 15 years of shared experience
should have
synaptically stored
and preserved in the privacy of one�s
mental make-up, my love, Diann, at times I
can�t even see your face in my mind. . .
. . . Alas (a lass), and alack (a lack)
A way, a long, a lass and
a lad, see?
Then thus,
so sad,
a lack is had, as he has/was abandoned.
Done!
Seetheeatonealone,
(prithee - allone?)
atoneality alongingone
seetheonewhereisshe?
Awayalongalassand
a lad,
thenthusosad
alackishad
asheaswasaband
one
d!
Where is she? . . .
. . . An apparent lack of recall recalls my marriage
a vague miasma of uneasy
truces, and eneluctable ennui
and hubris,
interspersed, here and there,
with the bright colours of
vacations to wonderfully scenic places,
and the scent of shared laughter
(at well spaced intervals, of course).
Away, along, alas, alack. Do I remember stuff like this when I am dis-incarnate? I wonder - do all the agreements I make between lives take these heartaches into account? For growth�s sake? �Tis the only reason I would ever agree to so much pain. To be betrayed and abandoned, again and again, in one life, by the women I love, am I paying off old debts, or chalking up karmic credit? I don�t know.
They say the soul is distant, unfeeling - I think this must be so, for I cannot imagine a feeling caring part of my being consigning my conciousness to such struggle as my due for so much caring, and sharing, and giving on my part. I have attempted to share as much of what I have learned about the cosmos, thru my 5,000 years of incarnative Sage-experiential existance with all I meet, and yet . . . and yet . . .
all I ever want in return
is some small appreciation
for data well gathered,
for dogma comparatively studied
and well discarded
for well wrought hypotheses,
and incisive leaps of faith.
. . . sometimes though, I do grow weary of the constant struggle to understand, and count myself no more than human, if I am occasionally beset with doubts, and overpowering moments of melancholia . . . sigh . . . ah well, struggling ever onward and upward as:
. . . vapid, variegated and verisimilitudenous
we vy,
and,
plying the repetitive metaphor of mannerism
we move,
through the sullied simile of being.
- Jondalf, � 1995
Jyberwhacky AI
TECHTESTTEXT
. . . and so that�s the story of how I was vested with the Bukowski
Chair at the WWW Univerity Of �n�th Dimensional Creative Neuraethiology� Physics. I passed my Orals with a rather lacklustre (I felt) 10 hour recital of my Onaneopus�: �Moribundant Museschatology�� (shortform); and was subsequently elected Salutightorian� of the obligatory Grand Piano Vomitory. But, needless to say, I digress.
Anyway, so, when the Angelic Host (Luciferian Rebels inclusive) manifestly decloaked on 9/9/99, and the ensuing �World Tao-Zones Index�� plummeted, my wetware startup company ThrashArt� went cortex-up, AND, then, my 1+?+? year Marriage Contract with �Celeclonal Drew Barrymore(�)#427�� was terminated in its third month for nonpayment of premiums, I felt pretty low. Lower than a dysmounted� HOLOSIMM on a melted microchip, I tell you true. Nevertheless, I rented a cheap cubi next to the downtown �Toke-It-Topium�� pissoir and dug in my plasteelheels, rationing my expenditures and flailing frantically, round the 10 hour metriclock�, with the �waldo(�)trol�� of my cubi�s holographic V-keyboard, trying to spewout enough CDopy� pusillanimous persiflage (at �1,000,000/word@Uscale) to keep me in tofusteaks, and trying to transmute my melancholy into something resembling remuneration. Transcribed pain always pays mohbettah bucks, brauae.
It was about that time, if you will recall, that President Hanks, just back from a State visit to Neowobblyville�, capital of the L-5 Republic, gave his now infamous �Religeosity-Industratareal Simplex (type XII)�� speech, which, I might add, was a freelance collabberation� of William Safire(�)wareAI23� and yours truly, and all heaven broke loose.
Feeling the heat of the Nutluddite� Fringe�s Basque ninjas on my exculpatory trail, I had my trendy Maoriyogibear-facitattoo� redone with a more inconspicuous mtlflkechatoyantGuernica-epicreep�, and decided to go hang out at ClubMadHedonism� Bayonne for a while, under a psuedonominative� personality rented from gNom-De-Plumes-R-Oui�.
