Sunday, January 14, 2018

Is You Is, Or Is You Ain't, Free Thinking?

Secularism and the organic need for spirituality meet and chat over tea and crumpets once a month in another solar system.   Heck, pals, I know that much from gazing in the crystal ball. I pick up some of their ruminations through tarot, seances, and most primarily, the crystal ball.  They're not total light weights beyond Alpha Centauri, yet I could use a bigger ball to render anything close to a determination.  Fuckers remain abstruse.  

 More pragmatically,  the system that's hosting my blog, titled "An O.K. Corral of Thoughts," runs the same bill of goods, same dilemma.  One may be both an atheist and a seeker. Or, too, a rigorous moralist.  Or a jagg off.  All things considered, like the PBS slogan.  A nonbeliever is at liberty to engage in prayer, to any object, any purpose.   He/she can join any believer at all in prayer, much the way lawyers and senators can call a courtesy vote.  A courtesy vote is a shit-bird practice in which wealthy, powerful people take voluntary leave of their moral spine at the behest of a corrupt and desperate colleague.  Conversely, to join a group in prayer is good civics. I can join any group at all in asking Jesus to yield a free powder blue Cadillac to any  & all deserving souls, mine included, if there is such a thing.  I can share the damp, chill emotions when the car doesn't magically appear.  And the mania of their next spiritual initiative.    


On this planet, I'm a hermit with a flair for ratiocination.  Like a gardening tool, I like to put this trait to use when the weather permits and the urge presents itself. There is room for both natural and supernatural, everywhere and anywhere.  Either precept can hide under a thimble.    Though one can't hide the Empire State Building under a thimble.   There's some aspects of materialism people should try to straighten out.  I've seen a few believers fuck up their finances for this spare, paltry thing.  Jesus doesn't pay the bills, stop bullets in mid-air, 
 or take out the garbage.   

One can be passively respectful towards the religious practices of any and all, in a diversified, civil United States of Pure Attainable Pleasure.   Free-thinking, such as is identified by some with the Founding Fathers, is a not-too-aggressively endorsed watchword here.  All precepts and watchwords are small enough to print on a standard business card, and all can be printed, online, for about ten bucks.  Validity is about two inches by three and a half, usually on semi-gloss plain card stock. 


Sunday, January 7, 2018

Duplicity
come and get me, Flipper
dolphin don't leave me in the plastic in the ocean
whip up suds and tow away the island
composed of discarded notions

Don't be cajoled by the fishing pole
the diving bell
the spear gun
the swell sporting gear from Sebastopol
you can trust me, television fish
to grant your wish

Now you can't catch me, Mr. Dolphin
don't need you any more
and I'm long gone
don't be sore
 Attrition


dwindling has become a hobby
losing weight as I stand in the lobby

losing touch has become an ambition
silence, an act of sedition

allowing the house to decline
rewarding inverse of a diamond mine

I've let all tired morals
grow porous and pink as sea coral

as snakes and pack-wolves lunge
we grow tired and throw in the sponge

Saturday, January 6, 2018

More poems. Admit it. You need them.


Follicles
I've had this obsession with hair
falling from a barber's chair

and with it's progress on the face
a beard might improve social grace

on the head it might make me a tiger
handy when climbing the Eiger

on others it drives the libido
hirsuite propeller on the wan torpedo

does this make one a perve?
why no. the very nerve

Thursday, January 4, 2018

essay: The Mind is an Appliance, And It Needs Some Grease to Work Right

Holy shit, I still get acid flashbacks, and the tragedy is that they keep getting shorter. It's been so long since Owsly. Leary passed with the true calling. Even that sabre headed shrink from Canada, the one who said LSD is great stuff, is either dead or infirmed by now, so no one gives a flying fuck if I have to go to my grave without ever having another decent acid trip. Fucking tragedy. It's never been more needed.

Miraculously, I was having the best, brightest and longest flashback just last night, like a gift from Jerry Fucking Garcia. I still have a few of his neck ties. Next time I steal a Brooks Brother's suit, I'll make a point of accessorizing for drugs. Back in the day it was cricket to talk to as many people as possible about the drug experience, now people don't talk about shit other than Game of Thrones, so you can see that fantasists are in liberation-limbo. Free the mind, my ass. I was alone in my hospital chair, best furniture in the hovel, watching old television reruns. LSD is a godsend to people who have little to do but suffocate in the arm pits of yesteryear. I was watching a rerun of Welcome Back, Cotter. 

