Bad For Me. Bad For You

_ Listen. Do you hear? It's the ' there in your heart' song, written and performed by the son of Louise, Harry, and perhaps God himself, to say nothing of all the thems that done come before.... the thems that done come before. Gone now they are - to a man, to a woman - but not before giving birth to birth itself.

_ Birth to birth itself!?

_ Indeed. Someone had to. Only the dying, those crying with no hand to hold, can understand birth and the mindless futility of it all.

_ Am I to understand that the formal, literary plural of they bees thems?

_ In a world wherein we are condemned to freedom, yes.

_ Another bit of the dark has taken its ball and gone home. All glories to that which houses all glory, hopefully haricots bees green; apricots a different shade of black. All glories to the primeval ooze from which we all crawl, and to which we return screaming. How soon we forget.

_ Indubitably.

_ What good is understanding to the dying?

_ Consider the state of the world. What use of it is it to the living? It takes a walk of some distance to free oneself from a bad haircut - a walk of some miles.... miles and miles of miles and miles, like a trip through Kansas.... O my, there's someone here with us.

_ Yes. other customers.

_ Is that what they are? Is that who they are? Is that who thems bees? We must be them. It all sounds so simple yet how could it be so? I think they're ghosts here to clean up the mess of messes, the messesses of messes. A mess - me, you, them. Are we truly sacred simple soul wholly?

_ Soul wholly. And all else in the dumper.

_ Have I ever mentioned that my first girlfriend was a strumpet?

_ Mine was imaginary.

_ The soon-to-be dead lie living, crying with no hand to hold. Sometimes all it takes is a hand to assuage intense suffering.

_ I know. My first girlfriend was imaginary.

_ Is she still alive?

_ Very much so, jumping like a frog amongst lily pads - a different man every day.

_ You seem quite pleased with yourself. And how could you not be? You've drug another bit of sublime repartee into the gutter.

_ Drig, drag, drug.... him, ham, hum. Blah, blah, blah.... I didn't know you owned the alphabet.

_ I'm not saying that I own anything, but it is nice, on occasion, to proceed in a somewhat orderly fashion when conversing.

_ Who says I'm conversing? I say whatever I say solely apropos of the moment. Are you listening?

_ I hear. I don't always listen. I hear. Did you say something?

_ Yes.

_ I saw an old lady on a gurney in the hall of a nursing home the other day; a mere shell. She was contorted and fully given to crying. It was, to my eyes, desperately beautiful, as few things truly are. A choir of angels hovered nearby, silently voicing harmony to her grief; for it is grief that alerts the angels, not the petty victories of those convinced of the authenticity of our dominion within this realm. I moved on only to return three times. I don't know that I had ever before encountered such integrity. Desperately beautiful... surely such suffering portends of bliss beyond the ken of our understanding.

_ How would you recognize that which you had never encountered?

_ Consider the faces that appear out of thin air.... faces immediately familiar in their strangeness.

_ It's brutally cold out.

_ Punishing. The winter has been punishing.

_ And will continue to be so. I remember once walking through a parking lot on a day such as this. I came upon a child of the Most High who stopped to engage me briefly.

_ Indeed such weather only allows for brief engagements.

_ He told me how such cold makes a man feel as would a bum, a bum being hustled along by a cop with a more than willing hickory stick rapping against his leathered palm. I mumbled something and greased up my Beatle boots, keeping moving.

_ Again with the Beatle boots.... I assume you like Beatle boots.

_ What's not to like?

_ Twice-baked bread and Murphy's water sauce served through a grate in a steel door.... that's what's not to like.

_ Jimmy Summ, gimme some diesel fee-yoo-ul. Gimme some diesel fuel!

_ Chug-a-lug.

_ Everybody's sorry these days. That's why I'm single - I can't find an unapologetic woman. It's gotten so bad that sorrow is now announced: Sorry, we're closed. Why would you be sorry you were closed? There's signs hanging everywhere - Sorry, we're closed.

_ If they see you coming in they'll be sorry they're open.

_ I wouldn't know. I don't look back.

_ Nor does the Sun, majestic orb that it be. Shedding its light in all directions; giving life to all in equal measure. Trembling, pulsing; breathing life's fire, yet never sweating. Yon Sun never sweats.

_ It pants.... yonder orb pants.

_ Of course it does! Why didn't I think of that.... The Sun pants.

_ No one's ever going to plant a flag on the Sun. That's why it's my kind of planet. You know what? I could really go for a Pall Mall right about now.

_ Smoke 'em if'n you got 'em - balls that is.

_ Oh I've the balls; however I must pace myself as I'm only two dukes to the good. Make no mistake about it though: I've the balls.... I once bummed a smoke off of my uncle when I was nine years old and fired it up right after I laid my knife and fork to rest of a Sunday dinner. Right at the dinner table... my father about shit.

_ And?

_ My uncle ran a little interference for me while I got a good lungful. I don't know what the big deal was. Apparently my parents couldn't reconcile themselves to the fact that once the cord was cut I, and they, were on our own, with only the tentative bond of social graces holding the whole show together. I clipped the duke and stuffed it into my shirt pocket. It's not like I asked to be born.

_ You must have been a real joy to your parents.

_ My parents? They both had navels. If you're looking outward instead of inward once you have kids suffice to say you've missed the boat. They too were someone's children. You know what I mean? Whatever stripes they had on their shoulders they put there themselves. I don't get too caught up in all that.

_ You don't have any children do you?

_ Do I look crazy?

_ You look like someone who would benefit mightily from a nice long walk alone. Alright? Does that answer your query?

