Archive for the ‘Cut-ups’ Category

Zoology Students, Zingers & Pick Ups: Sidewalks of America


12 Nov

revenge-nebulous

Revenge of the Nebulous

samplex

Sweet is the revenge that lies low for a quarter, just to halve the impact and doubleth thy forgiveness one fair apple to the next. Then we can talk of oranges, the P.I. and the azimuth of the infamous cirling return, where even the unlearned know a straight line when they see it...

...yes, when they know it, touch it, smudge it, recycle it, mix it, integrate it, nix it, bury it, junk it, kink it, mash it, describe it, lick it, hunt it, nick it, favor it, spoil it, suck it, trash it, pool it, race it, fake it, bend it, skirt it, agitate it, arm it, highlight it, track it, sack it, flatten it, extrapolate it, measure it, seed it, keep it, check it, click it, whack it, pop it, finger it, poke it, register it, forget it, erase it, seduce it, increase it, grab it, market it, nuke it, appeal it, loop it, win it, clear it, educate it, irrigate it, irritate it, masticate it, sweat it, drag it, report it, support it, post it, float it, flavor it, torque it, jack it, pack it, surprise it, smote it, stab it, crack it pull it, push it, smack it, suggest it, sink it, disarm it, flag it, rip it, emasculate it, rewrite it, tighten it, choke it, read it, slap it, cut it, slice it, nose it, lose it, wipe it, kick it, steal it, inflate it, climb it, hold it, rhyme it, blow it, soil it, give it, charm it, choose it, hack it, wing it, wag it, squeeze it, eat it, work it, confuse it, compute it, type it, stereotype it, punch it, forsake it, repeal it, threaten it, reject it, trust it, hose it, wreck it, portray it, smash it, betray it, emphasize it, peg it, chuck it, supersize it, navigate it, inhabit it, feminize it, pirate it, save it, swallow it, juice it, hook it, shelve it, salvage it, handicap it, buck it, book it, articulate it, swear it, love it, color it, marry it, flip it, seize it, raise it, break it, police it, kill it, mark it, rule it, school it, fool it, outsource it, voice it, match it, hang it, swing it, fuck it, verify it... so that we each get a taste of the good life.

And we understand that we have no need of extenuating concrete or abstract nouns, when we know all the action resides with the verbs no matter what nouns exist, or don't exist. The most common metalanguage to name this concept is nominalization.

At least then you would have only one woman in the family aiming for your head next time they pick up a Louisville Slugger. You’re outnumbered buddy, and this ain’t China…
That brings us nappily to the "n" word. In a process called juncture loss, the "n" has wandered back and forth between the indefinite article and words beginning with vowels over the history of the English language, where for example what was once a nuncle is now an uncle. The Oxford English Dictionary gives such examples as smot hym on the hede with a nege tool from 1448 for smote him on the head with an edge tool, as well as a nox for an ox and a napple for an apple. Sometimes the change has been permanent. For example, a newt was once an ewt (earlier euft and eft), and in the other direction, a napron (meaning a little tablecloth, related to the word napkin) became an apron, and a naddre became an adder. The initial "n" in orange was also dropped through juncture loss, but this happened before the word was borrowed into English. Props to Wikipedia for juicing the jam I was having on toast with Richard Nix, the pirate flag and number twenty-two...

Okay, dude, say I, “Let’s hope she doesn’t become so bright she thinks she’s an artist…”
With a beating heart ancient cold to starry eyed zoology students, weather-crunched cracks in the sidewalks of America, and all this dead language I still must bury, I suppose this concrete noun is as good a dump as any. This writer has nothing but the utmost respect, and can boldly admit to hoisting a torch for well-placed zingers and pickups of nearly every load I can carry, although I'd be hard pressed to name one outside the '84 Chevy Scottsdale monster block, all-black & chrome short bed Mauler I steered up and down the I-95 corridor for about six years until its transmission finally cringed out, needing an obscene over-priced overhaul for such a shiny truck, bleeding me dry. Voices in my head now school me in strange German accents, "You've only got yourself to blame." Laughter, my response, laughter borrowed from another era, another purse I used to have. Nice touch—that personal Airplay technology, my own 18K track streaming like magic through high-woof Pioneer speakers scattered about Die Librahausen on InkFlower Hill. I am indeed never alone. And just in the nick of saints everywhere, into my depraved decaying eardrums the secret programmer comes, this time as Rotersand, and I have nothing but instant amusement for that lyric—You've only got yourself to blame—but I don't dally to dissent. "That wonderful machine was programmed to fail," I retort. A mere 78K on the odometer, never went four-wheeling. Never clocked her out. Junker, whore on lemons. Loved her while she clawed my road, my straight-away road like an iced-out black-lipped steampunk, DRI and Motorhead slamming naked eardrums and tapedeck against the walls of the leather cab like homeboy sailors about to trade life for a watery grave, but I ain't sentimental about static scrap metal that refuses to scream down the naked road, that won't buck the screaming naked wind, that won't deliver the screaming male naked, the same naked, naked as he came in, ink optional, and now it's high naked time for her to meet her maker—the spirit of the whale, naked. Sentimental. I could be, but I ain't. I'm no seized up gearhead. Get the drift?