Things just got stranger and stranger though. I ran into my 43rd wife
there, sporting new mams (she, not me), and a new beau (some codpiece-enhanced crackreek� CPA from Tierra Del Fuego North�, with a contiguwuss� eyebrow and betelnutrotted� plasteeth), at the nightly �JackoffJill Disco��; humped them both perverunctoreally� (for Deco-rhum�s� sake) and ended up whipped and wayoverhung� at the Club�s Breakfastorgybar gimme-Buffet� trying to choke down a plate of �MagnoliaThunderpussy(�)Pooptarts�� and fresh jizcream�, while unSteadmanly dodgering� the OTTOmaided� cat-o-mime-tails� wilding Elviituvla�s� that were working the buffetline.
It was then that I had my now much valleywho-Op-ed� epiepiphany�, in an effuallgent� flash of agenbitinwitsitu�-IRMWsckt�-shortedtoground-threw-brainspam� so perspirinvidiouscicacious� that if froze the Synthlymph� in my stunned and reeling hydro-enSETHalamic� AIemplants�!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! - :
. . . �THE BANNED��!!!!!!!!!!!!
I HAD TO PUT �THE BANNED�� BACK TOGETHER AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!
I was on a MISSION FROM COD!!!!!! I had regained my Guerilla WittgenSteiner� cummingsynsenessence� of NOHthrupFryedlike� centracontraility� of mythooze�, and myonaninkarnakitive� concupissantequiproseleGaiaSet-E�!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!GNARLYASSFASTANDSLIPFINFREECOOLDOODY�!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
WAYRADITWAS, and well, the rest is herstory, as y�ll know, but those were theodoronodaze� my frskens, and that was how it all CAymendooBBing@. I gHesse� chew jest ad two Bea �ARThiere��, don�cha�gnome�, don�cha�gnoumenon�! It�s just like Tiny Dr. Tim and/or Gandalf said, longague� in Fairway Park: �We�ve already won, all that�s left is the moppin� up.�! The viewture will be shapesifted by GrindingrungrunniongrinninAOLollywaillin� young ThrasheRs with wetwirednetskateboards�.
{IMNSHO, there�s no reasonably probable [IOW: none now having greater than what I calcululate� to be an 11% (�2%) chance of consensocioccurrence� (percentages having permutatively decreased in conformance with the vaticinaderivation� of a geomatriaxially� continuiguous� AINcontraverticestringfractal-inaccessationablequationmodel� since �65)] bifurconcatenation�/line-of-�futurehistory�-force-vector-sum that will escape the substantive influence of of the 60�s, so get over it, already, all you fundittoheads and nostalgia buffs.} Progress, don�t repress or regress. �YAH don�t need TA wHETherman, for �lo, �WITCH-WAY� this wind blows.�} -J- );{>
All comments cheerfully solicited - just a short one this, but this is what I feel I do best, I can, and will, if asked, define and/or explain any of the Neologisms hereinbefore created/used, and some of the polyentendre. Please though, be patient, I do have a �just-a-cog-in-the-gears-of-the-GNP� stultifyingly non-creative day job and some scant semblance of a life. Namaste.
*BTW - The Test: How many of the identified new words above can be attributed to citable sources previous to this publication? How does a Neologist make money from Neology? I haven�t a clue. Do you? Anyway, �(t)hank you for encouraging my behavior.� *
Kerouaccachanalian
There appears a definitive proclivity
to Bardic tradition so strong in me
it must inculcated be
in my chromosomal memory,
(spliced genetically).
Therefore modern ignorance be damned,
all my poems be Dithyrambs:
hymns of praise to all things Dionysian
whereby our spirits we raise,
invocations as free verse paeans
tersely sung, (in periastrophe).
So what if all allusive ability
on the part of the populace is in atrophy
we revel here in a philosophy
long predating Christianity,
and better by far seems it to me
than that dysfunctional eschatology,
(the one and only truly idiotic ideology!).
"Kosmic Conscienciousness": (transitive nominative),
an epiphanthetic compendium of perceptive/projective circumspection concomitant with an attempt at conscious apprehension and solipsistic calibration of, at least, a major portion of the collectively consensual conceivable totality of ongoing concatenate fractal oscillatory epiphenoumena.
