New Poem!

Land Of Giants

when you're this far deep in silvered acetate
you can really catch syphillis from door knobs
cooties pole vault
tornadic wind  heaves crabs through a yard  of hard rubber

pour out your Chlorox liberally
declining confidence in marigolds inverts  skeeter air wing
tricky radar on Zika

scratching at his insect bites till he bleeds
King Squatsaputzo courts his wheezing Empress comrade
spring operated gravity needle pen with unguent
stabbed into lioness muscle
improves her breathing
feathers adjusted
the King returns to his stogie long as Georgia pines
mating is now possible
they smoke together
there is feasting

Why, I'd still love to become a wealthy knife ad ax throwing magnate

I feel dreadful about a sick joke that came to mind.  I thought of it myself, only with help from entertainment news on television, and it has to do with disgraced comedian Bill Cosby.  The joke is:  If he is prosecuted for rape, his lawyer will use the Fat Albert Defence.  Hey, hey, hey, love to play tackle.  There you go, another tasteless, insensitive joke.   And I helped.

It would help more if one of my small business concepts worked out.    On another light note, I'm still interested in teaching demonstrating and selling products relevant to knife and ax throwing.  It's a real and fun sport.  The Northside is a perfect place to do it, with it's golconda of vacant lots.  It's like a forty square mile golf course, damn near free of charge for the use of the land.  I've been chucking  blades and axes in the lot behind the house here for the last eighteen years, always happy as a clam at high tide.

So here's my pitch:  Feel free to contact me by e-mail at brusistan@gmail.com if you would like start collecting throwing knives.  Think of me as your go-to guy, sales and service with a smile.  My collection rules.  

fiction: Music Horrors

Some ape shit stalker has been fucking with me since the Reagan era, he's a didactic gas-lighting SOB, and his BS crops up, not regularly, but with his trade mark each time. This is where I remember, and get agitated, over the precept of 'signifiers,' which came up in this shit heel phenomenology class I took. It was where I first met the stalker. Stalkers often identify a signal, like a red ant might, and are drawn to it. That was a long time ago. Here's some recent shit. 

I had switched from electric to acoustic guitars, and it brought out the stalker. Some asshole had to have told the guy about it, because I didn't see the Ape at the clubs I been squatting at. Which means the Ape has 'friends,' or at least, contacts, since 'friends' has become such a hideous word. Some of the worst pigs I dealt with in the last century all would sit together in the living room and watch the tv show 'Friends.' Something about that show always made me think a process of deliberate contamination was nearing scientific maturity. 

My first mistake was mail ordering an Egbert Schliazis all wood classical guitar. It's all real natural wood. None of that mostly filler plywood some axes are made out of. Stuff makes me earl. Don't like people who play those pieces of shit. There's a lot of 'em. Egbert Schliazis a very good low end acoustic guitar, and there is no need to labor all the goddam traditions and values and every fucking spiritualized horse shit point in history that may by signified, or symbolized, or brought up like like a bowl of bad clams and too much wine. Or so I thought. 

I was very tuneful one evening, thank you, on my oak stool in the back of Chief's Bar. I was playing some Simon and Garfunkel shit, some shit everyone at the time more or less remembered, and there were some people who were into it. I was being gracious as shit, and making a special point not to have an attitude, because that's fine if you're doing Sex Pistols. But it's asshole if you're playing "Like a Goddam  Bridge Over Fucking Troubled Water." So I wasn't doing attitude that night. 

I wasn't, but some ugly bitches were, I can tell you that. Soon as I put down my brand new Egbert Schliazis, one of the bitches gets in my face. "You can shove that guitar you're playing up your ass, you fucking pig," she says to me, her sour swarthy puss contorting with rage and mockery. "Yea, asshole, big end first," a member in her entourage added, for additional caution and indelible staining. 

"Egbert Shliazis' great grandfather designed Joseph Mengele's ukele. Joseph Fucking Mengele would strum his ukele while torturing holocaust victims, you lousy fuck," she continued. "Now Schliazis'   great grandson, Egbert, is helping to kill off women in the Yucatan peninula." 

