Jacob, Bible Experiment, Nonsense Prose-Poem

This is one reason to live, my grandson, Jacob Alexander Chaffin Wall. The kid is a corker, a live wire, a handful, very self-determined and adventurous, a real boy's boy. God I love to see him up here in the wilderness where there's nothing to worry about. As for his name, a lower birth rate may be influencing some parents to add more names. Ya think?

As for my children's generation, I like the new label: the entitlement generation. Perfect, yes? Inflated self-esteem expecting easy rewards, ignorant of how the world works. Eeek. I've met a few like that. I think they're entitled to a smack up the side of head, and Life, no doubt, will oblige.

Here's the next in the Sine Wave sequence, mercifully short, but one can see the increasing grandiosity of the speaker, along with his bizarre experiment, though he hasn't lost his sense of humor. In mania every result is interesting and there is no such thing as failure. In mania and hypomania one doesn't make lemonade out of lemons; one makes 50 year-old Johnnie Walker.


Bread upon the Waters

I cornered divine immanence with a shotgun
but it slipped away, almost present.
Its silence fooled me because it wasn’t silence
but the frozen stutter of a blank expectancy
guarding some deeper sentience
so I designed an experiment to see
if the world might grow conscious
of its unconsciousness:

I tore up a Bible
and fed its leaves to the wind.
They scattered without purpose.
I tracked them for months
until just one sheet was missing.
When I found it I laughed—
All genealogies!


My mood continues at 1 kilobunny, a term I have thought of changing to kiloraven because of my fondness for the bird, but it wouldn't wash because black birds aren't associated with happiness.

Now for a prose-poem, an entity towards whose existence I am utterly opposed:

Drung me, I'm flaxed. The Kiddishcat rumpled with great noisomeness the custard of my belly. Preserve the face through masks. I'm not free-associating, this is just one channel of my mind, hardly freeborn with an Alaskan stake. There are many parallel and contiguous other channels, such as how my testes feel at this moment (a little cramped) or how's Ratdog on the Grateful Dead Hour? Doublescoot, doublescoot to work O thrall with that leash dangling from your collar, phallic control by insidious institutions. Swallow your penis. Sorry, down the snatch. Kiss your own ass one for the money two for the show. A really big shew! Should I have said it in just that way? Way down in the bottom of my throat where the carbon whales sleep beside the plastic bon-bons equipped with nuclear-powered spy cameras? Cameramen never take my picture, I am not picturesque. Also too tall too tall too tall for the frame. Photographers and journalists are Pond's pond scum, verily in their majority, self-rigtheous gin journalists chewing cheap Swishers, in debt but loving it like peppermint loves Christmas, like Catholics like blood, like steel craves an edge.

I am not James Joyce nor was meant to be.

Did you find today's post mildly entertaining? I hope so. And having hope again is one of the greatest boons in coming out of depression, which is easily defined by a sense of hopelessness, helplessness, and worthlessness.


Thine at One Kilobunny,

CE