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Brinesanity – an abide jar, filled with all the fuqs given.

By

Clam room.

Clam. Fermented, dried, stale and shaled like shelled clams. All over the place, and still, there was never any shame. No regret, no hate. No disdain. No misfired seed, no negative looking for the positive to feed. Scared money does not win.

In the corner stood some of the shames. Forgotten, lame in the blame laid upon the stains and the names fallen after such games without frontiers; war without tears. It can be proven, from said surroundings, that light, or combinations of the lack thereof, with the right fungi and just about anything may seem logical.

Humans. Creatures of habit that fall to the side of the road like a rolling donut off the truck that carts the cooked carcasses of processed gluten towards the fields that the greenest of grass, the fastest of lines, seek. Hearing the stories of bullshit twenty dollar jobs, lines and credit that still shaded shame and hardship in the bedrooms of a nation that to this day still sanctions silence, sees abuse morph into the wails and sirens of the sorrow laced dreams parents shall carry, wary, well into the nights they only wish were not so lonely.

Once met a fucking sloth. Came from a village of stupidity, and then blamed the world.

Happy to see, listen, hear nothing from that rancid cunt of a fool – hate is little compared to the word I would carry forth to the genius publishers from Oxford. He wasted the time of a dying man, counted hours. Life blackened by the nape, the extortion of rings levitating over the padded landing areas that promised medals of bronze, silver and gold.

Vape.

He was a master gardener. Where the malts and the ales set sail, he came to claim the fever. It was gold, and these hills lay barren but for the ill, eh, lads…names, monikers from vigils that are tales that may be remembered between the swishing of the fluoride, a civil poison wrapped in a till foiled shat, smitten reminder of the crumpled cup that now served no purpose but another foul ball upon the yielded dreams.

I would imagine he smelled this. Late nights air, just a fishy shoreline and a desperate gasp at yesterday.

The crunch of the shitty shirt, crusted with 3 weeks of Bill Cosby approved ‘magic pudding juice God said we shall not spill on the ground’. Consent is only possible when two parties exist, could kiss to exist. A figment of a planted cookie, a stored backward arrow that can be seen as the token to the doorstep, hush…little baby? Don’t sigh, daddy is going to buy the memory that allows you to sing.

She was bloated. It was bloated. Of course if, she ate like that, consuming every living thing into her silver womb. It was another green chocolate feeding the ankles, dangling above the very demise of being reminded by the Grand Wizard of wasted life, to spay or neuter your pets. To those of you that still cry the word Plinko in your sleep, sure of where your pinky lays and the scent it conveys…

…buy more of the pipe dreams.

Consume more of the wax they spoke of as being pure and real. Made to help you deal with the madness, the sanctity of the sound oblivion parading towards the fast food chain straw dispenser. Perhaps this is the straw Bono spoke of in “Where the Straws Have No Name?”

Synthetic fibers were the best. They often allowed the fluids, the smelly liquids of sorts, aqueous stench vessels. One could argue that these all should have touched the floor. Torched the genetic fragrance such that it could not infest another embryotic companion with the wanton disregard for sanitation.

Then again, they were all too busy waiting for the 86 to come along.

*abide*

By

Asshole’s Hindsight

“Misery does not love company ‘traditionally’. It yokes, trammels and contains vassalage through deceitful choice masked as emotion.” – Gus

Two red darts, two girls in blue.

Seclusion, and the promise of sobriety.

Standard fair for the Ferris wheels in Leningrad, fog lifting the sanity from the perspective that shone the light of a lift, before the drop came and the masses followed suit with children born of a liturgy founded in mad beats, rapid change and seclusion within the music of the mind.

Sanity seems to have been formed by the balloon blown, covered by the asymmetric mean averages puked by an algorithm that snaps tomorrow today, before yesterday has been given the time to ferment and crate the illusions of an illustrious past. Seems as though this is not the cloak by which love is forecast to shave the balls of Fate, stroking the chalice and tasting the chocolate and corn with such flare the media seeks interviews.