_ A good lung-full and then, with smoke billowing out from every hole in my skull, I clipped it - barehanded. I pinched it right between my forefinger and thumb. It wasn't my first schmog; and the next one ain't gonna be my last. No sir, and no ma'am.

_ Has-been's and ne'er-were's.... Do you know Andre Preneuer?

_ I don't know anyone. Not you, not him; nobody. I don't expect a lot of people at my funeral. There'll be no need to break out the folding chairs.

_ The old lady was so tiny. I doubt she ever gave herself so fully to a lover as she did to her cries, to her grief. The rending, with her hand little more than skin and bone, gouged my heart and erased my mind. Got a smoke.

_ My last one.

_ Thanks.

_ My pleasure. Chai?

_ Make it a double - I've a navel.

                                                                      *********

.... Make nice with the machines.

.... Stardust everywhere; everyone.

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The One Without A Second

_ It's the last; it's the first; it's the best. It's number one, ichiban. It's the greatest. It's new and improved, three times faster than the fastest. It's you, Bobby; it's all you - your life, your times, your oyster.

_ Bobby ain't here. He's wrestling with some tertiary life-forms. He's attempting, yet again, to climb out of the gutter. He knows... Bobby knows... and that's why he doesn't quit. It's in with the bad air and out with the good when Bobby fills his balloon. He floats far, far away. It was long ago he untethered his balloon from the pack and no one has seen him since. He don't quit - he can't. He sold something he doesn't - didn't - own: his soul.

_ I should slap your face.

           A mirror appeared out of nowhere. A face was slapped. It, strange as it may seem, was the wrong face.

_ I hope you feel better.

_ It's enough to feel. Let's not get into good, better and best.

_ It's San Andreas fault.

_ Sam? Sam Andreas? The Sam Andreas?

_ San.

_ Oh.

_ Oh?

_ That's right.

_ I should punch you in the nose.

         A mirror appeared out of nowhere. A nose was punched. It, strange as it may seem, was the wrong nose.

_ I hope you feel better.

_ It's enough to feel. Let's not get into good, better and best.

_ It's Yoko Ono's fault.

_ Southside! Johnnie South Dakota! Cure me of this madness. Drip, drip, drip. It's loading in like left-handed relations come the dark days of early summer. Drip, drip, drip. Save me, Sausage, save my slithering soul.

_ Oh my gawd. OMG. I can't stand it anymore! I wanna bust out of this prison, see what life is like on the outside. Hand me the wrench of wrenches!

_ Here's a blunt head screwdriver.

_ It looks like a ball-pean hammer.

_ It's a chicken without a head. Use it to bash down the walls, like Barnacle Bill did with his balls.

        A wall appeared out of nowhere. Someone hit Barnacle Bill in the balls with a ball-pean hammer. He - Barnacle Bill - wished they were the wrong balls.

_ Pean. His fur resembled ermine, with black flecks of gold on the ground.

_ Herman?

_ She ain't here. A winsome lass - hair everywhere.

_ Why I oughta sock you in the eye.

      An eye appeared out of nowhere. Someone socked a wall. It, strange as it may seem, was the wrong mirror.

_ Look! It's the One without a second!

_ Where?

_ Here.

_ Here?

_ Here.

_ I'm more better. I thought I was lost. That was scary.

_ Scary? Indiana? La-la-la-la-larry. Larry? Larry Indiana. Please report to the poop deck.

_ Where?

_ I don't know where. I couldn't say for sure. Maybe in the ana. It's windy they-a. Windy, leading to confusion.

_ What do you know?

_ Nothing. All I know is that it was somewhere; and it was scary. But I'm more better, honest.

_ You know what this means, don't you?

_ If it's different from anything I've thought, said, or did, no. No, I don't.

_ No?

_ You heard me. No.

_ Yes. Of course I heard you. Are you implying that I am not listening?

_ How could I? I've kissed a lot of turnbuckles. I, apart from thinking, saying and doing, don't know how to imply.

_ Say something and mean something else.

_ What?

_ You heard me. Say something but mean something else. It's easy.

_ But? But-but-but-but-but.... What? You think it's hard? Are you calling me a liar?

_ Why I oughta reach down your throat and pull out your esophagus.

       A mirror was produced. It seemed to appear out of nowhere. An esophagus was pulled out of a mirror. It was the right throat but, strangely enough, it was the wrong esophagus. Tertiary life-forms applauded from the gutter. A dessert cart backed out of the mirror. It contained much in the way of comestibles. One of the men pointed to a plate. Strangely enough it was the wrong man. Nevertheless he pointed to a plate.

_ Is that where Napoleon pulled his bone apart?

_ It certainly looks like it.

_ I'll have two.

_ I'll have the One without a second.

_ Bastard! I was gonna have that.

_ Chai.

_ Large, with extra texture. I'm watching her figure.


                                                                     ***********

..... History is an exercise. It builds big muscles, some in the head.

..... Pasty old woman swinging one arm while she walks. She was eaten up by the mirror, like a diamond in the dark. What to do?

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Holiday Magic

_ Do you believe?

_ I answer questions. Belief is a child's garden. One doesn't need to believe. We make it fit, man... or some such rationale. Some people like to fly kites; others wave flags. I find it more than a little embarrassing when someone starts spouting off about their beliefs. One doesn't need to believe to feel the immediacy of the sleek, cold body of a seagull coursing through a winter wind, or the strange yellow light in its eye as it turns to you. One doesn't need to believe in anything in order to appreciate our transient lives. One need not believe to do anything but believe. I answer questions.

_ Fair enough... fair enough indeed. Howsaboy?

_ Susceptible.

_ Do you have people after you?

_ I have people after me; I have people before me; I have people up the wazoo.

_ Does that bother you?

_ The wazoo? No. Once I experienced the radiant immediacy of what I can only call joy - true knowing prior to reason. Since then nothing regarding the stilted world of people much matters anymore. Refract and redact and act accordingly... Not me, chief. Besides, I'm not quite sure that during the great age of exploration anyone found the wazoo.

_ Follow the crowd. You'll find it.

_ You follow the crowd if that suits your fancy.

_ We need participate in the world.

_ What world? The world of man? Fuck the world of man. Did you hear me? Fuck the world of man. Those five syllables will set you free.

_ Of course... Why didn't I think of that?

_ The world of man... what a laugh! You know what the world of man is? It's thoughts about thoughts piling up like snow, and snow melts. It's like shit in the elephant cage at the zoo, except for the fact that elephant shit doesn't melt. It dries up and blows away. We're breathing it in now. We, except for our insistent delusion, are insubstantial. You, despite your new clothes and holiday glow, are breathing in the dust of someone's burnt corpse. We are forever insubstantial - we will be forgotten. A snowflake melting miles above the great expanse of a desert has more substance than the drivel-laden thoughts of the vulgar mind. Such thoughts own us, move us around as does someone orchestrating a group picture. Fuck the world of man!

_ Someone didn't have their kale this morning...

_ Is desire ever laid to rest amidst the exhortations of the crowd? Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick... the egg scrambler plies his trade; a fork swirling in a small metal bowl... tick, tick, tick, tick, tick... someone - the scrambler -  can't take it anymore and sobs. He is grief-stricken; all the while others await their eggs. Somewhere in a not too distant lavatory a great and majestic Cleveland steamer sails under the flag of the Smiling Whatever. Say what?!

_ What?

_ Human reproduction has been outlawed. Now we can truly care.

_ Whew...

_ I'm not so sure I care what you or anyone else thinks...What are we to do?... I'll tell you a story. I once sat on Santa's lap as a kid. I told him what I wanted. Do you know what he said to me as my aunt snapped pictures?

_ No.

_ He said, "How does it feel to want, kid?" I was a polite boy and not understanding, I said, "Excuse me?" He smiled, mugging for the camera, no doubt, and said, "Fuck you, you little turd." I wasn't sure if I, at such a tender age, was ready to incorporate that into my imagined life.

_ You thought your life was imagined?

_ I knew it was because things kept changing even when I didn't want them to and I had to continually adjust. That continual adjusting was the work of my imagination, born of previous imaginings.

_ I'm not so sure...

_ Save it for someone who farts through silk. My circumstance is the circumstance of living. One circumstance, infinite in scope, produced by imagined relations between imagined people, places and things. It need not be considered one of many for it is infinite in its scope.

_ That doesn't make sense.

_ Of course it doesn't. Any equation, any cosmology, which contains an infinite factor is, simply put, beyond our understanding. It doesn't make sense... You said it, not me. Be glad it doesn't make sense. Linguini doesn't make sense. It's like a straw hat on an Eskimo.

_ I'm not so sure...

_ Be sure. Stop with the bullshit. The alphabet in my soup is ordered differently than that floating in your bowl. The status quo is nothing you will ever see, taste, smell, touch or hear. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick... The man - the eggs are like cement - stifles a sob. No one likes to see a grown man cry. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick... Can you do that somewhere else? I - it was I scrambling the eggs - ran screaming from the kitchen, trying desperately to catch my breath. Everything was collapsing around me. Wave after wave of grief surged through my mind imagined. I shifted my attention - it of a sterling changelessness - and entered another infinite circumstance. I shrieked. Another infinite circumstance?! Such was not possible! I acted happy and everyone around me was put at ease.

_ What about your aunt?

_ My aunt inquired as to what Santa said. " Did he promise you nice toys?" I was a polite boy, not given to lying. I told her what he said; I told her he said, " Fuck you, you little turd." She never spoke to me again. She sends me five hundred dollars every December. Did you ask me if I believe?

_ Uh...

_ All anything does is change, and belief in the face of continual change is far from liberating. Belief is used as a coping mechanism, or a place saver, while one waits for a more compliant circumstance. It is then that you've successfully paved the path to delusion and gained the admiration of the people peopling your dream.

_ Well...

_ I enjoy watching things corrode; I feel at home among the corrupt for it is there that the light shines brightest. That being said, let's talk about the future.

_ Let's.

_ I sure would like to be an unclear physicist. That would be fun. I don't know anything about smashing atoms but I could learn. That would be fun.

_ Like bartending... that's fun once you learn how to mix drinks.

_ Precisely, old bean. Now how about some chai?

_ Being an unclear physicist is no different than being a bartender. This is this. This is what you do to turn this into that. This becomes that. How did it happen? The same way anything and everything else happens. Don't blink; and don't stare. I have a feeling you'll do very well as an unclear physicist.

_ Please don't look at me over the top of your glasses, at least not today... Don't you know? Today is Vitamin D Day... for you, for me, and for those with poor circulation.

_ Bring it on, girlfriend. I was going to ask if you had a good Christmas.

_ I guess you just did, saving the world a question mark. You are relentless... What am I supposed to say?

_ Yes?... Yes would be fine.

_ I don't have Christmas; and Christmas doesn't have me. I don't live a life that requires me to get 'ready'; I don't live a life that requires me to assume the insanity at large.

_ Or that... that suffices. I was commenting to my star - I have a star named after me - that there's not enough complaining in the world. Have you noticed that? People don't complain the way they used to. Whatever happened to the life that we once knew?