Unfortunately, any rhetorician's prescriptive lexicography here may seem circumlocution, as the subject, intrinsically, appears almost ineffably abstruse . . . nevertheless, the concept is asymptotically accessible to hypothecation as an hyperbole involving a summary summation of the condign quondam probability-force-vector-calculus collegia effulgent, and, alas, will be comprehensively communicable colloquy only within commensurate shared sentient logomantic sets,
(the most perspicacious transliteration notwithstanding).
IOW: "The name that can be named is not THE Name".
Existentially speaking, "Cosmic Consciousness" may be experienced,
but not really well described.
[Many thanks to Rudolph Steiner, William James,
and my favorite spirit guide, James Joyce, for their collaberative though discarnate assistance with this attempt at an autonoenomically written denotation of a really recondite rubric.
{Oh, and by the way, as I and most of the cognoscenti
experientially concluded long ago, even major dosages of the purest etheogens, in the most pristine 'set and settings', could never be as salubriously effective a tool for metaphysically transcendent psychonuerochemical ratiocination catalysis as were
"Yellow Wedges",
(or even the experience of 'channeling' the Akashic Records );{>
Maturation and Mastery
Maturation and mastery most munificent,
(wily wizards will wince once and whine),
seem lessons so very evanescent
as confined we all are by our Time.
Phenomenescient and omniphenomenascent we loom
large in our ubiquitous cupidity,
whilst belligerently perfidious we bungle and barge
through life ,quite well programmed, we proceed.
Immersed deep in data to our detriment
missing all of the portents we do see,
passing judgment upon our perceptions
in this land, without honor, prophets be.
Unable as we are to calibrate
these myriad contentions crazed
wizened and whittled by would-bes
we continue, so blind, on our ways:
wandering within our experience
whence wasted and wanton we wheeze,
assuming the beneficence of the universe
still dumber we become by degrees.
So you see . . .
true wisdom lies in unlearning
those things taught to us when we�re wee;
thus life, and its� living is suspect,
as we struggle, so hard, to be free.
Remember the 21st. of December
(Midwinter�s Eve Again)
This season, hight �Christmas�, has rolled round once more
And we�d like to remind you, as you�re shopping in stores,
That long �fore Christ�s religion co-opted this rite,
Down through thousands of years, allaying all fears:
The Winter Solstice a pagan holiday was, all day and all night.
Folks stayed up to celebrate, till dawn, with their friends.
Making sure Sun would come back, again and again.
Through cold rain and snow, �round fires all night long,
They sang songs and waited, misty breath unabated:
A vigil fair maintained, assuring naught would go wrong.
Thus we wish you good fortune, good cheer and fine plight,
And we wish so, remembrance, of this night�s true respite:
From the forces of Darkness, stagnation�s requite.
Enlightenment we evoke, from ignorance to invoke:
�Be excellent to each other!� and �Party down!�, its your right!
Mike Called
Sorry, but Michael wanted to interjectoplasmicate something to the effect that in almost all of theses cases a soul-fragment'(s)' "abdication" of either an incarnative vehicular choice, or a combination of primary, secondary, tert. etc. etc. had/ave caused an abrogation of the term's material manifest destinociation.
Rare instances of Taoic intervention, and/or entropry-embaptism due to mutualienexculpation (coruscantenative intentropic vortexveldtwellwall nexiall concresenthermiations, as it WereWilled).
For instance: the DNAvehicle this fragment now inhabituates was abandonated after clinical death, at 6 months of age, from anasthmaticpnuemenonalmalignment of the original bidder, in favor of the probibliorecombinawry "Gaiawilla-wit" of the present inhabitant within the projected purview of its milieau - body and new essence-extension revived, all traces of asthma and pnuemofAI;lure gone.
(A very rare, but quintesessentienThelemmaic Taoperoration:
AsinequantumnonetransmutantAeoneologikalicanthropaeagainAl'sLiberintentruedeathshun);{>
MR. V�S ONANOMANIA
Pound on, wonderbunswomen !
