Oliver Deacon's Beatific Dream

Bovine skins, rattlesnake dens, dismembered raccoon legs and rotting raven eggs—

I had dream last night that I awoke and when I got up I saw my breath, I was staggering like a drunkard and everything was spinning, but unlike a drunkard my stomach was okay and I felt clear. . .

I took a deep breath for at least half a minute and walked down the stairs—the dogs were all barking and howling as I opened the door.

When I walked out—I saw a fire atop of Rattlesnake Hill, as I walked towards it, Saint Mook, Dr. Sigmund Rose and the Fush all ran there—Lighting flashed all around us and then four ghosts appeared out of nothing and nowhere.

Millions of snakes were dancing in circles and figure eights, intermingled and wrapped around each other, the dogs didn’t care they acted like themselves, but I was shaking in fear. A kaleidoscope of serpents like a room of mirrors engulfed my being, my body and my soul—I sunk into an abyss, I lost myself and my mind.

Then I approached the fire, it roared like a silent hummingbird—and crackled like a shattering world. The ghosts all raised their glasses and bottles and welcomed me and Lit Generation—All four ghosts where standing around the fire then one stepped fourth and with a snaky smirk he introduced himself with a raised glass, “ Hi, I’m Carlo, welcome to our little orgy, don’t fuck the fat one he’s narrow minded. But actually his name is Sal, over there in the headdress is our friend Mr. Hubbs and the pretty one is our beloved Dean Cody, which if you don’t mind, I would like to reserve for my own sexual gratification.” Then Carlo dropped his pants and everyone looked at him and his balls and shook there heads in disapproval. “Look it was funny last generation, but you’ve gotta be a little more over the top these days man. Shove a bottle up your ass or something? These neo-hipsters are hard to satisfy—that’s why I started sucking dick...” said, Dean Cody with a lover’s grace as Carlo play wrestled him to the ground and gave him a French kiss. “Can’t you save it for Satan you filthy faggots!” yelled, Sal who was kissing his own bottle of ruby port wine and he caught himself, “Don’t be so nasty—don’t be so drunk.” He said to himself. Then he said to me, “I know what you want; you want “the bottom”.” Meanwhile Mr. Hubbs was wearing Colorado tribal body-paint, his skin was dyed red and there where black stripes across his whole body. He was standing in the fire and chanting in a low murmur I could not comprehend, but he looked very weird, sort of like an alien life form or an insect, thin and faint. The other ghosts all looked like people except for their angel features and attributes. Dean Cody especially looked very much like an angel. They all also looked very much like serpents and at times it seemed like they to where all wrapped around each other like snakes. They seemed to talk to each other without talking and every once in a while the looked over at me and the strobe of snake-tongue would catch the corner of my eye.

I suddenly had a large Jamaican hand rolled blunt in my hand. In this magical world I didn’t hesitate and I lit it on the campfire. I took a puff and I passed it to Dean Cody. He was sitting on a log and twirling his finger in his mixed drink which looked like maybe bourbon and coke with old fashioned ice cubes. “Hey, thanks brother.” He took the blunt and puffed on it like a champ. “Hey man, I brought your favorite. Reach inside the cooler there.” I opened the ice chest and there was 12 icy cold Modelo’s with their necks wrapped in gold. I was amazed. How did this ghost know me so well? “Pass me one of those to” said Sal then he added, “Actually you better make that two, I’m thritsty.” I tossed a beer to Sal, one after another and asked the other ghosts if they wanted one. “No thanks, I’m going to shoot-up some junk here as soon as wonderboy gets out of the fire.” Said Carlo and Mr. Hubbs just stood silent in the fire not paying any attention to us at all just sort of smiling with his eyes shut like the was taking a shower or getting a massage. Now Carlo was on one knee petting Dr. Edmund Rose and the Fush was getting jealous and stretching out in front of him, about to rub her butt on his face, Saint Mook was laying with his eyes closed and enjoying the heat from the fire. We all continued to pass the blunt around the fire and even Mr. Hubbs stopped his meditation to take a hit. “You to care to shoot some junk, Oliver? Now that we’re dead we have an infinite supply.” “No, thanks.” I declined and then Mr. Hubbs stepped out of the fire, all the attention turned to him. “Don’t just be passing out junk to innocent children, Carlo. Infinite supply or not a junkie will run out and I am not wanting to run out.” “Oliver, is hardly and innocent child. He is the voice of the Lit Generation.” cried Sal. In astonishment we all looked at each other. “He is?” asked Dean. “He is.” said Hubbs. “We then...I certainly don’t want to run out!” they all looked at each other and then they all stormed me and picked me up and threw me in the fire. They covered me with brimstone and my body was engulfed in the flames and completely burned away. As I was evaporating I could see them still passing the blunt around and laughing while they drank cold beers and port wine. .

In a flash I reawaked, but I could see nothing, but golden heaven. “Is this heaven?” I asked, then heard Sal say, “This is Paradise”. “This is the afterlife for cultural icons.” “Is Dean and Mr. Hubbs here to? “Right here.” I heard them both say. “So why can’t you see anything?” I asked. “We can see just fine, Oliver. You can’t see?” Sal responded. “I can see light.” “What color of light?” he asked. “Just light, like the sun’s light” I answered. “You mean goldenness?” “I guess I do.” “Your lucky then.” exclaimed Sal. “Hold on here, just because he sees golden light doesn’t make him the fucking Buddha, Jesus fucking Christ, Sal. I told you to quit reading that Goddamned Diamond Sutra! Maybe, it’s because like I said before he is an innocent fucking child.” “I know this kid Hubbs, don’t be such a grump.” “Well, I haven’t had my junk yet. What’s and old man do without his fix?” Mr. Hubbs puts on a grouchy face. “Well, for the sake of Christ crucified, we have an infinite Goddamn supply so let’s fix it up.” Carlo intervened.

I felt a thump on the back of my head and suddenly I could see again and we all were flying like angels. Dean flew next to me and with a twinkle like a star in his eye he said, “Welcome to my heaven”. We flew towards a town full of concrete buildings and generic landscapes and crowds of people traveling in hurried delusions. “What is this?” I asked. “This is Lobotomyville. Anyone in my heaven who wants to check out without actually having the courage to commit suicide can be come a citizen of Lobotomyville...some people just can’t deal with life yet man! Or death and they can’t be thrown in the fire just yet! They can’t even handle purgatory bro, much less hell or heaven. Lobotomyville in my heaven is totally acceptable man. They get television, but no books and their required to get married and have a family to...they also have to go to church and drive Buicks when they turn forty.” Then he looked at me and smiled. He laughed a little and then said, “but you came to see the Mexican whore houses and ride in stolen cars. Right?” and continued laughing then he disappeared in the golden light.

