How are you today?

Happiness, is a warm gun.

-John Lennon

Happiness is a byproduct of function, purpose, and conflict; those who seek happiness for itself seek victory without war.

-William S. Burroughs

Psychology, wave neouvou, has destroyed American culture. We have tried to quantify and qualify consciousness with Newtonian physics in a farcical adventure down Misconstruction Lane. The worst news is that people have actually profited from this shit peddling and ass-backwarding of human nature… from Dr. Drew to Maury to Judge Judy… labeled as self help and positive thinking and interactive therapy, the erasing of truth is being conglomerated (as the scope of technology becomes more susceptible to the pipe dreams of insidious ideas) in the most horrible sort of tidal waves.

All the questions, all the important matters, all of the heirarchies are directed by a culture of consumption and buzz and reptilian basement-mindedness…What can you do to be more marketable, better serving to the capitalist power base? Little kids sun tan in aluminum can beds and staple off parts of their vital organs. The super ego has become the super evil… even a rigorous papal-provided set of decrees would better serve the human species than the banks and buyers and big shots…hell a Bedouin sick den damned under the gravity of a Saharan sunset would be a more suitable basis for liberation theology.

Enter the viral ‘scientific’ variable, the weapon of the enemy… the idea of happiness… and now, lets take a survey! All over pop-media the unprotected viewer is bombarded by snapshots of perfection. Little windows with new trim and pearly smiles reflecting suburban backdrops of SUVs and unused public libraries and over-used ATM stations. No digital reload occurs without some pre-positioned Advertising VP’s wet dream splashing around the edges of the page.

The General Populus is told what and where and how to strive for this ingenius fabrication of the soul-looters & pollution experts who sit a top the corporate ladders, driving the super-PACs… you know, the boys in the bomb business. Work work work! Marry! Child rear! Invest invest invest! Pay your taxes and your mortgages and your student loans! Run around and never, EVER, look up! Buy! Sell! Who gives a shit!>? Fast paced and even faced…the boys in charge, who pay less on their annual income than you or me or the ghosts of Kennedy brothers ever tossed into the kiddy,  force their agenda into the global mind frame. They seek to dismantle the archetypes of reality and the conceptions of the soul, because once the idea of impermanence sets into their subjects’ philosophical fabric… oh boy…

Real questions are asked. All of a sudden, the fairytale dissipates… their answers… the rusted alloy and discharged semenations and coarse arguments and unnecessary hatred remain while the old dogs puff fat cigars in sub-continental bunkers overpaying for sex publishing articles about the Top 10 Places to Live in America… because a crack slinger from Baltimore wants to pursue his entrepreneurial interests in Salt Lake City, UT… because we all need his and hers televisions in the master bedroom, reeking of mahogany and cell phone service. Ceramic cutlery lined up around rust-proof’d outdoor grills on the patios between potentiality and pussy and the king’s seat…

Do you want to find their bunkers and burn their bullshit? I do.

Back to You, Alan!


At least the old generations woke up with minds to lose…

We were born outside of the pens, the shepherd

asleep at the wheel.

Soundbytes & torrent waves &, manifest destiny whipping us

to website ourselves into eternity, (open-access)

happy happy icons…

Thumbs lapping wits, consciousness barely a

tweak in the frosted light of November.

Children stare past God, &

even if you read on, now, you’ve won! Goddamnit, right now!

You’ve won! Fight and thrive and kill until

the old men die!

These words, a song to dead tribes…sick hands beat the drums

while this pounded verse, blistered at the hearth,

refuses to plough along the line.

Listen to me you invisible ghosts, you ugly soul’d alterations

of nature…maybe the ether will catch the

aftermath, a couple of smiles…

Cano! Sing! Dance! Eat magic and love yourself in

the faces of your friends, coerce mycelium

between unlikely ends!

Continue on, especially when the path sticks like a grade-school

desk drawer, and the crowd laughs. They laugh and Hyde

& will never be remembered,

which is the secret truth We Can NOT forget my

friend… the dripping elixir that fuels the way, a

shell for a hermit crab.


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