Canadian? No problem, we want to keep raping your resources, claim we dig you, then fuck you in the ass when The Interview is played on the eve with which some think of Mary, a whore, taking a flaming flesh souvlaki in the hole that shall bring forth a majestic, white, male. Destined through the clouds to provide the bliss that all cultures must follow. I am the racist though, perhaps one trying to inform the world of just how truly ignorant it is when considered soberly.

Fuck your tradition and simple manipulation of a past.

The details that were left in the footsteps of fools and flounders in the fields are just that; indentations of history caressed by the free minds of those that had the fortune to control all moves upon the chess board.

It is but a grain of rice, and those are but 64 squares. I stand by my decision and my kingdoms shall suffer the fate of stupidity I am about to exhibit. This is why I am King, the hindsight. As my Queen, she is sight. Follow our deleveraging of a regulation within this utopian sanity deemed a market. Justify 18,000 points as a heated manipulation of the economic strength that is flexed daily, as the masses buy magazines and bury time in the sand like the head it was to be by the choices they chose to oblige.

Looking back at the year, a snarl greats the first thirsty reflections; crowns upon the Crown Royal, salutations to the nights of frenzy and rage. Syphoned medications sit idly in the cupboard for days until their ghost gasps, push buttons and call upon Gus’s of the world to throw gasoline upon the pyres. Rubber tires, and vile language to bring a sobering reflection back from the mundane passive.

Chants of freedom, and the ability to speak are the pillars by which the temples of knowledge are shared, so many unseen and forgotten – doomed to be repeated in the passed negligence that was intentional, smitten, and of spawn. The horrors of racial profiles, and gun violence – spoken of years ago in one voice (*link to my piece), seemed to be lost in the Billboard 1000 Charts. I stand by them, still saddened by the ignorance that persists as governments allow the tires to be soaked. Recycled with fire.

Shit has to go somewhere, and when touched by fire every asshole will clamp shut. It is an autonomous reaction, like taking a piss when you shit. Just happens. The problem is, when the asshole is clamped shut, and it continues to feed off the fossilized sanitations of a global conscience, it will explode. Fuck, if it were anything but an asshole, it may have had the foresight to avoid taking in whatever would, or could cause such a problem. If it were anything other than an asshole, it might not be sitting here reflecting on the hindsight of an asshole.

I mean, upon presentation of the concept, or the ability to create a parody of the Nutcracker filled with all the madness you could imagine, I first was angered, then flattered to be able to given the opportunity to show that two cheeks could make life an entire universe, from the perspective of an asshole. It has a fixed position this asshole, it seems, as though all assholes do. If they did not, then they would have be referred to as ‘x’hole, where ‘x’ represents the infinite range of locations that can occupy the body of a living being, to expunge shit. Bile, refuse, piss. The excrement most often associated with political press releases, big ticket philanthropy, and manufactured poisons of all ilk.

Fucking awesome, right?

Well, wait.

It even gets better.

Turns out, the real twist on this story is that the asshole whose hindsight I was going to be reporting on, actually was a speaking asshole. A limited audience, and his impact is not so great as to truly matter, I mean, seriously – who the fuck is going to give any credibility to a talking asshole? Laughs? Sure. Impossible not to laugh at anything an asshole has to say, poor bastard has had a lifetime of assholes before him representing just about every facet of shit possible. Life is a remix.

How does an asshole stay relevant in the information, and mind occupation race?

Are you aware of the shit that is coming out of your mouth?

Does the taste of corn and peanuts bother you during any of your deliberations, arguments, or daily wishes of good-anything from day to night and all in between?

What is the ingredient in rye alcohol that makes all assholes rage?

