Archive for January, 2011

Cult of Doom- A Glance at Metacognitive Neuroses

January 28, 2011

How much talk have you heard of 2012 and the doomsday scenarios that have been circulated around mass media? I can think of at least three conversations with coworkers, Joey and Jane Sixpack, in the last three months that expounded on the impending apocalypse, and each member of the usually silent stone gray but sticky plastic lunch table had an opinion to offer. Web bots, religious writings, thousand mile long asteroids and ancient alien overtakings and climate controlled disasters all became instant buzz words for the next couple of weeks around the office. Why did they pay such detailed attention to the potential the fall of man?

There are many explanations from various disciplines. Many branches of philosophy and much scientific work regarding fear and primal instinct has shown man to be inherently drawn to the id driven impulses to dominate, destroy, and observe. To complicate things, when talking of the doomsday scenario as a future event, the thinker is able to remove themselves emotionally from their own schema of the disaster and stir up their secret subterranean consciously concealed images of doom and despair and running blood from their neighbors driveway. Thoughts we secretly wish to partake in, some say, while others conjure the mere act of seeing such imagery captivates us and catches our attention (walk by the video game section on your next visit to Blockbuster).

The 2012 fascination is also interesting because of our complete faith in the so called Mayan Doomsday Calendar. So often in so many aspects of our current, 21st century and still double wrapping that double cheeseburger culture we are quick to dismiss ancient wisdom and cast the writings and teachings of ancient cultures and religions and Dionysian bang cults as complete fallacy. Besides the academics the majority of people know nothing about the ways and beliefs of man within a hundred years of their time. But now, for some reason, we have adopted an ancient South American Indian’s astrology (shout out to my psychic readers) and hold it, in many respects, as an absolute truth. Why not ancient Celtic astrological predictions, Ouija board messages  or the Mormons for that matter?

The end is coming, this will happen, you need to be afraid, that is all you need to know. Forget the Bible, the Quran, the teachings of the Buddha and Gandhi and Mother Theresa and the various thousand plus year old traditions that have guided throngs of man through their time on Earth. Let alone our own perceptions and intuitions, our own inclinations to do good and move on and not buy into mass marketed money ploys, say goodbye to those too.

Digital man’s current state of affairs provides an interesting vantage point to give face to the apocalypse fetish. An important aspect of the puzzle is how man, on the globally connected level, operates. What do we know as consumers and connected members of the ephemeral web? Blurbs. Blurbs of what? Blurbs of clean cut words and vague ideas about any internet-deemed newsworthy piece of fodder that comes across the screen. Most are forgotten in under fifteen minutes, but imprints add up and stalactites fatten over the rain season.

The HBO Package of stimuli Joey and Jane receive on a daily basis stir them towards a feeling of paranoia, fear, and discouragement. Death, murder, rape, tsunamis, hurricanes, the economy, twisted child molesters and made for TV movies about the “facebook killer.” It is important to be vigilant and I in no way downplay any of these terrible happenings, but when portrayed en masse as they are in today’s world the viewer becomes overwhelmed, numbed yet fearful, curious but apathetic. We fear the world we live in, and the 2012 event allows our global psychology, the noosphere, to attach itself to a tangible, still attainable cataclysmic date and time. The  numbers 12/21/2012 instill concern into the heart and run dollops of salty sweat down the forehead, just like feeding a dog a bone. Our own consciousness is connected into the web of our fellow man whether we like it or not, and this chain has manifested a tide of bone chilling and agoraphobia inducing terror over the last toc of the clock.

The material age craves the end of the world like an intricately composed opiate derivative. It is a sick and twisted irony, and unfortunately I doubt it will ever come to light. We will wish and wonder and run fantastic mental slideshows of our last heroic moments before the Christ’s emergence, but none will ever be movie scripted. Stick to your day jobs, and keep paying your bills.

Love and Be well



To: Your Hot Daughter

January 26, 2011

Your breasts will break off your chest

like stone sagging Egyptian mason’s baskets

Dipping beside regal edifices, profiles

of fleshy ghosts that too hear mother earth’s

cackle home.

Your blonde waves that crest in moontides

will bury deep into the dusty sea green shores

of your casket, but first eyes and a tongue

and ears and your heart will hesitantly draw

angels in the sand.

None of it will matter, and neither

will you.

Two New Sizzlers

January 25, 2011

Increased blissbuilding titanic mounting wall waves continue to rush from the belly of winter. These are all works by H.D. Wilde, a dear good friend of mine, and he wanted you to have them. Continue on as the days grow lengthwise and the moon stirs clockwise. Good Love and Be Well.



The scary man stretches out the window across

from my bedroom where the light stops

shining and his orange stick shakes in the blackness

smoke fills everywhere around him, he exhales.