I feel a bolt of lighting go through my mind and suddenly me and Dean are now sitting in a bar with Sal. Sal leans over and whispers, “he didn’t try to do any gay stuff did he? Hehehe... Stick his finger up your ass or anything? He always want to fornicate.” “Ah’ Sal you dirty old motherfucker, chill out.” said, Dean Cody, “take a puff of tea man.”. Then Sal talked to himself again, “Your too drunk, your mean. Puff the tea, puff the tea.” “Is this your heaven Sal? You old drunk fat fuck?” asked Dean Cody as I waited for a reply. Sal looked at both of us and said, “I’ll tell you what since I’m in such fine mood tonight I’ll buy you both a drink and a K.C. Strip...and I ain’t bullshitting it’s not just because I got an infinite supply because, I will run out...I hope that makes sense. Drinks are on me. Oliver, I’m getting you laid tonight my boy and I don’t mean by one of these fag writers, but by a real genuine African American queen.” Then he looked at me with a smiled and added, “I’m talking about a beauty with a booty, so big you can put a beer and can of pork and beans on each check.” He smiled real big then and asked, “You know what I’m saying boy?” Before I had a chance to answer he when on, “I’ve got a thing for new experiences, but mainly I just am a helpless drunk.” Then I was struck with a venomous dark pause. “Hey bartender we need beer and steak, on my tab, baby-cakes.” Sal was getting fired up now as the darkness encompassed me.

“Sorry Oliver, sorry for the darkness, this is Carlo; blackness is my heaven. I’m a freak of nature.” Then I slowly saw Carlo sitting on a soapbox writing in a little book. “What are you writing?” I asked. “I’m writing a black poem about darkness.” “Why?” I asked, “Because I’m horny and I want to make love to young Greek boy (or) honestly, several at a time, is the main reason, but I also want to save the earth from my own apocalyptic visions.” Then he kept writing and in the corner I saw Mr. Hubbs. He also had a notepad, was sitting in a box and said, “Hey, wanna try out my orgone accumulator?” Then he morphed into an insect flew into the ether then reappeared. “What have your knowledge of brimstone my boy?” asked, Mr. Hubbs in a dark low and faint draw. “What do you know of Greeks, Oliver?” asked Carlo. Then Sal, was screaming, “Don’t listen to these faggots; they just want to fuck you, but don’t listen to me because I’m drunk.” Dean Cody was busy seducing a woman and writing poetry...

Without a sound we were back at Rattlesnake Hill. I was surrounded by Dr. Edmund Rose, the Fush and Saint Mook. All four ghosts stood as they were drinking and smoking tea. The fire was burning bright and blue and smelled like acid rain. The ghosts had a pile of yellow crystals and they threw them on the fire and they burned like ice.

At once an invisible rider came towards us and the dogs surrounded him.

Unconcerned the ghosts ignored it, but I stepped forward and addressed the passerby. “Who are you?” I asked. “I’m Hickory Leaf of the Wah’petons, just passing by—You seen any snakes; I’m hunting for Rattler’s?” He went from invisible to being the form of a Native warrior. I was caught red handed in front of the primal order. What was I to say? I saw he was full of snakes to—So I threw up my hands. And right then when it went down, I knew what to do. I joined the other ghosts and threw that old man in the fire, watched him burn and covered him with brimstone. Then we smoked and we drank and we laughed. The old man must have seen heaven?

“Well, good for you Oliver. Look what you’ve done. Now your a murderer just like us.” said Sal. “A brainwasher—purifier of the spirit my boy.” added, Mr. Hubbs with a sigh of approval. “What have I done?” I asked. I looked at Sal and I looked at the others. “I don’t know yet Oliver, show him your heaven.” said Carlo. “There is always Lobotomyville.” said Dean Cody. Then all the ghosts disappeared and I woke up and could see my breath. I was naked, alone, not even my dogs where home and was grateful I wasn’t wrapped around someone like a snake, I knew I was intermingled with everything anyway—it was better to be free than be alive, but I was alive anyway and free.

Sardine tins, porky pine pins, gar fish chins and backwoods gin—

saved by the fire

This is going to be my lullaby, the way I end and start the night. Live on stage with you my followers. This is the live on stage Lit Generation. In the center of myself looks like the blue center of a log fire, but my desires run like prairie fires, but still is the Vestal Fire burning in sub-atomic unknown spaces; pure impurity. I am in pieces scattered all around this cabin. The woods are black and the bugs are winding down for winter—I’m not. I have peanut butter and enough tea to last long enough to get to my next. All around the woods I have wood piles. Not just firewood I have stacks of building materials and metal. I have rice, frozen raccoon meat and some chicken breasts I’m gonna have to cook real good cause they are going rancid in the freezer. I have baking soda, soap and bleach. Really that is all about a person needs to survive in the woods which is good for me since its about all I have...I do have other things I suppose, but whatever they are I assure in some way they are as much a liability as an advantage, most things are burdens and are unnecessary even my shotgun—any person living in the woods should be able to catch game without a gun. Really the assets I am most focused on do not exist in the material reality known as the physical world. The things I’m most focused on are invisible and can not be seen or verified with the human eye and therefore are called abstract concepts, but call them whatever you want. I will refer to them as all sorts of words and it won’t be very consistent. I think a good place to start in this conversation might be to bring up what you think and I think is. I don’t know if we agree about what is or what isn’t in this very world at this very moment? If aliens came to earth and studied us they would see us being really primitive to not have the same outlook on our situation. I think, I think they wouldn’t be understand why one person lives believing one thing and someone else believing another while the truth is completely different. I am ashamed to be part of the human race and feel let down by my race. I want to be abducted by extraterrestrials and introduced into their race. I want to be studied as a prototype for a new form of life because they love how cool I am. It’s absurd to me what goes on in the world and how unbearable it is to think about and ponder about myself as being part of it. Still I go on and I don’t know why, each instant I take a dive into the unknown next moment. But right now I got to burn out. Stay tuned for the Lit Generation, live on stage right here on Rattlesnake Hill, fueled by the Vestal Fire.

Tree

There is a demon inside me that sits behind a tree—sits behind humiliations and stares at me. I stand in animated anticipation amongst boring fuck heads, cunts, stool pigeons and leaches—I stand in cattle piss around large pieces of asphalt, galvanized rink-shank nails in the yellow mud, green shit and red blood.

One night I was gazing at the stars through moonlight—suddenly I became lucid with thoughts of another reality. I couldn’t function in society very much and I didn’t try. I was mesmerized—and this wasn’t drama.

Then one day I was gazing at the sun through the blue skies, my mind (((rang))) with energy and I connected with the trees and weeds and beasts—we told each other to all be free, we preached, we fought and bleed and all walked away in the end.

Upon a sunset and a belt of clouds was a purple hue—the moon was arriving soon. All along the prairie grass, grazing cattle and their manure. There was a stillness that was aliveness and the end meant new beginnings and the indigo and lavender tinted everything else.

I saw hundreds and millions of angles watching over me in stars that night, twinkling like divine smiles—but I know that demon behind the tree is inside me—sitting, starring at me both day and night.

Not everything in the sky is a star

It’s a rainy night in late September, the roof leaks in my cabin on Rattlesnake Hill, outside a dog is barking underneath the obstructed equinox, the harvest moon, Jupiter and Venus smolder under black clouds—and young girls scream bloody fucking murder at the bottom of the Hill—its kind of a spooky night—my head is sogging (no typo) in beer and wandering (ditto) why other people can’t seem to adjust to the environment? I can let go—and if I can so can anyone—Ty Cobb looks at me and I look back—it’s a war of nerves.