The one thing that was required of me was to read Wolff’s ‘In Defense of Anarchism’, as well as appreciate the fact that most refined assholes, or those that believe that they are smarter than the average assholes, tend to take a lot of tangents, and the one I was going to be discussing hindsight with was particularly intrigued with Wolff’s IDOA work in 2014. This was likely a profound reaction to some serious of events, or a collection of them in totality from a broader delta of data points over time I was told, and I had to run with that. I was now considering how much of a challenge this was going to be, and was I going to be any better of a person for being able to be the furthest thing from this kind of asshole I could be?

Well it appears as though 2-15 provides the man in the mirror with an opportunity to pass the relish. Spread it and weep, fuck it. In the grand scheme of the universe, it has math to fuck hardily. Reach around, full on fuck. Screw the silence and the security, for the naive and the naive. Do you think you can tell, heaved and a mighty swell? A file from a nail, a walk on part in the scar, or the lead foil in a sage brush?

You think you can tell?

The real anger, the frustration is in listening to the water tell us it had nothing to do with the rounded edges of the rocks. The shores, they were craved from the carvings of the actions each rock took, the stance and the lack of action. That, that indeed is what shaped the oceans and the spleens.

Ne’er one fret to the pace, it is all but a relative.
Capsule, capped fool; tricks were for kids.
Still, into the night said the perfect knight.
Shame, it was a lie.
Forbidden into the lair, high.
Scared.
So it bursts, capitulation with a side of bravado.

Fuck, the walk is nowhere near as long as the song that is sung.

Starving people but a headline on the pages.

The man walks into the clinic for a nut sack tuck.

The trauma is equaled only by the drama.

Of the ride, but one promised by a llama.

Fuck this magic carpet ride is gonna abide; you can tell by the other side.

Fetaman's Abide - Miracle of Life Ehknew

*abide*

By

Andagram.

Kerouac said, “Great things are not accomplished by those who yield to trends and fads and popular opinion.” Although likely a great remix of thought from the past, his ability to bring it forward in a real way impacted many roads, for many miles, and many more to come. Truth is, he was smirking, and remains so in his grave, knowing of those who wish to start their own trend or fad, or be part of another one under another name for the sake of fame and glory, and some kind of worldly need. To be part of a machine, known or not – as oppressed as it sounds, I wonder if Animal Farm would agree?

Orwell argued, in his fantastic treatise that great things would only be accomplished through trends, and fads and fabrics that united the causes. Was he suggesting that this was contrary to what we believe as individuals is what make our jobs, and our pens whole, but in reality, we graze on the meadows of houndstooth walls and metallic lumber implanted with copper veins? Is the juice, that precious juice that travels with the nutrients fed back to the leaves that fall in the forest, and if so, does the NSA hear when they fall? Will my voice be heard, in the roar of all those united to occupy the malcontent of the minds and the masses before the Happy Hour at the ATM? Quick, trade the shirt for libations of conformity, but knock thrice – you won’t get in without the hair on the chin, unless o’er da ‘air a doig, um.

Syntax is supposed to be about pleasing another, and not the fury of your own mind. Correct it, move on. Enjoy, life is short. Of course, learn how long that life is based on the need to approve. They approve grammar now also, in most cases, unknowingly to lead the recipient to believe that logic can be induced from a non-comatose state, or a walking parish state. Prey.

Trust sharpened to the edge of a taint sickle. There once was a day I had more trust for the world that lay behind these screens, now filled with just another killer of time, with stars and search histories that will dictate what your divorce proceedings will look like. Fear not, divorces are like bad knees. We all get them, just in some cases, later or in different parts of our bodies. This is what age does, or creates. Like money and rust, it too never sleeps. I prefer time of the three but that is not something we can cook in a stew and sit around some Yorkshire pudding speaking of the great days your facade was not well masked, but few can know that. Keep me on the outside, I will only promise to look in when it is time for the knod. You will know. The tap will be faint, but the cards will not fade. They have been aware of the night as long as the days alchemy. Brother. Such a taint sickle.

