Locked in Lakeview Cemetery.  Amidst at least  100,000 dead. The LCD of my laptop is all that shines brightly now--the sun has already well set.  It's warm and still and worldly, if wordly the uncorrupted sense of Gaia be.

You'd think one would be terrified.

But...oh my god...it's peaceful here...and the terror is all out there.

All out there.

No wonder some chose to die.

My lust is lost in my own dream.

There are spirits of spirits, you know.  And spirits of spirits of spirits, and on and on and on....

There are ghosts who dream they die only to become  ghosts!  And there are just such merely dream ghosts who themselves dream of even more nether selves. 

And on...and beyond. It's so gentle at it's final unravelment. Like a skeleton key turning in a bedroom door lock just before going to bed. And such dreams from which one never awakens.

I'm the Bloggyman.

I'm underground watching the sunset.

If I never return, please--one of you--eulogize me sweetly.

Soon my eyes shall behold only what's dismal and beyond.

I will wait quietly until the full moon shines my way until I move again.

I have found the actual lost kingdom of Xanga (<--no shit) at last!!!

I hereby declare it our Mecca!  All true Xangaroos are hereby instructed to travel thereto sometime during their lifetime.

Whoever gets there first, please blog back and inform if the accomodations are suitable to my needs for kingly comfort! wahahaha

(p.s., the link to the kingdom of Xanga above doesn't always seem to be available--too funny!  If not, begin your journey here.)

(p.p.s., Nyree observed that Fucole--she laughs because she imagines as I imagine that it's pronounced *fuck-all*--is near Xanga!  Well, Gole and Candua are near Xanga and Fucole, too!  So...if my Gole is to Fucole Xanga, I suppose it's something we Candua!!! Mwuhauhauaua   )

First Bianca was banished, now Biz Stone, Genius, is gone! 

Say what?  Who was Biz??

According to himself,  " From 1999-2001 I was a one person design department for the weblog community Xanga.com where I created the current UI, templates, and fun little illustrations."

Now he's gone--

I guess that's show-Biz

btw, Biz, the little illustrations were never that much fun!

Let go of your worries 
and be completely clear-hearted, 
like the face of a mirror 
that contains no images. 
If you want a clear mirror, 
behold yourself 
and see the shameless truth, 
which the mirror reflects. 
If metal can be polished 
to a mirror-like finish, 
what polishing might the mirror 
of the heart require? 
Between the mirror and the heart 
is this single difference: 
the heart conceals secrets, 
while the mirror does not. 

             --Rumi

The name Mowlana Jalaluddin Rumi stands for Love and ecstatic flight into the infinite. Rumi is one of the great spiritual masters and poetical geniuses of mankind and was the founder of the Mawlawi Sufi order, a leading mystical brotherhood of Islam.

The following story is true.  Some names have been changed to implicate the possible:

Here's an example of how dangerously crazy life has become in the bunkers of this war. The (pick one: Arkansas Department of Correction or Supreme Court) installs a scanning device that's sensitive enough to detect traces of (pick one: drugs or biohazards) on the hands of anyone trying to enter a facility. The only problem with it, officials explain, is that almost anyone who has handled a dollar bill has picked up traces of (pick one: cocaine, anthrax, smallpox, plague) so pervasively has the powder dusted our currency.

Then we read in this week's news of the couple in Dallas who found $300,000 on the freeway and turned it in to police. Even though no one has claimed the money, police now say, it will not be returned to the finders because agents of the (pick one: federal Drug Enforcement Administration or the FBI) found traces of (pick one: cocaine, anthrax, smallpox, plague) on it, declared the money (pick one: drug or terrorist) proceeds, and confiscated it. By that logic, one could imagine the (pick one: DEA or FBI) going into any retail store in America, opening the cash drawer and confiscating its contents. Or what about banks? What about the money in your pocket? It's tainted with traces of (pick one: cocaine, anthrax, smallpox, plague). You can just about count on it. And so is most of the money that flows around Washington.

So what are we going to do? Confiscate every dollar and lock up every American who still occasionally uses cash? Don't laugh. The extremes to which we have already gone would have shocked us 20 years ago.

For the true story, if you haven't already guessed, check: here.

By the way, my "intelligence sources" have informed me that the Secret Service has already looked into the threat of using paper currency as a transport vehicle for anthrax.  They believe the risk of harm from such attempts would be low since anthrax spores don't "stick" to paper, but would readily shake or blow off a dropped dollar bill.  But when I asked about using a thin surface adhesive or agar (culture medium) on the surface of a bill, no immediate answer was forthcoming.  Also no immediate answer on the transport threat of plague or smallpox via paper currency. 

I was told that my additional concerns would be forwarded to the Secret Service and that any response would be shared with me.  We'll see.

I can remember my password but have forgotten my username--can anybody help??!!

I have a very brilliant reader out here who is anonymous to everyone but me.  Let's just call her Anonamiss!  Never a prop, never a comment anymore but apparently resolute in always catching up with me. 

And this, Anonamiss maintains, is the most revealing way to read blogs: a month or so at a time.  She maintains that with such a perspective, little nondescriptly mentioned things begin to make sense, fall into place, enrich the larger picture. 

For instance, she has observed that, in the long run, I go through repeated cycles of running/action blogs, frustrated/tension blogs, and carnival poetry love stuff.  When she told me that, I actually fell over laughing in my seat.   Apparently, I as a blogger wasn't fully aware of what my very astute readers are capable of seeing!  As woodnymph coyly put it in a recent comment to me: "*puts her fingertips together in contemplation* Veddy interesting, nfp. Anything else you'd like to share?"

Well, yes there is!  I'd like you all to know that my knowing that I have a detectable pattern will Heisenberg it.  That is, my very awareness of your awareness has already rippled creatively within and caused me to shift the way I waft.  Hence, forthcoming, expect the new and the different.

Oh, by the way, I ran today!  And even though I'm still feeling in midstride on my second trip around the world, I now realize that the 25,000 miles plus I've accumulated running so far have failed for a good part to provide a truly scenic view of the world's wide splendour.  How sad and irrecoverable that aspect of my running has been.  Yet while I ran today and moped upon that realization, a brighter memory revisted: my very first love! 

First Love

Her name was Melody
(Or is this now all just a mistaken memory
of notes too faded  by time’s unchimed passing?)
She always greeted me from her 3rd floor apartment balcony
Smiling down upon me as if I were her 8-year old Romeo
(and she my pre-nubile Juliet)
And yet, no less tragic was the distance between us than
that of the Montagues and Capulets.
Her dad would never let her come down and play
(he must have thought the stripped and stolen car
in the parking lot below that I played in
was stolen by me!)
I wasn’t going to take her away, I swear!
Just have her sit next to me and play with her hair
or caress the fuzz on her arm—
No harm, just a gentle affair.
But no closer could we ever come but with me
ground-bound,  looking upwards and beholding
her giggling playfulness, her longing to descend
and befriend this “neighborly hood” of a boy.
I thus missed making her acquaintance,
yet have never loved a girl more
than Melody
seemingly blowing me kisses
from her 3rd floor balcony.