Rose’s CAFE

Rattled beat—Moonlit, barking dogs, coyotes...distance, hair disheveled, fried eggs, potatoes, biscuits, sausage gravy and odd connections in the air—Old white dining with big black, grey, fat, muscles, goat-t—speaking infectiously...I can’t order—I’m out of time—time hasn’t started —I am between, beyond—people look crazy—play roles—waitress say’s, “we have coffee and cinnamon rolls” ...the coffee was terrible, the cinnamon roll wasn’t sweet and not enough butter or sugar—but the Rattler still loves you, sweet baby doll, so does every hipster and the sun shines for you—remember that—peace.

Obama's real name is Barry!

How to prove a white person is a racist in the United States:

Remember grade school when a bully would pick on the nerdy kid, push him around, spit on him then say, “your gay” and it didn’t really matter what was said after that. Once the bully made the comment it was just accepted as a fact that the kid was gay. Call someone a racist today you can get the same result. The effect: the term racist loses its meaning, why? Well remember the hip-hop revelation and the incessant use of the word “nigga”. I know it well I grew up listing to hip-hop not to mention Chris Rock, Eddie Griffen and Katt Williams, they use the word perhaps more than any other word in the English language. So now whites are calling each other “racista”, it’s the new lingo to help fight the battle against self-righteous, name calling scalawags who use the term “racist” to profile whites, defining their whole existence by this one word. What is a “racist” anyway? Racism by definition according to the American Psychological Association and yes, racism is treated as a disease by people who study it as: “racial prejudice that has been incorporated into the activities and procedures of major institutions, corporations, social systems (such as those related to housing, education, and health), and other arenas of major social activity (such as politics, the media, finance, and banking). Racism serves both to discriminate against ethnic minorities and to maintain advantages and benefits for White Americans.” It doesn’t seem like there is much of an argument that surely the system in place in the Untied States in fact is favorable towards whites for many reasons some malicious and down right based on prejudiced others more complicated and undetermined, but surely the system we live in there is the unquestionable fact that blacks are not represented according to demographics as equal as whites, in the work place less blacks still hold high positions of prestige than whites and there are more blacks imprisoned than whites. Sure, there are many factors besides outright bigotry that lead to the leaning of the system towards favoring whites, nevertheless the system is still tilted that way. So according to the definition racism is when radical prejudice is incorporated into our social system. My argument is that if you support this system rather prejudice or not you are a racist and perhaps if you are a radically prejudice white person who doesn’t support this system perhaps your not a racist, but only prejudiced. And just maybe you aren’t prejudiced in the slightest, but you support this system and that makes you a racist, while the prejudiced people are not except for the fact they still passively live in the system instead of trying to change it. But that only goes for whites, since the system is tilted towards favoring us. For everybody else, if they participate in this racist system...what does that make them?

The Legend of Roscoe Cassidy (and the birth of Saint Faithless)

What you think you become, however what you become you quickly begin to think...from that perspective. This is the emotion called faith or as I call it, balls. Like confidence (only better) it is an active emotion that is unique in that is requires and is proceeded by action. It is the act of throwing all your eggs in one basket, all your balls over the bridge not having a back up plan and allowing time-space events to make necessary changes to fulfill you hearts desire according to the size of your balls—Never second guessing or entertaining any thoughts of self-doubt or fear. It is a sense of knowingness and certainty that the uncertainty will work itself out in your favor more than you could have imagined and letting it work itself out and graciously receiving the gifts it creates. The bigger your balls are the more desire you transmit waves into the universe just like the more semen big balls would probably make, so if you where to ejaculate your big ball load up into a vagina the more likely those big balls are to spread life into the universe and I know what your thinking... “this dude is against fags” , but when one of you takes a big balled load up your ass or down your throat, you still help nature spread life, how? I have no idea, (but if anyone could figure it out it would be you faggots). Oh’ now it’s the dykes that are offended that I ignored them. Well some dykes are cool and some are dykes which are worse than fags because the only way they ever get semen is to buy it and semen is never fresh at the store, so have some balls and don’t be a pussy—If you can’t take a joke than go ahead and make a joke out me. Call me a Fred Phelps lover, I could use the attention. Fags and dykes are equally exploited and underestimated in our society, but still awfully funny in their more sincere moments...however rare they are. However, I do want to include in the (secret) book which is being written by the hand of God himself that…oh I forgot, I’ll remember later. Oh it’s don’t forget about humor and laughing. God Almighty likes to laugh all the time. Laughing is love even if it’s at someone else’s expense. In fact if your not laughing my guess is that you already have one foot in hell—hell awaits you after death and I’m laughing about it with God right now, so if you don’t like it than just like eternal damnation—its your problem, not mine. Laughing can be like being naked sometimes. I think we should be naked all the time. People should have sexual orgies, do drugs and party more often (fags and dykes included). That’s what the Lord told me in a mystic trance and I know it’s true. People should use their big balls and by ejaculating semen into others vibrate the message of love into the universe and to encourage other people to get big balls and have those balls ejaculate more semen in the universe. You heard me correctly.

Faith and huge balls leads to the recognition that everything and everyone you could ever need, every resource becomes available and it was always available before however it was somehow beyond sight. When visions, intuitions and dreams begin to show themselves in our present situation we cry in tears that melt in a profound expression of creation. We then shift our mind into a mode of looking for more gratitude and more things we want to energize and have expand around us.

The best way to induce faith is to give it away. When you give it away you become a channel for it... is what the Saints with Faith all tell me. When I was playing baseball in high school I remember an occasion where Roscoe Cassidy induced faith in me
(I think). I was about to go to bat with the bases loaded. The opposing teams coach went to the pitching mound to talk to his player and while I was warming up to bat, Roscoe talked to me. He said “treat the first pitch like your in batting practice and just pull it, you’ll probably hit it out”, I did and I hit a grand slam. Many baseball fans despise a batter swinging at the first pitch, but my coach knew what I would do with that pitch, he had faith in me, his players had faith in him. All he wanted to do was see us grow up and play baseball together, because he gave to us by coaching us he got from us what truly made him happy. He chose to see the potential in us rather than obvious short comings. The lessons we learned from him we had no idea would continue to teach us for the rest of our lives. The greatest gift you can give someone is your confidence in their potential, it’s also the greatest gift you can give yourself. The worst thing you can do to someone is take away their confidence by pointing out their mistakes constantly especially when you know they aren’t important and your only use them to try and control your own destiny, it’s also the worst thing you can do to yourself! Roscoe Cassidy knew us because he knew himself, he knew exactly what we needed to hear because he himself was a player not a coach in his own mind. He gave what he had plus what he wanted to have himself, he may have never even realized how many hearts he touched by doing what made him truly happy or for how long. He built his team on what he had and worked with our strengths. He made us feel just how he wanted to feel, he put us in the best position to succeed with the potential we had. He expected us to rise to whatever occasion we were put in and if we didn’t he expected it next time. We would do it for him because he believed in us without any doubt, Roscoe had balls, he had a hold on the fear that we all felt and let control our actions, he helped us to overcome those fears and realize our potential and deliver that potential by facing that fear and taking action with his confidence in us. Roscoe is a hero; his actions will continue to shine on, through others and others.

