Christ for the price of television [excerpt]

If you or anyone of us fortunate enough to reside for any length of time within the inner sanctum of the modern cityscape, you, more or less, know what it’s like to be here. The ‘more you try it the more you like it’ approach at first seems like an ideal situation. Years (sometimes months, weeks, most likely even days) latter it takes on more than daily living can afford. It is here we are divided into categories and sub-categories and re-located to respective geographic and moralistic territories, each with its own individualized site-specific economic responsibilities. It’s a battle for the top, if you are a multi-nation conglomerate or if you’re a street-wise punk, it’s a struggle to stay high. Both, poised with the same struggle of dominance or threat of disaster, have their own system and network of fail-safes to assure at all cost the avoidance of any unnecessary remedy. They exist in exactly the same stasis of need and ultimately there is no one who can make a right decision about anything.

Both sides have advantages and disadvantages. The Junky is clumsy and heavy-handed; the multi-national is driven by the power and greed of conquest. The Junky has as his advantage the power of invisibility; he or she can safely disappear for intervals of time, as they never existed. At the junkies back, however, is the never-ending demand of a most elusive and restrained capital. The multi-nation, on the other hand, has as its base the liquidity and dexterity of commerce, yet its restriction is a constant and bothersome accountability, known as the paper trail.

Long Form: [excerpts]

long form
and other post-modern apocalypse

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“One no longer sees the blue sky or the green earth, only a consonant grey, brown or black enveloping the soul in a spider like web forming within a sphere like glass.”

I have no memory of anything, anymore. The line between the real and what was once considered unimaginable has long since blurred into a searing white noise rendering my mind blank as a canvas and still as a wintry morning blanketed with wet, heavy freshly fallen snow. There is no room for movement of any kind. If I were to look up, I would only see, staring back down at me, a sad, lonely reflection of an old and withered man I have become. Loneliness is the final mask hiding the pain and joy, which is life.

“I no longer touch the blue Earth or see the green Sky…”

This is not Death or what some have come to believe in as Death, more precisely, a catechism of purgatory, limbo, half-life, the spirit world, Bardo. One recognizes this state in questions poised "who’s listening, who’s speaking?" This is the oldest, most primitive, primordial conception of humankind.



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"What good is truth if the truth is us?"

Of course, this lovely imagination can never hold the truth and why would should it? Gauging from history, the changes the self as an absolute authority brings is what none of us really want. There is no God as there is no Death. Yet the ability to grasp the meaning of such is and has always been beyond the reach of Mankind’s rational mind and its obsessions and struggles of conformity. It is the words you read [or believe you read] now that is the closest you will know of these things. It is you who are Dead. In fact, you do not read these words or hold this book. If I where to answer you, why, at this moment you will dissolve, before your own very eyes, into a pool of undifferentiated matter which comprises and is comprised by the multiple realities of this Bastard Universe.


"I stand at the gate of Hell whilst holding the keys of heaven, yet, I can enter neither. My heart is as pure gold, a wild flaming fire whose love, compassion and kindness fuels all lust, hatred and desire. I am every poet and every mad man. I am every blessing and every lie that has ever been spoken."