Africa. The land of the madness, some kind of wild frontier. A land, where people have little of anything, and are grateful for it. I have a sense of calling there, perhaps as a final wish, it will be there I give myself over to helping in the only way that may seem just for a person who is of the cut I am. The line has taken a different angle, and the light dances in a new way, so I remain in a place to allow my hands to be but tools of a greater, selfless calling. Philanthropy does not require a black tie, or a tiny cocktail that has evaporated water. The water would have been consumed before it was given a chance to boil.

Nourishment. A small cafe you had to walk into hoping for the hamburger, or the fine salad. Looking to be able to satisfy the craving for the quick meal, something to pay over hunger with until the paving company came in to make it a more permanent mental decision. Then it becomes autonomous, like the lies. The proliferation of the manifestations that seem the entire dress together. Gown on a clown, send ’em in. We got to the show on the road. The left stage will enter first tonight, we have a Guyanese diplomat in the front row with a row of dates hoping he smiles at one of them. A diamond crusted box of McNugget’s is available for the winner, and she can choose whatever sauce of her fancy. The condition is easy. Sip or drip from the right box or straw, or keep your mind and remain a pauper in excise.

Tried, tested and laid to rest. Yes, I like that. It allows me the ability to sit like a modern Platonion. Layers peeling back the ability for you understand the context, the whole story, as I profess to but I have the right boards and can cast the magic spells with the cats, and the scammers and the delights. Yes, listen closely, or don’t listen and then come here one day, and see the “code” was just writing on the wall. The book. That is the tell all. That is where the real magic happens. It goes without saying, I have to thank all of those that have participated so far. The story is shaping up as nicely as the other houses, I just think my cards are little bit thicker, and I am well aware of math and origami. May I have the last brownie?

I really wonder what Umbrellahead is doing right now. Gus grabbed ’em. Fuck.

Nutella they said. It would stop the sun. You could blend in, look like a tourist that had moved there 17 years ago at least, trying to adopt to the island ways. It sounded like a good idea, and having read the book Black Like Me in grade 3, in French. Strangest part of the French classes were the curry smelling recorders we had to play. They floated in front of the curtain and you had to grab them quick, there was only one usually though. If more came they tended to taste and smell like socks. Odd. I was never good at the recorder. Hated it. Like having to put the Nutella back on every 5 minutes AND it has sand in it. Unless you are rich. I guess.

Oblectation. The enjoyment, the pleasure that came – was it worth it? Walk with a smirk. Bread. Wine. Fish fingers. Hear the lamentations of your weak geometry calculations before me. Clutch in. Grin. This is the path you take along the route of the festering cobblestone to profess a romantic love for the scratching, the plague and the dire times that seem so much better. Filled with the romance and flooded ways of the canals that are to bring the professed oars that break glass. Hydrogen twice, oxygen nice but puppy dog tails are not meant to be for amusement of spoiled or unattended domesticated apes.

*abide*

By

Tread abide, heavily.

“Tread lightly.” Walter White

“Resist much, obey little.” Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

I had the pleasure of meeting many great people as of late, some of them just happened to fall into the shadow of the ash that fell from the mushroom cloud. It was a long time coming, I knew it was in there – it was just a matter of the fuse being lite, and time being syphoned into a counterclockwise whore dancing as the rye flowed through the funnel and caught fire.

Flames licked the soul, feet burned on the coals and the voices in the head fought for some kind of space to come spinning out of the turnstile of profanity that came forth. Flesh was pressed for the sake of feeling a pulse, hoping it matched the beat in the blue vein on my cock. Beacons in the lonely night hoping there would be a reason to reach out and look at Pat Bentsofar, her ass a lonely heart in the night Yes might seek out backstage for a tuning of the right fork or the long neck.

Resting in the place of this fire, fighting to keep the words from rushing to every porous oracle in my body, oozing out no regard for the perimeter or the environment. Want of nothing but the ability to occupy the seconds that search for another way in, or out. Meaning in the motion of having to occupy the fire, halved for a period of time to move forth to another dimension, dementia the flavor of the sherbet. Lemons.