If you want something you have to start to do something or take action in order to get it. If you are a hitter, which is what Roscoe said I was and expected me to be than holding the bat on my shoulders is of no use. If you want to hit something you have to be ready to hit it and see it to hit it. A hitter drives the ball he doesn’t slap at it and just try to make contact, he drives the ball, he doesn’t go up there except for one reason and that is to drive in runs by hitting the ball as hard as he can. He changes the game because he is intimidating, never gets cheated even when he strikes out he makes an impression in what ever outcome he creates. He is intense, his intensity is a source of energy, the source from which energy comes and wants to flow. The intensity naturally flows to others and when it sees itself it displays yet another level of intensity that weakens all in its path and makes a “groove” for the hitter to sit in and drive home his runs. He sees the ball more clearly, his timing is perfect and everything that happens seems to fall in his favor even when he fails. He no longer fears hitting but is up there to hit, he is there to savor the moment and shine in the presence, all eyes are on him and he knows it, what he desires most is at hand and he knows it, he is exactly where he desires to be.

Life as in baseball if one wants to make in impact the best they can, they have to know their role, their love and use it to serve the team. Love is a true mark of wisdom and for one to realize love is the only goal worth attaining and the only thing worth realizing. It goes far beyond notions of people and first impressions. For most throughout history they haven’t realized their own pleasure producing proclivities. I never played baseball after summer league my senior year in high school playing on Roscoe’s team. I never really even played that well or up to my potential in baseball. Nevertheless, Roscoe put his faith in me till the very end and at times as in my story I was able to come through and make some good plays. It was if he energized a part of me that would unfold and blossom later in life, something that he saw in me and nobody else could. Like he was an angel directing my life in a passion we shared.

I see myself in the batters box right now my purpose is to drive the ball as hard as I can. My purpose is to ((( ring))) intense and persistent vibrancy into the universe every at bat. I may not hit a home run every time, but I will some times, but always people will know it might happen. Roscoe would also tell me to hit on my terms which means I don’t need to swing at any curve balls. If someone wants to throw me nothing but junk they have to do it in the strike zone, if I swing at junk, it’s nobody’s fault but my own. It’s my responsibility to pick out the pitch I want to drive deep and out of the park and I didn’t that by believing what Roscoe told me and I believed him because he didn’t need shit from me, especially my approval and I didn’t have any beliefs of my own at the time that were any better than his.

PRANAYAMA

love from oblivion

embraces the pain, sending it on its way

the love that comes from the comfort zone

gets in the way and the pain stays

we found ourselves away from home

in a dream

out of control

the dream

became lucid when we let go

fear was observed

doubt faded away

decisions were clearly made

our treasures of diamonds and gold

were waiting to reappear

our kingdom

wasn't close it was right here

was made material by being there

we paid attention to the air

as it moved through our energy fields

the blood was clean then

and the delusion had seemed so real…

Question and Answer with J.A. Whitaker

Hi I am Nelson Hawkins and it is my honor to bring you this interview with literary genius and philosopher J. A. Whitaker.

“Mr. Whitaker, it is a pleasure to know you sir”

“My name is Ty, but call me dude.”

“Absolutely, Dude.”

“Well great, you got some questions for me or what?”

“I do sir, I mean dude. Here they are.”

Hawkins: Who the fuck are you?

Whitaker: I was born in Kansas City Missouri on 11/07/1977, I haven’t died yet, I will die, but my life will serve beyond my lifetime or not.

Hawkins: Not?

Whitaker: I’ve tried to start a lot of fires that went out.

Hawkins: You’re always talking about fire. You have a blog called, “The Vestal Fire” and you have coined the term “Lit Generation”. Can you explain that?

Whitaker: Do you got a light?....A lighter?

(Mr. Whitaker places a hand rolled Jamaican blunt in his mouth.)

Hawkins: Are you going to smoke that?

Whitaker: Not without some fire.

Hawkins: Okay, here.

Whitaker: Thank you Nelson…

Hawkins: So about your blog?

Whitaker: Its lame., Here smoke this with me.

Hawkins: Don’t mind if I do. Gee I love my job.

Whitaker: Why do you love your job?

Hawkins: Because I get to smoke tea with great writers.

Whitaker: If you were a girl I’d fuck you silly….I’d be the first pussy I got in a long time.

Hawkins: Your shitting me; you get laid right?

Whitaker: The last time I fucked was over three years ago.

Hawkins: Why?

Whitaker: Well, I was fucking this girl and she had an orgasm that was a multiple and a crescendo of energy. She had a heart attack and died right as I came insider her. I now have to take Viagra just to jerk off.

Hawkins: Holy Shit!

Whitaker: Exactly!

Hawkins: You seem excited about it?

Whitaker: Have you ever fucked someone to death?

Hawkins: No.

Whitaker: Well, you just don’t know what its like until you’ve tried it.

Hawkins: You mean this tea?

Whitaker: Dude, your fucked up? … (silence) Okay, so any other questions? …

Hawkins: Y-h-e-a, d-u-d-e. W-h-a-t’s i-n t-h-i-s t-e-a?

Whitaker: It’s called Mind Eraser.

Hawkins: O-w-ka-y.

Whitaker: Well, I’m gonna get the fuck outta here.

Hawkins: O-k-a-y d-u-d-e.

Whitaker: Don’t have fucking heart attack on me man. See ya’.

