STAY ADDICTED, STAY AFRAID, STAY ASLEEP, AND STAY A SLAVE!

That's...

STAY ADDICTED, STAY AFRAID, STAY ASLEEP, AND STAY A SLAVE!

and just in case you may have missed, once again, we give you this.

STAY ADDICTED, STAY AFRAID, STAY ASLEEP, AND STAY A SLAVE!

I promised myself to write at least one a day, but much to my dismay, my mind is dismal on this day. What should I say? How will I entice them with my wordplay? **** if I know, only 3 people will probably read it anyway...

Maybe later.

A woman with weary eyes, wearing a white wool blouse waits for the walk sign while watching the cars converge at the concrete confluence of a crowded intersection.

Roses are red
Violets are Blue
The government's
******* us
Let's have a coup

This is but a test, one for
A mind in need of rest,
And though it's surely not his best,
It still is nothing to detest
He's drifting in a sea of intuition,
His expression is abreast
He's seeking for a resolution
He hopes not in vain to jest
He seeks the further involution
Of this sense felt in his chest
As he is wand'ring
Through his contemplation,
Pondering his expectations
Seeking his elucidations; but
Just where might these be found?
Within the lines upon the page
Or their enunciated sound?

I don't have the answers
to these questions...

“The Only philosophy which can be responsibly practiced in face of
despair is the attempt to contemplate all things as they would present
themselves from the standpoint of redemption. Knowledge has no light but
that shed on the world by redemption: all else is reconstruction, mere
technique. Perspectives must be fashioned that displace and estrange the
world, reveal it to be, with its rifts and crevices, as indigent and distorted
as it will appear one day in the messianic light. To gain such perspectives
without velleity or violence, entirely from felt contact with objects – this
alone is the task of thought. It is the simplest of all things, because the
situation calls imperatively for such knowledge, indeed because
consummate negativity, once squarely faced, delineates the mirror-image
of its opposite. But it is also the utterly impossible thing, because it
presupposes a standpoint removed, even though by a hair’s breadth, from
the scope of existence, whereas we well know that any possible knowledge
must not only be first wrested from what is, if it shall hold good, but is also
marked, for this very reason, by the same distortion and indigence which it
seeks to escape. The more passionately thought denies its conditionality for
the sake of the unconditional, the more unconsciously, and so
calamitously, it is delivered up to the world. Even its own impossibility it
must at last comprehend for the sake of the possible. But beside the
demand thus placed on thought, the question of the reality or unreality of
redemption itself hardly matters.”
~Theodor Adorno, Minima Moralia

Whoever wrote "all men are created equal" never saw ****.

[There doesn't appear to be anything here]

I've just reached 10,000 page views. A small milestone, granted.  Nonetheless, it is a welcoming reassurance that my work has not fallen on deaf ears, and a warm encouragement to continue onward. I offer you a bounty of my unyielding gratitude, for not only your support, but also for the luminous community you have all created here and allowed me to be a part of. This place is truly a wonder. It's a rarity that I don't find my self astonished and surprised multiple times per day by some of the outpourings of unbridled creativity that turn up in my feed.

With that, I thank you once more, and bid you adieu.

******* insomnia!
I will throw hypnotic sedative shurikens at you and lacerate the hands with which you stir my mind awake so many nights!!!!!!

Time for bed...


Curses, foiled again!

The stamp of corporate influence
over all of reality
has become so
vastly encompassing
that now,
I can't even
take pleasure
in nature
without it finding me.
I can't even look
at a waning moon
without seeing that
stupid little man with his
stupid little fishing pole and hearing
that stupid little violin playing
that stupid little theme.
*******, Spielberg,
I want my ******* moon back.

It's a shame, they don't sell sleep at the store.

