roasted sink -n- chin tippers

roasted sink -n- chin tippers

You ever try to steal yourself some fire? You know, take 5 qubics of fire and pour it in a cup? No, of course not. Fire gets all over and into everything, you can’t simply ask it to slow down or stop getting bigger, now can you? It just makes more and more of itself. Like water, kinda.

But fire? Try to fit fire indivisibly, like try to cut some fire in half. Fire isn’t atomic, I don’t believe it necessarily weighs a thing. Water, though, water contains these building blocks of creation we call our existence. Unravel their curvature along the valleys and mountains, their gravity and polarity, ripping the faces off caves underground for so long that it takes eons before the stones finally start screaming and bellowing into echoes, muffled by the light chatter of individual raindrops singing in chorus, falling in waterfalls.

There’s so much dark matter in the universe, I’m beginning to think that we’re the dark matter.

At least, according to this one guy who said he seen it. Right? We’re pretty invisible to the cosmos, at least, according to the woodland animals and outer space beings. They seem fairly unaware of our existence, outside of how we do or don’t fit into their plans.

We think we are doing a great job at understanding, organizing or tearing apart all of reality, but it seems space and time wants to continue to simply “grow a new one”, despite all our best efforts.

I don’t think that’s legal. It’s probably not, which is why we get outraged at existence or whatever this behemoth of forward time travel (the old-fashioned way, day to night-like, like back in the old days) wants to call itself or reveal itself as, these days.

Speaking of these days, what is it, Tuesday? And why, no one asks.

Cuz we said so, a long time ago, and are still doing it, calling Tuesdays, ‘Tuesday’, but the 818424932543905487309483 parsecs of stars out there in the galaxy don’t seem concerned with what we decided to start calling days we made up and use to organize space and time into our own individual understandings, together, at all. It just goes on being forward-traveling time, hurtling through the cosmos, mending the irreparable and chaotic damage of a new reality unmaking itself to be revealed in a permanent past and mysterious future as it reaches it.

Or not! WHATEVER. Maybe I’m wrong, you certainly have your own perspective, or at least opinion, wouldn’t you?

Don’t you? Don’t let me tamper with that, I’ve got my own perspective.

xtra xtra

xtra xtra

Dude smacked himself into a glass and completely transparent yet unfathomably solid piece of window or invisible brickwall or something. Depends on what kind of technology this kid was near or had access to, but, I suppose, in the future, the barrier would have been evidently more obvious for having foreheads smacked into, but, as it was, ‘you must assume that human beings have foreheads at this time’, as it was dreamlands for lullabies for this distant, far-off imaginary person such as that I am illustrating, who knocked himself out when he smacked his head against… whatever it was.

Whatever it was, whacked him upside his box for eyeballs he calls a head so hard that he asked, “Holy crap. What happened?”

Well, that’s that, I guess. Down he go, after that. Boom, he knocked hisself th’ hell out. It was tweety birds and vanishing firecrackers for our lad.

Goodbye! Goodbye, he says, to the blue monster called the havoc wreaking sky and the clouds on it, or just around the corner of it, out of vision, waiting to appear, maybe they will, who knows, maybe the sky itself would answer our question on this.

“Hey! Itself!” this one guy yells. “Can we ask you a question?”

“Sure,” replies the blue and white and dark clouded sky, dark clouds kind of in the back listening to some tunes or being more jazzy than the morning crew which is the ideomatic puffy brothers we all know and love, sky all blue and deep and meaningful like containing the rest of the answers to existence behind a bouncing and scattered fire of blue.

“Will the clouds appear?” we ask, because that was the question we were planning on asking, should the sky and the puffy mist vapor clouds that always screamed at it in defeaning silence and roaring thunderstorms, not be too busy with the whole thing to respond to us.

“They already did,” the sky replies.

“Fantastic,” we think, and on we march.

knot box

knot box

In the clutches of a winged, flying creature, a creature that was never created, but born of some darkness and/or urgency, black ink dripped to the page below it, like candle wax, pressed with the seal of character or intent. The thing itself could not read the words that assembled themselves from the chaos, but they were there, nonetheless.

Explosions and fireblasts and lightning strikes and toxic acid rain clouds and sharp hail flew all around this beast, if we would be so kind enough to label it a beast, as it was surely more than a thing, but less than alive, and it evaporated into whatever it may consider to have been its escape, possibly with more of its kind.

In its wake, the tumultuous layers of dangerous upheaval, ripped from the existence of reality, retreated to whence they came, as well. The fires slickened to an ember, the acid foamed and erupted, the rain dried up, the hail was no more. The oceans calmed, the land settled restfully, nestled into its corners for a good long time, while the wind lazily played a tune and ran through the fields for fun.

Calton Ten

Calton Ten

Deepen or thicken your plot harder, immensify your ports and shores, widen the narrow-ways and heighten the classrooms. Everybody’s going back in time to return to the future, come be a part. Play your part in the narrative of existence, morer. Morely, do it well enough, if you think you can.

If not, I don’t or won’t, put one passed you. I won’t get one on ya like they say in the olden times of the forever vanishing past. Splash your cheeks with whiskey, gentleman.

Bob

Bob

It was never like that. There were no trees in the forest. There was no water in the ocean. Get the hell out of your denial and bitter-cold rejection of locked boxes.

Inside of these boxes were buttered biscuits, but this man has eaten them. He says they were delicious.

Bob, were the biscuits delicious?

Bob says yes.

boxtown look-it-ups

boxtown look-it-ups

Listen, I wasn’t trying to outdo anybody. I wasn’t trying to win. The game. I have my own life, I don’t need to win it, as it is mine already, unless I must win it back.

Win it baack! they say.

Fuck, no. Plz, not, anything but that. I have it already, this is my life I am living, much like yours. Your life, yeah.

Great, whatever. Fantastic. What contribution would you like me to make? Should I put some chimney sweeps up in it? “Come, let us go get stories put to us in the form of chimney sweeps, let us be amazed by what we have only dreamed!” Until no more words were said about it at all until they were returned to, quietly, with modesty and decorum.

What kind of show was that? screams the rivers and waters, hollering joyfully thru the countryside narrowly avoiding rocks and whatever it was all supposed to be in the way of the ocean’s path of ever onward and upward, expanding into outer space, consuming Neptunes and the moons and oh I just could not even begin to describe that anymore. You’re going to have to come to your own conclusions and as to where that water went.

But anyway, hopefully they found out. I’ve been wondering why they’ve asked in the first place, myself. Let me know how that works out too. When you get back to me.

I know, I fell in love with the whole thing myself, crashing to the earth from time to time. But where do you think that would lead, who has the time for that?

Listen, sit down, you take second place, I’ll pass you the fucken hamburgers. I’ll hand you the fries. Eat them. I’m eating them. I’m having some too, chill TFO, I’ll deal with it. Whatever the problem was, whatever. Or first. Or not. I don’t care.

Who is this ravenous hellbeast asks NO ONE.

Hi, I’ll just sit down here, thx, watching a movie, FANTASTIC.Ravenous Hellbeast reporting for duty, sirs.

Great. You know what stops a ravenous hellbeast?

Knowing it’s proper name, or what it even really is. Sitting down politely and asking nothing of no one seems to be pretty auspicious in this heralding of the renouncement of lies that are just guesses. Idk. I assumed it was.

Ask the unidentified but readily substantive element of apparent existence, itself.

Later.

The End

7-way see-saw

7-way see-saw

Peel me like an orange. Go ahead, unzip my brain and remove papers, stamped and choreographed by shadows. Insert the papers into a paper shredder, and burn the rest. Where are we going to find fire? Why, by incinerating carbon or combusting rocks real hard. We’ll wear our goggles, or protective eyewear. Whatever.

Whatever we have to wear, you know, wardrobe specific, fashion some trees and leaves and branches and fiber and or moon dust or pinball machines. My clothes go plink, plink, plink when I walk, because I’ve got guys stabbing nails into the wood and then beating them down with a hammer, with me in between.

Plink, plink! the nails will say. Boy howdy, 1,2,3. I didn’t really care as much as these guys, but they won’t stop hammering away. Master Pete and the Postcards. 1950’s-type rock style bands. I’m losing my own attention with this stuff. Old school renegades, Socrates and the Aristocracy, real stuff of the cosmos.

Lightning is crashing all around me now, biff BAM BOOF BZZZT! Snap crackle pop. Whatever you want to make up in your head. Whatever.

I won’t stop you. I’m not here to stop your imagination. I would be someone else if I was here to stop your imagination. Help you forget everything, and why. I don’t do that. Why should I?

Let your imagination grow, it is the only fight back you have against the fucken tyranny of existence, it’s unceasing grip on our lives. Sometimes we can take airplanes, other times we are getting punched in the face by villains, or else forgetting what movie we were supposed to be watching. It doesn’t matter.

Right? It doesn’t? I’m just faking this moral compass, because it provides something to my imagination, wouldn’t it? Who knows? How do you stop it?

Some things are more or less important to anyone else, I’m not a big judge of what, the conventional?

Far be it from me to judge the conventional, I suppose. I suppose that’s what we pay big money for. Yo, big money?

-Hey hey, big money in the house guys, woop woop!

Yo, big money, where you come from up in this piece, as in, piece of writing?

-Aw, dog, c’mon we’re not playing that game bro, says big money

What?

-Dog, this is BIG MONEY, like when I grin, you gleam, you got me, pal? We ain’t tryin’ ta sink this ship like a rock bro and now you got me feelin’ reel bad about all that and I’m just big money tryin’ ta bring some joy in life and win the day

Listen, big money, I am -sorry- that is my big bad. I wasn’t trying to make claims.

-You’re alright! Hey, hey! Let’s go terraform MARS, motehrfucker.