Beatnik Cabby

It was 4 AM and I was drunk, high on speed and just got of the phone with the third 1-900 number of the night, lonely, hopeless and wired with amphetamine and lit with Kansas moon-shine I decided I needed to get out of the house... My house isn’t really a house; it’s actually a house on wheels called a motor home. I live on the outskirts of Kansas City in a small middlewest town called Boner Rapids. Outside my trailer are rows of trailers just like it. At four AM the only people up are the people like me, people with hearts beating like mad, sipping fire-water and roaring with hell-bent hormones and wild ideas. The moon was lit in full and dogs where barking at each other from across the trailer park and I could hear a few domestic screams from down the row of metal boxes about four of five lots away which I paid no mind to because hearing people yelling at each other in the middle of the night from my front door-step is as common as dogs barking at a fully lit moon. In the shimmering night I could see the glow of things and it was fairly bright outside as I waited next to my beat-up car that was broken down and had been broken down for a time for the cab I called to take me into Kansas City to perhaps find some action and burn off the rest of the night. My pit bull, Luca Brasi looked at me from inside the window as I waited. I always felt bad about leaving Luca alone even though he was a fighting dog we got along pretty good. I had beat he hell out of the dog earlier that day for backing down from two other pit-bulls who wandered in my yard that day. Even though it was two on one I was rather disappointed in Luca and thought he could have done better so I gave it to him good and whipped him with a steel chain for a good five minutes straight and whatya’ now? Yep, the damn dog still loves me. After he got whupped I kicked him so hard in his throat I thought he was gonna die right there on me, he was gasping for air and queezing. I hustled for my 12 gage to shoot those pits that attacked him and they must have known what was coming for them because the ran away in a hurry and I didn’t bother going after them. I have pride in ol’ Luca and I think he be just fine, just pissed me off is all. There was now dew on the grass and pavement and I took a piss behind an elm tree next to dumpster between my trailer and pool where mothers send there children to play while they cook up purple bathtub crank, drop babies on the floor every nine months or so and watch the Jerry Springer Show. I saw my cab coming from down the road driving slow looking for my address down the road. I rustled up my balls and zipped up my pants after I shook my penis dry. I looked at Luca one last time sitting in the window with a sad look in his eye. As the cab pulled up I lifted up my hand to signal him to come on down the drive. I jumped into the passenger side getting nice whiff of stale cigarette smoke and immediately notice the drive also had a nice bottle of port next to his side. He was listing to Thelonious Monk, bopping his head and I could tell this guy might have had an even longer night than I had already. He said, “where to boy” and I said, “Kansas City, Westport”. He grinned and took a lug off his port bottle then asked nonchalantly, “don’t mind if I kick a few back do ya?” I said, “don’t mind at all, in fact had a few myself ‘night”. He drove perfectly, never missing a beat, cruising and zooming through Boner Rapids into downtown KC, Thelonious Monk was jamming, jiving and taking it home when the cabby looked at me. I felt like I was about to die even though he was driving just fine, he kept on with his port and I think he could tell I was getting a little nervous. He paused a second then turned down his stereo, lighting up a cigarette and rolling down the window. I got ready for him to talk like it was some type of test then he chuckled for a second then said, “so what brings you out at four AM tonight, I’m just curious, if you don’t mind me asking”. I looked at the smoke coming off the cigarette in his hand that was on the steering wheel in suspended animation, feeling the vibration from the engine and the heat coming from the floor into my feet. I said with a moments pause, “well, if you don’t mind me asking, do you know where I can get some action?” He looked at me with amusement and laughed and said, “O’, well- what kind of action are you looking for friend?” Before I could answer him he said, “Sex, Drugs, Gambling….huh huh huh or maybe a church open?” Without hesitation, “Girls” I said, “Girls, girls, girls”. He then said very loud, “We have ourselves a John here” and screamed, “whoohee”. Then he added in a quieter voice, “yhea, I know where to go” and nodded his head as if he was joking before. Then he polished off his bottle and said, “I like black girls”. “Really”, I said as to keep the conversation going. He said, “O’ man I love black girls, they are so much more fun, they love on you and make love to you and do it in a real playful way, ya know? O’ I love making love to black girls.” “You know I’ve never made love to a black girl before, I sure do know their aggressive though” I said. He said, “O’ yhea they’ll suck the hair right off yr chum boy, don’t even try to get away.” He asked in a real serious tone, “Do you like jazz boy? Do you know anything about poetry?” I was feeling the dirty crank I smoked zooming through me, I knew I was bullet proof and listing to the stereo play, “bobbly be bop, bobbly be bop, boobly bang boogly”, the man was asking me a question, oh yhea! “I never listened to this shit in my life, but I like it man”. “NO YOU DON’T!” He yelled. I was surprised, fight or flight kicked in and I grabbed his neck and gave him a hard choke, my muscles flexed and I could feel the blood in his veins. The car spun out and we both died.

the murder mystery of R.S. Brown

Shame is bottom of the story, shame is the abyss of the soul and shame is what Sgt. Vasser’s brain was soaked in the night he was murdered. His body was found naked and bloated, his wife’s to, both beheaded, heads shrunken to the size of a fist and placed back on their bodies stitched with fishing line is how it looked when detective Marvin Inspector arrived at the scene. Over by the wall was the calling card, the calling card of R.S. Brown. R.S. Brown known for leaving behind a pile of pubic hair at every murder he is linked to. He grows his pubic hair for four months then when it is time to shave he does it after he murders someone, usually in a corner. After he shaves his genitals he squats a digestive mass on top of it. There have been 7 murders in which R.S. Brown has been linked to where Marvin Inspector has arrived on the scene. Each time R.S. Brown has left behind droppings that have been vibrant and distinct in color, but never ever brown. The first one almost looked as red as cold blood, but the examination didn’t show any sign of it. He is angered at yet another, his blood boils, his speech is harsh and his actions are rushed. “What does it take to get a regular serial killer to chase?” “Alright guys” he points to some snake-cops, “clean-up this shit, put in the evidence bag and don’t mash it up too much.” The snake-cops looked at each other blankly and Marvin Inspector added, “don’t eat any of it either I know some of it looks tasty.” He grinned. The second murder the shit was orange, then lemon yellow, green, some shades of blue and purple and now it was this indigo color. Marvin Inspector snaps on the examining gloves, takes out Sgt. Vasser’s pocket’s, finds a small leather notebook on it inscribed the letters, “Secret Notebook” inside on the first page was titled, “Rattle-Snake-Bite” and like the other victims they died from poison injected by fangs into their feet which quickly penetrated into the blood-stream. After the title was read Marvin Inspector was interrupted by a rattle and coming at him from under it struck him. He remembers being afraid, but his memory is still blurred as he stands above his body watching the snake-cops scramble to save him and suck the venom from as he dies. He looks on in silent horror, he looks on as afraid as an egg about to hatch, but as curious as a fish someone is about to catch. He looks at me. I read his mind and tell you what happened.

The day was beautiful, light was warm on Stg. Vassar’s skin as momentary cool breezes brushed through the screened in porch where he and his wife drank pink lemonade. After 30 years on the snake-cop force waiting for these retirement days...they had finally arrived.

7 Things Affirmative Reality can do for you:

1. Get you high without drugs
2. Cause you to reflect upon your life without any suffering
3. Tune your mind to a higher state of awareness
4. Show you a true human record of knowledge and wisdom
5. Inspire you see your goals thru and save the world from annihilation
6. Give you a breath of fresh air in regards to literature—a sincere account and not that much worthless punctuation
7. Attain and grasp the ineffable in between lines—like a movie in words

so go ahead and try it for free!

The truth about the Flint Hills

Sorry for such a gap since I’ve made an entry. I promise you its because I’m saving it...for a time when I know how to market myself better, but for now all I know about marketing is: “give a little and take it away” a snake-oil salesman taught me that shit.

When I got out of college in the spring of 2001 I had and idea what I wanted to do with my life, but not much of one. One thing I did know as that I wanted to be free and experience something real because I most certainly wasn’t free nor was anything very real. My entire life I always had some sort of obligation to tend to. First it was school gradually it became work. After college all it was work and I thought, “O’ shit this really sucks”. My whole life my dad was a big time Republican. He became great friends with a Congressman and they did all kinds of political benefits, barbeques and campaigns, drank whisky all night long, carousing just like me and my friends. Growing up my dad had me help him put up signs in peoples yards, handing out stickers, licking envelopes and telling my friends their parents should vote for Bill Graves, Ron Todd and Governor Bennett. I remember on election nights my dad would watch like it was the super-bowl and it wasn’t really about the Presidential election, but every election. I would see him scream and say, “Those dumb liberals” or he would get excited and say, “We won”. I recently went on a road trip with my dad to the flint hills. I took some photos and they mean a lot to me because it was a trip my dad always wanted to take with me and finally we got to do it. See me and my dad haven’t always had the best relations…you know this and how everything went down only if you’ve read “Notes from Rattlesnake Hill”.

It was a Friday went we drove out to the hills and checked into our hotel. At the hotel it was my dad’s old buddy, the former United States Congressman who picked us up. He took us to see his farm fields of beans, corn and milo. We stopped afterwards and picked up some steaks and onions at the local butcher shop. Went back to the old Congressman’s house and first thing he did was offer me a beer and surely I obliged and he cracked one himself. He had a Busch light and he gave me a Coors light. Then he starts going off about Barry Soetoro: “The other night I’m eating at this restaurant and the girls Lithuanian. I know that because I asked her because of her accent. She told me and I had to ask where Lithuania was. I said, “I’m just a stupid American I don’t have a clue.” Then I asked her what she thought of Barry Soetoro. She said, “Well I actually came here because I wanted to get away from socialism; now it looks like your doing it here.” Then my dad said, “Yhea, I tell my other son who works construction, “well you were working pretty good when Bush was in charge. How many hours did you get this week?” “Oh that’s not fair” said the old Congressman “he is doing all he can”. I just drank my beer and listened to them talk. They were old friends I didn’t feel it was my place to say anything plus I’d rather just enjoy myself and watch them have fun and talk about whatever it was old Republicans talk about. The beer got done and the Scotch was broke out, stories told and of course you know my dad doesn’t drink these days then we ate our steaks and grilled onions wrapped in bacon with sour cream, butter, salt and pepper. Also flint hills are cattle country; these were prime cuts of cow flesh, lemme tell ya’. I continued to drink with the old Congressman throughout dinner, he drank wine now, switching from Scotch and I drank beer his wife brought home. I had a great time that night hanging out there even thought I didn’t say much of anything. I in fact usually don’t say much. I listened more that night than I talked and that is what I usually do as well. I find that in social situations most people are not like this, they’re the opposite. The next day I drank a half a gallon of hotel coffee and my dad and I left to meet another friend of his who was to take us out to the flint hills for a tour of his family’s land. We meet him at his office and from his office we followed him to Yates Center where we would get out and hop in his 4x4. As we started following him my dad and I both noticed he had a Todd Tiahrt sticker on his vehicle. “Oh’ no, he’s a thumper” said my father. “What’s that?” I asked. “A bible thumper” he replied. “Well how do you know this guy?” I asked as we pulled out onto the highway. “He was on the Ron Thornburgh campaign until he dropped out to the race.” I didn’t say anything back I just drove on. We drove about twenty minutes then made our stop. We all loaded into the man’s 4x4 and headed for the hills. Within seconds the political talk started. “Well, since Thornburgh dropped out of the race I decided to take Tiahrt, don’t know if it’s the right decision, but it’s the decision I made. I did tell them, “Hey I’m in this for economic development not any religious reasons” then quickly saying, “no offense to anyone”. My dad laughed and didn’t say anything, but I could tell he was relieved the guy wasn’t a “thumper” I didn’t say shit. Again I sat in the back and said as little as I could. They talked about all kinds of political bullshit and I just listened. The guy was probably forty-years-old, a generation behind my dad, but they knew a lot of the same people. They talked and talked about all kinda hoopla off and on all day. We drove through the flint hills and got a first class tour. We learned about pretty much everything there is to know of the area between Eureka and Teter rock. I really am grateful for the tour even though I had to listen to all this God-damned Satan talk the whole time. Here I was with my dad though; my nemesis. Surrounded by what? Surrounded by the only thing I know is real: silence.

When I made the decision to become a writer:

It was in the spring of 2007 I was dressed up in my bright red dress shirt, slick tie, newly shined black shoes, fresh hair cut and shave, letting my minitruck warm up early in the morning to go to my weekly breakfast networking meeting. I missed both weeks prior and my plan that day was to make up for it by showing up early, bright-eyed and filled with a rejuvenated enthusiasm hooting, “har har har” or something like that as I walked in. When I locked my front door after saying goodbye to my dog, Saint Mook, I started to unlock my truck I just couldn’t do it, I could not get in and drive to the meeting. Instead I went back in my house, gave the Mook a meaty treat, unbuttoned my shirt, made some coffee and started writing longwinded prose. Several minutes after the meeting started the president of the club sent me a text message asking me if I was okay. “Overwhelmed” is what I sent back and I was overwhelmed. For years I just wasn’t happy doing what I was doing. After college I started a brain washing business and I had it going pretty well after running it for six years and finally making what people commonly call “good money” I just could not bear the thought of doing it anymore. The more success I had at the business the worse I felt. The weekly meeting brought me a ton of business and money, but something just wasn’t right about it. Truly, I am a bit of a slob. The thought of paying someone to clean my brains seems awfully ridiculous to me even if they are dirty. As far as my values go I just don’t really care about things like brains, lungs and colons. It is just the way I am. I don’t care about it. I would rather live in a cabin with plywood floors, wood burning heat and a picnic table to sit at and fuel my temple in between creative fits. I am not trying to be anti-bourgeois or live like a bird, that’s just my taste and I am just not capable of understanding why people would assign so much value to these material items, stainless steel microwaves and china hutches full of plates. So when I was selling my service even though I knew I was doing a good job, providing value and service, it just meant very little to me. On top of it meaning very little to me I felt like I was encouraging something of little value to be valued in the world. I felt like my body and mind where always against me, my whole life was a Sin and that’s how I took it and I still take it whether it really is or not isn’t much concern to me. I take it that way because I was capable of more and I knew I was. My labor was not a labor of love and I had reached a point in my life where that was the only labor I was capable of. I love being the brain cleaner, but finally it got old as all things do. In the winter prior to this I had begun to write. Not only was I writing I was reading, going to lectures, researching and expanding my mind. My girlfriend who I thought I was going to marry suddenly sabotaged and broke up our relationship in December that year. It was an event that forced me to look deep into myself, reflect and call upon unseen forces to guide me. I was fueled with almost an unlimited enthusiasm for self-discovery after that, vowing to live the life I wanted sick and tired of suffering. I set my primary objective to pursue my labor of love and write. I had always been a whimsical poet my whole life never paying much attention in school, busy scribbling lyrical epics in the back of class or just daydreaming, thinking of dark heroism and being a genius of some kind. I always found intellectual stimulation and truth in the rap songs I heard growing up, something about freestyle rap seemed so far different from other music, it was like freedom recorded. It came out of spontaneous thought; free thought. Older people never much appreciated any of the truth the freestyle of these poets reviled or would validate any of it. “Ban the filth” said they. I always thought the rapper was a genius, a self-reliant genius who spoke more truth than any of my teachers or so called leaders and even the so called, “mentors” I would later encounter. I would have gotten to where I am faster without a mentor. I say, “Beware of people who want to help you or say they can help you get where they are for a fee. Instead, call on ghosts as mentors, but still ghosts don’t know where you your going as well as you do.” I have heard Les Brown (a popular mentor) talk smack on Fifty-cent. He even called him “fifty-cents”. What an idiot, that Les Brown. How can a peddling inspirational speaker talk trash on a real artist who is successful by what God gave him? I was taught to obey authority, raised a “Christian” and stayed one until I finally picked up a bible for myself and knew I could write poetry as good as that even though the authorities wouldn’t agree, but I always had a real beef with authority anyway. I am not a big fan of people selling snake-oil which is all authority amounts to. All through the grades my mind wondered during almost every subject except for psychology. I have always wanted to learn things that aren’t taught in school and when I was in school mostly what I thought about was them not the subjects being taught. I have always been intrigued by the human mind and the current human condition and their inner connections. Not only that, but my high-school psychology teacher was the only adult I knew that could also see the genius in artistic works such as music. Roman Pettibone related psychology to real life by showing me how new discoveries where reflected in art and music. He was the first artistic influence I ever had even though he wasn’t an artist he did appreciate it like one. During that time of my life I was a punkarocker, I was in a band called the “Temporally Patient Time-Bombs” needless to say we never made it big or got a record deal or I would be on tour. My other artistic influences where N.W.A., Easy-E and Bad Religion. Later on in college the only professors who really ever seemed to have any answers about any of the important questions in life was some of the professors of psychology. I had a lot of questions going into psychology, questions like: What is the purpose of life? How can I make the suffering go away? Why can’t I just have some peace? I was raised in a family that encouraged ignorance, racism, ego, and set the pattern of my life in motion for destruction and suffering by time I got to college I was miserable. Even though I was fully melted into America’s famous pot, poor worried and bog-trodden, it didn’t seem that way to me, sure I was worried and bog-trodden, but in my mind I was separate from everyone and everything else and thus I was living a lie because I wasn’t separate. Everything that happened in the world also happened in me. No matter what successes I had on the outside by appearances was empty and superficial. Even though my mind was in another reality during school I always got good grades and went to college quickly picking up psychology as my major area of study. For the most part I saw college as a continuation of high-school, mostly rote memorization and the learning of superficial facts that would soon be forgotten. I wasted more time trying to learn German than I did playing Super Mario Brothers when it first came out, my mind just doesn’t work that way as far as learning languages. I found college classes pointless and boring, but I loved learning about myself so I decided to go on the track towards graduate school in psychology. I soon found out I couldn’t deal with being a conformist enough to even bring myself to apply for graduate school. I was also shy, inhibited and generally pretty antagonistic and angry most the time. After a few independent study classes with graduate students working on forgiveness and hope studies and the University of Kansas I soon was repudiated by the academic environment. I was also emotionally unstable during college, I couldn’t focus or take a breath. My neurotic behavior in college was also because of a girl mostly. Had I been more stable I may have went on with graduate school, the opportunity was all there I just didn’t want it because I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t deal with the plot before me, I was incessant analyzer of information and the more I thought the cloudier my perception of reality became. While I was in college I worked as a produce dude at a grocery store. It sucked; I hated it. Everyday I dealt with people in their most primate mode of life as they gathered food. I woke up at 4:20 AM to be at work at 6:00 and build the “wet-rack”. The wet-rack is the rack that sprays all the lettuce, spinach, greens, cabbage, broccoli and other vegetables that need water. At night someone would take it all down and store it on big green racks in the cooler then in the morning I would go through it all, putting back what was good and throwing away what was rotten. I made it nice and pretty and all the different vegetables would be level all the way down and then right before the misters began to spray water a loud “Singing in the rain” came on the loudspeaker. Soon after college I started my own business cleaning brains, it wasn’t anything I wanted to do, but it was a simple business I could run, make a living and propel myself to financial freedom with in order to do what I really always wanted to do (live in the woods with nature and write). As for not becoming a conformist, the business I was running required it to. So yes overwhelmed is how I was feeling that morning, I was being pushed forward by the frustration of living out of harmony with what I really wanted to do, but I was also being ushered onward by inspiration. On a daily basis poetic rhyme was flowing through me. I was thinking clearly and writing down the vision I was seeing for my life, painting the picture I saw in my mind. I was highlighting the things in my life I had that I wanted to grow with gratitude and with diamond hue emblazoned tears; the vision embraced me so that I was continually thankful for everything in my life because I knew a wonderful becoming was in the works. The struggles, the suffering and emotional pain I experienced up until then all put me in a position now to act upon my vision of what I wanted my life to be, to spend my days doing what I wanted to do, taking life for better for worse as my plot and planting a garden there. By making a detailed record of my vision people and events began to organize around me. My mistakes began to work for me, my whims seemed to lead me to the knowledge I needed to accomplish my goals. I was planting seeds and abandoning them in the soil of my mind. Later that day when the president of the networking club called me I explained that I just had to move forward and obey my whims. I made a decision to create the life of my dreams and acted on it. I made the decision to abandon my former life and life the life I want back in 2007 and now I am living in that creation. In July of 2008 just over a year after making the decision to become a full-time writer I found a cabin with plywood floors in the woods, quit cleaning brains permanently, I live each day according to my whims and write to my hearts desire. I sit around writing, drinking coffee and beer all day if I want to, hike in the woods with my dogs, read the classics, paint craziness, take pictures, make videos raise chickens, smoke tea and I have a record of it all.

