Mississippi Dream Reaper

If I ever own a mansion, that's what I'll name it. Speaking of which, I now have a serious point to make about mortgage rates, foreclosure, a depressed housing market, modern banking, and life's cash flow. I realize that writing in this medium is NOT the best way for me to get any real advice, or anybody to even listen to me for that matter, which is likely the psychological reason why I'm writing here. I'm fucked up that way. A general human fault of mine.

In short, my landlords, unknown to even them, had their home, or my rental home, foreclosed on. Now what that means for me is unknown, except I think I may be able to keep my place in society until the end of my lease period.

Now the question is, do I try to purchase the property at a discounted rate through the "short-sale" process? What do I have to lose besides my soul? Who needs that anyway in times like this? Do I try to rent another property living under the threat of a repeat situation? Lots of people are foreclosing on homes and if they're moving out and renting their unsellable property in order that they move to a new, better property, they will likely also face foreclosure in today's economy. They think they play the system but they just sink deeper into it. Or, do I look to purchase another, different home?

What a time, but as for myself, I would say I'm in no state-of-being appropriate for home ownership. I'm not ready to jump onto the life merry-go-round yet, or maybe ever. I don't actually live on the fringe of society, but I see myself as doing so, or at least sitting on the fringe, always one ass cheek away from falling off into the abyss. I don't do this because I think of myself as a cool, outcast, pariah, I don't think, but because I genuinely fear the chasing of invisible dreams and crushing power of the competitive and power hungry clan of demons that crowd society's food lines. They're sick and disgusting, and want to send their kids to elite nursery schools. In addition they hold influence over ALL of they money, and the predatory banks which they loiter in shall not have my flesh! But they desire it so, and any good American would submit and begin to donate flesh today. Good flesh can win over their hears at least temporarily I've heard.

In the end, I suppose it doesn't matter. In one way or another I've already exchanged a good portion of flesh for a new car and some processed cheese spread. I live in it as we speak: breathe it, bleed it, soak in it. At least if I owned I could then say, "take me home tonight." Just like Ronnie said. Ronnie Spector that is.

When are communes coming back? For now, unless additional advice is provided, I'll remain a squatter, the thing that my forefathers respected above all else.

$34 approaches #34

Squat, hunched, whatever you call it, their he stood, lost in this place, with absolutely no place to call home. He switched back his pager to the on position and hoped that the call would come. He was trapped inside this stupid, fresh smelling prison, awaiting his eventual demise. His girlfiend, and for a short time wife, Amanda, lay a nail in his neck so to speak. In his naive and easily manipulated youth, he was challenged to make something for himself this was more than any God could have made for him.

He drew a picture and imagined himself in the position that his body had always felt most at home: in a helicopter flying solo missions into and out of an unknown land, and then sitting in cabana Martes with his wife Martiana who drove school bus for a tiny district with a one-room school. She cared little for the standard lusts of life. She knew all but twenty words but was supremely, psychically intellectual, and she made a wonderful Bixberry pie. She was honorably humble but could kill the most powerful of men if she was crossed or taken advantage of.

In his Martes, he would wrap his fingers up in plastic wrap and stay clear of all germs, which was of prime concern in such a volatile environment. He contracted several different type of parasitic worms, so the plastic was a necessity. But most days he would sit still in a dark, environmentally controlled room and get high on opium, which would inevitably make him forget. Then he would vomit and crawl into the corner. Repeat. Martiana would make him a nice dinner and slide a tray under the door. She would psychically communicate her love through the door. But indeed, her love was over-bearing and definitely dangerous at time. He feared for himself and stayed holed up between helicopter missions, which he knew would ultimately cause him fiery death.

See, even his fantasies were ugly failures! It was in his head, he knew that. He couldn't understand why the objects, the life, the cosmos, everything, why it existed. What was it for? Was there a purpose beyond monotonous business networking and masturbation in all its forms? Probably not. A cliche age-old question I guess, that he himself would obsess about.

He turned in his red jumpsuit, a velvety glory machine. His face developed a certain serious seriousness. Very deliberately, he began to run in place and close his eyes, counting slowly to thirty-five; the time he had set. He could feel it in the air tonight. Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight... the song "I'm a believer" played on in the background. He thought maybe Neil Diamond wrote that. He set up on thinking about that song but gave up half-way through and concentrated on the counting. He had not lost count. He was robotic in that sense. Ten, nine, eight... he itched his nose frantically and forgot about the cat stranded outside the front door. His running in place turned into a frantic sprint. Four, three, two... Patrick Swayze kicking the face of motherfuckers that fucked with his Roadhouse, Mr. Snodderfield shuffling across the garden bricks flipping him off.

... at 0.5 seconds he turns loose the speed energy and there he goes now, bursting through the plate glass window in his rear office onto the statuettes below. He despised the animal statuettes, but alas, they had the last impaling laugh. His wife found him the next day weeping in the rose bush, a bit beaten, but only really impaled through the soul. She beat him mercilessly and took his wallet. She spent $34 on an expensive hat and left with only bruises, physical in nature. They went on living for a few years as far the onlookers were concerned.