There once was a boy named Gimmesome Roy. He was nothing like me or you.
’Cause laying back and getting high was all he cared to do.
As a kid, he sat in the cellar, sniffing airplane glue.
And then he smoked bananas –– which was then the thing to do.
He tried aspirin in Coca–Cola, breathed helium on the sly,
And his life was just one endless search to find that perfect high.
But grass just made him want to lay back and eat chocolate–chip pizza all night,
And the great things he wrote while he was ****** looked like **** in the morning light.
And speed just made him rap all day, reds just laid him back,
And ******* Rose was sweet to his nose, but the price nearly broke his back.
He tried *** and THC, but they didn’t quite do the trick,
And poppers nearly blew his heart and mushrooms made him sick.
Acid made him see the light, but he couldn’t remember it long.
And hashish was just a little too weak, and smack was a lot too strong,
And Quaaludes made him stumble, and ***** just made him cry,
Till he heard of a cat named Baba Fats who knew of the perfect high.

Now, Baba Fats was a hermit cat who lived up in Nepal,
High on a craggy mountaintop, up a sheer and icy wall.
"But hell," says Roy, "I’m a healthy boy, and I’ll crawl or climb or fly,
But I’ll find that guru who’ll give me the clue as to what’s the perfect high."
So out and off goes Gimmesome Roy to the land that knows no time,
Up a trail no man could conquer to a cliff no man could climb.
For fourteen years he tries that cliff, then back down again he slides
Then sits –– and cries –– and climbs again, pursuing the perfect high.
He’s grinding his teeth, he’s coughing blood, he’s aching and shaking and weak,
As starving and sore and bleeding and tore, he reaches the mountain peak.
And his eyes blink red like a snow–blind wolf, and he snarls the snarl of a rat,
As there in perfect repose and wearing no clothes –– sits the godlike Baba Fats.

"What’s happening, Fats?" says Roy with joy, "I’ve come to state my biz.
I hear you’re hip to the perfect trip. Please tell me what it is.
For you can see," says Roy to he, "that I’m about to die,
So for my last ride, Fats, how can I achieve the perfect high?"
"Well, dog my cats!" says Baba Fats. "here’s one more burnt–out soul,
Who’s looking for some alchemist to turn his trip to gold.
But you won’t find it in no dealer’s stash, or on no druggist’s shelf.
Son, if you would seek the perfect high –– find it in yourself."

"Why, you jive *******!" screamed Gimmesome Roy, "I’ve climbed through rain and sleet,
I’ve lost three fingers off my hands and four toes off my feet!
I’ve braved the lair of the polar bear and tasted the maggot’s kiss.
Now, you tell me the high is in myself. What kind of **** is this?
My ears ’fore they froze off," says Roy, "had heard all kind of crap,
But I didn’t climb for fourteen years to listen to that sophomore rap.
And I didn’t crawl up here to hear that the high is on the natch,
So you tell me where the real stuff is or I’ll **** your guru ***!"

"Ok, OK," says Baba Fats, "you’re forcing it out of me.
There is a land beyond the sun that’s known as Zaboli.
A wretched land of stone and sand where snakes and buzzards scream,
And in this devil’s garden blooms the mystic Tzu–Tzu tree.
And every ten years it blooms one flower as white as the Key West sky,
And he who eats of the Tzu–Tzu flower will know the perfect high.
For the rush comes on like a tidal wave and it hits like the blazing sun.
And the high, it lasts a lifetime and the down don’t ever come.
But the Zaboli land is ruled by a giant who stands twelve cubits high.
With eyes of red in his hundred heads, he waits for the passers–by.
And you must slay the red–eyed giant, and swim the River of Slime,
Where the mucous beasts, they wait to feast on those who journey by.
And if you survive the giant and the beasts and swim that slimy sea,
There’s a blood–drinking witch who sharpens her teeth as she guards that Tzu–Tzu tree."
"To hell with your witches and giants," laughs Roy. "To hell with the beasts of the sea.
As long as the Tzu–Tzu flower blooms, some hope still blooms for me."
And with tears of joy in his snow–blind eye, Roy hands the guru a five,
Then back down the icy mountain he crawls, pursuing that perfect high.

"Well, that is that," says Baba Fats, sitting back down on his stone,
Facing another thousand years of talking to God alone.
"It seems, Lord", says Fats, "it’s always the same, old men or bright–eyed youth,
It’s always easier to sell them some **** than it is to give them the truth."