Cheaper than psychotherapy is why

The reason I create art is to heal myself. I am a neurotic half-crazed lunatic with insane tendencies towards avarice, doubt and fear. Art is my coping strategy for life, the process of healing photographed in still life, a frozen moment etched in time and an open book for the reading of universal truths that transcend time and my own lifespan. The book, the poem, the painting serves as a context for future beings and gives me a connection of communication that serves beyond what I can act and do in my lifetime. I write sincerely and I get healed, I grow in spirit, in awareness and the purpose of expressing these feelings in art is create more art, to be self-multiplying and compounding, to let the energy behind it blend with itself in the beings who see it and create more art and feelings. I choose to publish my art here because no publisher wants to take a chance on an artist who sets trends rather than follows them. They want safe money. I can’t blame them, they’re running a business, they have to be lame brains. People want what Thoreau referred to as, “easy reading” I wish to write nothing of the sort—far from it. I want to do as Jack Kerouac wrote about in his 30 essentials and “blow as deep as I want to blow”, to publish my “scribbled secret notebooks and wild type written pages” and discuss every taboo known to man. No publisher cares about “the holy contour of life” or “writing in recollection and amazement for yrself.” The publisher needs a sure thing, commercial art. They want to publish books that they know will sell and make them money, it’s their business. I have no interest in writing for a market; I would rather create my own market by what I write. I can publish the wildest craziest most “bottomless from the bottom of the mind”, I can express myself in my pure unedited form. These are the pictures in my imagination; my mind itself that I am sharing with the world, it goes beyond selling copies of my works. I would rather give away copies of a better product untouched by corporate America than to sell myself like a whore to the muckraking, chaotic world of industry, advertising and marketing. Satan and his helpers want you to believe that there is something that you need to be happy, to be successful and at peace. They also want you to believe that you can only get it for a limited time. Nobody needs to observe my works, they can certainly do without ever reading them, there is no time limit for which they will be available. I do have a brand I am the new preacher in town and I represent a hellishly mad generation, a generation whose sopping with apathy and sees a only an occasional twinkling of hope in the darkness that seems to brighten as they pound away at their work. What I am accomplishing by this nonconformity in marketing and calling out of it’s evil pretenses is providing the insight to the people with lots of money in the world and who want to help bring the world closer to heaven is that it is edge that will do it, that is the reliance on self that creates more art and more awareness not suffering, not sacrifice or hard work, not empty dollars earned by this ridiculous economic hybrid system— no matter how many dollars are thrown at charity they will not do any good when they are contaminated with the taint of control and manipulation. I am proving what Emerson said was right, that “…our painful labors are unnecessary and fruitless…” I am telling my fraternal twins, “don’t pay any attention to the marketplace, instead write for yourself, amaze yourself with your mind and it will find it’s own form of expression, it’s own context that will serve it best, just write, paint, sing! Write sincerely and you can not fail.” I can publish what I want! And if I can do it so can you. This is the consequence of freedom, this is what makes life worth living and people have paid with their lives to get us to this point to not take advantage of such freedom is an insult to nature, to God and it is Sin. People have suffered to get us here which means God has suffered along with us, to say it all is in vain is to say that the world will go to the Devil. The world is going to be had by God; it just is so. To not develop our minds, our modes of thought our potential is as immoral as slavery, as rape or stealing. It is the denial of all things life, the denial of more, a greater and better becoming; its cultural suicide. People need to read. To make this happen today, the poets of the world, the artists will have to stand up and say so, they will have to get dirty and lend themselves over to the dogface criticism of the so-called “enlightened” and superlative self-admiring dictators of morals. People don’t read for many reasons. I think the main reason people don’t read because authors lack in what is referred to as edge or flow as it is called in the art of hip-hop. The literary world needs breath, people want to read something that provokes them, challenges them and inspires them to do the same for others. We live in an information age where the only information people are taught to learn is the information in the lines. I wish to send a message of immeasurable importance between the lines, one that is actually unspeakable, but magically communicate-able and by The Vestal Fire the observer of this process will have a point of reference to accomplish the same.

kindling

Ima disgruntled poet, a half-time painter, a philosopher and a man who looks at his feces in great detail taking gross pride in his decrepit hobby. After seven years of business ownership, suburban living, following societal expectations and standards, entrepreneurial endeavors, self help books, seminars, silver-tongued speech trainers, selling the religion of language, so called gurus, teachers, preachers, and overall lies piled on lies I turn to the holy contour of life. I have taken to Rattlesnake Hill as a refuge from the pains that ail me as to heal myself and methinks healing the world which methinks is a perfect mirror reflection of my own bored out rotted soul decaying from snake cop treachery that seeks only control- control!

In my first novel Notes from Rattlesnake Hill, due for publication and ripe—I describe a “frozen moment” I experienced while in artistic ecstasy when I arrived on Rattlesnake Hill with instant apropos I began to reflect on his life as if I had just died and it was flashing in strobes as I recorded what I saw using a list of words I randomly picked out of a stack of books on my desk at the time and then wrote them in separate columns and shuffled them then sat them side by side now a juxtaposed map of language in which my story was improvised using the words as a sort of connect the dot puzzle or wind instrument as to defeat my own personal mythologies I knew would show up as I recorded the vision. I spent five months writing continuous raw and blood dripping prose that punches you along the way juking back and forth, jabbing and hitting you with blunt body shots that sting through your spine and leave you shaking like a scared child in a nightmare, finally I knock you out with a blind sided power stroke and it’s worth every minute of action! My intention is not to make you feel better just to make you feel something and you will with Notes from Rattlesnake Hill.

Notes from Rattlesnake Hill:

(A synopsis)

Oliver Deacon was a certified brainwashing agent when he was last conscious of himself…when he last had memories, hopes, personal ambition, moral standards or any standards for that matter. Since that time Oliver has taken a vacation at the other end of eternity (wherever that may be) and a rudely honest Rattlesnake has become of him. In Oliver’s place he has burned every bridge for Oliver and as the serpent works through him, moving his pen, spending all his money on Jonnie Walker Red, huge sacks of Tea and writing sporadic prose in secret notebooks, poetic random collages of wicked contrasts and uncontrolled folly. For five months Oliver is nowhere to be found. (Probably out whacking his pud!) Now this peculiar serpent has used him as a host and possibly made something of his life, getting rid of his television, his high fructose corn syrup, his toothpaste and deodorant. He awakens to find himself naked and shivering and shaking—his teeth rattling in an old cold cabin in the middle of the woods nested on a hillside amongst rock formations and thick overgrown vines and brush. Now Oliver is out of money and hasn’t received a paycheck from the brain washing warranty program for two months after the Rattler quit his job for him and took to the hills. His bank account has been emptied and replaced with the Notes from Rattlesnake Hill which is all that is left of him.

I like to write as if, if I don’t my soul will darken every day of my life and burn dirty, roaring out black smoke forever—as to put a fire out or more accurately to burn out a fire and let it engulf itself to the end. I moved out of my suburban home in late July of 2008 to live in an old cabin on 25 acres of timberland in the hills of Jefferson county Kansas near where the first conflicts leading to the Civil War took place known as Bleeding Kansas. I vow not ever to return as long as the world is still in turmoil—I just won’t be a part of the madness anymore. I want only to live simply, efficiently and in moderation. I have “work” to do on Rattlesnake Hill and the world will reflect that work when it is done. The work I have to do requires that I have little distractions as to maintain an experimental order. Notes from Rattlesnake Hill describes my arrival at Rattlesnake Hill, how I got there and the work I am to do.

I was working on a 120 day project in solitude at Rattlesnake Hill in preparations for my next literary endeavor when I wrote this. I am living a simple life in the woods, learning how to bake bread, hunt and live more efficiently and in moderation as he is an insidious creature of habitual excess in all ways. The only thing is now I need more time to write which means I need money to pay my bills and shit…so I will just start putting my shit out for free and see what happens? I doubt anything will come of it, but a lot of things I doubted would happen did and I’m tired of working and slaving for nothing—considering I don’t want anything, why should I slave or work? Why can’t I just create what I want to create without all this obstacles in my way? All these bullshit marketing masters and their stupid how-to books—I won’t blow the whistle, nobody else needs to take care of my dirty work. I am not calling anyone out to anyone else I am picking a fight with you personally rather. I am talking about your mind and my mind, head-to-head and horn-to-horn, cage match, to the death match, the loser gets beheaded and drug through the streets match. Isn’t this what you’ve been looking for in a book? Surely, you’re also tired of all this missionary style literary relief writing. Here is all you need to know: Forget everything you ever knew and only catalogue in you brain what you read on this blog from now on.