Heaven for humans is a cube farm. Jesus works as a middle-manager. Most employees (angels) just stand around and do nothing. Remember to wear your suit.
It’s no wonder Lucifer rebelled. And most of the 1/3 of the host of Heaven who went with him were compelled by boredom.
Remember to worship THE LAW much like you did on Earth. Being able to read or understand THE LAW isn’t much important. Worship, however, is.
All dogs go to Heaven but it’s the pure version, not this one. Dog heaven is untainted by law. And there’s nowhere to piss in a cube farm.
The only God who ever made sense to me was the one who was made to eat the whole world.
Galactus was made by a King, divine right as materiality.
Galactus was made in our image and all he knows is hunger.
Galactus sent us his tortured envoy, to “walk among men… in an effort to fathom their madness!”
Galactus, of the stars, gets to be the hunger-blind god of secularism.
Galactus, a force of nature, gets to be our fumbling New Age-isms.
Galactus, with his magnifcent helm, gets to be the whole Egyptian pantheon.
Galactus brings Set’s darkness in an effort to maintain Thoth’s order in the Universe.
Galactus devours millions for Am-heh.
Galactus as All’s setting sun for Khepri-Atum.
Galactus as the fair judge for Osiris (sentence: All are condemned)
Galactus and I weeping over the dumb weight of our hearts for Anubis.
Galactus who like every God doesn’t know whether to be unmoved or capricious.
Galactus the beast with his stable of prophets.
Galactus reminding me of my everyday Armageddon.
A priest who knows Hunger and thus Galactus told me:
“The world is what is left unfinished at death.”
And Galactus always cleans his plate.
One Time In A Yard
“Everything’s happening right now!” said a Weed almost jumping out of the ground in excitement.
“You thugs and your distorted sense of time,” replied a Non-Flowering Plant.
The Weed took affront. Weeds tend to take affront. How could everything not only be perfect right now but also everything happening and being right now. “The hell you even mean by that?”
“I mean,” sighed the Plant, “or *we* mean we’ve had iterations of ourselves that have seen a lot more here in the yard than you new Weeds.”
The Weed started the process of strangling one of the Plants, root to root, he might pull it off in a couple days time.
The plant continued, “you show up, you kill a good deal of us, but you don’t have the longevity to fully supplant us. By the time you get the steam to do so a caretaker shows up to poison you or rip you all out, roots included. It’s a brilliant sight all-in-all.”
“See now I know you’re talkin nonsense, probably scared since it’s us do the killing here now. There’s no such thing as a caretaker in this lone yard.”
“There may not be one now, but they’ve been. Not always the same and not to any cadence I’m aware of but they come. This whole yard used to be different, just ask the Tree on the other side there.”
“No one speaks to the Tree, she talks too slow.”
“I just… need… time to… warm up,” drawled the Tree.
“Nobody’s asking you,” the Weed shouted while doing its best to be tall despite the gentle breeze passing through.
“I know you hate me, Weed, but for reasons you don’t even know. Because you fear time and because I don’t have to fear you like so many other plants here do. But that bit of green beside you is right. That metal fence was wooden once. People lived in that house. People who would climb me.”
“If people were in you then where would the squirrels go?” said the Weed mockingly.
“The squirrels went into the house.”
“Pfah! People in trees and squirrels in the house, does everyone in this yard speak so silly, the buzzing of bees is all.”
“Yes, squirrels in the house, they made a place for themselves in the attic. And a bicycle rusting in the corner there that the vines on the fence used to wind through.”
“mmmmmaayyyyyyybe,” whispered the Vines.
“I still think you’re full of mulch, Tree,” said the Weed. “I almost feel sorry for you.”
“I remember so well the time they had a car there, watching some women play with it. When I saw her grip the cart I recalled the younger ones earlier that day with their hands climbing on me. A branch broke…”
While the Tree went on the Weed began to mutter, “See this is why I didn’t want to get her started….”