It was the episode in which the blond teen bombshell, Bambi, moves from L.A. to the Bronks, enrolls at Low Comedy Central Highschool, and creates havoc among the horny teens. At one point in the episode, I thought Arnold Horschak was going to spray Vinnie Barbarino with an AK, and maybe take out Juan Epstein, the Jewish/Puerto Rican hoodlum who charmed us all so. He should have nailed Beau DelaBarre first, in my opinion, but Arnold didn't really have a gun, it was a hallucination. Maybe it was his lunch bag. Time and space is plastic when one is tripping. There's no way of confusing relativity with shithead stasis. The lines separating Twinkies from Tomahawk missiles perforate , like the lower portion of your heating bill, and carefully tears away. The universal mind cannot live by common perceptions alone. 

As usual, Horschak doesn't get poon, Vinnie learns something only a television comedy can teach, the foolishly handsome Beau comes to realize that he is better off with lower hanging fruit, as beauty is a bear trap. He decides to date someone homely. But the universalist learns more than the object of observation. You learn history from fossils, a fossil learns nothing from you. And a book on the shelf is always beating it's meat. Only the mind can deliver you from cognitive paralysis, and the poor mass of reason needs something extra these days. Acid. It should be legalized. It's fab. 

Tuesday, January 2, 2018

A whole new OK Corral of Poems, all penned this freezing horrible week





Meeting Someplace Rotten
everyone deserves
their day at OK Corral
had me a few
hi, my name is Al


had me a hassle
worked it out at the Corral
now the shit over
drinking with my pals


don't stay mad
don't be that way for long
at bad ass bastards
seven billion strong

got my toys from Sears Roebuck
my duds from L.L. Bean
folks is royal fucked up
worst I've ever seen

everyone deserves
their day at OK Corral
stewing here at home front
and my name ain't really 'Al'




An American Sufi

stock market is up
great white whale spumes the Atlantic
wooden boat with teeny sailor
reading the New York Times
his/her sextant mutilated by misguided custom
his/her maps whacked off on by a dazzled quorum
lens of collapsing brass telescope smudged with goo
the boat goes nowhere
sailor should drown
and doesn't
the seeker calls the Coast Guard
 






Driving Through Vaseline

windshield wipers raising walls of ooze
eyeballs crackled with crazy booze
weather advisory from vindictive cooze
flakes of psoriasis fuse

moon and planet balls specked with confetti
meatballs red sauce vino and spaghetti
from the deep aluminum vaults stirred by Betty
the bubbling heart of the Mongolian Yeti

bumpers slamming petroleum jelly
windows open inside the booze veined belly
caustic juices aborting the little 'felly'
drowned in the arm pits of Machiavelli







The Old Moralist

The last dark hair surrenders to gray
the torso billiows in it's adipose way
knee caps crackle when kneeling to pray

skin caves in at a crease in the canthus
cosmetics pool in a cell with St. Francis
a quiet melanoma growing on Dorothy in Kansas

the brains and beauty that had been guide post
sluff the stuff sweet youth will hide most
leaving the man and his life to roast

Morals never get old
as common ethics fold



 Doomed

of course the horse is made into glue
the gator that ate your dog becomes shoes
now the oldster's minutes are due

raised on fables with Timmy and Lassie
stars drink poison from a demi-tassie
perverts lust for Edith Massey

sealing the envelope with horsey adhesive
sending last words plus or minus cohesive
wearing the mark of the Beastive
tootsies sinking in Earth
 



Friday, December 29, 2017

Teaser. Some thing new on the way.






Great news, all, I'm using a brand new imitation game show host name.    I'm  Donk Bronfman, and I will be hosting a youtube sham, using two camcorders.  


 One contestant at a time.  In a sequence, structure.    I'm not a trog.   Everyone is competing for a plaque.   For a twist, the camera is on another person, probably me, others, too, while who ever is talking does it directly into the back of a camcorder.   It's the cheapest way to do it, save the six dollar ebay webcam, which gives you worse resolution.  People have pulled this sort of thing.   Worse bastards than here.   

It's psychodrama format. Simple.  I'm the Host.  Donk Bronfman.  Just thought up the name about a hour ago.  Will be making video crap.  You'll hoot.

Actually, I will make some attempted humor videos real soon.  Will be pasting here as fast as can.  Cheers.  I'm elated to be another guy.  I'm Donk.  Plan to get into the role.