The 33rd Harmonic

Rack up the justices, print them off on white paper please. Think about the results if you could just wind them up and let them go! Think about it. On now with the black oxide vapors or, even better, the phaser cell trimeladine. Paraphrase it, watch it polarize, then scale it. Scale it until it fits into the small of your back. Put it back there and forget about it. The condition always, always, solidifies anything that may have remained amorphous otherwise.

I think it was just last year that I caught up with a old thought of mine. An abused and overused thought. Over abused in the sense (only) that I came back to it: mealtime. A winning or losing proposition depending on which side of the political fence you stand on. An endless, faceless sight (of it) of demise and heroic gestures waiting to get on a bus or slip into the back of your car. It came out of my dreams as I wished. When in Rome.

A slipback, or a converse statement, used to show under appreciation for things that you should appreciate more. Slide back into a chair in the air-conditioning and you'll know what I mean. Call back your dad sometime when he calls or go on a bike hike with an old friend. Savor a meatball. We're all really glad everything's turned out the way it has. No stone walls or broken mirrors to worry about. Galatia was another one of those memories that required a particular keen interest in order to understand, which they always seemed to make into another one of those macaroni/glue projects or something of that sort.

Forgaps, Mark, who entered my soul disharmoniously, in a flannel, who died a dank death from a formidable American opponent. He achieved a hilltop state of mind and drifted in and out of illusory pulses. This damn near reached the lieutenant's desk. This left everyone in a state of panicked gasping and orchestrated scratching at the bone. Interests: anything real estate, and I mean anything. That will always take you to an unfocused place that leads to an expedited trail of tears. Old cowboys on speed.

So, in the end, like the river, on towards the sea. Click, click, click of an old razor steam bus. Silver bullet vomit short-train. No shouting match with an auto will stop me now. The gift of ultimate partitioned nonsense. Clever it. It will follow you to you own self-identification, which in this day is not really achievable without a great sacrifice. March, march, march to a foreign tune. find yourself in a lazily painted doorway and look for a small, bright light. Don't believe it, but absorb it. Keep moving, don't stop for the siren call, don't think twice. That's what they'll ask. Contract, contract, contract, then expand in a single motion. Let them laugh or whatever, but remain in a pose ready to crush collapse. Take all of the ideas and crush collapse. But be prepared. It's not what it expects.

When I was at 78% complete, I saw a red halo. I saw the best minds of dozen friends go up in a dust haze. I saw 50 some odd years of words and humor in a sunburst. I lapsed out a pinball route and never thought I could complete it (I never did either). All of this and another melody started piling up in my Netflix que and I figured out a real way to deal with any trauma but I kept it all locked in the side barrel of heat cycle. One, two, then ten cycles later I got a lesson in efficiency. That became my focus and, like real estate, was a dead end. There was no answers afterall, only the illusion of a cracked vault with a gold bottom, covered in slate stone and menacing me with intense gravitation. Legs show no gratitude under these conditions and knees turn to potato lust. After it's all said, and mostly done, you could have it worse, and he did. Indeed. Certainly. He was a USC film student making Indie movies with Indie music. The ultimate black widow illusion of truth filled with poisonous venom waiting to fill your brain corpuscle and burst your time frame. Instead, next time, opt to go bowling or something more useful.

Spring sets in, no rest for the American Way

As the climate slowly changes this time of year, we get finally get a chance to feel the American Dream within us - best explained by Jesus at KMart. This Easter weekend, let us remember what it's truly about. Jesus used this day to rise from the dead and escape from his tomb by moving a huge rock with the help of only a small lever-type stick and some magical ability. He's now become famous due to several if not thousands of performed miracles, and, to a lesser known extent, some new experiments. Each Easter, since the year 2000, Jesus tries out new modern things or goes to a new place. This Easter, he chose the KMart on Mayfair Road between Burleigh Street and Capitol Drive in Milwaukee. Luckily, this is one of the most "down-to-earth" KMArts Jesus could have found, with easily accessible soda stacks, an armed security guard, and a vast array of sticky-wheeled carts. There's also an attached Sears appliance store, which is has a magical convenience in its own right, and has been known to give religious figures deep tingling feelings. Needless to say, people who were lucky enough to stand by Jesus in line said he was all smiles and enjoyed the experience quite a lot. He's not visited other discount stores yet, so by default, this was his favorite. He did, as a sidenote, give up Easter dinner with Tom Selleck and Russell Crowe.

In usual Jesus/prophet style, the trip will be followed up with some research. Jesus will learn of the companies growth, mergers, modern branding, and the history of the blue-light special. When he digs a little deeper, and looks into the specifics of the store he went to, he'll probably run across this. And God himself be damned if this isn't the best illustration of the American Dream Jesus could have ever come across. This is what Jesus died for up on that old bloody cross for us, this is what he's all about, this is what the good book tells us is wholesome: punching your neighbor's face in for a $10 gift card. Today, after you've had a chance to go see your local clergy person, go eat some ham, take a nap on the couch, and recover your energy to jump into it again tomorrow. And for your guidance WWJD? Blue-light special with brass knuckles in hand, that's what.