Would I make a good terrorist??

Should I apply, go underground, then rip the shit out of my fulminating cohorts?

Toreibjo recently had a blog asking "What's Next?"

And while sipping a beer, here's what I came up with:

 Actually, I've been thinking like a terrorist again... LOL

...And what I'd do, if feasible, would be soak/laden/infect 1000 one dollar bills with anthrax or something as deadly and strew them at random about an urban landscape.   You know they'd get picked up and circulated rather quickly.  And who's going to question money laying on the ground.

Of course, the only group you could target with this would be the general populace and...THE ENTIRE MONETARY SYSTEM.

Damn.

Here’s the bestest, shortest explanation of Halloween I’ve come by yet—essential but not deep!   Halloween

So what are you going to do this eve of Samhain ( pronounced "sow-in" where "ow" rhymes with "cow") or  All Hallow’s Eve other than die of terror, fright, or delight??

Most people can’t make up their mind who or what *to be* on Halloween.  But that’s not a problem for me—since I know no one scarier than me and there’s nothing stranger than being myself!  

The problem for me is what to do… Should I...

1) Spend the night locked in a cemetery blogging via satellite uplink until the restless spirits thereabout decide to jam my transmission?

2) Run down the middle of the highway dressed as Osama with a target on my back dodging crazed drunken Americans just for the thrill of it?

3) Drive down the highway looking for some drunken fool dressed as Osama with a target on his back and run him over to teach him a lesson?

4) Return to the scene of my last drunken revelry where I could have sworn a red-headed—or was is it blonde—angel promised to be a devil come Wednesday night?

5) Stay glued to the TV waiting for true stories of terror to arise?

6) Hang out in a haunted chat room?

7) Comment *Boo* on everybody’s blog?

8) Practice reading Chinese or read the Book of Good/Bad Faeries by Brian Froud?   The spin-off Faeries’ Oracle Online is an enchanted visit and provides you your fortune! (Flash version takes time…but you can bypass it.)

9) Practice my archery by shooting arrows at fated jack-o-lanterns in my basement?

10) Place myself into a narcotized trance and write love poetry?

Actually, I just realized that the news media with their unrelenting obsession with *anthrax* (well, honestly, they have an intrepid obsession with anything construed as terror, i.e, the killer sharks of summer, Chandra Levy mystery, O.J., the "killer snowstorm" on the east coast last year that turned out only to be a media event, etc., etc.), is doing us all a great service!

You see, the terrorists are following our media and believe that the outrageous amount of coverage is truly proportionate to the damage they are causing--which makes it seem HUGE HUGE HUGE.  So the terrorists are content to inflict this HUGE overly-covered "damage" rather than realize that, in hindsight's perspective, the *anthrax terror* so far will appear a fairly dismal fizzle.  So rather than currently pursuing a more lucatrive line of terror from their own rational perspective, they are being duped by the media into believing that we are just reeling with anthrax--and so continue it apace. 

Reminds me of when I was a kid and my dad would whip me with a strap. I pretended (Yeow!!) it hurt worse than it did just so that his sadistic craving would be thus satisfied.

Except the news media isn't pretending. They just can't--perhaps in this case, thankfully--help themselves.

The topic of tomorrow's blog: *The topic of yesterday's blog* or *Why the news isn't news anymore.*

Just caught a new banner from the King of Sardines!

Wow.  After reading this, I've decided to go fishing.

"What's your favorite Halloween candy?" Lyssa has most innocently asked.

I'm obviously twisted and keep twisted connections.  Speaking to lcsaph last night, she mentioned her concern that Bazooka Joe Bubblegum could be easily tainted with anthrax because it already has a familiar dusting of white (supposedly sugar) powder.

"What if..." lcsaph speculated, "one of these terrorists has been moleing it out undercover in the candy factory for several years just awaiting orders to slip a few pieces of tainted bubblegum into the mix every hundred pieces or so--candy now packaged for this year's Halloween sales??"

Not likely said I--but then who anticipated an attack by mail?

So what other vectors of attack are possible, if even improbable?

Amy Joy Donuts--watch out for the powdered ones!

Desenex--is it better to live with stinky feet?           

Tinactin spray--and you thought that crotch rot was the end of the world!

Snow--oh yeah baby, see that fine white powder falling outside? 

And didn't you just hear a plane fly overhead?

Dandruff--do you have it? 

I feel sorry for your new lost piece of mind. 

Cocaine--well, if your doing this, you probably deserve to die anyway. 

Well, not really, but your not going to win a whole lot of sympathy either.

and last but not least...

Disposable plastic gloves--you know, the ones everyone's wearing to handle the now possibly tainted mail? 

Yep, a good half of them are "pre-powdered" up.   Now wouldn't that be ironic?

Osama's fate: an embellished chat...

toreibjo:   Tell me about your fantasies regarding the punishment of Osama.

notforprophet:  Well, I have a very strange fate for him.

toreibjo:   Explain - if I may be so straight forward to ask..

notforprophet:   Most people would not appreciate my vision...but I'll try to convey it to you…

Capture him.  Transport him blindfolded and clueless to an incarceration facility.  A cell...anywhere...perhaps one especially constructed for him below the ruins of the World Trade Center.  But with no daylight...no night...no nothing. 

Yet once a day, he gets a visitor. 

I walk in and up to a table unarmed--no weapons.  I pull up a chair and sit...and just stare...and stare...one hour...two hours...  Just stare at him.  Then I get up and leave.  Next day, the same…and the same and the same for an endless slew of days to follow.  

If at anytime he wants to make a move on me, I’m ready.  Maybe he'll read in my eyes that what I really want is hand-to-hand combat to death.  But I don't make the first move.  I wait for him...and stare...expressionless. 

Then one day, after he begins to show cracks of disorientation from continued isolation, I walk in, sit across from him as always, stare, and after about an hour finally speak and ask him: "Do you have any idea  what's going on in the world anymore?"   Regardless of his response, inform him:  "It's better that you don't--ever."  Then I'd pull out a pistol—a Colt 9mm Commander—and position it exactly between us.  And finally smile with that smile that pleads "make my day ."   And then wait to see what he does.  Does he make a move?  I know I'm faster.

But if he doesn't make that move and end it for himself right there—by my hand or his own (i.e., getting the pistol and putting to his own head)—then he'll live always with this regret:  I'll pick up the pistol and walk out.  And he'll never see me again—or any other living creature for the rest of his natural life.  He'd have that one chance to die—or remember it forever as his very last contact with humanity.  