Now he’s talking. Well, that was big money chockful of great ideas because he’s the one and only.

=hey guys how are you

who the fuck are you

=im the spirit of christmas doubt guys and im not sure if i should even be hereeee…..

oh my gosh man can you not keep kicking down this door you are wanting to head a few doors down the way

=… are you sure?

NO!! I mean YES!!! GET OUT

=that’s not really that nice of you

what do you mean i mean like get out you’re a trip

The End

deck-style

deck-style

Listen. I don’t control the forces of nature, but when I do, it’s while writing down letters. Now, you might look to the wind, or the sky, or the ocean, or some other element of existence, such as copper or lead, and ask, “Who controls you?”

I say, they’d probably laugh at you right in the face, but in reality, according to science, they are utterly and unfathomably predictable and indeed are quite controlled to the extent that their is no deviation.

Did I make quasars? Fuck no! No one is even asking that question. I write letters together, find me some letters in nature.

Muaha. Ah haha. Like such, now, a dog or a cat, for instance, can provide laughter, warmth, or mirth, but letters, you find the 26 letters of the English alphabet in nature and arrange them this way, once you have, you have won, good sirs, or madams, or preference.

I say this, but it might as well not be true, or is, or whatever. What’s time but a infinitesimal dethaw of heat beyond understanding, things don’t getter hotter, they cool down. Any scientist, or logician, or possible street wizard should understand this. It won’t just get hot on it’s own unless it’s flipping inside out, or brought nearer to the heat. What then?

Watch out. I tell you, when that shit goes down, y’all better turn hide and run real dang fast cuz shit’s going to get real deep and pop off.

Again. Because it has to, because it’s science, and it’s predictable. It follows a pattern of behavior, but who gives a flying tuffle about that kind of comprehension anyway.

Mathematicians. Non-mathematicians. Girls named Sally.

Moving on. I’m not here to nunchuka your barricades, guv’na. I’m not trying to break down your walls or give you new ones to build.

Like it? Fantastic. Following the theme of said realism, let’s move on, because we’re on a journey. You and I or they or us are moving along ever so gracefully to the finish line. What awaits us? The answers to life’s questions, such as where do these questions come from.

For Bob, one of the members of our group, they come from lunchtime. So we’ll sit down and have lunch, or something, some day, Bob.

He comes flying through outer space and gives us all a big high five, because that was not illegal yet and on we marched.

The End

Just kidding. Bob held a mutiny and totally took over this story and made it have a much better ending, but only if you were there to see it.

The End

jon the non-existence

jon the non-existence

Jon was a friend that was non-existent. He was the kind of friend that was the way that birds are, happy cheerful full of promise, but don’t come near me, I’ll fly away, says every bird ever, unless you happen to relate to the bird kingdom under different circumstances. Like maybe you and this bird got stuck together in some kind of holding pattern for a bit, and you all learned how to get on with your business, relating as compatriots or what have you. Identifying the bond of a common problem. Moving on.

No one thinks the bird doesn’t exist, but everybody sure knows Jon won’t help you move that couch.

“Jon, help us move this couch,” you’ll say. There’ll be no response, tho, because Jon doesn’t exist. He’s a figment of your imagination. He’s a caricture of some real person you thought you saw once on TV, or the internet, now. Fairly representative of what you would expect. This guy was going places, like fancy lands that substanceless entities inhabit.

It’s a cold world. “Jon, turn up the heat!”

No. No is how the universe works that one out.

Thanks.

The End.

Eme Man’s Son

Eme Man’s Son

Jumpin’ Jack Butterman. Large sticks of big fat butter, wrapped in wax paper and drew on by colored marker, but the color black, which is no color at all.

Smacking bandannas on crazy outfits, I wonder if this can be legal.

No shit.

Is it colorful enough for you? Does it sound good enough? Is it soundy? Is it musically enough? Does it hop the benchmark of what was more or less indicative of the medium? Is it a faithful representation, true to form?

Is it from there? Is it of it? Don’t ask me shit on how to pronounce the names of foreign cities in other countries because I’m not even fucken from there, these guys say.

Listen bro, I’m not from there, they say, vanishing into the ether from whence these things are coming and going.

Feel me dog.

This sounds so horrible, but am I supposed to guess? Should I take a train to some other place, should I already know how it goes?

They and us or we went on to fight another day, against the rushing tides of some godawful future held at bay by imaginary chaotic beings and ordered pylons or something real deep and meaningful like some damn odd ass flower all bein’ flower-like and weird if you ever got in the mind of one of those things growing out of the DIRT. The Earth, the very name by whence it is referred as, or we call it, even, or to as atoms or just some mathematical equation with a cosine and that’s all, spinning away recklessly and falling into a broken, unexisting oblivion like a tumbling acrobat.

I’m not growing out of the dirt. I’m not made of mud, I’m a flesh-abiding ape man. I walk, no, I hover across what he calls a FACE, you feel me dog?

The plant we or I are discussing. He has his own rules, I have mine.