Far Sense

Far Sense

You know what didn’t happen? The dang end of the world. It’s not over. I’m not dead, neither are you. You might think you are, I understand that, but listen, I don’t know why you would think that. I also don’t care if you feel defeated, because you are not. You are alive, even as you breathe. Good enough, right? You’re an average citizen of this globe, you afford groceries or possibly electricity, if I may be so bold.

Welcome. Welcome to it. Welcome to the mythical cosmos waiting to be yours but oh wait, you’re dead.

You’re dead now, you died, you actually died earlier, but I kept talking because that’s what I do. You can too, if you only believe. But don’t copy my style, fools. I said you were dying, because the past is gone. But in you stands a new you, always on the lookout for the fresh new thing. Me too, it’s how I get such fresh beats.

Let’s go tell them. You know, those guys. Some people, let’s be happy about this, fuck it.

But, we’ve got more important fish to fry, like how one hop skip and a jump land on the next. Who is this guy ‘me’ as I like to call myself? Let me inform you.

My name is Keith Bingham. I write words, because I like to, but that’s too simple of an answer, let’s make this more complex. I like to write. That get’s to the point harder, I believe.

You know, this little nib of a pen all crammed and bent carving these dang words into rocks. You feel me dog, you are the average person. The everyman. I am, you are, he is, she is, whatever.

This telegram came in for this one guy, he was a guy that was living in your house, you have a house, you have a garage, you live in a castle, because this is my story I’m telling.

You’ll like it.

Check this out, this telegram was from the police.

No! Not the police, I mean, this telegram was from King Edward I, who was your friend who lived in your neighborhood. He was officially a king as much as he could drink beer. And boy could he drink beer. A lot of it.

It was an invitation to a beer-drinking contest, and the stars of this program were you and him.

Suddenly, your wall exploded and standing there was none other than King Edward I himself, in the beer-drinking flesh DRINKING A BEER.

AHHHH! You screamed. You screamed just like that. AHHHH!

King Edward I is cool as fuck, you reply.

Thanks for liking my story.

The End

Fire Nights in Madison

Fire Nights in Madison

Alright, cantaloupes to the left, apples to the right. No, no, red to the left, apples to the right. Wait, this is wrong. Cut the scene, do not get too flaky, in fact, why don’t you just put the knives down, gentlemen. Swords to plowshares, right?

Listen: Pop-Tarts aren’t good, unless you slice ’em real nice said no one, ever. “Slice my pop-tart for me real nice,” is not a command you will hear from any cockpit. No one’s juggling Pop-Tart’s here, slicing them which way and that. Or juggling them. In the unbaked toastery-ness of them, for real. This is not happening.

This is a product of your imagination.

All queries subject to provable claims, when necessary. All rights reserved in Virginia, c/o Mr. Blackheart the Thorn-minded, in reference to file B-14-C91

Thank you.

bell docker

bell docker

I’ll take a laser gun, or some magic spells. Real, thrilling sorcerous powers that be, from my fingertips – BLA-BLAT-BLAT-BLAT it’s called an onomatopoeia for a reason, it’s exactly what it sounds like, slapping big, fat gorillas upside their big, fat sleepy heads and running towards victory, gorillas en route.

“I feel stupid,” says this one gorilla, following you to treasure, or some big fight:

“I feel so stupid, I was sitting there, sleepy, digging crust out of my gorilla eyes with gorilla fingertips all black or whatever color of gorilla I am, like this,” and the gorilla looked down at one hand he opened up before his eyes, as he continued running with his remaining limbs.

His hand! POWER! A magic spell was beginning to form in the crux of his metacarpis, bros, alliteratively. I mean, he now had the power to jump 400′ but nobody continued caring, and this gorilla died all alone while cold and curled up in the snow. No one remembered his name. He didn’t even have a name, and no one had bothered to find out.

He was brought back to life later on. It was just a joke, this whole thing, because it was dude’s birthday. The gorilla was in on it.

The End

triangle + square = hypotenuse

triangle + square = hypotenuse

Flipbook Andy, flipbook caramel chocolate covered pretzels in a sundae Andrew, answer your damn phone, you say.