I'd rather destroy his terror-spirit than his body.

Hey, we could even have this all fed live by hidden camera on TV so the whole world could watch him seal his own fate either by his ill-challenge for the pistol or his own moment of inaction leading to an unsuspected, unexplained terminal isolation.   In fact, the TV commentator could reveal to the world the strategy I'd use before the action-challenge is actually made, telling everyone what Osama's options will be,  and the to-death isolation fate he'll condemn himself to if he chooses inactivity.   The commentator would speak in kind of in a quiet whisper, like a golf sports announcer, "Okay...here's what's going to happen…this is going to be good…"

Better than the suspense on any imaginable "Survivor"!

I'm enchanted by the notions of wandering, a walk-about, an odyssey: casting forth in full preparedness for an encounter with the Unknown. 

Too much perhaps are we all constantly tagged, fixated, routinized, and ritualized into arrangements where such adventure seemingly becomes improbable, even if still desirable.

My own personal feeling is though I'm palpably well-ensconced into an apparently static social-economic role (or roles lol ), in a blink of an eye, new adventure can and shall eventually unfold.

Yet while I wait patiently as if with the instincts of a stalking wildcat for this newly-birthing moment of old-world-shattering opportunity to become manifest, I still enjoy an Odyssey in surrogate.  And here's one for all of us:

2001 Mars Odyssey

Named in honor of Arthur C. Clark, the author of 2001: A Space Odyssey, Odyssey is our technologically-proxied return to the Red Planet.  As a satellite that last night achieved orbit around Mars and is expected in the coming months to aerobrake into an even more optimal circling pattern, Odyssey will attempt to further expand the human spirit’s quest for cosmic attainments by conducting scientific queries in pursuit of the following goals:

1) Determine whether life ever could have arose on Mars (indirectly by the search for water)

2) Characterize the climate of Mars

3) Characterize the geology of Mars

4) Prepare for human exploration

Of course, this last quest is the one of supreme interest to me. 

All I can say is, before I go off romping on a walk-about in the previously unsullied Martian dust, I want to post an inviolable sign: 

“Terrorist-Free"

space renditions courtesy of NASA JPL, click here for the 2001 Mars Oddysey website

How many of us know John Hiler? Who?  Ah!  But he knows us, knows Xanga, knows all the secrets!  Why?  Cause he's a spy?  A voyeur?  Hell, I don't know nothing except that he's the CEO or technical guru of Xanga or sumpin! 

Fake accounts?!  wtf  Okay, John , no names, please, please!
*whew*
*20?!  giggles at John's understatement*

Conspirary theories?  Yes!  Note that John did not say *conspiracy theories*, i.e., purported reports of plots of dark intrigue, either--and that's not because there's no spell checker on comments, right?!  No, no!  A *conspirary theory* is a spiraling convolution by continuing proximation into a helical truth eminence. 

Why, thank you, John!  I had no idea you had transcended to the transparent realization plain of my conspriray transmissions!  And to think that I thought that you got 1/1000th of a cent for every eProp we spent! 

Oooh...now there's another speculation: how many eProps are there in ePropLand (wouldn't it be cute on the Xanga homepage to see a running total like on one of those population counters for the incrementing population of the earth?) ...and who got the millionth, 10 millionth, 100 millionth, billionth??!!

Hungry eProppers want to know!

I'm outing as a Jungian hermaphrodite

animus...profile pic

anima...background seduction

archetype...earth mother returning

I think I'll go bury myself in a pile of leaves...

Just a disassociated etching...

...some shards of thoughts

...or things to just rattle about in a fruitcake tin...

Remark to disclaimer on his “Serious Rant” :

Seriousness is seriously overvalued.  My advice: In your philosophy and thoughts, be as ponderous as the planets circling the sun.  But in your actions, be as light as a feather dropped from the wing of a soaring eagle.

LOL...ah, Love--what is it...but the sweetest of all ways to never say goodbye? Or the most bittersweet way to say “let’s die” ?   *sighs*

If someone walked up to you and said “May you die a good death!” , would you thank them or retaliate with a pre-emptive strike?

What is a cyber-year , that is, cyber-time scaled up to the human life expectancy?   Well, seeing that the corporately-considered “lifetime” of a PC is about 3 years or so (most typical warranties extend to that—some more, some less—and it seems that versions of software and operating systems more than 3 years become *unsupported*), then each year of a typical human life would match up with ½ month in cyber-time.  By such reckoning, I’m a 20-year-old Xangaroo.

Seeing that I’m almost 20-cyber-years old here, I’m starting in my post–Xangadolescence  to forget what the “good ole times” on Xanga were like. LOL   So here are some “reminiscences” of dubious accuracy:

It used to be at the start of Xanga  that the “Featured Content”, i.e., Most-Read list, recycled not daily but weekly and featured authors, not individual blogs, on the basis of their running weekly cumulative eProps attainment.  Yes it was a very competitive popularity contest where a hundred eProps or so a week could easily push you to the tip of the iceblog.

We were once able to browse members by member names from an A-B-C…. type list.  I liked that since it panoramically portrayed the imaginativeness of the user community in self-appellating.  But Xanga removed that feature without any explanation!   wtf!   That was in the days of the Xanga founders’ secret shyness period LOL and I also think they were trying to make it difficult at that time to conduct a total member-count since viewing that list was  the easiest way to do that.  But who knows??!!

You used also to be able to search Xanga for the overall most popular (most ePropped) blogs ever.  This feature disappeared—unexplained--amidst the “Bianca-disappearance-coverup”  hahaha

The first recognizable eProp queen/king of Xanga was holly_green (still around), followed by Jewels (gone), then James (not a queen—still around), someone  called ‘nfp” (rumored to be lurking hereabouts), and finally now her VeryModern!!  Jewels and James may have gone back and forth—it was very not a bloodless ascension to that eProp crown.  Now VeryModern looks firm for the foreseeable on the throne—unless she decides to take a hiatus to write an encyclopedia!  But someday a change?  PostModern?!!  LMFAO

btw, Crim and freddy, someone nameless plans never to leave--not even to become the bloggyman!  However, the rights to publish under said name may be re-sold again to the highest bidder!

What a magnificent day!  I woke up refreshed, relaxed, and rejuvenated.  

Did a computer consult this morning, and then stopped at a PC store and bought a neat liitle USB laptop light for precise illumination upon the keyboard at night.  Thought I might use it in Lakeview Cemetery on All Hallow’s Eve as I’m considering getting myself *locked in* accidentally with a pizza and a twelve pack and my laptop with uplink for graveside blogging.

Lakeview Cemetery is quite the place for the living as well as the dead.  I’ve just arrived--it’s about 70 degrees and though overcast, the landscape is vibrant with the autumn palette.  As I was  driving in, I saw two pairs of lovers: one couple walking holding hands, the other necking on the grass under a sculpture.   Then I spotted two other couples touring gravesites with literature in hand.  