Ade?

No such word, looked it up.
Saw the picture of the black dude from Snatch.
Laughed.

“The grass is fucking orange.” Gus Xortopoulos

I am in the thirteen year of Hell.
There will not be a fourteenth.
It shall end now.
I shall end now.
Eyes dance.
I surrender – nothing.
Keeping it all.
Showing, but not surrendering.
Eyes sing.
2013.

I swear by my very life, this will be the case and yet am still not assured of you being here to listen.

The reasons, they will all be told.
Have been, now I have to edit.

Must I have to keep buying time from some of the queries, another weak offer that included a bottomless supply of Tabasco. I told them any good writer has salt and red blood to use for his Caesar.

Boils, zits, self inflicted cuts – accidents.

There is always a bloody, fuck you Mary somewhere.
Words cut.

All ways.
Always.

To doubt this is to not have soul, no passion. No life or love for the word.
The fight for it.
The feel of it as a sword, or a feather – but, in the arena possessed.

Held.
Measured by time, and then what?

Tired, and have been of so much – so wanting to just keep running and hiding in the busy days of repainting, or hoping there could be a call to vent about another fucking PTA event that would provide a fresh wheel for the cart. A way to keep the mask clean of the dust and the oblivion found on the road…so cold…so tired.

Can we sleep here?

Those that wish, may.
Discretion is their own, like mine.

I will sleep when I am dead.

I will live, when I can.
I will abide, heavily.

Informed consent is not something that is agreed upon in a moment of allowing a faulty argument to be made about consequences of actions, and doing the same thing. The risk and reward of many things come from one kind of action, and not another. Find the truth in the darkest of the spaces, wonder not why they hid them there. Wonder why you had to seek something in the space, and how you had planned to benefit from it – other than to simply give it life. Give it purpose.

My time on will change, you have seen it do so in the last year.
I yours, if.

It will continue to do so over the coming months.
Always does.

Fascination with meaningless numbers no longer binds the elements of sunshine and rain, joy and stain.

It is time for the beautiful grass.

So pretty, such a nice dream.
It must mean spring has sprung, and yes.
Yes, to your yes.

Such a very fine guess.

Wrong, but a fine guess.

Yes.
Yes to your yes.
I just have to write alone for the days and nights, but we can sit and talk.
I will speak, you will listen and praise me.
Tell me there is good in all that is done.
Hand me a buttered scone and provide a tea to warm the throat, now parched from lack of spirits.

Drunk on life again.
Mad on the intoxication of the words.
Treating me like the whore I am.
I have become.

A slave to the need to see them appear, and then leave.
Never satisfied, never aware.

Care.

Fucked by Rye, and left as the doorstep of another frat house of eternal brothers and tales to tell of the vulture that circles overhead.

Fucking birds.
Eat the meat, it is safe.

Just ash.

We all turn to dust anyway.
Even pages, words – will now change.

Find misery in the dark cinema, touching itself in the right places as the screen plays another black and white epilogue of Laurel proving his partner and he are characters.

Silver screens no longer functioning for what we thought, and you ask my why I simply do and see as I do, unaware of the rage that is chased on the tales.

Fucking beast, chasing his rage on the tail of a typewriter.

One mode, and much of it.

Get sum.

“All beauty comes from beautiful blood and a beautiful brain. If the greatnesses are in conjunction in a man or woman it is enough…the fact will prevail through the universe…but the gaggery and gilt of a million years will not prevail. Who troubles himself about his ornaments or fluency is lost. This is what you shall so: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body…” Leaves of Grass

*abide*

By

Umbrellahead.

The reason it is so big, is not just the contents. I think it has something to do with keeping the rain off the shoulders, I don’t like rain on the shoulders. Feels the coldest of all the places that rain settles, the wind just brushes it a certain way there. Makes it more bitter, harsh – but that did not matter.