Mommy and Daddy shake their heads mad

at and him as he swings his head and talks to himself

silly and sad. They Yell. I want him to stop. Every night.

he hangs, alone, breathing and buying time

out his window, where the darkness just begins


Odyssey Tracking

Let go of our hope shadows

Hanging sirens of light

Stop the sounds all around that surround you

Let go the fight


Coat me in blood, and cloak me

Wise betrayers of man

You send us a savior you save us

Then burn us at stands


Now the nighttime is broken

Clouded cities vault still

Beneath the sun and the soot we stand

To be, our only will


Run fast, run hard be steady

Become your own soul

To say you lost nothing and loved it

All you wanted is lost


All you want is control

reviewereviewer- GlitterBones @ Empty Bottle 1/19

January 21, 2011

Karma’s mysteries too oft go unnoticed, but last night the sacred mind of the universe directed my sensory perceptions at the only display capable of healing a wounded, hard fought day of punching digits and controlling myself from punching out a supervisor. The dark bitterness of January and the stale empty residue that cakes the bank account and pieces of the soul after the holiday season had been administering a vice grip around my heart, and leaving work it seemed like a night at the Bottle might not even be worth my bad vibes. Luckily, like most things, I was wrong, and a night of chasing Molly through the pool rooms and tar splattered back nooks of Western Ave.’s swinging saloon was the only remedy for my eternal hate of all things corporate and  capitalistic.

It’s not a Wednesday night without a tour of the bar backalley blowing hard from a tin foil vessel of chemical guarantees, and it was Wednesday, so hey. IT hit quick and hard and by the time we had figured out which pack of girls to go after and pushed a bunch of queens away from center-stage, GlitterBones were just breaking on. My only experience of the Bones has been with their bandcamp website ( after a recommendation from a friend. They sounded like early Panda Bear, wide open yet dense, but more electro’droned out, more astral than animal. I was instantly turned on and pledged to myself that I would witness their them live as soon as possible. Last night was the fulfillment of that promise.

They were ethereal, cosmic and rising,  mixing Dilla-esque fat percussion pops with synth’d, Buddhist chanted out vocals, streamlined by a pair of guitars and a table-full of knobs and pads and boards. The songs were not recognizable from anything off their EP Amulet Calls, which leads me to believe they have isolated the things that make them pop and are inflating them to nearly infinite proportions. Their pace was fantastic and their presence was natural and cozy with all three members crunching together front and center. They played about 7 songs during their set in front of less than a hundred hippy hippy hoorahh’s bobbing and weaving to the trance love sonic thundercloud that was extending from the main floor and back to the bar.

If you want to support local music, Chicago music, and music that seeks to eliminate categorization or definition, the bones are for you. My friend who has seen Animal Collective live always bummed about their live shows, but after last night he pronounced the bones had that live magic production heavy bands like AC often miss out on. We talked to Nick the guitarist after the set between the second and third bands and hopefully a full LP will be in the works this spring with an intention to play more gigs and garner a cult like following. I think their talents will take them far beyond a lemonade drinking band of featherdress-wearing spazflakes that like to stay out late and blow up their pupils on Wednesday nights. I hope this band can gain the local attention they deserve (the redeye music section is usually pretty good at scooping up quality local groups, but the bones have been completely off all media radar screens) and carry their unique witch-house one-love sounds to a grander stage.

People need to hear this music, and they need to hear it now. Support your local artists, goddamnit!


January 20, 2011

Rolling, roll tiding good tidings wide around

Blood red discos wage well past the black star death horizons

Queens dip to the cum caked ground and hold on

Raising a knee towards the likely opponents, or any sort of

opposition. Haddock, charred.

Sea salt crispy and lean.


January 20, 2011

Before you register for the oblivion, stat

dear friend, apocalypse child

Strewn in headlights, your hooves

clicking and steady

into the night. Hearts hold us

we will live on.


Ripped out on lines and waves

Broadcasting, heavy

The last bough breaks and our shield is gone

The antenna cracks in three parts.

No one was going to be here

on purpose

or make believe

but there we walked, bone beneath their snout. Chewing singularly.

Spitting up upchucks of what Nike needs us to consume like, swoosh

tax included.


But then we fought.

A Guitar Poem

January 19, 2011

I play a five string, out of tuned and greasy

Plastic casted with an oaken crayola finish

kind of neutered

Mattel style always slipping sort of guitar,

an acoustic tone, pulsar

And sometimes I make it move

And I move too and ask

all the stars of destiny simple

yes or no

questions about man and mind all the while

clit tickling those strings,  reshaping

their chords clenched in orgasm, wrenching, stern and solid

but soft

and pumping blood through the vinyl lines.


streets may hate my sound, appalling to its ears,

but it still slips out onto them

like an auntie’s vodka drunk areola at Christmas, and continues to offend

persistent and begging for a gawking and tongue ruffle between

peace signs.

I move and pour my whisky downward and still play

a prayer to the fuck gods of rock

And roll. Five strings better than


This is what everyone was looking for

January 19, 2011

Karma is not good,

Or bad


Very heavy or light,








on my soul.


January 19, 2011

There is no god, only


Assurance to you sir Monsieur Hebbs, neurons contort,

your head covers

the hole

in your


Peaces’ illusion dotes you,

nails boomeranging off static waves of


Chaos first begets order

and the children of the sun will burn far

past the children of man. I


Stand up, wake up shake

yourself past this


Soon you will sleep forever.

Maybe the better half?

January 19, 2011

we rode the last great waves all the way,

ways unseen past summers’ End. Across beach sky high

ways too bold to uncrest at tide times. We Dodge

headlights fold

over batter butter heavy dew blankets onto the windshield,

supposing we should’ve chosen laughter, chosen love

but alas, we’re

all dead.

forget the main drag, ma’am

I’ve got a fix.

tap your shoes amphetamine Stu, flip

and flutter like a fringe rebel butter

fly, don’t fear the


corroding caustic base pairs that blow holes.

There’s no need for a memory

When you can never die.