Now check that out...a pretty girl on another grave just spotted me and waved…Hey, maybe this is a "singles" cemetery too!

But, Of course, I'm up to no good as I sit on the steps of a rich family's mausoleum chugging beer and blogging!  Yes, I’m the bane of the dead as I suck their unexpressed inspiration while concommitantly sucking down beers!  I scream to them psychically: “You died without giving words to those things in your heart that begged for expression!  So I’ve returned to channel you—I’m your bloggyman!”

Uh-oh!  A-la-Poltergeist the sky just turned roiling black with indication of a tempest and the temp just dropped 20 degrees with the blast of a 30 mph wind.  And I just kicked over my beer!  Okay I’ve seen better days.  Exit stage left!
 

Where is the darkness in daylight?  I can't see it!

But I know that it is there, so near.  It can't be seen yet is a mystery, hidden-ness... cosmically, comically touching and massaging me.

Need I beam more radiance to expose it?  Magnify sunlight?  Burn a flare?  Declare it an Appolonian affair--worthy of skywriting on a cloudless day?

Or should I simply slow time to a crawl and watch the photons intermittently pulse with packets of darkness dispersed in between?  And see the dark promise of fulfilled desire in your smile's gleam?

We’ve got some gripes.  We’d rather have some grapes dementedly fermented.  But instead we had two Hostess cupcakes and are now left with a two-cup cupcake holder that we don’t know what to do with.  You obviously realize the trouble we’re in.

But if I were to put such tortuous personal issues aside, what gripes would yet remain?

First, I’m tired of hearing about U.S. flags that were purportedly made in, for instance, Taiwan, and hence aren’t *American enough* to celebrate our new high-styled outpouring of patriotism.  Who the hell cares where they are/were made?  Probably over half of the stuff destroyed in the World Trade Center, including many lives, were not *made in America*.  That doesn’t invalidate the loss, or diminish it as less than a total American tragedy.  Hey baby, in today’s world, it’s not where it’s made, it’s how and where it’s paid that makes it  yours, mine, and as American as mango pie.

Next: Congress collectively can suck my prick.  Those fine fellows and ladies had the opportunity in this national crisis to prove themselves as worthy of admiration as the Founding Fathers were in first battling and securing our liberty.  But one envelope of anthrax delivered in the mail has sent them all scurrying for cover back to their respective home districts.  Don’t get me wrong—if they had no business outstanding whatever or were truly life-endangered, then prudence would have dictated their evacuation.   But here we have the Government, on one hand, continuing to encourage us to fly, fly, fly and go to Disneyland (past and potentially future popular targets or terrorism) and continue business as usual for “patriotic” / economic reasons, yet we have, on the other hand, national leaders, with critical anti-terrorist  and economic assistance legislation as yet un-voted upon and with all the Cipro they could ever need to stave off any potential infection,  running for the hills…er…away from the Hill!!!  I tell you: it’s the police and firemen and soldiers and common people found helping each other under these recent conditions of extreme duress that are my heroes.  And not these jackasses.  And yes, even the elephants in Congress proved themselves to be jackasses in this.  Why not just move to another building and show the terrorists that their feeble threat cannot deter America’s will through Congress to strike back without relent?  Nope—they let the terrorists win this measly skirmish.  If I am Osama, I boast: “We have the American Congress on the run.  We’ve set back legislation several days.  At what cost?  A U.S. postage stamp! hahahahaha!”   Son-of-a –bitches all!  If I ever die for this country, it will NEVER be for them!

And, oh yes, the headlines today: “American Troops On The Ground In Afghanistan”.   No shit hijack!  They’ve been there for over a month now.   Why doesn’t the press stop insulting us and over-saturating us with the moronically obvious.  Get a grip American Press!    Come back when you get an exclusive underground interview with Osama or show a Delta Force sniper putting a bullet in his brain thus making it somewhat scattered and lame.  Else Lame Off  and put some *other news* --once worthy, but now all but vanished--back into the news and allow things to fall into a proper perspective. 

Now…what the hell can I do with that empty two-cup cupcake holder that’s beginning to grin with contempt??!!

have you ever killed a rat?  with a bat?  in  a bathroom?  after it climbed up through the toilet after a flooding storm?  even as the toilet with swirling turds was being flushed? and as you rushed out of there with your hangerpants (pants and underpants hanging down), it went airborne for your neck and jumped up against the slammed bathroom door with you on the outside and it slumping, crashing back down to the floor?  and you thought about taking it out with a bow and hunting arrows because that's a deadly combo in your hands but then you realized you'd have to let it out to get a clear shot?  and you didn't want to do that because it might find a place to hide in the house, so instead you found a baseball bat and proceeded to re-enter the charged bathroom arena ready for combat?  but it was waiting for you as you opened the door again and looked like Rocky the Flying Squirrel just before you slammed the door back closed once more?  and so the next time you entered, you scared it back first and then closed yourself in with it for the fight to the death?  and it alternately cried like a banshee and then like a baby trying to lull you into a second of quiescence--the one second it would need to lash back?  but instead you went ballistic nearly cracking the porcelain toilet bowl before bashing in its hissing head?  did you ever have the need to do that?

*looks innocent*

A Tor-iffic Vision Called *notforprops*

This is beyond hilarious! 

If I could lose the beer...I could grab a pair...

Nah!!!

the artist: no one less than the man of the North, toreibjo

Hey, now what might be a killer caption for this surreal graphic and saintly character?

lmao

Ok...so Xanga is having these periodic outages again...today's (9:48 AM until 12:12 PM) was the second one I noticed this week.  What's up XangaTeam??

Asking for feedback!

I'm toying with voice recording some of my poetry (as GudKarma has done in leading the way) to include here aside of its blog-written form.

But I don't have a sound studio! lol

So before I go off with any elaborate designs, I'd appreciate just a little feedback on the recording of a recent poem I posted:

1) Is the recording clear enough to understand?

2) Is the background noise too distracting?

3) If I were a silent film actor at the turn of last century, would I have lost my job with the arrival of "talkies"?

4) Does the embedded player even play back in a timely fashion (bandwidth issue)?

So here's the voice link:

I need you...

Directions:

1) Aim carefully for center.
2) Obey directions on front of kit.
3) Continue with therapy until anti-stressed or unconscious.
4) Replace monitor if kit disappears.

The Secrets of Happy Blogging

1) Hide.  Hide away forever in prolific obscurity.  Unveil the fire in your soul with such an entirely eruptive cosmic insistence, that hidden, it yet remains a Sphinxlike mystery to all.

2) Remember: If you say, you don't know; if you know, you don't say.  If you say you don't know ( "I know Nothing!"), you're Sgt.  Schultz !

3) If you get discovered, don't vapor lock. Be generous with effusively kind remarks for your subscribers though in the midst of this most personal of disappointments.

4) If your a guy, look out for the girls.  If your a girl, look out for the guys.  If you're virgilmvx, well, then just look out!

5) Never wonder where anyone on the blog has "gone".  Either they have gone yonder to the Happy Blogging Ground or they've regained their sanity and are now likely silently assisting you to do the same.  In other words, don't worry, be happy

6) Begin to recycle your blogs after about a year.  Thus unfettered by the daily need to be ever-newly creative you will thrive!  Don't be too concerned about your readers encountering reruns: most bloggers don't even last a year and so won't be around to reread them; and those that have remained through your first year's gestation ( er...1% ?) have likely abandoned reading you long ago ( hi James!  hi Holly ).  Newer readers + older blogs = immortality!

7) Keep your sense of humor.  That's right--NEVER share it with anyone.  Else you'll turn out like freddybrakestad : a plastiblogform subject to the endless purgatoriums of snorting readership.  Yes, you're readers will delight, but you?  You'll forever wonder if you're even wearing underwear, and be forced to constantly check to reassure yourself one way or the other throughout the day.

8)

9)

10) Never become a slave to the expectations of your readers.  Were you expecting more for 8) ?  for 9)??  I (you) shouldn't care!  If peeps are howling for you to remain the same, dare to be different!  If peeps marvel in and become demonstratively dependent upon your ever-changing blogging facets, don't disdain to hold ground and remain the same!  *Thou must become a conundrum until thyself and thereby recapitulate all the chaos of existence!*--not. 

11) Remember: if you really knew how much peeps generally think about you, you wouldn't much care what they thought about you.  Love them nonetheless, for amongst them may be your greatest allies and friends!

12) If in a creative bind and unable to burp up even one original or interesting remark, play with PlayDough or count M&Ms.  But don't eat the PlayDough!

13) If you have a need to suffer through *the ordeal* of bloggin to be happy, sleep at the keyboard.  You'll wake up remorseless with your sacrifice as a sentinel of the unsaid!

14)  If you're really schizoid, you've got it made!  Establish as many personalities as you quirkily require and then comment to your most amazing selves.  If you're not so blessed, fear nonetheless to metamorphosize occasionally into another blogging persona.  At last count, I had 58! lol rof lol

15)  If you don't know how to end a blog (er..well, yes...I have a problem here), just pretend you're Paul Harvey, grab your balls (if you don't have any, pretend) and intonate "Good *now squeeze* Day!"

I Don't Want No More Snail Mail!!!

Damn mis-anthrax-popes and their postage stamps!  They're fascists I tell you--fascists!

LOL   Senate decides to halt mail after Senator gets an anthrax-laden letter.  WTF  I say stop my mail today!  All I ever get anyway is bills and junk--and they're killing me sure as the anthrax would.

Hey...all this Death-by-Mail gives new meaning to the Dead Letter Office now doan-it??!!

Anyway, with Halloween coming, guess what?

Yeah?  That Reeses cup handed out in the front yard of that dark house by the Faerie God Mother?  Yep!  Osama bin Hershey in disguise!!  Crap!

Definitely, definitely DO NOT send me any candy in the mail or even candygrams, damned landsharks--I never did like then no-how!

*all ways, intensely, forever*

whether a true love, true artist, true scholar, true athlete,
isn’t that what you seek?
that which takes you to the peak
of highest excellence
and leaves you perched, pondering entry
through the next portico wondrously yonder…?

but some disclaim: “we cannot sustain
such—the humdrum of life is what pays the bills”…
such would maintain:
“everything in moderation
—that’s what Aristotle taught”
so true.
but Aristotle was no fool,
he taught:
 “everything in moderation”   —all ways, intensely, forever.
only the excellence of moderation  he knew,
yet never could he know enough,
never?—no!  never enough!

such is all ways and forever life’s expedition:
embrace of the very best that’s true!
unless, of course, one chooses to cuddle melancholy and mediocrity.
then you need only close your eyes and drift off uninspired
to the sullen respite of ordinary dreams
and there remain awaiting eternity,
which will someday mercifully swallow you
*all ways, intensely, and forever*

   "There is only the Golden Eternity."
          --Jack Kerouac

I have sought refuge
in the heart of a great institution
in a major metropolis
that’s a prime target for terrorists
and so much in harm’s way (?)
this morning alone.

No reason to be here
except the technology edge
of lightning internet access
and ghosts roaming the hallways
to whisper me secrets
distilled from a world
where time has no bother.

So the war that I wage here
is one of intelligence nurtured
from beyond all the graves
of junkyarded cars and crushed buildings.
it’s called damned inspiration
and I’ll go where it leads me—
to journey forth if needed
onto the stark plains of hell…

For on such plains I’ve been tempered
before and quite often,
and with drawn sword I’ve slain demons
that wandered too close.
…but now there is more:
 with the mad curs cut loose,
to “cry havoc” , “cry havoc”
and shake a spear at the bastards!!!

Well…
 
To dream better dreams is the reason we're all here:
imagining all that's immeasurably more beautiful
so to reconfirm, re-create, and make blessed our world.
it's a quest!
...not always easy,
but there is no way other,
once you're called as a dreamer
to fulfill your dream.

This is an excerpt of spiritual message which my sister, ahanna, passed along to me...  Read just a little.  And if you like it, a little more.  And if it speaks to you, a little more yet.  And if you find it addresses your innermost needs, read it all.  And if you're like me, and it can possibly save your life, start memorizing its core truths.

FACING AND CLEARING YOUR FEARS AS WE BIRTH THE NEW AGE

Leslie Temple-Thurston

As the events of the past...weeks have unfolded, so too has our consciousness been initiated and begun unfolding into a new level of being. Vastly and often violently contrasting states have passed
through our awareness. We have been shattered, faced with intense states of tragedy seldom seen in recent years and which may be completely new to many of you. We have also been taken into new levels of spiritual vibration such as we have not seen before either....

So while we have much to be grateful for and celebrate I feel that I must address what is happening right now. At this point of the initiation the shadow is starting to come up. Everything too dense to be part of the New Paradigm is coming up to be looked at and let go of.

Fear seems to be the most abundant piece of shadow moving through us and through the collective unconscious right now, and it seems important that we address this issue so that our consciousness and thus our lives, stay stable and balanced.