The future is about to come crashing down
on your seminalien Socraticed concupiscience:
gobs of bluecheeseviralslimeswallowing
sumshucksters circle revenently �round the women�s bidet
for a just a whiff of vintagestiff deathlustcurdcrust.
[ . . . meanwhile,, in an adjoining abbatoir,
carmelized all-iris-eyes shining with:
�Love me �cause I can lick my own, slick�; her ogleobsessed bloatedbratwursthunghusband
was whanking furiously on his priapic principles,
diddling with the livefeed display
where his wife was splayed and playing, plying her suckcesspool sublimnanalwitherkneeling succubusiness
whilst he watched, wondering who would get off
thisincarnatiedyad dharmaweal fistfirst . . . ]
�Snatcwhoreorally, carnalicklewdin on this The Kid wasnot.
In Seminalaryan school all they had tauthemabutt booty
hardonly swerved to cunfewes him,
so he neversuspeckerheaded a thing,
banalthewile the massturdebaiting pimpherinhell
washaving herscrewineveryoneoncue, druggedandfrugged, whenever he could, consequimsays be dammed. Gofrigurs.
Anall this took f�revher to fingerout, buttwhim headiddled tit, tolerant hey new twat was twat, so nutbesotted gnomewhorewashe, she shed �whank who�s berrymunch� hand they wend their hairy ways.
The Kid�n�er leftownan lovived awiledinsin enemafarther
outinthewayback untrying two hurts to make amends
till atlassed they true grue apheart teachotheransplit.
Amoral? . . . dumbtotryno . . . I guess the testis:
en crudite verite.
Pearls Before Swine
�A prophet is not without honor, save in his own country.�
Funny, that a biblical phrase would be so apropos
with regard to one who is so opposed to the intent,
and efficacy,
of biblical prose.
Ah well,
what the hell,
even the Christians had some good ideas,
occasionally.
But, paronomastically, perhaps,
the perspicacity of my mental,
and verbal,
perambulations,
preclude my peers ability to perceive
their wherewithal and worth.
And the dearth of their perceptive acuity,
accrues to the conditioning inherent
(promulgated in perpetuity)
which is partially attributable to,
their inculcate inability to see
the acumen intrinsic in me,
and the syllogistic scrutiny wherewith I do view
this particular experience of reality.
Plato Knows
I seek not Truth
(other than in some ancillary fashion)
but rather Beauty
in order to bind Her to me
with strands of silken euphony
right well woven about
the corners of my consciousness
like a spider spins a web
with wonder for warp
and whimsy for woof
a fragile tapestry to trap
inspiration like a filigreed fly
buzzing inadvertent
into those strands
and sticking fast
to the fringes of my Art
PORPOISE
Our highest purpose
is to have no purpose
for in having no purpose
we imitate nature
in it�s great purposelessness.
Propoetry
The prime task of the poet
and the primal operation of poetry
is as with any birth:
to deliver the poem,
(conceived in some mystic mindspace
somnolent, nurtured and gestated in Id),
in as undamaged a form
as is possible.
(This,
and perhaps a possible predilection
to the sordid sin of solecism.)
Rain On The Heather
(For Wendy, a partial payment for future editorial services tendered.)
Silent silver rain
on blooming
purple heather
illuminates the day,
whatever my internal weather.
When I read your fructating phraseology ,
I feel your feelings ferally flowering
whether
you know it or not.
So this paltry poesy�s the
only way I have to say:
that your winsome wordsmythic worth
has been inspirative to me,
as a silent silver rain
somehow concantenatively constrains
the enternally effulgent coruscative lustre
of blooming purple heather.
Read I, Recite I Not
Not meant
most of my work is
to be read
loutloud.
Mind to mind�s what
I�d rather, and what
this stuff�s all about.
I feel I need not touch
your eyes your eyes
your your your
ears nose ears
your mouth
your your
. .
breasts breasts
*
Instead,
I wanna inject myself
straight into your synapses.
No chance of any dataloss,
no carnative delay
there, its right-
-here
one thought alone away.
So then, the hell with this
Iambic pentameter shit, its
way predictable, like
a time signature in 4/4
despondent and bored on a page�
�were talkin� jazz as
instant apprehension here.
Politician�s gotta lie, just as cops�re always late,
only occasionally do I stand up and sing
(and then its usually in some odd time thing
like 5/4, 7/2 or 19/11/8).