Tom Johnson often used nicknames to refer to Androphetus, dousing his legitimately god-given natural born name with a varied and well-meaning stream of nouns or adjectives, because that’s how stories roll, hombre. You are in this story, in fact, you are the fucking STAR of this story, and I will prove it:

Listen: Andarphologethetics, a man as thickly put together as a bag of cement, declined to pick up his phone in a forward-thinking kind of way. Better to adhere to solid principles such as math or science, like trees falling into logs and becoming campfires for woodland animals like the squirrel or the rhinocerousaurus that roam golden forests, amber-hued from sunlight, green foliage amidst the purple and yellows of flowers that had never seen themselves before ever because of science and how and why of modern physics.

Flowers don’t have eyes, Andy thought, or maybe they do, but they generally don’t, so it is preposterous to think of flowers looking around at themselves, but who knows, maybe they can, in some 87th sense they have in the list of plant senses of which even the greatest scientists could barely detect with the most sensitive of instruments, he realized.

Ask your fellow, friendly tree-hugger of your neighborhood whether there is any science behind how a plant feels and he will spill his guts to you about this subject. Flowers and plants feel all kinds of shit because they are in tune with nature.

And we’re all nature, bro, you remark to Andrew kindly, patting him on the shoulder and letting the moment pass and the pain to heal from inside of your mind because he never answered the phone.

This is the function of the neighborhood scientist, born of the science tree which grows from the fountains of time. Look that shit up, I don’t have to tell you this part of the story, the vernacular is laid bare and plain, were it to be stated any simpler, this would be a dictionary and not a tale.

Andy went and did as he was directed, but his experience was much, much different than this. Much to the 2nd power, the square root of most, this guy was or said or did. He ended up having lunch.

You ended up having lunch too and the lunch was ok by contrast but you didn’t know that at all. You thought it was great. Your lunch was one of the better food-bangers of the week, but little did you know your subjective reality was crashing down the stairs like a fucking metal basketball when Doesn’t-Use-a-Smartphone-Correctly Andremeter comes back in the room. He says he’s got of all this reality dripping out of his mind and ears and eyeballs, awashed in seas of reality, netherworlds of truth soaking in light and warmth, obliterating falsities with oh-so-heavy actualness and readily apparent obviousness, evaporating into nothing and yet winning it’s territorial advancement into the void of what is not or never has, or will always shall be eventually, ad infinitum.

This is the story of a man who needs more fiction in his life. His name is Tom. He is you. As you came to understand him, you realized how right he was.

The End

Calender Cups

Calender Cups

Cacophony garnets, residual timbers, pencil-pushing moon calculators, fly-by-night operations, middle of the day, evening or afternoon, flip chambers to the floor, gentlemen, or ladies, or persons. Congratulations, you have passed the exam. You have graduated, you have become the thing you have so earnestly sought, wilder than the fires that light the visions in the night.

pistol pete ain’t got no pumpkin on his birthday

a glitter sprinkle

a glitter sprinkle

Ghastly gargoyles, mostly perched on sills, horror plastered all over their maudlin faces for a good long time until their rock bodies erode, chipped and etched away by sharp winds of tumult and chaos we could not begin to fathom or understand, readily available at your local old building, preferably over 100 years old for proper wear and indentation.

Frightening beasts of malady these hell-beings were. Fraught with peril, was their minds, as the stone-carver shed light on their inner substance, wrought forever, or again, a good long time, as the sun circles around the moon, or the moon circles around the earth, or the bees circle around the petals, or what have you.

Don’t be afraid of these contorted caricatures, I think they’re meant to be silly, in some fashions, as I believe they held some kind of symbolism for the church. I’m not sure if old, big banks put gargoyles on their buildings, but you may find some exceptions to this rule, splashed with crimson.



Solve the mysteries of life. It’s imperative. You were born, swaddled in life, a life was wedged deep into your little, flabby, baby body and you popped out alive. You are probably still alive.