_ It got swallowed up. It got shat out, pissed out, puked out and re-plated as today. Even the sunshine is regurgitated; however you are not to dismay, for holiday magic is afoot.

_ How do you know?

_ How do I know?

_ How do you know?

_ My pubic hair on the right side above da runt fell out without so much as a howdy-do, or a looky here. There's your holiday magic. That's how I know.

_ Chai?

_ Considering my loss it's a wonder I don't list to the left. Yes.

                                                                ********

... Just watch. Watch while watching, watch while engaging. Just watch.

... It's all been said before, and it'll all be said again. A straight line is the first lie.

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Sever The Ties That Bind

_ A new morning gone... another new morning is forever gone. Was it ever here?

_ It never knew that it was new; it never knew that it was morning. It never knew that it was naught but an aging masquerade; a hag, called so by a vengeful echo.

_ Bong...

_ The clock has just struck twelve, somewhere. I've lost count and think it's three... three for every man, woman and child. We two remain imprisoned.

_ I was thinking more of a smoke - an eye-opener. Bong hits for Jesus - the host is smokeable. I was thinking of page one, line one in How To Cope With Change: " Bongward, lads and lassies..."

_ Too obvious. What about a pipe?

_ Turn around. Look at me...

_ I am looking at you.

_ You could still turn around... Either way, I've a new lover. She is one of the ancients - indeed the ancients are as newborns to her. She is Death; and it is to her the ancients crawl. She calls me to bed after the Sun has set. My every nerve longs to curl up with her. What we share puts human relations to shame. I curl up with her and she combs through my mind with her razor-like fingers. She is no virgin and knows no rust. I can hear the taut strings of memory snap as her blade passes through the tethers of mind-stuff. She knows that I belong to her. Bit by bit she severs all ties, all memories, all thought of another. I sleep, and she holds me; I awake, and she is there. She calls to me upon the setting of the Sun. Her voice is music and silent. All else is noise.

_ Nice of you to find the time for chai.

_ Is that not the Sun coursing through the sky?

_ You are the consummate bullshitter. It's like the 60's... if you remember them, you weren't there. I'm no longer sure about yesterday. In fact if it weren't for the wrinkles in my clothes I'd think otherwise... differently. I'd perhaps think that yesterday was a lie; but then again my clothes are wrinkled, and it all had to happen somewhere. There must be some vessel in which this all is contained. Is it yesterday? Yes, it must be yesterday. Indeed it it weren't for the fact that my clothes are wrinkled I would dispute any claim laid upon me by yesterday, but as I awoke I couldn't help but notice that my clothes were wrinkled, and they weren't when I put them on.

_ The inviolate past... Mirror, mirror on the wall... Is there any other sort of mirror besides a rearview mirror?

_ Fatso's dead. He's in the rearview mirror.

_ Indeed he is. How we struggle against the inevitable. I do hope that if he suffered he did so quietly. He was always given to over the top displays regarding the most trivial of things. And what could be more trivial than any one person's death? I know that I am going to die. I just don't need to be reminded of it on a continual basis. Who need be reminded of one's own date with the never to be known? We live off-white, and we're heading for dark wood everywhere. I, personally, prefer not to think about it; I, personally, enjoy off-white.

_ Think about what?

_ Dying. I don't want to look in the boxer shorts of the world and see the skidmark of another's dying. I'll sniff God's hole when I have to. I'm not going to think about it.

_ How do you not think about something?

_ Think about something else.

_ One thought not thinking about another. A one-legged man going for a short walk - again. The eternal recurrence...

_ Doolang is gone, so gone as not be here. Do you hear me? And he is unforgettable.

_ It's impossible talking to you. I swore I would stop drinking and here I am drinking.

_ It's only chai.

_ It doesn't matter. It's you that's the problem.

_ I can't argue with that. Do you want some vanilla extract in that chai. An eye-opener?

_ Doolang?

_ Yes. You remember.

_ It's all I do... remembering is all I do, all I am. Who is Doolang?

_ A memory. He was always just a memory. I heard his string 'Pop!' last night.

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... The halcyon days have tucked back under the waves. Will they ever return?

Cool Water

_ The things you can do with a hot dog...

_ What about removing the ham from a ham samitch? Easy enough, right?

_ Right as rain, my very good friend. Thank you for your consideration in dismissing me.

_ Dismissed... nothing could compare to being dismissed from school... How I hated school; it's a wonder I've survived as long as I have in this strange, strange world.

_ You must be a sannyasin.

_ A one-man platoon of buffoons; each thought a new king. That-a-way, boys! They went... What's the diff, right? What's the diff which way anyone goes? It's all so effin erfect.

_ How do you spell 'Johnny'?

_ It depends on how I feel. And how I feel depends on a whole boatload of things. Did you know that how I feel just might depend on how you feel?

_ How, or what?

_ However; whatever; whomever; if ever... If ever I would leave you it wouldn't be in Springtime...

_ Bobby! Baby! Booby! Where have you been, kid?! Sausage crisp! May your piggly's be wiggly from now until forever. Howsaboy?

_ Bobby ain't here. He's riding with the top down; the leading edge of what is commonly known as a guillotine has a fresh coat of red. When did it become acceptable to talk about the weather?

_ Right after the first scream resolved into silence. This has yet to happen so if you talk about the weather you're either ahead of your time, or you have yet to receive the memo.

_ What memo?

_ You, too, must die.

_ Nice. I'm thinking of naming myself Earvin Erfect.

_ And a nickname?

_ Nick Name, private I.