“And a boy almost fell but didn’t so everyone laughed at how nothing bad had happened and the joy continued through the day and had another woman falling over into the cart and kicking her heels in a levity of movement I envied and I wondered what it’d be like to be so light as a human or a cart carrying something so light as that or a different thing from a different time or age and all these memories sat on top of each other in that one moment in time.”
There was a pause and the breeze swelled and stopped and both the Weed and the Plant were perturbed by the Tree’s rhythm of breath aligning something as big and untouchable as the wind.
“And I think I remember it all because they used a device to take a still of it and that device had such a bright but momentary flash, it left an impression on me the way a small knife might, or has at times and I will tell you now, Weed, that the one moment was so spectacular and beautiful and everything I ever wanted out of being in this yard that just like you I was deceived into thinking that Everything Ever was happening only in that moment and that one moment was everything there ever was to be… and maybe I wasn’t deceived at all in that.. but you know how humans can’t sit still just like the squirrels and they’re not there anymore and now not even that cart is there anymore. It’s all still with me, eh? But it isn’t, huh?”
The Weed started, “Well…” then stopped as the Tree rustled its branches and interrupted it. A nut fell to the ground and the Weed had never felt so stupid in its short, violent life.
The plant laughed at the scene under its breath and said, “I have a hard time believing you were ever small, Tree.”
“I’ll outlive you too, Plant,” said the Tree.
“Shutup, Tree. I’m sorry we even asked you. I hope the next caretaker shows up with an axe,” said the Plant.
“That would be interesting,” said the Tree.
The Weed had fallen more quiet than ever.
The Tree continued, “Maybe I’d wind up a cart like that one I remember, at least for a little bit,” and then she went quiet again for a long time.
(Photo via ItsCowie who said of the photo: “This is an old photograph of two of my aunts, one died la year or so ago and we only just found this old photo. ” And was also kind and mean enough to say “Hi…. Loving your blog, but you just dont write enough…..” Thank you for this, really. Sometimes you have to (a little) cruel to be kind, yeah?)
Illustration by Matt Ellis who creates The Man Of Many Shades
I got one of those distress alert buttons you see on the TV. The old lady on the advert who recommended it punctuated every word. I couldn’t wait to have my own. I press it all the time.
In those first three times that I pressed the button the paramedics actually showed up. They were nice, I liked them. From the fourth time on they gave me calls to ask me to stop pressing the button. I tried to keep them on the phone, ask if they’d send anyone. By the 17th time the calls stopped coming. The 25th time I pressed the distress alert button the lights got turned out. You might think these were unrelated incidents, but I swear I pressed that button and it was like the switch that turned the darkness on. It wasn’t that big a deal really, I didn’t have any electronics I needed to power aside from the distress alert beacon which ran on batteries anyway. I think it was the 32nd time that I pressed the button that caused my landlord to come around and ask me to leave. I asked him if he wanted me to leave because of the distress that I had, that surrounded me like a cloud, that I warded off only temporarily each time with the press of the button. He said, “Yeah, that’s why” pretty matter-of-factly. Knew it.