Some guy, probably sporting a mohawk, or sports jacket, or cool watch, bumps into you, and you drop your drink, down it goes, shattering to the ground. Alcohol splashes on everyone’s shoes and now they’re all looking at you.

“Solve the mysteries of life,” comes a voice from inside of your soul. Ah, yes, your soul, the undefined little spark of the divine of consciousness that keeps this whole thing afloat, and by ‘this’ I mean ‘you’. It’s a little warning system, a little ringing bell in your psyche that arrives at moments like these when everything stops and shit just got real.

So you do. You calmly tell the crowd that Mr. Brick-elbows probably should have been watching where he was chucking those things, you might ask him if he has a license or a permit for such deadly weapons like where his little arm bone and big arm bone meet and bend and maybe he shouldn’t be lobbing them around the room like that.

“Yeah!” someone from the crowd shouts.

“You tell him!” comes another encouraging voice thirsty for the come-uppance.

“Listen, Elbows, you better get to packing your shit and leaving town right about now!” another voice chimes in.

Elbows was once a flabby baby, too, he can’t help his medical condition, you think.

“Ok, everyone,” you say, raising your hands into the air in a sign of peace and respect. “We shouldn’t discriminate against the less coordinated.”

“That’s right!” comes a new voice from the crowd. “My mother was not coordinated!”

“Mine was also not coordinated when I was a child, and it caused me problems when I became an adult!” another person says.

Shit is getting out of hand, let’s get the fuck out of here now before shit gets real deep and starts poppin’ off up in this. You, Elbows, the man who’s mother was not coordinated and had the courage to share this, and some guy named Wally who probably mopped the floors, quickly leave the building during all the confusion. You all step out into the street and start making your way into the hot, summer night, leaving the confusion far behind.

Later, Wally, who now sleeps on your couch occasionally, due to not having a ‘steady place to crash’, eats a sandwich of yours in the fridge and you get really pissed and finally kick his ass out.

The End



There was a wooden sign nailed to a telephone pole, it was painted in bright colors, and it completely destroyed, obliterated and annihilated any realization other than that this was a sign that only came through town in the form of a massive take-over of the powers that be by other, more ferocious people called the opposing party, and it wreaked havoc on raw sense and order and justice.

“Hail, and lightning-fire,” spoke no one, this time, as invisible guidelines, laws and rules created by people, which divined our daily destinies, reasoned out what our definitions of what we were was supposed to be, so we could all relate rationally.

The rest of the completely blind universe simply replied with a response, kind of like that penny you thinned out real nice at the county fair, only this response hit with the force of a 100-ft drop, or perhaps an accidental fall to the pavement.

Real scary shit, this day and age. Excuse me for even referencing it. Nature’s response to our morning coffee order from another human being or possibly robot/machine?

“I’ll make more beans,” says Mother Nature, “Also, deadly bees and hurricanes,” because Mother Nature. I didn’t order coffee out of the ground, nobody did. We snatched the beans from the plant, cut the heck out of those little shiny beans into tiny, itty-bitty fragments, or probably we banged some rocks together or something, and we made coffee ourselves.

Nobody eats nature’s offerings, as they are, aside from maybe apples and the possible jar of honey. We, as people, deal with things that are man-made, like chocolate or gizmos, not nature-made, because honestly an apple is a tree’s sex organs, honey is insect vomit and that is all truly messed up.

Instead we grind up some cocoa beans and then add sugar and heat to make what is known as chocolate because chocolate is way better than raw plant seeds and it’s a lot healthier and easier to explain to another person. How water collects in the atmosphere and rains on us, periodically, is not as readily obvious.

Applying different ingredients to make a selectable meal looks pretty human in the grand scheme of things. So, again, is talking or wearing sweaters. Lots of members of the other parts of the living world, like corn while it is still growing on the stalk, or fish, or perhaps some undiscovered type of cheese, or something real smart like a 3rd grade science teacher, share traits in common with one another due to an overlap in specialization.