Fear makes consciousness contract -- our muscles tense and our bodies contract, our heart rate speeds up, using more energy than usual; we don't sleep properly because we are processing our shadow while we sleep and we become easily and quickly fatigued. If we feel that we are in real or immediate danger we tend to draw on our supplies of adrenaline and our system becomes steadily weakened. Contracting consciousness also shuts down parts of the mind so that we can become slightly dysfunctional, leaving us to run our automatic patterns. Our spiritual awareness can also contract and diminish with the
contracting consciousness, since new information is the first to be forgotten and as we fall back on old and thus easy ways of being -- we are left to tread the old familiar pathways in the limited mind. All too often we return to old patterns to find comfort and support -- addictions may return and we further weaken ourselves.

As I write today I see that there is more fear and it is reaching deeper into our negative ego than I can remember seeing for a long time, maybe ever. Since you may not be as deeply aware of it as I am, this is a reminder to you to look inward and deal with it. Here is the reason.

When you have unconscious fears and they just sit there, your outer life will begin to suffer. Remember that everything in your world is a reflection of your inner state. This is because your outer life is a solidified version of your inner  consciousness. This is something hardly anyone knows -- so those around you will be acting differently. Don't be tempted to "follow the crowd". If the inner is not clear and especially if it is contracting, in the way that fear does to awareness, then your world will contract too and you may be on a downhill slide -- especially spiritually, creatively and financially.

One of the most intense fears that I feel in the collective right now is the fear of scarcity and its side kicks, resource-less-ness, destitution and death. Believe it or not, this is the cause of the calamity we see around us, in the first place....

What is happening is that the shadow that caused the current situation in the first place, is now coming up to be cleared. And it needs to be nipped in the bud because if you don't get clear on it now you will find that the fear becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy again and again for you personally.... So, if this applies to you, (look deep) process the fear of scarcity and of destitution (opposites are abundance, prosperity and fullness) because that is what I'm feeling is really up right now.

There are two ways to stay out of the contraction. One is to work at holding a spiritually clear, upbeat state, which you do by being as fully spiritually impeccable as you know how to be, listening deeply within, and the other is by processing your shadow issues to clear them and let go.

Now more than at any other time you need to be vigilant about witnessing what is passing through your mind, saying "Neti, neti, tat twam asi", (I am not the mind, I am the Self, the One) processing it, taking care of your body so as not to stress it too much, and doing the non self-destructive things that uplift you.

....I suggest building your light and vitality with things like spending time in nature and gazing, or gazing with a yantra to increase your energy and quiet the mind. Also streamlining your routines, cleaning house -- physical and mental, writing in your journal and exercising -- stretching especially minimizes the contraction. Watching your awareness to see where you have contracting (limiting) thoughts and processing them. Also the practice of generosity and selflessness breaks the places in us where we contract in fear.

Meditation and prayer are a must, now more than ever. Remember to have faith in the support of the invisible realm -- call it in.

The mass mind is generating huge shadow right now. In the bid to be patriotic, positive and optimistic everyone is repressing the shadow hugely, plus, the initiation that happened is bringing up stuff. Those of you who are opened up to the unconscious will have to watch this so that you don't get caught on it and make it your own. If you have to process this stuff of the collective -- it is an act of love that
benefits everyone, so do it willingly. Knowing that will inspire you I'm sure.

Above all, stay in your heart and do whatever it takes for YOU to keep your heart open and flowing and your awareness of Truth at the surface. Don't judge, love all equally.

It's too early to blog!  But never to early too comment.  So I'll just post a comment I left on Katie's site:

I am the epitome of what you are talking about.  Hence, I do not need to understand. I come forth like a surge and retreat like a swallow (water and bird imagery, of course).  And the hopeless call it life.  I see it almost like standing on the corner and watching people pass, frantically moving station to station. and getting nowhere fast.  And as I stand on that corner, a swallow dives and surges on my head: splat!!  Damn, I should have moved!

Stars, I have seen them fall
But when they drop and die,
No star is lost at all
from all the star-sown sky.

The toil of all that be
Helps not the primal fault:
It rains into the sea
And still the sea is salt.

   --A.E.Housmann (by my best recall)

"For a human character to reveal truly exceptional qualities, one must have the good fortune to be able to observe its performance over many years. If this performance is devoid of all egoism, if its guiding motive is unparalleled generosity, if it is absolutely certain that there is no thought of recompense and that, in addition, it has left its visible mark upon the earth, then there can be no mistake."

   go here to read about the Man Who Planted Trees (not Johnny Appleseed)...

We should be entirely encouraged by the anthrax terrorist attack (yes, of course, terrorist attack) on the publishing offices of AMI in Boca Raton FL a week or so back for three reasons:

1) The terrorists were incompetent.  If this is as good as they can do with anthrax, I'm not rushing out to get the vaccine anytime soon and miss key baseball playoff games.

2) The terrorists are dumb.  They targeted this publishing facility, called AMI for American Media, Inc., because they believed they were attacking the actual American Media, the whole American Media!      lmao

3)  The terrorists were doing us a cultural favor.  AMI is nothing but a supermarket tabloid consortium consisting of the following: National Enquirer, the Sun, the Globe and Star.  Last time I checked, each and every one of them was spawning the likes of mutant aliens to conquer the earth, werevolves to suck on sweet little girls' necks, and sex-changing jock crotch blobfungus. I'd rather take my chances on defeating turban-touting madmen plotting in the desert sun than taking on the more formiddable task of slaying the monster dragons created by AMI.

I've found in my near year of blogging that good comments are creatively interactive and building of community in the sense that they draw even more readers further in to the blogged event.  Yet the best comments and rarest are equivalent to the blog itself and may even transcend the initial commitment.

I've also found myself occasionally posting some of my own comments on others' posts as a separate post back here...just because...just because!

Well, today I'd like to post woodnymph's comment on my recently posted poem The Nympholept just because...just because...it equals or transcends!  Besides, if someone called woodnymph doesn't know about nympholpets, who does??!!

You say: "Ten thousand times with as many men
has she escorted them all to the very same end."
Mayhaps this is so.
But a nymph outlives mortal man by many a year.
She is not some slut housed in a shocking red bordello,
scampering about in a peekaboo brassiere.
If you were such a creature who could
live for five hundred, or even a thousand years,
and maintain the dewy doe-eyed beauty of her youth,
you, too, might have accrued many a chevalier.
And, maybe with time, view them as pets.
Some would be ignored and some would be adored.
But you would never allow yourself to get too attached
to a mortal man who would soon be no more,
like a perfumed vapor released from a bottle
and carried off into the wind.
Eventually, you may reach a point where you find yourself promising only a dance--
a captivating one at that--
in which you romp and leap and prance.
And a kiss that you rescind,
halfway there, undelivered
because you cannot endure another sad end.

A reader asks:

who ARE you?
I know you must get a zillion emails a day, but I absolutely HAD to reach out and make myself known.
You have invaded my dreams and my waking thoughts. I may go mad from not knowing you!

Gretchen

Dear Gretchen,

hehe

How do I know you're not already mad?