Fuck me. I was helping Egbert Schliazis lll kill women in the Yucatan pininsula. Fuck me again. I feel really, really bad about all this.   Not even music can help.

America's changing physique

No one talks about anorexia nervosa anymore, and though lots of people walking around downtown are very thin, it is mostly men, and is not the result of a morbid aversion to eating.  More likely it's a relatively new physique resulting from one hundred years of veganism.    Not that I miss hearing of it, but I suspect a change has taken place on the global level.  Perhaps the social rewards people used to obtain by merely being thinner than average were unearned, and are no longer granted.  After all, no one remembers the myth of the starving artist.

This is not to say artists, or anyone, aren't/isn't  starving in the U.S. or anywhere else.  So the media reports, world hunger is still out there, nearly everywhere.  I'm not so callous.  In the US people valued a fashionable appearance over and above the importance of health, longevity or even human equality.  The fashion industry, and the entertainment biz, convinced everyone  large built people are less valued than those of  the Rolling Stones Skinny.  One is as thin as a fashion model, or else is common and ugly,  Times have changed.   Everyone is beautiful, as long as they have money.

And how have things changed?  Fucking near silently, the middle class took over a complex of non-profit social and cultural organizations, and over time, phased out the poor.  Years ago, the story was that those same organizations were for the benefit of the poor, but now they simply pay the middle class to pose as humanitarians, because they are entitled to elevated social status.  Most upsetting to me, the money, either tax exempt contributions or infusions of tax dough through the government, now subsidizes a fat, privileged sector of the upper middle class.  There are no starving artists.  Only fat, subsidized ones.  No one gets brownie points for  being exceptionally thin, and why should they?  Fat people are  just as creative, and they aren't starving, they are staying fat on the public nickel.  They are entitled to this arrangement, so to prevent them from becoming gaunt, starving artists.  They are well fed and entitled to be well regarded, no matter what the assholes do.

Now, who would have thought that the cure for anorexia nervosa would have been as simple as subsidizing the rich and already fat?  It's a sad case of unintended behaviorism.  Reward people for starving themselves, and you'll fill the graves with creative and troubled souls.  Feed the already fat and rich, compliment them on their art work (no matter how shitty and vacant)  and you get a culture of happy bovines with a normal life expectancy.  It's a bourgoise world out there.  The poor are dying to climb on board.

fiction: gravitational hernia

"There is a point at which space itself ruptures, and, when it does, it hurts like a motherfucker." 

The Howling Universe hadn't changed in several weeks. The quote, from Clacker's thesis, wanders like a kitten back to the fur and warmth of it's copyright. There were and are cosmic pains, comparable to human experience, but traumatic to celestial horseshit. Planets arcing around the sun get bruised, like an over-ripe peach. Space in which the planets roam is subject to ordinary wear and tear. As when the ball sack ruptures, and someone has to get surgery and wear a truss. The Earth itself, invisible to it's residents, has it's terrestrial ass in a sling. 

At the same time that a person may be overwhelmed with the power and beauty, he/she may be getting bored to suicide fielding resistance to a harmless train of thought, or to fair enough hope of landing a paycheck. It isn't enough to notice that certain honey bees would look nice in a tiny gaberdine business suit, one has to submit a cartoon that adequately proves people enjoy looking at silly pictures of a conjecture. A man has to look philanthropic by installing a library in his apartment. 

Irwin Clacker would be retiring in the same apartment he had been living in since Cedar Avenue changed from charming to hellishly obnoxious. The shift from worker to retiree will probably weigh in among other happenings much the way yellow jackets look cute when drawn in caricature. Clacker was still a person of hard science, and was worse for wear. Years of friction wore thin the patent leather bag that holds our secrets. His secrets, your secrets, too, assuming his work isn't completely a load of shit. Unless Clacker turns out to be a complete asshole, his work will help people to better love themselves, and in turn, everyone else. 

It is no longer stylish to carry a hard shell brief case. Clacker stopped wearing a neck tie to work in 1981, and it seemed like science itself had changed. It has. 

Irwin Clacker is facing a forced retirement from the state college, and he thinks he still has it in him to make hay out of his work, The Howling Universe. His pension should carry him to his expiration date. He'd fallen out with youth in the 1990s. By 9/11, he had become a tolerated relic in his department at school. Soon he would be the exact same person, by another name. For now, people should be content in accepting that his bullshit has some type of merit, and gears and wires inside it work exactly the same, in or out of school.