I like to imagine that Mother Nature has some weird parallel dimension where she is running through various possible time lines, remnants of our former selves which continue on, fighting distant machines of memory and wonder. One is George, no last name, because in that timeline, last names have become something completely different.

George is uniquely comprised as a singular entity of multifaceted parts. He has red hair.

The audience claps for him. Why? Because it’s on with the show. Some got happy, some got sad, let’s move on.

lee pedal-tipper

lee pedal-tipper

General tire-marks and long presses of glass crashing and we are Mark 7VIII, finally. Finally, good luck. “What do you want to drink?” this body asks me and I respond, “Yes, please.”

I’ll take another. I’ll have another. Mark my words, it will be accomplished in this lifetime or the next. I speak the lingo around these parts, I have memories and knowledge, Capitans. I pass for a reasonable fancy, dapperman around these parts, a cartographer of sorts or otherwise water-rustler, canteen-taker, spin-doctor extraordinaire. I’m from outer space, I’m literally lost to the galaxies.

Or so they say. Who are they anyway? Why do these ‘theys’ always tell us such ridiculous fucking horrible shit like that?

Big, fat bricks of horrible nonsense wedged together with sandwich ties and bacon, watermelon crust and apple pies. Bought from McDonald’s, or some far off galaxy of which could only be enlisted and drafted forwards toward a new frontier. Ask me where I keep my humming-mobile, I tell you.

Giant, concave water benches and splash pans, banking up crusty breads to sell hot and fresh on the patio or sidewalk, sell them please, pelase commercialize them to me, two-party bargain system where I get me a hot roll, and you get you a sandwich at the end of the day.

Be that as it may, watch out for general horse-ranker-y as these guys are not official, this is not official letters, nor was official sentence ever made.

It was no one. It was nobody, that is the answer to the question right now, no one, not a single one, was responsible for all of it. Not a whit, not a one.

Location Zed

Location Zed

Don’t kick Mr. Sandman when he’s down. The restful, good bogeyman, who conks your eyes out with a sack of space-dust, twists your eyeballs until they pop out with a corkscrew, and you are dead asleep from endless daily brain-work, does so in a kind, gentle way that is good for your health.

This is just a dream, he’ll say, cleverly, as he blows a puff of moondust out of his palm into whatever the hell you were when awake and alive. “Now you are asleep and alive,” we think he says, because no one has ever heard a word Mr. Sandman says after he has put them asleep and no one ever will, because fictitious figures follow whatever rules they are made of because there is no other way.

People tell stories using poems, too, but if you are not sure that is possible, you are some kind of poetry, yourself. Songs tell stories, but so do words, and it is enough. It’s an artificial abstraction of society, words are distinct and created by mankind and passed down from generation to generation. I can see other stories a mile wide, but I use 26, artificial and also completely foreign and alien to all of nature aside from what is alive, letters to represent the entire story.

Mr. Sandman doesn’t need words to make you sleep, baby, so don’t kick a man when he is down. Or bogeyman, or apparition or whatever it really is, because it’s not a he or a she, but an it when you boil down to the brass tacks.

But Mr. Sandman has a Mr. in his name, so let’s all just treat him like he wants to be treated, because he is some kind of mythical creature that puts everybody to sleep like Santa Claus puts presents in everybody’s house all in that one day, but Mr. Sandman is working 9-5, each and every day, laying down good and brave men and women to sleep, so let’s be sure to address him by his proper name.

What a working stiff, do you think he gets to wear a special hat at company celebrations? Santa Claus does, he wears a red hat and eats up real good and strong and healthy to bring us the best and baddest at the end of one of those years I had conversationally mentioned earlier in this story. I’m reminding you of this in a conversational manner, because in a conversation people often repeat themselves, due to the words not being available for replay except for what your brain can do for a little while.

This? This is different, because I’ve got to translate my story out of 26 letters into a particular order that ensures that you do not have a bad time during the making of this production or whatever the particular version of events that unfolds for you, or never do.

Ever. In a million, billion years, after which I no longer offer this guarantee, because a million, billion years is not forever. We bring our own knowledge to the cosmos, but our knowledge is only what is already here.