Invaded your dreams?  Did you scream?  Were you sad?  I've invaded my own dreams, too, and it's really not that bad!  Dreamland's becomed besieged by boisterous bubblebusters and I'm a black knight on a white horse running errant through the land.

Well, I must say, you certainly have done a great job here of making yourself known to me considering that your email address of gretchehopper@hotmail.com doesn't even exist!

*poof*

Just busted another bubblebuster!

Really...I'm just a guy who spent a lot of time watching flying saucers as a kid!  Up...up...and away!

(for the zillionth time) Sincerely,

A True Warrior

I have no parents:
I make the heavens and earth my parents.
I have no home:
I make awareness my home.
I have no life or death:
I make the tides of breathing my life and death.
I have no divine power:
I make honesty my divine power.
I have no means:
I make understanding my means.
I have no magic secrets:
I make character my magic secret.
I have no body:
I make endurance my body.
I have no eyes:
I make the flash of lighting my eyes.
I have no ears:
I make sensibility my ears.
I have no limbs:
I make promptness my limbs.
I have no strategy:
I make "unshadowed by thought" my strategy.
I have no designs:
I make "seizing opportunity by the forelock" my design.
I have no miracles:
I make right action my miracles.
I have no principles:
I make adaptability to all circumstances my principle.
I have no tactics:
I make emptiness and fullness my tactics.
I have no talents:
I make ready wit my talent.
I have no friends:
I make my mind my friend.
I have no enemy:
I make carelessness my enemy.
I have no armor:
I make benevolence and righteousness my armor.
I have no castle:
I make immovable mind my castle.
I have no sword:
I make absense of self my sword.

-Anonymous Samurai, Fourteenth Century

I wish I could just take all the hurt and suffering of those I love upon myself and myself alone, swallow it whole, and, if necessary, burn to the bone.

Or take it to war and release it upon a true enemy in such measures of vengeance as they have never yet seen, nor thereafter, will ever have the need or opportunity to suffer again.

My real life sister has joined Xanga.  Now we're all in for a treat?

I'll announce her site when she's ready for me to!  lol

I expect most of my readership to eventually switch over to her. Cause I've only just always been a prophet screaming madly in a desert.  But now a new voice of transcendental wisdom and abounding beauty is soon here abouts (details soon) to birth...

   "...when faces called flowers float out of the ground"

I could be wrong, but prior to this current retaliatory initiative of Operation Enduring Freedom, I would have thought that there would have been an attempt to free the eight Western aid workers charged with promoting Christianity who have been put on trial in the Afghan capital of Kabul.

My anticipation was that a Delta Force team would have been assembled to storm the prison where they are being detained no more than 15 minutes before the first strike. 

Clearly, the survivability of these aid workers will lessen tremendously after this strike if they are still in captivation.  The possibility increases that members of the Taliban, in anger, may summarily start executing these workers as a symbolic penalty for the western alliance's decision to strike back.

Hence, if such a rescue attempt wasn't mounted, what would be the likely explanation?

Loss of surprise?  That is, alerting the Taliban and Al Queda that our retaliation was about to begin?  Possible, but not likely, since a 15 minute precision sortie might draw immediate attention, but given the Afghan communication system, would not likely propagate to sufficient levels of alarm to spoil our overall intent of a surprise attack.

Lack of intelligence?  That is, unsure knowledge about where the aid workers were being held?  Very unlikely.  I recall even seeing a picture on TV of the compound where the workers were being held.

A general unconcern on our part for these civilians who got in the way?  No chance. Zero probability.

An assessment of the likelihood of success of such an operation having an extremely low probability of success along with a high probability of Delta Force fatalities?  Yes.  If unmounted, almost assuredly this.  And somewhere in this world there sits a military statistical analyst who precisely determined those two probabilities and called the shots: upon such predetermined statistical probabilities do lives hang in the balance.

“You have dominion, my lord, in our house of pleasure,”
She whispered, and then glanced away.
I reached out, caressed her, reassuring her our treasure
was love’s bounty shared in each and all ways.

I told her:

“Like a sandbox of sand where each of us plays
Building castles reaching up toward the sun,
Let us now lean together in this box—building castles
To spiral upwards entwined as if one.”

“I have dominion—‘tis true, over my world well in hand
Which I so protectively guard like a hawk.
But to dominate you? My queen of this realm?
Take my hand and let’s go for a walk.”

And so to the woods…down a little known path
we meandered and disappeared for a  talk...
And to her joyous surprise—I took her right there—
Ah, dominion!  It truly does rock!

I was pretty outrageous in my last entry, no?

Blogging about what's typically considered sexually taboo at any time, any place, let alone in time of war?

Well, I couldn't have done it in Afghanistan, could I?

So I dream...am I not free to dream...even though some dreams be nightmares, daymares, or visions of paradise?

Or would you rather have me put a bullet in the brain of bin Laden?

As a warrior?  Or a lover?  Or aren't they the same?

highly erotic content to follow—beware…

A Taboo Communion

We cuddled for a long while feeling our nearness grow.  And then the moment arrived when we were naked at last.  We were intent on going slow, but I merely brushed against your thigh and came instantly.  And you saw so.  And you immediately took my hands into yours, cupping them, and directed my cum to flow into this cup, and it did so—nearly filling it.  Then still clasping my hands to support them from underneath, you took this hand-clasped chalice filled with my released love and brought it to your lips.  And while looking deeply into my eyes, so knowingly into my eyes, you reached out delicately with your tongue to sip.  Just one sip.  And you purred as the tip of your tongue dipped in.  Then you asked me if I had ever tasted my own cum.  And I pleaded, (quite honestly) no!  Not mine--and well beyond imagination—no one else’s either!  But you wanted to share this love with me and suggested that I should.  So still holding my gaze in yours, you then brought your lips to this chalice and drank thereof of all my love.  But held it patiently in your mouth.  Then pressing your lips to mine, and pushing your tongue into my mouth, you shared.  And I came to know of myself the taste which you were delighting in.  But without a thought, and while still holding this new share of my own making in my mouth, I went down on you.  Taking my mouth to your labia, the entrance to your pleasure cavern.  And I had every intent of delivering what you had placed in my mouth there within, using my tongue as a soft brush to paint your clitoris with my cum.  But to my surprise, when I opened my mouth for the insertion, a rush of your wetness greeted me, pouring profusely into my mouth.  So that now in my mouth your nectared wetness and my cum were mixed.  And my mouth was replete with this drink mixed of our love’s yield. Thus pleasured, I probed no further.  But instead brought my lips back up to yours.  And thrust my tongue into your mouth to establish a passage for own new communion.  And the ocean of our mixed juices flowed freely back and forth between us.  And then we each drank deeply knowing the taste of *us*. 