_ How about Bakers Eddy?

_ Will I still have to die?

_ Yes.

_ Nick Name - Private I; investigating how we traded the sacred for the profane; and how we came to think thought that we got the better of the deal.

_ Interesting... for about half of a second - one. I know of one group of people who think that if they were to stick an ice-pick through their eardrums they wouldn't be bored anymore.

_ Well they had better hurry up because it's not like there's a display of ice-picks at Best Buy.

_ Interesting that you should mention Best Buy. That is where the ceremony is going to take place... They're going to do it in the ear-bud aisle.

_ Next to the cauliflowers?

_ Yes, the next universe over.

_ Very interesting. Is there a world order? Am I missing out on something?

_ Yes, it's random; and yes, you are. Check your shopping cart before you check out, and exit the store screaming.

_ Is this random world order reminiscent of re-wrapped rotten meat.

_ Rotten... having completed the process of rotting. Never, I say! What would we have to look forward to? Meat never stops rotting. Think showering; think soap; think deodorant; think perfume; think left-handed compliments; think reincarnation - a new flower, rotting.

_ There's people at the next table talking about the weather.

_ They're idiots; they don't have a command over the alphabet. Lost in a lost world, right at home.

_ I'm an idiot.

_ I know that.

_ How would you know?

_ Because I'm an idiot, too. Nice day, huh?

_ Beautiful... the second nicest day ever.

_ Which one was first?

_ All the others tied for first.

_ You're an idiot.

_ I know. Chai?

_ Here my stomach's thinking that my throat has been cut. Indubitably.

                                                                      *******

... I wonder what Yoko Ono is doing this very moment.

... Self-importance. It's like skin.

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Unibrow

_ Sustainability and sacrifice; soft-shoe shufflers; showering before bed; taking a series of deep breaths; walking East until your hat floats; doing something for yourself; dying with money in the bank; having money in the bank in the first place.

_ Relinquish all conditions of existence.

_ 'Among fishes I am the shark; among rulers I am Death...'

_ Simplicity is always an option.

_ No it isn't. Simple is complex. I have a China plate resting on the sidewalk. Perhaps you passed it on the way in. It is prior to options; it is of  royal lineage. The first dog, cat, bird, bug or person who drops the deuce on it gets a free crueller. Pointless - like mine friend Dostoevsky. Straight lines are crooked; a progression begs regression. I would sooner be wrapped tight in shrink-wrap then to stand stymied by yet another "You are here" sign. I long for the end of longing. Do lovers use mirrors?

_ It's the past's fault. The past will tell you that - it's all there is. Some call it suffering - being crushed beneath a wheel. Lies, lies and more lies; the past lies.

_  Coffee?

_ Coffee?

_ Yes. It's good for you.

_ The past is the only present you'll ever know. You didn't know that, did you? Well now you do. It's good for you, like an echo. Tell me, are there still little babies in the world? Little babies waiting for us to save them from themselves? Wheeled around tony neighborhoods - nice ta-ta's; very nice ta's. The stroller strolling, strolling, gone; there are now cup-holders and built-in mittens on strollers. I'm never not sure how to act, thus I cause a lot of what is commonly referred to as trouble, especially when I am out on the stroll, my pants in high water mode.  Should I smile pleasantly? Or maybe turn my head just in time to see a dog take a shit on the promenade.

_ Have a coffee; it's good for you.

_  I consider myself blessed. To be - it's effortless; a work in progress. I'm just one grain of sand away from 'here'; and contained within that one distant grain of sand is every other grain of sand.

_ The reason why Jones Beach is so famous is not because of Jones, but because it contains amongst all its seemingly infinite grains of sand, the original grain of sand; some skeptics say it is, in fact, a breadcrumb. But what do they know? They're ditch-diggers, Bobby.

_ Bobby's not here.

_ It's a sunny day in May...

_ May the day never come.

_ ... and the rest of the day to you. And near everyone is laughing, happy, talking, smiling. And I?... I laugh the best for I laugh last - I often don't get the joke.

_ Trains of thought. I'm on an airplane now; I'm - I am - afraid to fly.

_ Can you imagine?

_ Can water get wet?

_ You're angry today - I can tell. Have a coffee; it might kill you. The next one could be your last. Did you know that complete strangers - invisible beings on the run, beings who have merged into one big, blue, bountiful sky - have told me that I laugh too loud at things that aren't funny. I wonder about the veracity of such an allegation. I consult the owner's manual - they are wrong. Johnny's wearing salmon shorts - farm raised; his dog has diarrhea. He deftly scoops, with the bag inside out on his hand. The bag breaks; his hand is covered in watery feces. He sees me watching so I give him the finger. I was hoping he saw the humor in it, but he didn't. He grabs his crotch in an attempt to express his displeasure with me. I bet he wishes that he used his other hand. I'm not sure that this is of interest to you; and, quite frankly, I don't care. I don't know what it means to care. Who cares? Don't answer that question. Take a look around and see for yourself what passes for everyday life.

_ You resemble Irving 'Swifty' Lazar. All this time it has been driving me crazy, and now I know: You are the ghost of Irving 'Swifty' Lazar. But that is where the resemblance stops, for Swifty couldn't stand his nickname; you don't have one.

_ One born one dies; unborn, no death. Do you ever remember not having been? The year 2013; who's keeping track of such things? To disprove evolution is to prove it; the clock strikes twelve twice a day; neither sticks, or have you noticed? Real time...

_ You're in...

_ Don't start with the EGBDF. You listen to me and you listen good.

_ Who's angry now?

_ Vanilla. A nice fella. A good man; a fambly man. Namby pamby fambly man. We say the voices of the dead have been quieted, but what do we really know? I don't hear them screaming. That much I can tell you. But does that mean anything? I can hear dogs whistling. I pick up the tune. They laugh when I've finished, when I wipe the spittle from my face. To laugh myself sick. Have a coffee; it's good for you.

_ Purple... I like my coffee purple. Johnny! Johnny! Over here!

_ I  thought Johhny was in the basement, mixing up the...

_ How dare you! There are no substitutions. Such hubris! I should sentence you to a life of leisure with nothing to which you might deign to compare it to. Did you see the news? Did you hear the tree? Do you feel the dust collect upon the otherwise shining face of the mirror? Have you ever seen anything that wasn't a reflection of something else, much less your fucking face? The whole solar system has dropped two feet deeper into the uncharted regions known as space - outer; my stomach flipped - now I'm better. What would you like me to say?

_ Heartbroken in Hoboken; that you don't have one; that you're a bitter man. I would like you to say something that portends of a coming Sun.

_ You want me to start over?

_ No. I want you to continue as you are. Chai?

_ Just so long as it's not good for me.

                                                                   ********

... The onion of history has shown that Sam did not make the pants, much less too long, much less the shorts - salmon.

... The esteemed opinion of water gone.

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A Pillow Resting Its Weary Head

_ The past, a hellion; reeking havoc anew, casting doubt upon a once bright future. Where did we go wrong? 'Tis a child of the universe, born of parents long thought dead. From whence this whelp? How deep and dark the cave of memory... 'Two birds, fast-bound companions, clasp close the self-same tree; one bird eats the sweet fruit, the other watches.' Candlelight, the Sun... Who sees the shadows dance? Suffer the indulgence of imagination; suffer. Imagine within and without, loss and gain, birth and death, up and down. Imagine the reins of a horse, with a head in every direction, resting softly in your hands. God is everywhere. God is everywhere. Within and without - it is we who are ignorant. We may not see what we ignore but it holds fast. We are never out of the embrace.

_ '... Another unborn male leaves her with whom he has had his delight...'

_ We've drifted.

_ Or perhaps everything else has moved; broken free of its moorings.

_ No... Yes... yes, it is as you say. And now it's gone. Another another has replaced it. So strange... we have all been here before. I watched as my father lay dying. I wonder if he did the same, with either himself or his father. I will soon follow, putting to rest the rumor of death. Forever alive in the breath- defying silence.

_ Would you know silence?

_ I would, and I have. I have known silence in a manner that makes all else strange. But that only lasts for a minute - the strangeness only lasts for a  minute, for it soon is consumed in the all-pervading silent echo. A masquerade is what we live...' We cling to a shrub, yet a grove lay before us.'

_ You, too, call on the Upanishads.

_ The Upanishads exist forever as a certificate of live birth. I have known silence in a way that makes you strange; that makes you dissolve. It's as though you were never, ever here; and I can't forget you. Precise imaginations, created into a functioning image, disappearing by and by, and turning into forget me not's.

_ Is that so?

_ Yes. You have never fully been here. The better half of you is everywhere else. Our comings and goings are evocative of another lie - the lie of life and death. I am going to taste of death in the same manner I have tasted of life; in the same manner in which the bow of a ghost ship tastes of the sea as it forever plies forth; never resting, never moving. And I will bring back gifts from unseen lands and place them in unseen hands; and all will be an offering to a most jealous god. Cast aside fear and be absorbed. I don't know what else to say to you; you're undependable.

_ I will remain undependable as long as you remain afraid.

_ Yes. I understand. Things are happening so rapidly. Only the authentic matters. The straight and narrow is neither straight nor narrow. The infinitesimal and the infinite: One the quotient of division, one the product of multiplication; one through subtraction, one via addition: All is the same. Stand your own personal catastrophe against dreams unrealized. What's the diff?

_ The diff is the same.

_ Beautiful. Chai?

_ Thank you.

_ You, my friend, are welcome.

                                                                       ********

... Faith is born of intuition, of hearing silence; it is not belief.

... To sit in meditation and watch as you emerge from the jaws of death over and over and over. It's not what you think, it's what you don't.

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A Delicate Quiver (continued)

_ I'm uploading my entire existence into this new thing. It has no name, nor does it have boundaries; it is like thought just prior to a host thinker. A delicate quiver traversing the innermost sanctum of the heart; a vibration. I'll leave it at that.

_ Not if I have anything to say about it. I know astronauts who have been to the moon; and they have a firmer grip on things than you do.

_ That's because they're used to having things in their hands  - it's lonely out in space. I would like to see them build a fishing dock out in space so these astronauts of whom you speak are able to sit quietly and do a little fishing - it's very relaxing. Imagine just sitting on a rustic fishing dock in the middle of outer space. You wouldn't even care if you didn't get a nibble. Maybe catch a space porgie.

_ I used to catch porgies and lay them in the road in order to watch their eyeballs pop out when cars ran over them.

_ Were any of your astronaut friends with you when you were thusly engaged?

_ No. Howsaboy?

_ Outrageously wonderful. I was awakened by a large nut, or perhaps it was a bolt, dropping on the floor of the ceiling above me. A delicate quiver; and then 'Bang!'... Suddenly, and without warning, I was awake. It was as though I sensed it all prior to its happeninng.

_ You did. You did?  The fourth Earl of Sandwich had serving bowls filled with porgie eyeballs strategically placed around the palace. They were a delicacy in his mind. Howsaboy?