As the hour draws late,
      all the tribes gather,
The band begins to play, and
      in the midst of their serene
Exchange of musical phrases,
      I meet a quite peculiar man.
His dreadlocks hang way
      down past his shoulders, and
Above his rope sandals and
      patchwork pants, he sports
A shirt, emblazoned with
      a portrait of Lord Ganesha
Seated serenely in Lotus posture,
      overlaid by a wire wrap necklace
With a large piece of opal in the center.

His pupils are the size of
       dinner plates, nearly
Eclipsing the irises of his eyes.
       his musk is a distinctive mixture of
Body odor, *** smoke, and strong incense.
       we exchange our salutary pleasantries, and
As I absorb the spectacle of his appearance,
      he begins to discourse, saying:

"I charge my crystals
    in the moonlight, and
Keep them close by day,
   they clear my chi blockages, and
Realign my chakras,
   I burn sage and patchouli
To invoke the goddess
   spirit of the forest moon,
We are all just cosmic vibration
   expressed as living matter in
The timeless unity of
  the flowering astral plane"

He pauses for a moment,
     to light his spliff, and
After a few large tokes, continues on,
     describing the events of one fateful night,
When he "sat for a long spell, and
      experienced an unbridled quiescence of
Meditative stillness, culminating in a
      stream of flowing fractal visions, and a
      Whirlwind of
                             Pulsating
                                  Kundalini
                                       Energy

I listen with a sort of
   detached amusement, but
My brain is filtering his words out, and
    all I can hear are bursts of Charlie Brown's
Parents from the old Peanuts cartoon
    Interpolated with sentence fragments
That all seem to say the same thing:

"Look at me, I am so spiritual
  I am so profound I am so wise
I know the Truth I am enlightened"
"mwah Mwah mwah Mwah mwah
Mwah mwah Mwah mwah Mwah"

and then, suddenly, this haze of
  pseudo profound spirit science is
Interrupted by a phrase that grabs my
  attention, with strange immediacy.
"Also, I've got some fire doses. 5 a hit."

"Oh yeah?" I say. "ME, TOO, and
"I know mine are better, best on lot!"
He seems taken aback, as if offended.
He says he'll Pepsi challenge mine, and
That I'll be proven wrong. I accept.

He then pulls out  
a shiny vial of
Lucy in the Sky, and
Without hesitation,
squirts a generous
Puddle of it onto my tongue.

"Alright" he says "your turn."
I reach into my pocket,
Produce a small vial, and
Reciprocate his action.
"Now, we'll see!" He says
to me, with an air of smugness.
"That, we will" I retort.

We talk a bit longer, and
I look down at my watch.
"I must be off!" I say
"It's time for the show!"

We exchange our goodbyes, and
I wander off into the night,
Feeling rather odd,
He thinks he's bested me, but
I laugh quietly to myself,
Knowing in my mind,
That my vial was just eye drops, and
He just gave me nearly 10 hits for free, and
All for the sake of inflating the ego
He supposedly didn't have,

and you know...

I never saw him again after that.

Observing the gait
of the irksome stranger
the intrigued spectator
commented thus:

"Sir,
  your manner of walking
  is a monument
  to idiosyncrasy"

At this observation,
the stranger responded thus:

"You are mistaken,
  for I do not walk.
  The ground moves beneath me,
  and my steps rotate the Earth.
  The world shall lament
  the day of my death,
  for as I depart:
  so shall the passage of seasons.
  Each hemisphere will abide
  in the perpetuity  
  of ever enduring climes:

  Winter for North
  Summer for South
  Autumn for West
  Spring for East"

"And what of the center?"
Inquired the spectator.

"****** if I know,
we're just characters
in a poem, anyway"
Replied the stranger.

"If you pay close attention,
you will notice that our bodies
are composed not of parts,
but of letters and punctuation marks."

"So what you mean to suggest,"
  observed the spectator
  is that we are merely ideas?"

"Aye."
Replied the stranger
"Poorly conceived ones, at that."

I'm there when you rise, and

I'm there when you sleep

I'm there when you smile, and

I'm there when you weep

I'm there within every

Man, woman, and child

In their cars in the cities,

Or tribes in the wild

I'm your special companion,

through thick, and through thin.