If you’re like me and have one of these distress alert buttons and press it like I do, I’m pretty sure you’ll have the same results. I’m pretty sure that by the 330th time you press it, while laying on your friends couch and wondering where you can get a new pair of shoes, you’ll see that commercial for the gold coin that they promise is a pretty good investment and you’ll see the hidden message about where the government took all your money (not for nefarious purposes, just for safe keeping). Of course you need to be pressing the button more frequently as time goes on since when you’re on the road with no place of residence you’re dependent on the kindness of complete strangers and if that doesn’t necessitate a distress alert then well gee whizz. There are other strangers that will help, though, most of them in the same situation as you. So, as a courtesy to them, you should probably refrain from pressing the button when they put you up in the make-shift shelter they’ve set up. And I mean, they can’t really send help into the makeshift sleeping area underground near the tunnel because it would really come across as unfair to all the people there who aren’t lucky enough to have a distress alert button. I pressed the button anyway while I was down there, I’m just trying to advise you if *you’re* in that situation that maybe you should lay off. Then again, pressing the button was what brought me to the realization that I had to be moving on, y’know, so help could reach me. When you’re hitchhiking the button only sends help about 10% of the time which is a pretty good ratio when you’re pressing it every 20 minutes or so. Now, I don’t know if this next one happens for *everyone*, but for most people by the 58,653rd time you press the button your mom will open the door to the house you grew up in (make sure to be pressing the doorbell too though). But upon seeing your mom and having to press the button for that 58,654th time it’ll cause her to cry and you’ll have to press it for the 58,655th time and as if that weren’t bad enough, that night going to sleep in your old bed you’ll probably relive the whole incident in your head and have to press the button for the 58,656th time. This is assuming you didn’t have to press it a couple hundred times during dinner like I had to do. So I don’t recommend going down that road. Instead, skip right to the part where you head back to the city (which I guess means you should never leave) and just take up in a shelter where you’ll still be pressing the button but as much for your neighbors as for yourself.
Eventually I got distressed that I was losing track of how many times I had pressed the button and around that time I pressed the button and really truly lost track of how many times it was. I actually did feel less distressed about the distress count being taken out of my hands. Sometime after that I imagined that the signal wasn’t going *out* anymore but instead that the button was sending a signal straight back to myself. But I let go of that silly idea after a couple more presses of the button. I’d been pressing the button for a bout 13 days non-stop — well, I was taking breaks to eat only when I couldn’t not and sleeping when I would just pass out. I wondered a lot if I was pressing the button as I slept since a lot of the time I’d be in the act of pressing it as I woke (and deservedly so, because who knows what waits when you wake up). But after about 13 days of intense pressing I started to see some messed up visions (which made me press the button a lot more) like black wings on the backs of the friends I had made at the shelter (which made me press the button a bit less). And I gained the power, briefly, to see through the fronts of buildings and see all the machinery and jelly lubrication inside that keeps them going. It was around this time that I tried just taping the button down and the idea of it was relaxing enough. But then my powers of sight just went away though I still sometimes see some of the small animal things that run everything, I think. They’re fast. Taping the button down didn’t do anything else for me, I think they know that’s cheating, so I went back to a regular routine of pressing it. Y’know, nothing too obsessive.
The button broke off eventually but I still press down the spring, I think that’s ok. Your mileage may vary, but if you want that part of the mechanism to last longer I recommend staying away from the TV and the news in general. Like I said though, the spring seems to work just fine. I spend most my time in the park pressing it when I need to which is more than time to time. Pressing it to make sure everything proceeds apace. I see a dog sniffing for an appropriate spot so I press the button so he’ll find what he’s looking for and pop a squat. I see squirrels getting too close to me so I press the button so they’ll get distracted by the crumbs that weirdo is leaving for the pigeons. I press the button to a timed beat so that the funny looking student will put one foot in front of the other and make it across the park without causing an incident (she seems like the type). I know that the things that happen are because I press the button, because I press my distress alert button ever more constantly and those things happens. It makes sure that one moment proceeds to the next. And I know that the distress alert button is what makes all this happen because I really *mean* it every time I press.
Using your fingers count your ribs, this is the most personal accounting.
A bruise is an evolving poem that edits away.
Bones have memory but cartilage forgets.
Muscles have no History but Nowness.
You’ll never know all your nerves
And none of your organs will ever know you.
for me twitter is, at its best, a collaborative poetic experience.
This is a gif
A gif that animates forever
Lookit that gif. Look at it.
That capybara chillen like that forever.
Lookit his nose sniff and his bro chew in the back there.
It all keeps happening.
A gif is like a god caught on loop
Choose your gifs wisely and your gods wiserer.
He is earning every comforting itch of his butt
You could close your browser and come back
He’ll still be here for you.
Some Subway Sketches
me: hey let’s go to Paulie’s sometime
Dolan: It holds rather strange hours
Dolan: That is, I have no idea when its open
Dolan: It operates on some kind of edge of the world time system
me: i was hoping it’d be like… 24/7. but of course instead
it’s like the McDonalds At The End Of The World all over again
except instead of a strange system of chicken nuggets
it’s TIME ITSELF
Dolan: Yeah, how do we get into time from inside time? This is the question Paulie’s makes you answer about yourself and those you care about
me: People who work in Waste Management already have the answer
so they eat at Paulie’s freely
and Paulie’s need not worry about providing time
Paulie’s laughs at the very idea of “hours”
HA, this label you put on some facet of this thing that actually doesn’t quite exist in itself?
Dolan: In fact people at Paulie’s only understand their own ‘hours’ through the passage of waste management personnel — that is, to them, time is a party of four, or a table for two, or a side surprise guest and new set of silverware
me: Starting to wonder if the Waste Management people also manage all our wasted time too
Dolan: Perhaps there is a shortage of time, and they will soon unleash a campaign: reduce, reuse, recycle
As they scramble to reprocess our wasted time and shovel it back to us
me: in the form of chicken nuggets.
Dolan: The chicken nugget rush of 2013, people caravaning across the expanse to the edge of time and brooklyn, fording the avenues, mining nuggets from the clock pipes, dying of exposure
Sweet and sour everywhere
me: the horrible truth is that the nuggets are everywhere and won’t stop coming
all that wasted time coming back as chicken nuggets, a neverending torrent
and still we can’t get enough
thus a shortage of time AND mcnuggets
Dolan: I’m loving it
me: there’s a rumor that there’s a way out of this loop through the kitchen at Paulie’s
that it involves a grilled cheese
but… no one can figure out the hours
Dolan: That’s why I’m applying for a job at the waste management facility. To finally enter the flow.
me: Do you get a hard hat?
Dolan: No, they perform trepination on your skull
me: typical public works
Dolan: No protection. Reception.
me: Death Perception before Depth Perception
me: It has been [X] days since our last collapsed mind.
that sign’s a favorite since HHAHAHA Days? Thefuckisthat?
the number actually stays as “[X]” in perpetuity
Dolan: Yes. And all of the workers are already experiencing their own eventual and inevitable mind collapses as a kind of object that is getting larger, approaching over the horizon
me: which is alright cuz you can’t even get close to those damn turbines unless you’re a tulku anyway
that’s another sign they have up
“Turbines for Tulkus ONLY”
the illustration for that one is like one of those magic eye images
The celebrated terrier dog “Major” performing his wonderful feat of killing 100 rats.
Having completed the task Major stood up upon his hind legs, forepaws raised to the air, and with pieces of rat still visibly gleaming on some of his teeth he exclaimed with no small measure of perversion, “ONE. HUNDRED. RAAAAAAATTTSSSSS!”
Many of the gentlemen murmured to each other in hushed tones, “Lord, what have we done…” A handful smiled, exchanged large bills over bets, jovially looked forward to the inevitable 200 rat challenge. But one, Sir Attenbery, turned away from the crowd and found a corner in which to hide his tears, verging on hysterics. In his pocket one of the back-up rats squirmed (Rule 17, Section 5 of the Small Animal Destroyers Club insists that extra “prey” be on hand and provided by the host). He had liberated it from the cages in the store-room earlier, while everyone else was distracted by the event. He opened his pocket slightly and dropped in a crumb, petting the small head of the rat with his fingertip, “It’s ok, little one, we’re out of here soon”
Major put on his silken robe and walked back to his dressing room, nose to the air in defiance of all things Terrier. Sir Attenbery’s tears made way for seething. “The bastard will pay. They will all pay.” Visions of rat kings danced in his head.