Monday, May 21, 2018

What love lurks?

What love lurks?

The darkness!

Pocket change sleeping
in a metal coffee can.

I don't need love,
but to change
my idea of love.

Not to have someone
someone love me
but have someone
on which
I might pour love.

Honey drizzle,
slow as father's thoughts,
but strong,
so strong.

What love lurks?

What emotional attachment

The darkness!

The works!

of smartness!

to the dustbin
with my old idea,
the idea of love,
to formulate a new guile,
a new need in my breast,
to show her how I winnow
away this detergent world!

What love lurks?

My butt hurts!

He had a plan
for a woman
but there was instead
a disguised man.

What degenerate spark!
Against one's shoulder meat,
what art?

One can see through
the gayboy's toenails
in the morning sun,
and feel like he's dying,
but not today,
for today,
his is taking
all of our time away!

What love lurks?

In the leaves!

Sunday, May 20, 2018

Gian-Felipe Cocinada Contra Francois Pittard

Cocinada had one of the finest classical educations Italy could provide.  So one would know that Cocinada knew when discretion was truly the better part of valor.

Faced with an irate Francois Pittard, Gian-Felipe hid in the azaleas, trying his damnedest to blend in with the folage.

Pittard came along, lustily, swing a brickbat into the limbs of the azaleas, scattering blooms everywhere.  Gian-Felipe held his breath, hoping perhaps Pittard would drop dead of physical exertion.  Pittard was after all, a usually desk-bound philosopher who spent long hours in his study, in a sedentary physical mode, writing and studying, studying and writing.

The argument had precipitated along these lines:  If one is looking at a table, and closes his eyes, then the table, as long as the eyes are closed, ceases to exist.  It is an old, childish argument of beginning philosophers.  Cocinada did not believe that perception was reality, but only that perception formed one's own ideas, and nothing further than such.

Perhaps he had pressed the point home too far, he thought, listening to the violence being perpetrated against the tender azalea greenery.

Principe Bonhoeffer himself would have been proud of the way Gian-Felipe Cocinada hid himself away so zealously.

Cocinada could hear Pittard explaining his outburst to the authorities: "I have bi-polar disorder", he would say, hoping that explained everything away.  And so many, like fake Green Berets or fake Navy Seals, claim to have Bi-Polar Disorder, when actually other issues like an ongoing depression or an attention deficit are actually plaguing the sufferer.  Just assume then, you have bi-polar disorder, without a diagnosis, without even seeking professional help at all, but claim it and use it as a crutch, an excuse, for rude and stupid brutish behaviors.

This would precipitate Cocinada's principle, that a claim of Bi-Polar Disorder must be medically verified before accepted as a valid claim.

Friday, May 18, 2018

Bonhoeffer's Felicitous Amazement and the Marmac Darryl Rises.

Bonhoeffer wrote entire volumes on instant recognition and the lack thereof, of, in particular, the highly intellectual, though he practiced in his own life, his own extremist form of reductionism-the kind of penis-centered philosophy that would make Freud himself blush.

A light pole was just an erect penis with wires attached to it, like when he took the phrenology class back in Mother Osterreich.  No great mystery to be observed and ruminated upon, Bonhoeffer boiled everything down to simplest terms.

Across time and space, the Marmac Darryl had his Catwoman girlfriend.  He had the dish hooked to the house.  Child support paid.

His deductive faculty:  Bonhoeffer once lost his temper and an entire building collapsed in downtown Vienna.

The hunter/gatherer: Marmac Darryl made a religion out of Sonny's cheeseburgers.  Each cheeseburger was like a miracle, having each been found by the waitress in the back and then brought to the table, still-hot.

Jailed for his ideas:  Bonhoeffer makes light of his imprisonment these days, but you can tell, not all of the torment has lost its sting just yet.  The past has a pull, and all he has is his felicitous amazement and his reductionism, for which to alternately enjoy and master the world around him.