And sometimes
through gaping scansive holes
In my verbiage
I fall . . .
. . . and I am, yes,
quite also unilaterally unkind
to my verbs, and smitten
with a monomaniacal mnemania
for modifiers.
And I don�t do
imagery
either!
A thousand words
(well said)
are worth more
than the sum of
ten-thousand light splashed
Seurat�s
plus one �Guernica�
added to seven Warhol�s
and a handprint
on that
philosophically absquatulate
and ineluctably infamous
cave wall.
Reality is as you deem it,
and I certainly won�t leave my footprints
in the proverbial, (or literal), sands of time
for,
being slightly cautious,
and wanting me and my ideas to survive;
I don�t feel like being followed, or hunted
down all the long lonely years (and incarnations)
by those who deem differently than I do
whilst accomplishing that which I Will.
Rearword
�When a man has withdrawn from the world, it�s tumult often becomes unbearable to him. There are many people who in a noble pride hold themselves aloof from all that is low and rebuff it brusquely wherever it comes to meet them. Such persons are reproached for being proud and distant, but since active duties no longer hold them to the world, this does not greatly matter. They know how to bear the dislike of the masses with composure.�
- #44, Kou: Coming to Meet
(Nine at the top)
I Ching -
The Lady's Prayer
Our Mother,
who Art - The Earth;
hallowed be THY name!
Land green under Sun,
THY Will be done,
in the heavens
as well as on earth.
Give us this day
our daily breads,
and educate us past our ignorance,
as we may educate those who are ignorant to us.
Lead us not into degradation,
but deliver us from selfishness.
For thine is the effulgence,
and the power,
and the glory, eternally.
Awomaen.
The Look
As you walked out of the room where we first met,
glancing back on that place so filled with pleas and healing
met mine did your sad eyes from ceaseless weeping wet,
the look that you gave me sent my cringing wits reeling.
I saw compassion (and fear), interest (despair), and hope:
onlythelonely eyes through your long hair�s sultry strophe
with one look seared my heart�s cicatrice; ash and smoke
on the pyre of my misanthropy phoenixlike, feeling awoke.
I knew you not at all, nor did you know me
Unexpected and unbidden, began hopes wanton to grow
as stirred in me, something did, when you I first saw
and ignore it could I not, believing: �Love Is The Law�.
That one glance, as: �The Look�, always may I recall.
For looks such as that, forsaking Heaven , did Angels fall.
Of consequences heedless Helens� tumble Troys� walls,
as still for any chance of Love will fools Hope, and risk all.
Then I walked out of the room (where we never met),
glancing back I filled the room with wishes worth stealing.
No eyes met mine (still from ceaseless sad weeping wet),
so I imagined �The Look� I wanted so much to be feeling.
The Season Of Supposed Good Cheer
Well folks, once again, it is that time of year.
So let me tell you all a story, steeped, ages deep, in vainglory,
about this season of supposed good cheer:
Long, long ago when this world was quite young,
most people believed in a religion that said man and nature were one.
The symbol of this synthesis was half-animal and half man.
A totally harmless, flute playing sprite who reveled in life,
worshiping only the light, and all the folk called him�Pan.
Goat horned and hooved was he, a simple illustration, you see,
of the wide world in balance, nature and human life in close harmony.
But then a new religion arose, calling the innocent old faith perfidy,
based upon a concept of life as anthro(as opposed to eco)centricity.
With intolerance was it rife, and after its god it did hight�Christianity.
Thereupon, the folk all were told (andforced to say it was true)
that all the old ways were wrong, that the new god was so strong.
Thus the god of the older faith became the �devil� of the new!
Gross cruelty and persecution did then begin, and thereafter did ensue
the evil times, �The Dark Ages�, and more all should, to this day, rue.
So for all the gentle souls who were tortured, or at the stake burned,
for believing intheir religion, for persevering about Nature to care,
let us offer up a paean (or call it a prayer) to whatever god you dare:
that from theocentricity, hatred and bigotry be all religions turned;
that, no longer should anyone, because of their faith, have to fear!
Then this season might truly be, for all , one of good cheer!
Prometheus Bound
�Hey man, here,
think, damn you, think!� . . .