  • Nothing is a very important aspect of our concept of something, anything, everything, and the lines of demarcation which separate us all, bring us together, ignore us in the end, so don't fear, just don't neglect to trace one's own importance back to nothing. Have a good day, Robert.
  • I think this could have been more strategically written, "Good thing Regan turned out cute, or Ita would be in BIG TROUBLE right now..." At least then you would have only one woman in the family aiming for your head next time they pick up a Louisville Slugger. You're outnumbered buddy, and this ain't China...
  • You say when you read stories about how some children are not going to be very bright adults, you think, "that's less adults my daughter will have to compete against and it brings a smile to my face." Okay, dude, say I, "Let's hope she doesn't become so bright she thinks she's an artist..."

Soup's boiling on the glasstop. Slice, then dice the leftover roast into rosy chucks, making a tomato-vegetable based brew, with lots of juice, always lots of juice. I can't seem to drum this "lots of juice" meme into the wife's head. She's clearly no cook, will tell you that herself in an English Fog, nearly completely illiterate in the kitchen even as she's about to reach retirement age. Lots of juice. That's why they call it soup, silly. Best part of the soup, if it's done right, I tell her. That's what my Pops always said, and I've lived long enough to realize how right he was about that one thing, at least. Yes dear, that's cabbage. And potatoes, peas, corn, carrots, okra, green beans, onions, oregano, black pepper, and a little red to curl your toes. Carrots? Oh come on, baby, it'll put hair on your chest, as the Pops used to tease my sister when we were growing up. Illiterate. What can I say? She's not really a literal bean counter, only a metaphorical one, a bean counter more comfortable shoveling numbers and slinging hash about whether her company, Always & Forever, is currently still in the red or in budgetary black. She'll be home soon. I'm surprising her. Always love to catch her off guard. Love is that way. Always spotting the cracks in the sidewalk. The potholes in the street of any relationship requires everyone to lend a skill, apply the requisite pitch, and mix in some jolly good cement.

We dig animals here, too.

GT

O Fly, There's A Waiter In My Soup


30 Oct

urge may take or leave dot women
drunk before malicious identity
essential pedestrian shakes
against pagan blue vision
rock shadows beat to boil
burn and beauty shock
black rust dream lilies
old men crowded minds
cancel this stop
a spoiled fuss

two years ago free agency
she sweats as she pockets
below the previous rail
to standardized poverty
a typographical error
the deliberate cinema

we can't discriminate, silk
soft asphalt, hard styrofoam
reloading ten eligible goals
not on my highway says Ned
just easier leaves eyeball
rolling upscale bouncy
seekers without likes
to cowering experts
drowned in fact

an addiction to friction
abundance of ordnance
always in the airspace
progressing past pulse
overnight overtime
draft free weight
spend up girls
pigskin mash

purchasing resistance care
vague trust critical zones
education irreducibly slow
we digital tongues
ignore the door
root volumes
they wait
we go

[ 2013, Lovettsville VA ]

Language Theory, Deluxe Brown Shoe Cynics & Other Wet Blanket Ratios


28 Oct

wordwakers

Word Wakers

samplex

The following excerpts are from an essay cast by poet Marjorie Perloff as excerpted in Nothing to Say & Saying It, the online blog by John Gallaher.

Language poetry, together with its related ‘experimental’ or ‘innovative’ or ‘oppositional’ or ‘alternative’ poetries in the U.S. and other Anglophone nations, has often been linked to the two Steins—Gertrude Stein and Wittgenstein (as I myself have argued in Wittgenstein’s Ladder), to Guillaume Apollinaire and William Carlos Williams, the Objectivists and New York poets, Samuel Beckett, the Frankfurt School, and French poststructuralist theory. Those who denigrate Language poetry and related avant-garde practices invariably claim that these are aberrations from the true lyric impulse as it has come down from the Romantics to such figures as the most recent Poet Laureates—Rita Dove, Robert Pinsky and Stanley Kunitz. But laureate poetry—intimate, anecdotal, and broadly accessible as it must be in order to attract what is posited by its proponents as a potential reading audience—has evidently failed to kindle any real excitement on the part of the public and so decline-and-fall stories have set in with a vengeance. Great poets, we read again and again, are a thing of the past: a ‘post-humanist’ era has no room for their elitist and difficult practices. Accordingly, the main reviewing media from the Times Literary Supplement to the New York Times Book Review now give ‘poetry’ (of whatever stripe) extremely short shrift.

"The Language poets (or L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poets, after the magazine of that name) are an avant garde group or tendency in United States poetry that emerged in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Language poetry emphasizes the reader's role in bringing meaning out of a work."
But what if, despite the predominance of a tepid and unambitious Establishment poetry, there were a powerful avant-garde that takes up, once again, the experimentation of the early twentieth-century? This is the subject of the present study. Designed as a manifesto, it makes some of the polemic claims we associate with that short form even as it suffers from its inevitable omissions. Because I am here interested in foundational poetic changes, I shall have little to say about many of the poets who have been most important to me and whom I have written about again and again over the years—Ezra Pound, William Carlos Williams, and Wallace Stevens, Guillaume Apollinaire and Blaise Cendrars, George Oppen and Lorine Niedecker, David Antin and John Cage, John Ashbery and Frank O’Hara.

‘To imagine a language,’ said Wittgenstein, ‘is to imagine a form of life.’ This book studies such key poetic ‘imaginings’ both at the beginning of the twentieth century and at the millennium, so as to discover how their respective ‘forms of life’ both converge and cross.

  • Language Poets Wiki: The Language poets (or L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poets, after the magazine of that name) are an avant garde group or tendency in United States poetry that emerged in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Language poetry emphasizes the reader's role in bringing meaning out of a work.

  • Textual Politics and the Language Poets: "Let us undermine the bourgeoisie." So Ron Silliman ends his contribution to "The Politics of Poetry" symposium in L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E 9/10 (October 1979). Writes Gabriel Thy in response to Silliman: "Better as discard than trump. It's no accident the truck feeds millions, ignoring the silly man crammed with errors."

Anvil


12 Oct
Anvil Booker was no guarantee, 
        Nimrod's son, wide awake, my generation,
     not what you wanted, not now not here
coy, once upon a time nickels and dimes
one way or another one of these days out of time
Mrs. Brown's lovely daughter, 
broke paperback writer,
only a pawn in their game, swallows peppermint twist
open all night, parade of the horribles, 
     Nadine Brown put 'em on the glass 
like old fashioned love songs
           "My brain is hanging upside down, neat neat neat"
a few observations, sunspot backyard garden party
forsaken fragments of fresh flesh must of got lost
met privately with their lawyers, guns, and money
fortunate son sitting to my right in submission,
no sanctuary, superstition, surrender,
none but the brave, 
nobody's diary.

                         Mrs. Robinson snatches Mr. Tambourine Man, 
and the one they called Mr. Integrity. Ooh la la. Each other's bad company,
girl gone wild, night moves, sultans of swing, mother and child reunion
only the good die young in Oliver's army, 
Mother's little helper not faking it, 
         one man's a gang, one headlight.
One tin soldier on the sea of Galilee,
Arial Sharon still in his coma after seven 
years of plenty, on the road again,
one way out, not a trillion dollar golf game
                 peace minus one, pay you back with interest
one step into the light, one of us, Obama's presidential rag
people who died, peeling back the foreskin of liberty
for the piano man Pee-ro Juan Valdez Sam Quixote
parasite host, pump it up, it's a political world.

                           Private Idaho went M.I.A.
planet earth 1988, police story pretty vacant, 
plastic bag, picture this, get a grip on yourself
perpetual personality, the pied piper,
please push no more, the power genocide
gunpoint affection, this year's prophet
get back, get down, get ready, get up, 
golden shower of hits, going going gone
get your body beat, get off, harvest 
          halfway to crazy said Avil,
the happiest days of our lives,
hate to say I told you so
growing up the children
of dust, groom's still waiting.

         The church of the holy spook, 
cigarettes and citizenship
packed into an old blue chevy van,
made it to oh Atlanta and back then died
after that singular trip from Corpus Christi,
sold it back to the same gypsies I paid on eggshell. 

Elvis is everywhere, a field of opportunity
Eli's coming, eminent domain, embryo dead, Elvis on velvet,
fire on the mountain, flowers on the wall, civil war
face to face, remarks Eve, of destruction, Ezra's Cantos
fake friends fading fast, long as I can see the light
pipes Anvil, looking for a leader lost in America,
a brutal planet, every picture tells a story,
every grain of sand fighting in the streets,
Cleveland rocks, Detroit City falls,
drops into the night, city baby
attacked by rats coast to coast
cold professional, common people
coal miner's daughter, glory days
               claw at idiot wind,
as somebody screamed give peace a chance,
others bellowed they would go down fighting,
same fate, no regulation, no legislation
prepared the goon squad, the goody two shoes
troops of tomorrow, red shirted radicals,
the queen of the silver dollar,
rabbit fighter, punk rock girl, the righteous ones,
or the green shirts of the green green grass of home
                    for the grinder, the grey seal.

Richard hung himself,
the rhythm of the rain was 
a major contributor. Famous last words,
return to sender. Over my head. Pablo Picasso
never had to paint it black, use magnum force,
just his lyin' eyes, mandolin wind, 
and maybe I was a golf ball, 
quips Anvil, adding

                Massachusetts was his favorite nation,
miles from nowhere when you live in sweet home Alabama
especially when the Medicine Jar 
still owned Maybelle's guitar. 
    Now it has always been mate, 
spawn and die (probably of mind games)
so the show must go on,
but things smell a bit fishy,
Shirley, should I stay or should I go?
The silver dollar forger is a Shi'ite punk,
Master Jack, you know Sister digs the sharpies;
Modern Romans haven't a clue, have no momentum
again miles from nowhere when Michael rows 
the boat ashore itchin' for action,
the memory of Mesopotamia not lost
in the air that I breathe
the age of consent
blindhammer in bikini 
red between the lines
or the defenders of the faith, 
deep one perfect morning
because the night principals 
of the death & resurrection show,
        are dedicated followers of fashion
                          moving in stereo,
ignoring my back pages no matter who you are
as the age of quarrel plus outsider sacks 
our comfortable lives. Anvil 
with his never say never 
lonely teardrop Mike Twigger ax
admires the question.

Why are you so paranoid, they accuse. Anvil's quick
to point to territorial pissings, then indigestion.

[ 2013, Lovettsville ]

With Every Breath You Take, So This Song Has No Title


12 Oct

If I had a hammer,
I'd nail your silent face
to the flapper girl's chest
like a yellow corsage, and tear it down;
turn on your receiver, Tupelo Honey
to love him is to know him, tiny dancer,
the boxer, Polly, she's a rainbow zombie
lost in a whiter shade of pale, tangled up in blue
now that I have a reason to believe a change
is gonna come when I paint my masterpiece
as I turn, turn, turn, turning Japanese
rogue children go bang, divine service,
don't pass me by, don't stop,
do you know what I mean,
do it again, cover me...

like a hurricane, blowing old time rock and roll,
too late for a handshake, I roll over Beethoven,
thunder struck, roll over and over, doing the stray cat strut
to your ritual noise. Yeah. You really got a hold on me.
Yakety Yak. No more heroes. You cannot walk here,
sky pilot, paper plane, ancient name. You remind
me of Snoopy versus the Red Baron, but she's
not on the menu, spotlight, look, she's a phone sex girl
a pleasure victim, til the wheels fall off, a thrasher
positively 4th Street, toys in the attic,
too far gone, a telephone operator,
said so the daily news,
cry baby cry, a dirty birdie,
a dirty punk, chemicals and circuitry
diplomatic immunity, Uncle Albert, Admiral Halsey,
dust in the wind, driftwood, the undefeated, the voice,
don't let me be misunderstood, don't call me white,
the cover of the Rolling Stone, uncertain times under attack.