_ Thank you very much. You take quite a chance asking a busy man that question. I admire your resolve; it's like a smile on the face of one unafraid to die. As a young boy I had an intense vision, the result of seeing George Harrison's picture for the first time - it was in Jan. of 1964. Eventually it led me to a teacher - her name was/is Gurani Anjali. She prompted us continually to realize the sacredness of life, the dignity of man and the existence of all of existence within our own existence. I now share this with you. I hope it answers your query.

_ It would... it could... but you've missed one thing.

_ What?

_ I call on the ghost of Sartre to elucidate that like an egg sans salt, or a kiss without a moustache, etc., etc., etc., you - we -  are missing something... You haven't asked me 'Howsaboy?'.

_ I, most likely, will not be asking you 'Howsaboy?' today or any other day from this day forward.

_ Fine.

_ I know how you are; I know how I am. I find it all very boring... 'and a librarian shall lead them...' Silence, you fool! Thirty days hath September; eight books comprise the month of June. I find myself wishing that I was fishing on a dock in the middle of outer space. Can we get there without all the distractions? Is there an express?

_ Fine as frog hair. Thank you for asking. Yes; and no. I, too, wish that things didn't make sense. I'll bring the worms. Chai?

_ An empty boat afloat somewhere in the uncharted regions of what we commonly refer to as outer space. Another boat bumps into it - it, too, is empty. No one gets angry.

_ That's not surprising. Who is unafraid of dying?

_ I feel that George Harrison was. He was ready to move on. He endured a very challenging circumstance and walked the talk. Then, with the timing born of right action, cancer appeared. Why is it that I feel cancer is a godsend?

_ You tell me.

_ To look in all directions; to feel the suffering implicit in endeavor. To look in all directions and recognize the quivering in your heart that allows for you to know that you are being called forth. To rejoice in the transcendent; to leave the small behind. True love. The essential nowhere, and no one, of what we refer to when we speak of love. It is a point through which we align ourselves with that which is beyond all measure. Sometimes it's quiet enough in your local library to indulge in this exercising of love's power; sometimes it's contained within the sound of a nut, or perhaps a bolt, falling on the floor of the ceiling above you. What's strange is that in sensing it sometimes and not others we tend to bemoan our fate rather than be inspired to shed our limitations. We are strange creatures.

_ No argument here. Chai?

_ Amidst the nowhere of the infinitude of space; amidst the clamor of an infinite array of empty boats banging willy-nilly off of each other in the vast uncharted ocean of space, which contains all sound and yet is forever silent; amidst the hullaballoo of me and you slurping chai whilst playing tennis with the alphabet; amidst people making sense of nonsense; amidst the illusion of choice, yes... yes, I'll have chai.

_ I once went fishing and forgot the poles. I seem to recall floating.

                                                                         *****

... Das boot! Halyards ringing against the mast. The sound puts some to sleep, others awaken; some seemingly never hear.

... To mistake the corrupt for the pure, the temporal for eternal, the painful for pleasurable and the idol for the true: this is ignorance. But one can ignore for only so long.