I have an umbrella head, and I am not talking about a head like a big one, or a round one. I mean a head, that was actually stretched into looking like a hammerhead shark tried to come out the vajayjay and got caught on some sixties untrimmed bush, creating this bone like frame similar to that of the inside of an umbrella, and it was to that my skin and brain formed in the baby years.

My name is Umbrellahead.

Hard to grasp, but just imagine an umbrella that is over your head, but it is not over really, it starts right at the top crown of my abdullus camelgotta. The good news, it is not convex to the body, but concave. I came out head first, got that to be thankful for.

I won’t bore you with all of the details that became challenges in life. Early in it, pretty much called cute. It was a novelty, and it was amazing. I was special, and loved it. The kids always picked me first for soccer and baseball teams knowing I could keep them dry in the field if they ran under my head. Wind was not a problem in those days.

As other people waited for the rain to stop, I happily stood beside the BBQ, eating the hot dogs innocently with the chosen few to stand around under the “halo”. We would laugh, and laugh.

Of course, this began to change more as I got older. The cruel comments started in grade 6 to be exact. I commented on Becky’s Road Runner jeans, and she said the first mean thing to me that day. I never really understood it. I knew it made me feel bad, but why?

“If your second head looks anyone near as fuqtarded as that umbrella one you are never getting laid Umbrellahead.”

The words still ring in my head. Did she mean my umbrella head was my second head, and the first one made me ugly enough that no girl would ever let me touch, let alone get into those Road Runner jeans? Was there some kind of hidden meaning here? Was she talking about the head of the magic souvlaki that I was gifted with? No, that was shaped like the smile of an angel. Odd, very odd.

I am sure most of us know the coming of age for a young boy will start in and around grade 6. This is the time that he begins to discover the sexy raincoats in the JC Penny catalogue, or those patterned umbrellas from the L.L Bean booklet they always mail you for the shitter. Best place to bloke stroke as a young umbrella headed person, and it never dawned on me until that fateful day, that perhaps I was different.

That was all it took.

One hot, Road Runner jeans wearin’ buttertart.

My confidence was shaken and the world was about to come crashing down.

The next dozen plus years were like stubby bottles and bacon grease. Drink the bottle, fill it with the pork bellies drippings that no one wanted previously, but now were declared delicious by the machine – it had to drip somewhere, and the lowest common denominator may as well make something happen with it as the gruel of life was to be both tolerated and celebrated.

People would throw things at me, and stare. I would be ignored, or pushed out of line. I was told I had to move, or be thrown into the recycle bin cause no one loves a deformed umbrella.

Harsh.

It did not matter that I had a heart, or was a man that simply had an umbrella head but could lift eight times his body weight. Spoken word, math or agricultural discussions flowed like the Pacific shaking hands with the Atlantic – but it did not matter. Polite to a fault, wanting to make sure all could sit, or the door was open, or the line up was not an issue, please go ahead – but it did not matter. A great CSR, with a penchant for solving any problem, with no additional costs, manipulation, lies, malcontent, malodorous management mantras or the like – nope, not a fuckin’ matter.

He would still be mocked and taunted. Pushed and pulled to move away from someone quickly before they ‘called the police, or whatever we call to deal with your kind’ – life, it seemed had changed for me.

The only time, and I mean the only time people were nice to me was during rain storms or rainy days, the bad windy and snowy ones, or even on the odd scorching hot day when there was no shade to be found anywhere. Of course, it would be my pleasure to allow the top of my umbrella head to get sunburnt in order to make sure yours does not. I want to stay out here and do this, so you can take an iPhone pic of me on the corner of Queen/Yonge with 13 people huddled under me after you have left my comfort to find your home in the wet masses going home to loved ones. I want to get on that trolley, but by the holy laws of Zeus, no need to push these folks away.

I have no loved ones, and may as well feel good and get the smiles and best wishes now.

Assumption: this was going to be the way that my life was going to change from being a fun loving child, to a utilitarian tool that would be there to be used as required, and then tossed aside. