people work better when driven (insane) -x)

The queen of dark matter and star-sucking, star-spitting violence, expelling religion, power, politics, and compelling economies the color green… the Queen she boomeranged (not jettisoned) 2 deepspace twelve (and back) all zipfile collected archives of recycled history which then, upon extreme impact re-entrance, froze the atmospheric firewall in what she described as: glorious triple-threat, back burnout, recedivist fashion… In service to her brilliant, proper planetary alignment initiative by which security fix satellites could have full access 2 the hard universal drive and its partitions… In retrospect, good people of planet earth survived another virtual day, though infected telelobotomized heads had to be exploded to kill the virus replicating adware into universal cellstreams twenty-four seven if not greater frequencies (now possible)…At the funerals, loved ones often wept, but the most plugged in of mothers knew and sometimes podcast to the mourners that their child died 4 a good cause… Most had grieved the loss already, many years back, when television first apprehended  their children… the royally decreed experiment carried interest where many asses had been kicked: 2 the never ends of the earth… we will be all right the sky said to the ground, or we  will not, the ground whispered to the grass, overheard by all the gossiper weeds standing at the ready, who, by and by, began to sway side to side with worry (not unlike their human counterparts) beside the creeper vines flat with indifference…the whole ecosystem seemed to take it all, the wrong way, too.

people work better when driven (insane) – ix)

Some money making murder mystery venture was proposed, to save the world.  But money could not help us now. Unless we wanted to sit on a sidewalk in san francisco. For the park-your-ass meters. To keep the park-your-ass enforcers off your ass. You got to have dry wall for brains or some quiet desperation, to wake up one day and decide to act out by some innovation on pickpocketing. But that’s exactly what happened, when it was clear the world was not for saving. Maybe the whales, but not the world. Just as  Steve Jobs and crew were in his garage creating the macintosh… just as Packard and Hewlett were in a garage creating the printer…simultaneously as all garage bands ever were in their garages plugging in and cranking their amps to eleven… some asshole was learning how to steal your identity in his parents’ garage (because i am sure he didn’t own a garage, himself, not yet anyway).

So we take the good and the bad, together, naturally. All of those garage experiments evolved into cottage industries and then empires, over the course of thirty years or more. While you and me were coming home from work (or not), and planted in front of the TV. Could we reclaim all those hours lost in front of the former tube now pixelated flatscreen phenom, we may have devoted them to better causes than working our marvelous retinas into a pulp.

J by K

People work better when driven. Better than being coaxed into a couch, sucked into that singular, savage and brutal addiction to the once marvel of engineering become luxury item become mass-produced producer of idiocy via artificial contrived morality tales to snakeskin sales pitch to fear-propagating political weaponry, become feng shui killbot 2000, become that which we must now look out for as gravity takes it from the arms (through the window, above us) of the desperate if not suicidal multitudes who, having lost all personal integrity and dignity to the thing, found, in reactionary thoughtfully thoughtless rage,  immediate end to the problem and all its projected yet false happenings which made superfluous the very lifeblood flowing through any man or woman or child. To the sole singular purpose of pressing a few simple buttons to todays essential pseudo life-giving (soul stealing) contrivance or advertisement or other lobotomized offal better known to drainage pipes and sewer systems and other some such forgotten, abandoned, set away from human senses so as not to offend, offenders of our tentative and more than ever before gelatinous hold on society…finally did the right (though mad) thing by throwing another sorry-assed lightbox out the nearest window…. which, i propose, never would have happened, had they not been driven insane.

by Katya 07/13

Atlantis, times three

i am trying to find myself

between commercials

apparently

i am located

somewhere deeper

than that

Atlantis

times three

i remember almost dying

the weight

was too great

i got

stepped on

like flagstones

I saw you there

we could touch

almost

through our

imperial pints

of tears

drowning

Atlantis

times three

i got stripped

like a stripper

but without

so much

a choice

off the walls

in the paint

in the darkness

the memory

faint

gracefully

i laced up

to give them

something

2 remember

gracefully

i tried then

2 forget

sometimes

i grabbed the knives

in the kitchen

and turned

toward them

screaming

its real painful

to look

i could drown

in it

Atlantis 

times three

i found me

by looking

baptized

by watercolor

bled down

in the city

bled out

to the valley

sweet canvas

of colors

shelters me now

the painted walls

i like to

leave them

this way

i am different

i am young

my spirit

touched by

the sound

of the colors

dripping down

Atlantis 

times three

is where

i am found

-Katya

July, 2013

people work better when driven (insane) -viii)

People work better when driven, like rain. Not like nails through plywood. Not like slaves. Nothing narrow. Driven to a point as deep as bone marrow. Where the levee breaks. The point of overflowing. To the point where sanity and reason dead end. Where we may become highly emotional and sensitive. Where we conduct electricity and switch channels, facile (with ease, if you please). Irrational? for certain. Intelligence? Beyond standards. Insane? Well, not sane, in the best of any sense of not sane. A psychosis? Perhaps. Psychotic break? not necessarily. Long past the neurosis? Most likely. Ferocious? Like a tiger. Outlawed? Most definitely, like the wild are outlawed from your tea parties.

unedited

sachomes #1 by k

What american culture seemed to have lost sight of, somehow, somewhere in the past;  was the continuity and emergence that soon comes to pass. That dead end or limit, got taken literally, indeed. Never mind if travel may continue on foot. If left unbound and not institutionalized, unmedicated in some cases, people can get relocate themselves in the land of the lost. What by all appearances looks hopeless, even criminally insane? May find self-remedy, in the realm of the spiritual. The soul has no ordinary bounds, you see. The soul was made for being extraordinary. This is the soul’s inclination.  Past the point of knowing, really nothing is clear. Past the point of comfort, the mapped out area. Past the well worn territory of both mind and body. Past the breakpoint of rpms in your Ferrari. Past familiar. Out of area. Quite impossible, and why? Because part of our nature needs to learn how to fly.

People work better when driven (insane) -vii)

We stayed in the Motel Seven Deluxe Suite, you know, the one with the hydrogen bed and the nitrous oxide satellite feed? We fastened one another into the zero def chambres, where we felt HBO and TellTime into the night. Tactile feedback chambers were all the new rage. Supplemented, and in some cases supplanted, all visuals. Transcended temporal limits. The future! Was it really with us? In accordance with the present. Uhh…wow?

Wicked! was the exclamation all over Boston, when MIT held an open house to showcase the event. Of course, two billion watched at home. Only five or six thousand bipeds actually crossed the Charles River. Most of those took the Redline. Some took the bus. A few trifling souls, actually swam and never made it. The river was being sanitized, but the project yet to completion. Not everyone apparently knew. The Boston Harbor was much cleaner. Chalk it up to universal solvent. The Harvard crew team sculled right into one of the gas filled corpses, the next day on the river. It hardly made the news. What with the breaking of the tactile chamber phenomenom. What with the not-so-far-fetched claims that our human undertaking had finally brought the two into alignment, present and future. Despite the predictably unwelcome intelligentsia criticism. Which came back across the dirty Charles in elastic and immediate response. Faster than an EMT to an heart-stopping event.

The problem, the small world of most educated braintrust informed, was that said invention professing temporal re-alignment, if not a hype (which many knew right away, probably was), occasioned the grave consequence of leaving the consumer with no apparent future. But this was all shuttered into the past. Our emotional scales of distress smoothed out over and into the world, like the skips of skipping stones, behind us. The braintrust was archived. We could only remember how we virtually cried our carbon tears into the deluxe thick wet darkness of the light. At the moment of passing of the longest virtual night. How the tomatoes rolled off of their vines, and planted themselves in West Hollywood sauce vats. Sloughing off their celebrity skins. Their seeds and juices bubbling up effervescently, acid-mannered offspring of the rich and the famous. We could see red, again. Without having to immediately experience the frightening momentum of our great cultural furies. A safe and projective identification was no longer impossible. Standing on the sidelines of the regular though tawdry self-mortification which comes of a reacting-out upon the fingered source.

So was the way of the world, in the past. The common tale of intentions, paving the paths to hell. Now hollow and insensate, paved over in the gloss of primary colors, dutifully lacquered by some diligent postmodern botomaton. The thread of today, diving into the embroidery of tomorrow. So much for the phrase; to beg, steal, or borrow.

people work better when driven (insane) -vi)

The mouth has been watering for some time for a little taste of the really real! Far from the office-as-is. Far from the home-land-security-cam. Far from the life-support system. The Business class. The identical non pinstripe suits. The ladies unable to wear open-toed shoes. Life which is not a beach, even when you live directly on a beach. The gentleman frowned upon for windsor knotting their ties. This isn’t England. We don’t have time for that shit. Deducted from your paycheck. The mentality here. The program we must follow or else. Leave your dreams at home. Put your unpublished novels in the shredder. There’s no glory in your personal story of desecrated ennui. You owe yourself and your country some restitution, for all that rest. Bipolar? Autistic? Schizoaffective? Come one, come all! People wait in line for a diagnosis, just to get away.  Fuck the stigma. Be the illness. Covet the experience no more. Self-actualized mental illnesses. You wanna work it like that? Stranger things are happening, so get in line. Start somewhere. Let a county physician try and know you better than you know yourself. Cognitive behave yourself badly. Be a kid again, or role reverse your kids into parenting you. This is the quiet desperation of those who have spent the better part of their wonderful miserable lives within cubicles.

Heroes. That’s what we ought to start calling ourselves. Those of us who have sacrificed our sanity, to join the really real. Because heroes are the ones who wanna wake up, sunshine, and want you to wake up, too. No envy, no coveting nothing. No needing of what can be ordinarily supplied, to get them going with their bad selves and into the world that way, all human and scarred and shit, all making mistakes and so forth, all in the luxury of the poor, dishevelled, diy, really kinda real and  sensitive and depressed and anxious and emotional and socially awkward or not but creative in a way of living or working all day at some best effort cause with a heart and some passion or compassion otherwise sold at such a great discount and cost on some chopshop butcher block of supposedly trickled down economics. But instead owned and held dearly though appearing laissez-faire or loose or otherwise inaccurately judged, when all it is really, is worn out from trying. Worn out from giving. Worn out from being other than.

We are the  untold heroes and we are real. We don’t need to dream, but we do anyway. We might be found cracking nuts in some blue diamond almond factory down the street in the day. Or throwing paint chips at some glue-dipped armchair and passing it off for high art at some oakland first friday telegraph avenue meet bourbon street doused in whiskeytown rotgut penniless parade in the evening. All the drunken prairie dogs come up off their wooden skateboards to see. It looks like some lost vision.  But it’s not lost, not really. Just looks that way. Don’t be fooled. And sure, the pickpocketers will be among them. High art, my ass! will be the first thought crosses your mind. sometimes. Bottle bands and road flares lit up for applause. Kids hooked on ropes, bouncing off buildings. Calling it dance? There’s solid proof of wasted time and effort squeezing dreams dry. But we don’t let them stop us. Because this is heroics, 101. Acceptance. Insanity. Serenity. Insanity.

Can we continue? Not if we have to ask, no. This is the whole of it, to press on and on doing what you believe in most, then going to sleep, waking up, and doing it some more. You won’t always be happy, you will experience alot of pain and ridicule. But you grind up and juice some more caffeinated heroics, what with yourself and what you offer, and you offer your lifestyle, up to the world, and the young ones see you and wanna be you, because when they meet eyes and meet hearts with you, the mind falls away and the age and the physical and mental pain no longer affects us. We become made in the shade and bonded to one another. All artisans and artists, sisters and brothers. And we get beat up and beat down, and life throws us shit. But we somehow manage to just handle it. We work ourselves up to something good, something greater than great. I think we get there and feel it, then our bodies and minds let up and relax so nice. So natural from living this way. Then we can laugh our souls out right onto our tables, out of our windows and doors on the street. The light and the laughter. Replenished. Replete. Through and through, and another day approaches us and we take it, no fear. Because starvation cannot locate itself in something so dear. Its our twenty thirteen heroics gonna get us out of any bind. We are our national treasure, no doubt. keep our heroics in our attitude, share our talent like its gratitude. save the usa. this way.

people work better when driven (insane) -v)

Such was life, hold the tv. After the last dollar was spent at the dollar store, after the last hand vigorously shaken by successful mall recruiters, after the last, shiny remnants of humanity sunk into the glistening parking lot tarfill….whatever was left of us shrunk softly and quickly back into the vortex of  tv, hold the life. The only thing could awaken a man to venture back out, was the promise of a woman. The women would be lured back out by their children, of course. The children had the time, energy and naivite to go out again and again, and demand more. They damn well deserved more! Truly. In their machine-washed clothes, eating their fast foods too quickly. Wondering what was the purpose of papermade books were. Drinking their teeth clean of flouride enhanced waters. Sucked into screens, labels and the temptation of high fructose corn syrups. Over or under most recommended daily allowances of various vitamins and minerals.

So what was it coaxed you and me out of our shells? Out of our mobile and anchored homes? Out of our me-tv schedule scaffolding? Who or what held out the promise of the driven? What got the working men and women out of their birthday suits and angry bird slippers, and back on the not so high speed trains to their less than inviting workplaces? Was it Yerba Mate? Cocaine? Amphetamines? Fear? Was it patriotism? Capitalism? The desire for greenbacks? Dead presidents, fresh in the hand? Was it cream? Cash rules everything around me? Was it attraction or promotion? Was it some new fragrance free working man’s lotion? Witches brew or magic potion?

k by k

k by k

Or maybe we just needed a haircut. A break from the monotony. A thirst for a bigger box to live in, just for a day. Maybe a virtual mentor in the shape of a paperclip appeared to us, on our screens. Maybe an outfit had to be picked up at the drycleaners. Or a package, at the postoffice. Or some money needed laundering. Maybe the permit to gloss over guilt or shame for being layabouts, expired. Maybe the sun or the moon revved us up? Maybe a declaration of war that would be neither seen, felt or heard. Maybe it was some doctor’s orders. Maybe the meds needed refilling? Or the cavities needed filling? Or did we fall out of our apartments accidentally, after we fell out of bed?

Maybe we had not woken from some dream where we were in some strange land where we became filled with adrenaline, time and time again, and crouched like tigers and cats to pounce upon our next meal. Some strange land where we were hunters again. Even gatherers. Not just gathering moss, while stoned. Maybe in this bizarre fantasy, we were also foreign to the concept of being entertained. Maybe circus people were more acceptable, even praised? Maybe we were the freaks in our dreams, maybe we were america’s least wanted! Those of us who lived in front of stage, watching, listening, applauding, cheering, eating our throwback dinner theatre fare, one course at a time, one act at a time, frozen solid between the closing and the opening of the curtains, or drinking ourselves into a chablis coma. Boxes of wine on the luggage carousel, circling the wagons made of stone, parked right up under your grill. Cream puff for desert. Aperitifs: at the end.

Maybe the hands of time were touching toes, then can opening counter-clockwise outside of our attention spans. One length short of a blueprint. One donut short of a dozen. One act short of a play. One tab too many, and now the escape key won’t get you out of it. You get the message with the sad face an artistically-declined elementary student could have drawn: kill page… So you do it. You kill it. Like you were told. You stab it with the steely knife. The curtains come down like a fuckin’ guillotine! Sweetheart! See how it snapped?  The dust off the velvet end? Just like that. Just like us. Just short of ye olde wooden floor a thousand Caesars and Oedipis and Hamlets have dragged their sound and fury across, demanding of themselves nothing less than a miracle.

Then, after hours, after blood, after sweat and tears, leaving you and me. Leaving me and you, in our own silence for a second. Our own magnificent silence… the most beautiful, sacred moment of the whole damn affair! The chance nobody knew they were taking. Complete darkness and silence. Envelopes the air. Brings a semblance of peace, to our cream puff war. Before being upended, and lost in applause. Just like us, sometimes. Beautiful, wonderful, delicate. We are. For a moment. We are…before being again upended. And lost. In applause.