If, per chance, you have a suspicious type of mind set....

...that's excellent, I think everyone should, considering (Kennedy intrigues, sun spots, gamma rays, the Jimmy Hoffa disappearance) a blanket human condition that could be described as 'hopelessly hinky.'   World news has been teasing the limits of credibility.

A good conspiracy theory mitigates itself for entertainment value alone.  If anyone got a big toe in the doorways to greater perception (not seeing this as too likely) that could end with  one very, very special little  blog entry or scientific paper, filed under 'not too fucking important, but the author is a clever piece of shit.'  People concerned about possible globalist domination deserve a few seconds of attention between shock treatments and hair care appointments.

For today's complaint to God, Man and Nutritious Green Snacking Items, I despise the popular meme, "learning curve."  People started using the term over a decade ago, and right away the phrase began consorting with words like 'cool' and 'awesome,' the way juvenile delinquents flick switchblades together.    The phrase has the cult following that 'degrees of separation' had in 1990s.

To put the process of leaning on a curve, such as on a graph, rather than on a straight line, challenges the way in which people think and act.  It suggests that nobody takes a direct course of action.  One never hikes directly to the convenience store for a pack of smokes.   He/she, for reasons beyond the ordinary, probably has to do something other than buy cigs.  Any social interaction, positive (like saying 'hi' to a cute babe,) negative (e.g. some asshole screams 'get the fuck out of street, shithead,) has to be analyzed and factored into the simpler hope of smoking one's next Marlboro.  Returning to the folly of basic human needs,  the only thing the phrase 'learning curve' does add spice and mystery to anything bland and common.

Hopping for a moment on the word 'learning,'  the phrase 'learning curve' may be political sabotage at it's most syphlitic. The 'curve' could mean that no matter what an individual learns, he/she will ultimately crash and burn.   If, on the other hand, little Bob or Mary was learning in a plain linear model, he/she might live and work in a continuum of forward motion and ongoing purpose.  The path to discovery and to invention is not curved.  It's straight.  Like John Fucking Wayne, in a fucking stupid cowboy flick.  "Learning Curve" is a psycho-linguistic monkey wrench flung into big, greasy indexing cogs and cables.  Bastards from the Illuminati are fucking with everyone's head.

There is no such thing as a learning curve.   A groovy complex of straight lines far better graphs human achievement and status.   As usual, it isn't good enough to demand people stop saying 'learning curve.'  People may stop saying it, but the worse problem remains: people who liked saying it, back when it was still seemingly cool.  There is a human element in society that gives me a royal pain in the ass.  Nothing can be done about them.  There will always be annoying people who latch onto stupid fucking memes.  I'll settle down.

Well, I guess this isn't getting your dick sucked....

Sour grapes.  The puckering.   The way the bitter fruits taste.  The thinking that runs foul with hindsight.

I'm embittered because my career bites the big one.   Any wide banded existentialist should agree I have an inalienable right to blame it on other people.  The fact that I met people proves grounds for animosity.  Imagine what a fat prick Jean Paul Sartre would have been if he couldn't land a book deal.  I want one, and no one is helping me find an agent.  I need one, bad.

To know (know, know) certain people is to muster animosity (animosity, animosity, like in Phil Spector's tune "To Know Her Is To Love Her."  But it doesn't rhyme.)  The social process is bullshit.  People are pernicious toxic waste.  

Remember that garbage about business and professional networking?   Forget it.  Everything here is done by political quid pro quo.  You can be as charming as a dancing gazelle, but the dope addled narcissistic rhinoceros gets the brass ring.   The plumb work.   As a favor to his/her coke addicted magisterial royalty father/mother/gay legal guardian.    Tis true.  If you give a deviant piece of shit a high paying job, he/she/it will take on greater influence in society.   And he/she/it is in a social class above you.  And you just aren't one of he/she/it's kind of people.

It takes other people to keep others down.   We are a balsa wood airplane with rubber band propeller.  Always aimed at the shit can.