Marmac Darryl, despite his dull countenance, dabbled in a sort of transcendency from time to time, mostly in the form of his Francis Bacon.  He read and re-read the Scientific Method, even had a Baconian Method Tumbler blog.  His feline gf knew to stand back and let Marmac Darryl pursue his dreams.

Tuesday, May 15, 2018

Apocalypse coming? Last-minute gift ideas.

Ornamental Bamboo cheers up a home with a light, airy touch.  Greenery always adds a natural sensibility to even the lab of Doctor Doom.

So its comes down to the end and my warlord wants to count the pink ears on my belt.

I got my "In Touch" monthly in the mail at last post delivery.  The devotional with the good word from Dr Stanley.  I like it, but I prefer Voice Of The Martyrs, because it gives me hope, seeing believers strive against oppression, with stories of losses counter-balanced with stories of success in spreading the Gospel.

I'm starting an outreach, in numerous fronts, like getting an old blogger back to writing his series, and even conceptualizing how to do ministry without a proper building.  Ideers abound!

"I'll sew your a$$hole up and keep feeding you, feeding you!!"

A brief twinge of sharp pain, then bliss as the hot skin kisses the cool air.

Four foot tall Barbie Doll.  Just for me to work out my frustrations.  Waiting, and making no demands, but pliable, and ready for my busy hands.  I have these thoughts, you see, swirling in my head, and if I don't let them out, they'll burn me, as if they were hot coals!

Why did the kitten cross the road?  They ask me this.  Theodosius, the third of his group, was on his way to visit Hewitt, and wish him happy birthday.  Theodosius will not be forgotten, how he scrambled away in abject terror every time I opened the porch door.  We could have been great friends, you see.  I was working like a sequence on him and Venesseon and Rudiger, getting them acclimated to my presence.  There have been miniscule breakthroughs which spur on my enthusiasm for the project.

Sunday, May 13, 2018

Principe Bonhoeffer's madcap Reducitonism

Bonhoeffer's Reductionism is a sad yet whimsical attempt to requalify the world of the philosopher, that he is not a failure, a turd, a miscreant, but that he empowers himself, through simple math.  Everything then is comprised of numbers, numbers being the inner-substance of the world, and equations the inner structure that supports the world; his reductionism has simplified the entire world to a degree that he does not need an aid to do the equation, neither calculator nor a piece of paper.

A light pole is but a straight line.  And a phallic symbol.  But then the straight line, by equivocation, is then a phallic symbol.  He has spilled soap in the aisle and fell to one knee, perhaps bruising his kneecap, as he is lost in pondering these truths.

The black man has no historicity, but instead nigh-worshipped as an emblem of fertility, fecundity.  He has boiled away, in his mind, Bonhoeffer, 400 years of slavery, and Jim Crow laws, and voter suppression, giving the still-caged negroid an idealized version of himself that he can never hope to live up to.

So I'm coming to a point of saying there are a lot of phallic symbols in Bonhoeffer's world view, like the sneaky Syrian, the college date rapist and Bill Clinton.  The 42nd president is also an icon of fecundity, for like the biblical Onan, he spilled his seed rather than depositing it into the love center of the female.

Why, that is as impersonal as sneezing in a crowd!

Did they teach you that at Oxford?

But Bonhoeffer prays with the poor, observing a modicum of spiritualism in his despair.  He lives simply, in his rented rooms at Campo Verde, drives an economy car and observes in all things, madcap ascetism.

If you grab a tuft of papers and squeeze, crushing the paper across the middle of the mass, you come out with a cylindrical bit of matter, shaped like an erect phallus.  Bonhoeffer would scramble to post such a thing on Facebook.  His servant lady would promptly discard such a thing, sending Bonhoeffer scrambling for the dustbin.

The Tetragrommetton of fable, now with crunchy biscuits.

Principe Bonhoeffer kicked his Honda whip squarely in its ass end, to get a few more drips of speed.  He literally climbed out of the moving car, walked around to the rear and kicked the durned thing.

The Challenger was painted "Gay Sex Orange" with a monster V-8 engine, kind of overshadowing the Principe's 2.0-liter fourbanger.

But the Principe had reliability on his side, for like the tortoise, his own vehicle would be running long after the Challenger was sitting by the roadside.  But for now, he was roundly in the dust, far behind like a fading memory.

Felipe Massa arrived in the Black Series safety car, with its flashing yellow lights, got out and berated the Principe, especially for not properly "getting after it" at the drop of the green.  "Learn something!" he shouted, climbing back in the humming safety car.

The Principe was almost in tears, at this point, realizing how it all looked to the observer, but here he was running a strategy that depended on attrition, depending on his opponent to be overtly aggressive.  At this point, any mistake by the Challenger was of benefit to Bonhoeffer.

He had no other choice, but to hail the mighty Tetragrommetton, to invoke that against his rival, who was at this point defeating him handily.  As he opened his mouth to intone the incantation, Upson Watt the race engineer came over the headset, "get on after that, mate; go on, go on, now!".

"And no tetragrommetton for you" said Watt.  "Use your skill, not your arcane magic.  No one else believes in that forgotten religion anymore."

As the Principe drove along, he saw the Challenger, sitting beside the road at a residential section, under the lawn sprinklers of someone's beautiful home.  The driver, the Nameless Wonder, was seated inside, in the shade, watching the sprinkler drops cascade down his window panes, as if lost in musing.

Maybe he was out of fuel, wondered the Principe.

Saturday, May 12, 2018

10 years, 6 months ago in the Rockingham, NC sunshine.

10000 days Mike Morris, his own birthday punctuated by an announce over the Rockingham Walmart PA system, and of course, the festival concluded by hipster Darryl's birthday, just after.

Around this time, the great biopic retrospective, maybe not that December, but instead November or October or even September 2007. 

Neigh, neigh, it was around this time in 2009 when I was shutting down the old blog.  Around that time, I was whispering in Michael Jackson's ear: "po' boy ya got ta die", and he sat idly listening.  Governor Sanford disappeared to be with his senorita soulmate.  I sympathized.  I didn't think it was a big deal, except of course to his wife and children, but then one has to understand that Mark had found true happiness.

Confuseus say, when comrade find the true happiness, be truly happy for that comrade.

Ten years ago on this day, I pondered murdering Chuck.  The killing offense?  His surly mouth.

But along December, prior, in 2007, I was busy.  I was first to most tasks, and had to deliver and park most of the customer cars, alongside the service duties.  I was on a seemingly endless trek about the parking lot, through the double doors, past the main desk, set the keys down, and go into the shop to repeat the cycle.

During an eight month period, I lost sixty pounds of bodyweight.  As an acquaintance observed, "they worked you."  And they did work me, even when I was not there, off the clock, with every little piece of minutia counted as grist from the mill.

But it was a new start for me, and already for two months I had been so busy so as to have no time for a life.  This would change, but by then, I knew I did not want Rockingham Walmart in my life, so other plans were being made, but I relented too long, weakened in constitution, and ultimately retired like a beaten dog.  The situation deteriorated as I weakened, the whole experience seeming abusive, torturous, as aspects of my personal life were poured over.

So they had a definitive advantage over me, which frustrated my chess player instincts.  I play chess like others play poker; I use subterfuge and distraction.  So a lot must go on, and one depends on them not having all that information.  And yet.

Most disturbing was how people from the past would show up.  This caused a lot of consideration, careful thoughts about my standing with those people.  I observed early on, that those people "could be called in at any time".  I re-evaluated those relationships, put them into a professional folder in my mind, that podding shed that usually remains locked.

I realized I would just never be friends with some people, which at the time seemed pathetic and ominous, like some kind of limitation imposed by a cold and impersonal society.

You could say, even, at this time, despite all the mess, mess by the ton, the fool had hope for the future.