I am your Homunculus,

...now,

Let's begin.

(A)
(M)erciless
(E)conomic
(R)esource
(I)ncinerator
(C)reating
(A­)throphy

3 things: Get impassioned, get informed, and get involved.

It's time to take this into our own hands, because the people we've left in charge are no longer looking out for us.

Think about it.

If my brain had a mission statement,  it would be something like: *"To sleep only when it is least practical to daily life."

Long story short: **** is ******, and it's all our fault for letting it get this way and not doing anything about it. We could still do something about it, but a lot of us are too comfortably trapped in cycles of trivialities that distract us from how ****** **** is. Once we become aware of the cycles, it might be possible to escape them and see how ****** **** is. Once we do see how ****** **** is, we might actually be able to do something about it, but still probably won't.

As the curve flattens
the pockets will fatten
with 500 thousand
now deader than Latin
how many more will die
before our jubilant July?
When we all can get our
jabs in and say
"well now, I guess
that's that, then"?

(A)                  
(M)indlessly
(E)ntropic
(R)etention of
(I)diosyncratic
(C)apitalist
(A)gendas

Locate your self.
Can you point it out?
Where and what is it?

in common usage of speech,
words and phrases are
sometimes seen to behave
almost as do
punctuation marks
in writing,
for example and
for instance, it will be taken
for granted that we
will grant you
phrases

such as: as such
and such; and such as                                
but if (and only if)
such there be; and
such being the case,
we go on, like so:

and so on,
and so forth,


and whatnot,
and what have you,
and what's more
and moreover
and furthermore

...

a bit of
investigation
we find
ourselves in
a state
whereby
we are rendered
utterly baffled;
thereby and thereupon
we feel our efforts to
have been an
exercise in futility.

therefore...

we resign.

She told me I was funny,
I told her she was depraved,
She asked me what I meant.
I asked "are train wrecks funny?
She laughed.
I guess they are.

We know with intimacy, our own minds,
But to the minds of others, all but blind,
Are we, for though, we may approximate,
Their thoughts, we can but merely speculate,

And offer our conjectures as to how,
Our counterparts perceive the here and now
I know just what a color means to me,
But when my friend looks on, what does he see?

And, could it be, the kindly, kindred fellow
Sees my own 'red' as slightly tinted yellow?
Could it be the case, my sight defies,
The scenery presented to his eyes?

Perhaps we simply aren't meant to know
The worlds that our companions' senses show
And that it's this ineffable mystique
Which makes us, each and every one, unique

I don't even

. . .(and the narrator asks:)

Can someone tell me, where did
all these basketball sized mangoes come from?
Why is the sky purple, and
who is the debonair, pinstriped,
feather-brim porkpie hatted man in it,
twirling his diamond handled cane and puffing his pipe
into clouds, raining splotches of
incandescent dark matter?

See how it congeals into forms.
Watch how the forms animate . . . .
. . .****, how many cigarettes is that, now?
Could swear I'd quit months ago . . .
LISTEN: Now they are communicating!
    "Zeepa Dappa Doppa Dooba Dooba Dee Dao!"
The ghosts of deceased jazz musicians?
Louis! Is it you? I'm not Dolly, but it ain't no folly of mine!
D'ya wanna puff on this here ******, have a swig of this here wine?
Wait, wuh-wuzzat?
My FEETS' too big?
FATS!!!!!!!!!!! IS IT REALLY YOU?!?!?!?!
Cuz if'n it be, I must confess, I HAVE been misbehavin'
S'pose that's why I'm here, after all.'

This world is dense and immense
and it makes less sense
than a fortress guarded by
an inch-high ironclad fence


(. . .and 3 days later the narrator awoke and aptly asked:)

****!
Where did all my money go?
Where is my left kidney?  
Why is there a tattoo of Icarus on my forehead?
Why am I in Colombia?  
Where is my passport?
WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS?!?!?!?!

Hoard the **** paper,
I'll use rags or ties, but
**** with my milk, and
I'll shank out your eye