You ain't seen nothing yet,
keep on smilin' homesick again
the hunger within, the human highway
for what it's worth, friend or foe, fake friends
famous last words with no particular place to go,
first time I ever saw your face, fingernails
running up that hill riding the storm out,
ringing them bells breathless for my brown-eyed girl 
give it all girl in the war feeling stronger every day,
you may call me the breeze, but I can't stop
the world dancing with myself, God wrote,
looking for you...record collector,
just like Jim Morrison did.

Thank you for the music, nothing is true,
I get around, I speak American, now you will pay
gimme gimme gimme, glory days, play my game
I walk the line, not what you wanted, I shall be free No. 10,
I'll meet you in Poland, my Blakean year, I won't back down,
If you want to sing out, sing out, rise above, Walt Whitman
won't mind, but if you leave me now, Jim Dandy
In the sweet bye and bye like the early Roman kings
it's not the spotlight, it's the end of the world
as we know it. Kansas City. Is there anybody out there
the night they drove Old Dixie down, just one fix,
just my imagination, keeps getting better,
just what I needed, remember I was vapor
respectable, reelin' in the years
with or without reason...

with every breath you take, so this song has no title.

—Gabriel Thy | Sunday, October 12, 2013

The Steaming Liquidity & Uber Legend of Shifty Bruce Almighty!


03 Sep

man

The Man Without A Plan

samplex

Son, did I ever tell you about the time I felt presence of God Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, as we zipped along the busy highway of twisted pairs and optical glass where stranded men roam, and there, the codes and standards and bromides of silvery asps greeted the punishing ace of diamonds whose face was instantly melted by the exploding heat of WORD, did I? Scholars will say it happened on July 14, 2013. Politicians will say it never happened that way at all.

But Facebook, the galloping ghost of the last few reckoning things still measurable by those in charge, was taking notes. In our cautionary appropriateness, we had long learned that if one's particular secrets could kill, they probably would. At least, we learned they should. Men and women and children alike challenged each other for the power to take down another with a few words or less. Beneath the global surface stability fostering form, the human brick, the muscle and the stick, cosmic wallpaper was peeling into colorful ribbons of functionary excellence with each utterance. Women had become like spikes, crooked in their own justifying eyes, resilient to the past death, as raw orange skies hurrying away to whom no one knows, began to buckle and crack. I saw brimstone rocks hurled, piling up against powerless flesh also peeling away, as screams of the unborn torn from the crucifix suddenly were silenced against loud witnessing flashes, confusion the only pie still remaining, invisible signs of Asche zu Asche we knew had made us strong now lay broken into pieces. Here we recall the "straining at gnats" remains of that big rock record:

Bruce to Mike. "Man you love some stupid media! You're one of the very few I know who wants this punkass narc aquitted. I won't waste time asking why? Did you [watch] NBC Nightly News Wednesday night? West VA life expectancy for men is the same as in Gambia. 64 years only. X VA gets 17 more years Mikie! You got no mortgage—you can leave. Then you slowly start to hate minorities a little less each year! An environment of love with a new diet can change a lot for you. Maybe you were never at peace? I recall a much more happier Mikie that wasn't very politically concerned. That Mikie couldn't be fooled into not enjoying life everyday! Was it all only foolish youth? Are you now the joyless sensible man you were always waiting to be or is this a life turn best backed out of? Slightly curious as to the real answer?"

Bruce was on a roll, and he expected to sop up.

"The gene pool around here needs a little chlorine. For some of us, the brains we had went to our head, for others, getting ahead would be the first to go..." thought Gabriel.
"You're wrong about me on so many levels that it's pathetic, Bruce. Did you know NBC edited the audio of the Zimmerman calls to make him sound racist? That's documented. I have many black friends here Bruce. Bet you didnt know that did u? I love people of all races..and I hate people of all races. I mow a ladies yard that's black...did you know Booker T. Washington grew up not 5 miles from me? You judge me cause I come at FB with another point of view that lamestream and liberals will never hear because of propaganda and controlled conflict talking point media...I enjoy life every day to the fullest..I am very much alive...just because I choose to look deeper into the truths behind the stories and see the bigger picture and connect the sordid dots and refuse to hide my head in the sand...I guess that in your eyes [all that] makes me foolish? Joyless? Hahaha, good luck. I am at peace knowing God is firmly in control and allows things to happen for a reason...Obama and co. are using this case to divide and conquer thru race and also to promote his anti-gun measures. Because I choose to be awake is a problem for you I guess. Well as Alice Cooper so poignantly says in an early song...you can always turn me off! Hahahaha..."

obey

The Counterfeiters

But Mike was having none of it. "PS, there aren't many natural food options here but I try as best i can to get organic etc...another eugenicist great idea to have country folks especially eat their GMOs so they can be overweight and sterilized (check into that goodie via GMO)...fluoridate the water, spray the skies with lovely chemtrails and keep us sedated with their slow flicker rate media and video games. Also, all the Fukushima radiation spreading thru the USA food supply...Haha you believe ANYTHING NBC says?..its all approved by your Bilderberg group talking points ...why shouldnt you? So yes, West Virginians along with all the USA have a low life expectancy...it's YOU that needs to wake the fuck up my friend..even with all the bad shit I am AWARE of, I stay positive and fight for liberty for all races...what if all the people that get divided by race woke up and saw the real enemy of the people..that's my mission..to create a critical mass of people of all races that are awake to the NWO's plans..."

If he ever was, and the Eighties are long gone, Mike Twigger is nobody's wilting violet, as Bruce's insulting characterization seemed to imply, as the counterfeiter will often do. To pine for the days of old when Bruce was still the reigning local rockstar in our favorite local band several decades ago and we were all punk standarounds vying for our own dreams of beauty and truth and breakaway elegance slushed in alcohol for public consumption and perishable solitude in private, was a stretch none of us could muscle into place, no matter how the knotted strands of time loosened with the frailties of memory. For some of us the brains we had went to our head, for others, getting ahead would be the first to go...

So Twigger continues his snap, "I actually would love to gtfo of the USSA entirely, but the globalist bankster cartel is everywhere....except Iceland, Switzerland, and a couple others, oh yeah, the two they haven't installed Rothschild banks in yet—Syria and North Korea...my advice is to start with The Obama Deception; the 2nd one is coming out soon and take off the weed colored glasses when u watch it. And by the way, what's your definition of stupid media?

"Speaking of joy, Bruce, I trust you enjoyed patronizing me, as much as I enjoyed defending myself from your slander and innuendo, since I know how much you love to blast anything that displeases you, and from my own observations that is quite a pay load over the years..."

Then I was pulled into this mess in the name of old friendships and wounded foes, cracked wills and compound woes...

…peace out rocker, life is greater and more terrible than all of us rolled together into a clump of Indiana clay glued together with donkey piss and ripe for distribution to the masses. It just is, and none of us are.”
"Of course, since I'm just a punk ass cracka in Northern Virginia I barely know a grasshopper from a bullfrog, but if I had a son, he would look just like Trayvon because I just love me some [fill in appropriate genetic material here] woman, and Obama had no business sticking his nose into this case and remaining silent about all the murders in Chicago, AND all the nationally unreported attacks on whitey by black youths that HAVE ALREADY been going on around this country marauding in the NAME OF TRAYVON." There are no permanent enemies in this world and few permanent friends, I added quietly to myself.

"Thanks Gabriel!...I know Bruce is comfortable with his own limited vision of the world! LOL."

But Bruce was not finished. Not this Bruce. Not now. Not ever. Not until his own last breath on this happy but doomed planet his own songs depict. I saw no limits on Bruce Hellington's vision.

"Maybe but I am not as miserable as either of you are by a longshot. That in of itself regardless of the means is worth a great deal more to me than any political awarenesses you guys seem so happy about having."

"Mister Hellington, you sling words like happiness and misery around as if they are personal weapons and we don't know who you are, as if any of that has anything to do with the topics I or Mike or you choose to discuss on Facebook, with our respective families, or merely amongst two or three gathered. Guess you found that "real" Jesus you were looking for..."

After all, in the packed heat of a few minutes he had called us miserable, then happy, without a measure of service to his own creative and political skin on bone the band 9353 had exhibited for so many years, and we, among its biggest fans. Without missing a beat, marching to my own undaunted beat, I write, "And Bruce, if I'm so damned miserable, then I certainly don't need you adding to it...peace out rocker, life is greater and more terrible than all of us rolled together into a clump of Indiana clay and donkey piss ripe for distribution to the masses. It just is, and none of us are."

But Mike wasn't finished. He was filled with the spirit and drew forth his sword of sarcasm, and had another go at the reign of a fallen king whose own art is the spilling of misery, "Yes, I can see clearly now. I am soooo miserable! Wow, if it wasnt for your clear unclouded insight Bruce i might have been lost...thank goodness for your preconceptions. Now i must renounce all these political posts and come back into the fold of ignorant bliss. Ahhh, I feel so much better already!"

"Either way I am still very grateful to be nothing like the two of you are stuck being today. Because you're obviously enviable in your joy of life. I wonder how long it will be and which one of you goes first? I won't read what you have to say but you can still feel good I hope for typing it. Peace to the miserable," offers the satisfied prince probably breaking out a move to Barbra Streisand's Doing The Reactionary.

"It's about informing the public for a critical mass against the evil fucks that are behind it...so there is a purpose to it...or did you miss that whole thing...and i guess you disregard the other 40% of my posts that have nothing at all to do with politics..."