I need you...
every moment...
how many moments shall we have?
true lovers transcend time's limitations:
our clocks and watches have broken, love.
just me, you, our blissful eternity....
and watchmakers forever conjuring fixations in hell.

The Nympholept

He’d gone too far—he leapt, now leaps
where others dare not even creep—
into forests blackened by the night
—just the thought drives most sane men to fright.
And there the nymph in deep shadows waits—
the one who will decide his fate.

In the pale of the moonlight she begins the dance—
a dainty step, then a bound, and prance.
And as she whirls around this captive soul,
he stares transfixed by her unearthly glow.
Ten thousand times with as many men
has she escorted them all to the very same end.

What mortal can withstand this sight
of a nymph blazing passionate in the night,
seducing surreally the male heart
as if  with magical potions and feminine arts?
Yet offering nothing more than merely this:
a captivating dance and undelivered  kiss.

So through the night he’s knocked down, pulled in
by this delicate creature’s most immaculate sin.
He’s a nympholept and can no longer fight
the urge—so he’ll return tomorrow night
and for every night until the day he dies—
when the nymph by first kiss  takes his dying *sigh*.

So does the nympholept mortally serve the whim
of the nymph forever hidden in the forest dim.

this longing, this passion
has confounded all direction.
I turn and turn and turn
and yet remain enwrapped endlessly
by the lusty fragrance of your mystical bloom.
and all I seek is found
in every glance returned.
so thus entranced will I accept
your sweet surrender.
and by hearts' intent
fall freely into you.

I once recited the following poem for a best friend of mine at his *bachelor party* (lol) at Mt. Saviour Monastery in NY (no, the nuns were not dancing girls .  Corso was one of the lesser well-known Beat writers, perhaps most easily recognized by his graphical poem Bomb.  Read this and realize why I like cemeteries and feel sometimes like a lost pharaoh adrift in time.

'Marriage' by Gregory Corso

Should I get married? Should I be good?
Astound the girl next door with my velvet suit and faustus hood?
Don't take her to movies but to cemeteries
tell all about werewolf bathtubs and forked clarinets
then desire her and kiss her and all the preliminaries
and she going just so far and I understanding why
not getting angry saying You must feel! It's beautiful to feel!
Instead take her in my arms lean against an old crooked tombstone
and woo her the entire night the constellations in the sky-

When she introduces me to her parents
back straightened, hair finally combed, strangled by a tie,
should I sit with my knees together on their 3rd degree sofa
and not ask Where's the bathroom?
How else to feel other than I am,
often thinking Flash Gordon soap-
O how terrible it must be for a young man
seated before a family and the family thinking
We never saw him before! He wants our Mary Lou!
After tea and homemade cookies they ask What do you do for a living?

Should I tell them? Would they like me then?
Say All right get married, we're losing a daughter
but we're gaining a son-
And should I then ask Where's the bathroom?

O God, and the wedding! All her family and her friends
and only a handful of mine all scroungy and bearded
just wait to get at the drinks and food-
And the priest! he looking at me as if I masturbated
asking me Do you take this woman for your lawful wedded wife?
And I trembling what to say say Pie Glue!
I kiss the bride all those corny men slapping me on the back
She's all yours, boy! Ha-ha-ha!
And in their eyes you could see some obscene honeymoon going on-
Then all that absurd rice and clanky cans and shoes
Niagara Falls! Hordes of us! Husbands! Wives! Flowers! Chocolates!
All streaming into cozy hotels
All going to do the same thing tonight
The indifferent clerk he knowing what was going to happen
The lobby zombies they knowing what
The whistling elevator man he knowing
Everybody knowing! I'd almost be inclined not to do anything!
Stay up all night! Stare that hotel clerk in the eye!
Screaming: I deny honeymoon! I deny honeymoon!
running rampant into those almost climactic suites
yelling Radio belly! Cat shovel!
O I'd live in Niagara forever! in a dark cave beneath the Falls
I'd sit there the Mad Honeymooner
devising ways to break marriages, a scourge of bigamy
a saint of divorce-

But I should get married I should be good
How nice it'd be to come home to her
and sit by the fireplace and she in the kitchen
aproned young and lovely wanting my baby
and so happy about me she burns the roast beef
and comes crying to me and I get up from my big papa chair
saying Christmas teeth! Radiant brains! Apple deaf!
God what a husband I'd make! Yes, I should get married!
So much to do! Like sneaking into Mr Jones' house late at night
and cover his golf clubs with 1920 Norwegian books
Like hanging a picture of Rimbaud on the lawnmower
like pasting Tannu Tuva postage stamps all over the picket fence
like when Mrs Kindhead comes to collect for the Community Chest
grab her and tell her There are unfavorable omens in the sky!
And when the mayor comes to get my vote tell him
When are you going to stop people killing whales!
And when the milkman comes leave him a note in the bottle
Penguin dust, bring me penguin dust, I want penguin dust-

Yes if I should get married and it's Connecticut and snow
and she gives birth to a child and I am sleepless, worn,
up for nights, head bowed against a quiet window, the past behind me,
finding myself in the most common of situations a trembling man
knowledged with responsibility not twig-smear nor Roman coin soup-
O what would that be like!
Surely I'd give it for a nipple a rubber Tacitus
For a rattle a bag of broken Bach records
Tack Della Francesca all over its crib
Sew the Greek alphabet on its bib
And build for its playpen a roofless Parthenon

No, I doubt I'd be that kind of father
Not rural not snow no quiet window
but hot smelly tight New York City
seven flights up, roaches and rats in the walls
a fat Reichian wife screeching over potatoes Get a job!
And five nose running brats in love with Batman
And the neighbors all toothless and dry haired
like those hag masses of the 18th century
all wanting to come in and watch TV
The landlord wants his rent
Grocery store Blue Cross Gas & Electric Knights of Columbus
impossible to lie back and dream Telephone snow, ghost parking-
No! I should not get married! I should never get married!
But-imagine if I were married to a beautiful sophisticated woman
tall and pale wearing an elegant black dress and long black gloves
holding a cigarette holder in one hand and a highball in the other
and we lived high up in a penthouse with a huge window
from which we could see all of New York and even farther on clearer days
No, can't imagine myself married to that pleasant prison dream-

O but what about love? I forget love
not that I am incapable of love
It's just that I see love as odd as wearing shoes-
I never wanted to marry a girl who was like my mother
And Ingrid Bergman was always impossible
And there's maybe a girl now but she's already married
And I don't like men and-
But there's got to be somebody!
Because what if I'm 60 years old and not married,
all alone in a furnished room with pee stains on my underwear
and everybody else is married! All the universe married but me!

Ah, yet well I know that were a woman possible as I am possible
then marriage would be possible-
Like SHE in her lonely alien gaud waiting her Egyptian lover
so i wait-bereft of 2,000 years and the bath of life.