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Integrate Dis

_ No strolling about today, eh, grey seal? No strollin’ about, laddie, mi laddie... although there could be break in the clouds; after all, things have been known to change... to die, for lack of a better word. All things must pass... indeed... And sure they will - you, me... he, she, his, hers, theirs, ours, mine... this and that - all bound for the boundless ocean of nevermore. ’Holding this entire universe in but a fragment of my being, I remain unchanged and transcendent.’ Or some such words to that effect close out the tenth chapter of the Bhagavad Gita... Yes, sir, and yes, ma’am. And with the whole world in his hands he’s not much different than me and you, except for knowing; except for realization. What? The cat got your tongue?
Silent today?... So you’re silent today... alright, okay... I guess that means anything goes... to float within the accommodating confines of limitless silence; to float within the boundless bubble of nevermore. Wrap your heart and mind around and within it, my very good friend, and live in heroic fashion, letting nothing stop you from serving your Lord... Have you heard? Or does being silent preclude hearing, too? You and a lot of other people like you are treading on some very thin ice, my friend. You're playing fast and loose with something that would benefit mightily from a decidedly lighter hand. Handle with care, chief - like the singer sings the song... Don't blame me; I call it as I see it. Anyway, the buzz around the water cooler is that they want to take our death away from us, just like they hijacked our birth. They want to further complicate what, at its inception, is a rather simple affair - living... the art of living, if one would be so kind. No more is it a noble calling to just be; everybody’s a story. Why? Why were we supplied with a story? Shhhh... I know, you can’t speak - I, too, have walked that road. Long legs and broad, strong feet are a help when riding the chariot silently into the flaming fire of evermore - it, too, is a bubble... O yeah... It could be the same... could be the same. But no one is speaking. It could all be the same. No, don’t start with the eyes. If you’re silent, you’re silent... if you're silent, you're silent - a courageous act. A courageous act in that it provides direct access to an inevitability. And all inevitabilities reduce down to only one - there is only one inevitability... AND IT IS NOT DEATH! No, it is not death, for the one inevitability partakes of no story, yet it holds them all within a single fragment of its being and remains unchanged and transcendent. How do you say ‘it’ in the vernacular of one who is silent? Make it a double... a double ‘it’... I don’t think anyone would take umbrage if I were to suddenly jump up from my place at the table and start to berate you loudly. I have paid every dollar ever printed in order to acquire this New York accent - I’ve had it surgically implanted into my bag of tricks -  and, trust me when I tell you, kingfisher, it lends itself well to berating. NuhYawwk!... And what will the people think? And what will all the nice people think? I’ll tell you what they’ll think: They’ll think whatever it is I think they’ll think; and I shall act accordingly. Some may require hugging, some a kiss and others a knuckle sandwich. It’ll be good fun - a laugh. Can you hee-hee-hee when silent? Hee-hee-hee without the hee-hee-hee? Pity if you can’t, however; a cause of grief, to not laugh... In my case it would be a very brief grief, mind you, for I’m on to other things. Take heart though, old bean, for none of this has anything to do with you. What say we belly-up to the bar and see if we can coax the barista into making us a couple of chai? What say we change the subject to change without notice, huh? Don’t think of quilts, instead silently contemplate the thread that holds them together. Or just sit there and enjoy the whole world; it rests silently in your hands. You do have hands, don't you? Don't answer that question... do not answer the question... I want to think that right now you are sitting in silence holding in your cupped hands he who holds the whole world in his hands; and I would further like to think that you are doing so gently.
My, oh my, but isn't that the lady whom I witnessed speaking to her dog as if it were a person? Isn't she the one whom I mentioned as having a conversation with a canine of unknown origin? She spoke at length; it was silent - I couldn't see its undercarriage, so 'it' will have to do. Do you know 'it'?... HOW DARE YOU INSULT ME!... JUST WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE!?... Look at that... not a single person has jumped up in your defense. I could probably kill you and stroll on out of here. I could berate you in a righteously indignant fit of pique and it would be business as usual in this little tea garden. Gossamer threads of nothing weave the fabric a to b to c to d; and you feel there is something to it? Maybe you don't... maybe it was someone else, in another life. Yes, yes, I woke up dreaming... I met a... Thank you, thank you, you're so kind. True art, my very good friend, speaks the same language as you - SILENCE! You're silent today. You could be a granite countertop; you could be a rainbow five seconds before anyone sees it - you are that special. My fifth wife, when I would ask her how she spent her day, always replied " I don't know." God how I loved her! I was away when she succumbed to the charms of the forty-first wink. I had been vacationing in the Punjab for eight months and wasn't due home for another eighteen. Word reached me during sundowners; I fell silent.... Are all silences the same? AFTER ALL I'VE DONE FOR YOU?! YOU SIT HERE LIKE A BUMP ON A LOG AND REFUSE TO PICK UP THE TAB?! I'VE NEVER BEEN SO INSULTED IN MY LIFE!... I'm telling you, I think I could dismember you and no one would bat an eye... I wonder what would happen if I were silent?... Greased lightning through somber skies.... CHAI, PLEASE! AND GIVE THIS BUM THE CHECK. If you don't have money on you don't worry. I have a fin stuck between the toes of my loafers. Sure... we're all thieves. I enjoyed an imaginary indiscretion with a woman who doesn't even know my name; in fact, I'm not sure she even exists...

                                                                      ******

Marwa Blues

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Norman's Home

_ Err, ah...squelch... This is the, err, ah, ghost of Ted Kennedy, the former, err, ah, lion of the Senate, coming to you live from the, err, ah, grave... squelch.

_ This is...squelch... the guy polishing avocados near the front entrance of your local grocery superstore... squelch... who upon hearing someone say "Hi" has realized that he is, in fact, alive, and that he should greet the customer...squelch... "Good morning"...squelch... It's all part of the job description.

_ Ted's one fathom down, in Norman's home, and has finally shed those extra pounds.

_ Norman's home?

_ Yeah... Norman the worm. Opening Day of baseball season brings back memories I've never had of Ted and all the, err, ah, Kennedy's.

_ Businessmen, buzzcuts, brown shoes upon which the break in the trousers rest, bacteria and boredom... Upon this mountain, upon this pile of sand, underneath which Norman carries on, I stand and ask you a simple question: Should the dispenser of our just rewards move on, vanishing from our minds and memory, would you continue in the life you live?

_ Dissatisfaction is the ignored, though never forgotten, child of desire; it is the animal behind us chasing us down, yet we think we are the one pursuing a tasty comestible.  Without a reward there would be no point to carrying on; although, I suppose, without a 'reward' there would be no sense of dissatisfaction. Let's pull out the green card and say I don't know.

_ Tea sans ice; practice and dispassion; the forever high tide of anger. A day so cloudy you can't see the clouds. How are we to practice if, through dispassion, the thought of reward is gone? Haven't we been taught that action results in consequence, be it reward or ridicule? We haven't been taught dispassion.  We are children in, and of, time; and dispassion negates time... Hmm...

_ Hmm? That's a fighting word where I come from.

_ I guess there is no more waiting; I guess that means that I'm done reading magazines. Is it possible to remove oneself from the stilted equation of this resulting in that?... One needn't have the world's largest crystal ball to ascertain that there is only bondage in reward; yet how are we to dismantle the anger that arises when responsible, considered action, instead of bringing reward, confronts certain death?.. Or is anger to be understood in the context of being the result of a prior action's resultant dissatisfaction?  Can we be done with it all?

_ All tough questions considering that we've been sold on reward from our first step. And now you say there is none?

_ Nothing lasting.

_ I'm okay with the temporary nature if things.

_ That's because you haven't funneled down into the Cathedral of The Cramped Opening, a place wherein everything and everyone gets left behind; and when the door shuts behind you, it shuts for good.

_ Bullshit artist. Play your word games on someone else. Buy me a chai or suffer the consequences of the back of my hand coming in contact with your skull.

_ Extra steam?

_ Yes... I think I deserve a little extra steam.

                                                                       ******

... Somewhere the piano note at the close of "A Day in the Life" resounds still; frozen, as it were.

... Anger... I've learned well; I've perfectly assimilated an imperfect knowing.

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