keyboardThere was not a lot of fun in having to sustain this conversation long enough to bang out some semblance of closure, so I engaged the throttle with the hope that the arch antagonist would find something to bleed, and we could end this sparring non-sense. "No sir, I have never demanded or even defended the notion that people emulate me, foster me, or be enviable of me, but it seems you have quite a talent for projection, he who himself prides a honed skill for vile outrage...and is proving it once again by hijacking this thread with a string of ad hominems aimed at two adjuncts who don't fit the preferred profile of his own historied, and esoteric genius. Having turned toxic towards me a while back now, the Wrath of Bruce is not my burden. As for which of us three will "go first' I am quite sure it is me since I'm nearly 60 years old, thus having a number of good times already under my belt on both of you, and as you are obviously so keen to announce, carry more weight than the two of you put together the last time I calculated. Is that REALLY where you are standing these days, Mister? I have no doubt that you enjoy every moment of your life, and that you are going to live forever, or at least a day, a day, and a half day longer than I will, so rejoice, man rejoice, you have inspired the heavens. And hey, Bully Boy, that's right, don't read what I write, but who among us can't imagine I will know once you do. Go write one of your "miserable" songs, I mean "joie de livre" songs for the population, as you lead us to believe that you possess or exhibit the "joy of life" more than either Mike Twigger or Gabriel Thy do, and for holier than thou reasons to boot. Fact is you don't know what drives us, and how much and to whom we give back and for what duration and at what personal cost to ourselves. Some of us give and are not photographed with every bundle of giving. To be seen by men...but I applaud YOUR street work nevertheless. It is good-hearted. And I know you are honest with the buck. So why don't you just mind the Father's business without stepping into a situation of which you know so little and slinging crap as if you know it so well..."

Given that the Trayvon Martin case had nothing to do with stand your ground, as a legal premise, despite the Left's dubious intentions to make it that in challenging the Florida law. It was a self-defense versus manslaughter case from the very beginning." I wrote, responding to another comment on the thread that had lingered without clarifying resistance. Then I attached a video with Thin Lizzy or actually Phil Lynott's solo release of Ode To A Black Man.

His memory or at least, his faithfulness to it are tragically failing him, but as soon as this thread was over, he was on the phone with another mutual friend telling him how he, Bruce, had drilled me, Gabriel, a new one, or something to that effect, and he wanted this friend to join him in badmouthing me.
Bruce fancies himself a man who speaks truth to power, and I'm not here to doubt it because his next parlay could only make me grin as he fiercely foraged his stockade for even more predictable clichés to hurl. "The wrath of Bruce? Like such things exist or you could care? At least we don't have to hear a bunch of whining from you two haters today! I know you're both very pleased with it. Very Nice. You should have been a more serious artist Gabriel just like Mikie should have been a real guitarist. Art can do many things for your life if you do not come on board with the clock running and a list of demands from the community that must be met or else. You could have meant it instead. You could have given us something other than sour nonstop poly rhetoric in the last chapter of your life. I fully understand why there is probably no way you can't hate me no matter how hard you'll never try not to. The thing about it is I am still the same Bruce now as I always was despite your Jesus assumptions. It is the two of you who had the political personality shift, not me. Very nice Gabriel after one visit in my home ever in your entire life and you are now an authority on me. I remember why you came there now. You knew a piece of the puzzle was waiting to be explained as common knowledge when you asked me "why does DC hate me so much"? I had no problem answering you. The answer was known city wide for years. It's because you pulled out your dick on the stairway at the Boogins party at 12th and P st in 1983 and proceeded to piss on Bess Powell's legs forcing Rene Farkass to beat you up and throw you out. Oddly you called him the next day acting like the two of you were still good friends or something. That's just one factor as to why DC never liked you very much. Whether you regard yourself as an artist or a real estate man or just a pervert with a video camera trying to get people "Sued", I sense your largest anger comes from a sense of entitlement unfulfilled given your original assumed potential as some southern colonial coulda man. Now you should take it easy old bully put that inner Curly in check. You ain't got long to live and I really don't want to get personal here with you but I am about to and you won't like it fat boy not one bit when I get warmed up here. Mikie consider the life Gabriel has and consider it fair warning. Forgive me Mikie if you've been raped by a black man recently. I had no idea? It all now makes perfect sense."

Bruce apparently was pulling out all the stops even though each of the three of us already were quite comfortable squabbling among the stops, so Mike lays it all out for onlookers to gawk, if that was their game, emotionalites to emote as they so pleased, info gatherers to gather and info planters to plant, declaring that life was good, and he was fine once more despite the details of past flash in the pan soreness, "Molested by a black YMCA counselor years ago..lol but I have worked thru that pretty much fine and have forgiven him and myself to the point of where if I saw him i wouldnt even let it interfere with saying hi....and has no bearing whatsoever on things i feel/post sociopolitically. and my "shift" has taken place gradually as I learn about the NWO (hidden dynasties) and learn Gods plan in the Word. And uh..I still am a "real" guitarist...I play every day...but it's cathartic to let it out what u feel Bruce..better out than in...the more honest we are with each other the more we can build a solid foundation on which to fight the real enemies of the people...they want us divided...but really I think that's its petty to try and make character assassinations via experiences to make up for being bested by facts and knowledge of all sides concerning the original topic... I know it seems you are inadequate to discuss these things without knowing the whole story..but don't be defensive about it and lash out in a personal way...again..it's petty...better to inform yourself at the very least to get on equal debate footing on the issues...instead of your already formed "opinions" not necessarily based on facts and historical documentations..."

"PS. Thin Lizzy rules!" thunders Mike the Twigger.

"I love you guys!" transitions Bruce Hellington the Almighty.

"Wait a damn minute. You stole my line," bark I, the Gabriel Thy, adding "There are facts, Bruce. And then there are the William S. Burroughs cut-ups. Your last assessment of that smattering of GT trivia most definitely falls into the latter camp. I won't be callous enough to sort it all out for you since you seem just as capable of mustering a set of facts as anyone belonging to your "political persuasion". Interesting reading, though. Feel free to talk smack all day long against my name. That's what it's there for (by popular demand)..."


Tuesday, September 3...

death-cult

Death Cult by Gabriel Thy

"Thanks Mike for the thread. I'd tried to find it a while back and gave up during a bout with scroll fatigue. Fact is, Bruce is not unaware of what's going on in the world. Why he suddenly has shifted from the ultra paranoid rantings about what a mutual friend whom we shall call Shelley had told him concerning top secret government facilities and missile silos and EMPs, et cetera, amply fertilizing his own keen suspicious mind of all things outside himself is puzzling, but I suspect it's just a manifestation of his role as self-annointed HIGH PRIEST in the scene defending his turf, dumping on us probably things he's been told himself. Who knows, or cares, anymore. 9353 songs are not exactly Pat Boone sings the classics...so this display of psychological muscle is just as dour as anything we publish (although I hear this latest CD is something altogether different, go figure). Since he's off playing rock star again, something's he earned, and we are not dropping everything to jump in his honor, he must attack. His memory or at least, his faithfulness to it are tragically failing him, but as soon as this thread was over, he was on the phone with another mutual friend telling him how he, Bruce, had drilled me, Gabriel, a new one, or something to that effect, and he wanted this friend to join him in badmouthing me. Andy said he just couldn't do that. So, I'm not impressed with Bruce Almighty's grip on all that much anymore. Who's the hater in this sandbox? His type of spirit rules the Left now, but the really ugly thing is that Bruce was pushing similar if not the same cautions about Big Brother on me back in the Bush years. Now he's calling the two of us haters. What a stinking hypocrite, or maybe he's just, uh, progressive!"

SAMPLEX Originalis


17 Oct

dancemaid

"Dancemaid" by Gabriel Thy

samplex

SAMPLEX IS THE NAME of the street zine I created and distributed among a certain fan base of Washington DC provocateurs and poseurs in the region's seminal punk and harDCore music scene of 1984-1985. This ludicrous body of half-wit scoundrels, pontificants and prevaricators worked the clubs between Seventh & E Streets and Ninth Street, from "d.c. space" to the "9:30 Club" where fame was chased and fame was made. The 'zine ran eight issues, individually themed, issues which were filled not with the usual confabulated local band lore and raw music sycophancy, but WS Burroughs-inspired cut-ups and collage, cartoons, and other riffs and ripoffs mostly poking fun at the scene itself right from the center of all its purported mayhem, and only the occasional invented or imaginary interview. Each issue consisted of 8-12 pages of tri-folded & heavily stapled panels printed on both sides of 8.5"x14" paper, and xeroxed wherever I could "borrow" a copying machine to print out 50-100 copies each issue. That's a lot of FREE or nearly free xeroxing.

This SAMPLEX blog is in honor of those earliest days of brutal self-punishing self-publishing. New stripes, but the sound, the fury, the beat go on...

PS: Look for reproductions of some of the original SAMPLEX pages here, later, as we post them.

My Only Book Review


16 Oct

jaden

Jaden

samplex

Nearly two years after its publication, and despite the dissemination of forty or so copies among the few friends, family members, and strangers beating back the night sweats of literary intent, I have come to accept the fact that I write in such an outlandishly dull way as to render this special class of improbable bibliophiliacs completely and utterly devastated to the point of unleashing their inner mute upon the very grains of sand upon which I stand.

Now, I have not handed this book away to just anybody with a cap size or a Big Gulp to spare, but only to those who pleaded, cajoled, paid for in the case of some of the more deep pocketed critics, wished for, promising a review each and every one of them, and if cool beans are a good source of protein, threatened my well-being for a personal copy of this collection of visceral sweat and tears, bloody for the twenty-five years it stewed in the making, usually a signed copy, and usually accompanied by some petty insolence that they loved poetry, or some such glad-handing gush as that. Notions of the silent rejection, notwithstanding, The Silent Cull & Other Mechanical Ideas, Collected Poems 1980-2005 is not your usual thin volume of contemporary poetry, but is four hundred pages of seething canonical arrest, and I use the word "canonical" and "arrest" in all their usual connotations plus a few more that I insist are both canonical and arrested within the pages themselves, banking on subtleties of style and insight that are only coming apparent to the ill-prepared general public in these, our own spectacular terror-driven chaotic times. Well-minced words are a swallower's delight, and this book rarely portrays paradise, or other romantic follies of the past or future tense of mankind, but in its own galloping way wraps itself in the contemporary physics of time and thought itself, tackling its author as much as the culture that spawned him.

But this entry is not about describing the book. It has been aptly described elsewhere.

Here I wish to fan myself with those few words of praise, or words of any kind that have wafted my way in the context of this inpenetrable book. The following paragraph was sent to me by a local artist, a young painter of some early renown, still in his late twenties, whose first son was to be born on my birthday (the second of my friends whose firstborn sons arrived likewise) named James Coleman:

I really like the book man, I read it out loud to Christie at night when we go to bed, they say the baby can hear it and its good to read to him, but I dont know. I really love it man they say if you reach one person, blah blah blah, well thats me. I can sit on the roof and smoke a cigarette, lay in bed at night, damn i would even take it to the beach. It flows it pulsates, it moves me. Im not kissing your ass, I have no reason to. Just wanted to give you an honest opinion, and for whatever reason, it speaks to me. When I read it I feel like I did when I was in college smoking opium and reading boulbelaire or at the coffee shops reading dylan thomas, thinking I should start a fight. What I am trying to say is that at this point in my life your book works for me. Great job man, Im not a literary figure or even a good writer but just wanted to tell you. If I see you and I am drinking and tried to tell you all this, you would think I was full of shit.

What can I say? For all the silent pretenders haunting my crude ambitions, this single review is just about the most stirring string of thoughts an old poet, fat on the failures of inertia, far past his gameface prime, could ever hope to absorb.

Thanks JColeman...

Idiotsheet


25 Jul

There's an old word for poetry
and that word is prophecy,
love never the tyrant.

Counting headaches by twos,
poet understands his mouth,
only asset worth squandering.

Too many artists, not enough jobs
give suicide better odds than square one,
but yet, let's not explode myths here.

Not so much the free language filter
velocity of one's looking that counts,
especially among colored eggs and neon.

Addicted to reading overvalued famous,
those not, simply expire within complex
requisitioning, another agile bloom.

Magical or not, each capitulation among rags
ruins the poet, for antennae he really seeks
building concepts, pedestal to win favor.

To incite a pronoun to riot
is federal offense in some tongues,
applauding slaughter of words for clout.

Buttering bread on both sides of the ocean
is better than sinking both feet into wet rock,
where amphibious canons play hard to get.

Plump poets are knockouts when unsoured
but foul rainclouds of envy work overtime
serving up dual faces a beautiful stage.

Tragic skirts written for obligatory nude
contagious like electrons packed with syrup
into idiotsheet of wiretapped writers.

Sing sing the warm fluids of spring,
but remember trap and claws of stilled
phantoms buried in wide eyes of fate.

[ 2007, Washington DC ]

Troubled Dashboards


03 Oct

Troubled Dashboards

Troubled Dashboards

samplex

Date: Sat, 3 Oct 1998 12:08:16 -0400

Gabriel writes, "Three cheers for the webmaster! I think we're damned close to having everything working like slippery eels again! I'll wash my socks in the morning..."

"Just another buzz in a busy subfrazzled afternoon...and then there was another strong wind roaring in from behind her big yellow crooked lily teeth."

"Win something? I'm still trying to lose these Geneva-sanctioned lycanthropic teeth steering a mouthful of yellow sheep to the back of the bus. I just think it's amazing that some folks in these terse parts still run their experimental mouths tart free. But thanks for your excellent utility. However, I think it would benefit many users if you offered a choice from several different ASS Top 1000 button designs using a variety of colors. As a page designer and webmaster for several clients I can admit that I am hesitant to recommend the placement of the current button due on some of my pages due to aesthetic concerns."

"Hi Anni, trust all is going well with your career in "show business". And your bookselling? Have you made a solid contact here in the States? Just passing by, and thought I'd wave to you from the technicolor dashboards of Kierkegaard Boulevard..."

Surveying books have formulas to determine the area of any irregularly shaped object. It uses the coordinates of each of the vertices of the surface to determine the area. All it would require would be for the object to be placed on a grid, the operator would record the coordinates of each of the vertices. The data can be saved to a text file and imported into a database or spreadsheet for the remaining calculations. If the piece is symmetrical or nearly so, the problem then reduces to calculating the surface of revolution by segmenting the cross-section and summing (integrating) the contributions of each segment to the surface. If the piece is irregular, approximations for each type of item could probably be developed. The idea would be to use calculus to compute the surface of a particular type of piece from various measurements and then use that calculation with some scaling factor that would be applied to a similar piece the next time an estimate is needed. Gwenyth knew these details like the top of her booming bra-clutched white breasts, her cleavage from on high, so to speak, but her cultural brokenness would scatter like cats whenever she smiled at a fence, who was almost always a man. Her skin was USDA shark, the underbelly of a Great White. Similar intelligence. Barely five foot tall, her femininity was all muscle, striking, mannish seething within a functional ugly blubber. Gwen knew how to embalm any potential fence. She swam in deep waters of a secret mathematics, peculiar to her specific trade, her core mission. Gullible fence after gullible fence acutely drawn into her sway by the length and volume of that cleavage was blinded, then bled drop by drop, deal after deal until each collaborator at the hidden variable point of intersection, with or without spatial allowance, collapsed.

I have read a couple of Kosko books in the past, found him interesting and accessible, so I peddle his books as an Associate of Amazon.COM, but I am hardly qualified to, uh, what was it you had in mind, exchange groundbreaking ideas on fuzzy systems or neural nets...
"I live and work in Tucson, AZ. Found your site looking for info about neural nets, Bart Kosko and Fuzzy systems. I'm looking for like minded visitors...to learn and exchange ideas. Also, we have own several sites some recieve more than 50,000 uniques per day. How can we be effective for each other? Are you in need of more visibility for your site?"

Thanks for visiting one of my sites, John. However, I must admit that I'm at a loss as to know how I can be of service to you. The sad truth is I am merely an entry-level graphics & web designer for small businesses and operate the Bookskellar bookstore from my iMotedotcom site. While harboring tragically grandiose "writerly" ambitions, I rarely admit to them in public any more, although my "artistic" site (Scenewash Project 2000), still barely past the infrastructure stage, is my latest attempt to seek that unified field theory I've always rationed in terms of social and literary humanistic notions rather than in terms of high science of which I am woefully inept. I have read a couple of Kosko books in the past, found him interesting and accessible, so I peddle his books as an Associate of Amazon.COM, but I am hardly qualified to, uh, what was it you had in mind, exchange groundbreaking ideas on fuzzy systems or neural nets...

So I must defer to you to explain more fully what you had in mind.

Cheers,

Gabriel Thy
Creative Director
Graphic Solutions Ink Systems

S A M P L E X

"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""


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