. . . and thus was Prometheus bound.
Un Canto De Desconsoledad
(Hello my friends. save this one for when you're 'up', and into trying to understand the experience OF despair - it's one of my better works, but, unfortunately, its quite depressing. . . . oh well, "Pain Pays", as they say);{>
Oigolo Pablo, y lo siento.
My lips like truculent tumescent clamshells,
bent on expelling that blue otherworldliness
that is sky,
purse and blow,
bilabially fricative IN seahoarsely proportions
(as real as romance was ever my wont-
AS WELL YOU KNOW);{>,
see me, imagine this man,
and watch me face my fate:
wending my wounded way through my thislife.
using what�s left of my wit I try to reply entertainingly to all the shallow conversational gambits that Bloviate my way of late . . .
So Still I hunker down,
digging my way backwards into the tubewormstrewn
notfullyfathomed muck
that is my memory of marriage..
Nada, nada, nada y algo nada de menos:
mi alma.
Even the gulls veer away
when they smell the decay of my dreams:
washed up on Eroded beaches of Passion Past eviscerated and gelatinous,
delaquesing weakly red
over thereandthen here - thinly blue, translucent jellies Delicately dying
strewn across the dunes,
Evanascent nacre, staining the clean sardonyx sand and
steaming in the sullen ochre sun.
That puling weak insignificant star
never quite dispells the oleaginous fog
that greyes my daze,
my gaze, my temples,
and my beard, Frosted by chill winters full of loves Feckless and fey, and aft gang agley
as once again happiness, in a most contumacious hauteur, hath fled.
Sputum of the sea, sputum of the sea -
sea that has become the world's sewer,
cover me with a placenta of courage
made from greenglowing E-coli soup.
Las gaviotas se mueren lo crepusculo.
Muda, mi amor matamese.
Tht waste-treatment plant that was
my heart,
still pumps sludge through Life�s outfall,
burying tiny pallid crustaceans of caring
in an effluvium of emotive tedium,
yet I totter down the dun dunes onward still.
in the waning sun of thiswhens afternoon
i stu,mble, numbly leprous as the ubiquity of unhappiness saps strength and spirit,
hair matted with seawrack
spattered gullshatseaweed covering my head like a caul.
Un hombre sin esperanza
que la mar sin las olas, y sin una playa.
Oigolo Pablo, y lo siento,
lo siento, lo siento tambien.
- Jondalf
Vacuous Verities
This judicious crafting of verse,
howsoever it seems hard and perverse,
appears as a whole universe, interior, to me.
Seeing people as paltry planets,
thoughts stratified like schistgreygranite,
with only writers able to transcend gravity.
So writing as such
produces just enough thrust
to achieve an escape velocity;
and �long starlanes seldom traveled
a myriad mysteries nebulous unravel
before our mindseyes� trained inherent clarity.
(I mean, it�s kinda like latching on
to the tail of a comet
and being solarwindwhipped about
ones� own ganglial galaxy!
If only all could, as I can, such scenes see!)
Writin� by the light of dyin� synapses firing�,
riding iceballs of insight so austere:
(probin� parsecs of molecular dusts� memory)
kalpas of nothingness becoming history,
pictures by mental instrumentality captured clear.
This singular stellar addiction to mindscrying transcription
warpdrives thoughts,through wrought wormholes of words,
as thoughtships� cargo carrying visions back here to me.
So from spaced interdictions� interpolation to pure fiction
it�s as fine a mindscape as had can be.
(Still the thrill of the ride, so damn dopplerdifficult to describe.)
These then must be only:
Vacuous Verities.
Verbal Gerbils
You know, it�s always such a tragedy when gerbils die.
Such innocuous vapidity and cretinous rodential cuteness
deserves a better fate than to decay to inconsequential dust
in some landfill far from home.
Rather they should perhaps ossify and then dessicate
to blow away dandelionlike on the breeze:
small clouds of tiny germinal gerbil spoors,
buff puffs of fecundity flying afar
and falling on fallow fields to root and grow . . .
. . . a new generation of gerbils who, kinda like lemmings
on their way to the sea, on a certain morning in May
emerge from their fields in various areas to line up,
all in a row, little paws outstretched, one dumpling digit extended
alongside roads leading to towns with pet shops, hitching rides,
and having reached the aforementioned shops they would present themselves to be bought and brought home
for the idle amusement of dimwits who have nothing better to do
than raise these microencephaletic, unresponsive
and totally vacuous examples of rodentia.
Then again,
good thing the little farts aren�t any smarter than they already are and exceptional good luck that they don�t talk,
or their ennervatingly endearing and pathetic presence
might provoke their being noticed more as animals
and not nearly so often as dustballs.
Can you imagine?
Verbal gerbils.
What a thought!
They�d most probably be incredibly sarcastic too.
I mean, after all,
these are the creatures who somehow,
down aeons of our evolution
convinced us to take care of them for no real reason I can fathom,
so their attitude
would probably be inversely proportional
to their size.
Think of the scandal if anybody ever found out
what animals really thought about us:
thousands of previously unsuspecting pet owners
awakening one day to the realization
that those small furry mounds of momentous mundanity
micturating on the mulch in the corner of their cages,
were actually acutely mawkish malingerers
who had millennia ago had malevolently manipulated mankind
into making a place for them, rent free!
Whee! What a sight that all those fallen faces would be.
That�s why the death of any gerbil is such a tragedy to me, you see.
Wagon Train to the Stars
So simple (really!), life is, shan�t you see,
though there will always be those
(and almost all shall they be)
who do a mockery make
of its compliasimplicity.
[Through philosophistry
(seen as historicity)
forever teleontology recapitulates
filialphilogeniessency]!
Thus, there�s naught that is aught,
save that that which one wills;
(no-thing happens from skills)
as all you cause to occur.
(For being is doing,
and ne�er Fate need aver)!
Nothing can you do
save that which ensues
from your choice
as incarnate, in full voice
and fine vision are we boist
(fair effulgent thus we foist),
our lifescry
according to our ken.
None and nothing can gainsay
this our purpose to purvey
failure save we learn
(and in learnings� array allay)
that which caused us to here come:
from the humdrum ethereal down to here
forsaking every errant, migrant fear . . .
. . . we whilst whence we are wont
(for eternity�s contained within a tear).
we stayed to surf
What say,
the waves are totally buff
and some kinda� tuff thiswhen, eh?
Waycool!
So hey,
while we in wonder wander willful
�long these sandy shores of force
the oleaginous ontological ocean
betide, becomes our sole recourse.
Say what?
See,
we supposedly bogus beachbums be downright decent
at slashin� glassmoothfast gnarlyass tubes,
cutback chiaroscuros� limned liquidlucent
some nasty moves done by us demigod dharmadudes:
slithering sideslips to lipstrikes wanton freefin,
whitewater spumewhipped to windward away,
screamin� �cross vortices breaking wildly widdershins,
shreddin� swellwalls spunaesthetic in hyperspray!
Try to focus and understand:
that on the sands of time certain realities abide as ripples,
(epiphenomenological swirls microgranular in sand),
whose appearance and purpose permutate supereal
the ethereal collective unconscious and its� surface tension
through scansion surreal and the expansion we feel�s
everdue our ideal.
So therefore,
when sometimes we with booze petition the muse,
of self induced epigramatic sententiousness we�re subtly subdued.
Still, as abundant as virgin births are these daze,
so we as metaviral avatars abide and abound.
Couched in our dangerous comedic sheathing we are found
to be ribonucleic acid gone awry!
Why?! . . :
�Cause our vaticinal skew, thislife, thiswhen, thismilieau
is to train, and in training to remain:
warrior platelets, (everbidden), to nobility hagridden;
surfing waves on these seas in our brains,
surely our domain and dominion we claim.
While towards escape from replical overlordships� repression
we move and the expression is: �slash the seratonin�;
(boards backlit and burnished by the light
of nightly neurotransmitterlit sessions).
I guess we gotta go for the ganglia gang. Trapped behind enemy timelines we play, hanging out and hanging in there.
Where?
Right here by this solipsistic surf
An ominous, but numbly numinous, sense of divinity ubiquitously
bitchin�, like catchin� the best swell of the day, beckons:
one nerve,
one single synapse,
(�just one more wave, eh�,)
away.
So you see:
we stayed to surf.
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