Be sources, be them you

He looked at it. He peered into its motion. He developed it and then developed some respect for it, but never let it control him. A drifting, ambient effect hosted its consumption upon him. It seemed as if the party was just about to start. Leonard Jessup appeared out of the corner of his eye, breaking all hopes of a concentrated effort of any kind. Where Leonard bit him it itched. Leonard did this as a way to mark territory, he knew, but it was in no way professional as this relationship ought to be. Leonard's tooth marks were a day old and hot to the touch. Leonard picked at his left upper incisor and looked satisfied.

Chotimbecy, in short, was lined with a layer of decay that they both saw. In an overtly twisted way, the gratcor seemed to be melting away and peeling the penzotiltos. The core was losing its integrity. They knew it all too well, and they never looked back.

That's what one can do with a random word generator. I think they used to pull this shit out on standardized high school testing as well. Most kids, if I remember correctly, tested themselves more so on the speed ability to finish the test rather than their accuracy. Live and let die. Other sources are dreams, of course, and statements heard internally just prior to falling asleep. Busy, busy, busy.

The world we live in is less sustainable today than it was yesterday. Tomorrow it will lose yet more sustainability. We love to decimate each other and the things around us for what is conventionally known as growth. It ain't rocket science motherfucker, it's the soft, warm truth. Only the strong survive, but if they happened to be ruled by the strongest, then they are simply subjects surviving in an amenities (limited) included ant farm. Laissez faire.

Oxonicron Neotropic States

8 unyielding apprentices
1000 unequipped men
14 decisive victories
1/2 a pint of rubbing alcohol grade vodka
16 dreamed visions of exoneration
3 dreamed visions of catastrophic pain
2 minutes to midnight
35 machines born out of spite
4 tasks to undertake
1 mission
1 night
1 destructive nightmare
1 ticket to paradise lost
1 meaning
1 crushing
1 remaining artifact
Axicron Milbot lives on

Interception of last-minute memo telling me to progress (I perform a surgical operation on myself)

I have a new technology. I have a new found love for things like this. I try to live and breathe it. The system is called "U-verse" and it's an optical signal that streams into my home that not only provides me with this online capability, but also the ability to draw from a seemingly infinite pool of programming. Great.

Last night I sat down to watch Vision Quest. It reminded me that all quests in the present have become much to complex and suffer from multiple distractions. There's too much information available. In '85, you could grab a tape player, pop a Red Rider tape in it, and do just about any god damned thing you set your mind to, or so the movie makes it seem. Isolated from all information, you could have the ultimate Vision Quest experience. Now this is all but impossible. Nonetheless, I'm purchasing a rubber suit today, running at least 10 miles, and will start searching for someone named "Shoot" that will wrestle me. Guys named Shoot are hard to come by in this locale, but I bet if/when I find one, he'll be interested in an ultimate showdown. Listening to Journey's "Only the Young," will be my only distraction.

Currently I participate in creating a potential distraction to someone currently on a vision quest. I don't apologize. Fuck you in fact. If you've seen the movie, you know that temptation will stand before you. Indeed, it's part of the quest. Conquer it. Me, I prefer now to delve into my own universe, away from the rotting, swelling, and bloody information pools that haunt me. Facebook, Twitter, blogger.com, all must will be eliminated from my focus tree. I'm turning back the clock and returning to casting my energy onto paper, where porn pop-ups and funny kitten videos don't lunge at me. Goodbye.

And again, the sun is cooled with aloe vera gel

No need to get hung up on the past. Writing continues in the class of SJ-SM - has dogs in a dog show, wears the velcro shoes, and stomps you if your story is out of tune. Structured writing within the literary world has numerous boundaries that prevent absolute freedom bordering on anarchy and even chaos. That's unfortunate for me. I get off on just these things. The world I live in and get paid for has little to no outlet for mind vomit. It keeps you in the hole and rots your brain away.


No religion can save me now. I never truly believed that one could, but now I’m convinced. One bad day is all it takes, and within the context of our American Dream, I do believe that. This bread is stale at best, and at worst may not contain any grain at all, and these horse tranquilizers that I currently hold under my tongue in a plastic baggy are noxious. I know I just have to make it around the interior perimeter one more time, but this is difficult given the crushed rock interface that is constantly reminding me that I have no shoes on. This exercise is psychological of course, and I’m surprising myself that I’m even able to digest and regurgitate the things that I see. The outer boundary is roughly 30 yards beyond the inner boundary of which I am familiar. The dull silvery gray of the fencing materials is multiplied by one thousand through all of the layers, the razor and barbed wire, and the corrugated knee walls which are meant to slow any escapee with some bleeding time and physical exertion. The fluorescent lights added a hint of artificiality and sterility that made everything seem like a movie studio hospital.
Can I believe that I’ve been here for 63 weeks and two days? Hell no. As time passes and I consider the 32 years I spend outside of this politically contrived hell, I start to view myself as a naïve child, blinded by my Reagan-era parents, teachers, coaches and other so-called role models. Patriotism, democracy, freedom; good, wholesome American morals, all apple-pie bullshit now! My resentment kept me alive.
Three more fence posts now. I looked across the 100 yards to where I began, across the expanse where the quick-sand tank, the electric gauntlet, the hanging post and pinion, and Cheney’s own bee and spider barrel were currently not in use. All techniques myself and the other folks here, guilty or innocent, were forced to become acquainted with. I was currently bearing marks on my left leg from the bee and spider barrel, which simply consisted of a standard cardboard box, faded and worn from use, which was filled each session with about two jars of bees and a small handful of spiders, some poisonous. There was a hole just big enough to slip your foot and then leg through, then stand for 20 minutes or so, unless of course you divulged information, information which I was unfortunate (or fortunate?) enough not to have.
Now, before you stop believing me with your American washed brain, imagine this: I, and you, know right where this compound is located. Some of you may even have helped pay for the razor wire that stares at me in a threatening manner everyday. And you should have known because old Rummy, Ashcroft, and Cheney aren’t even Yankees fans. Have you ever seen the New Yankee Stadium? Did you pay attention when they broke ground in 2006? Apparently not, because 120 feet below the stadium a 90,000 square foot, publicly demanded concrete monolithic structure exists, complete with above-ground amenities. The amenities are not utilized of course, and, in fact, all cells are accommodated with only one incandescent light-bulb, three foot long mold-covered walls, and a damp and stagnant air quality only promised by the worst of New York landlords.
They call it Dragomir Dungeon. Here I waste away daily, on your dime, at the whim of shaved head militants on a power kick. I’m here on the charge of being a speed-freak clown. A year and a half ago I was traveling with Ramchetsky Brothers circus, making your kids laugh, and here I am a year later, an experimentally preserved carbon block used to test the newest of techniques that would make any novice dungeon master cringe. Rumsfeld viewed this as something of a joke, to round up vagabond traveling performers, companionless outcasts that nobody would ever miss. It’s been said that a clown once freaked him out as a child. Indeed I am guilty of being a speed energized clown, but I always minded my own business and maintained at least some dimension of the American Way. I’m going to eat only half of this tranquilizer now and sleep on this foam rubber pad I’ve been given. I’m going to be quiet and ignore the muffled screams. I’ll forget at least half of what I’ve told you. Thank me, if nothing else, for being your own political savior, your political Jesus if you will. They inform me each day that my punishment will be your freedom reward. Hold onto your fragile ideals loosely. Hold them with that loose grip and always be willing to forge new ones.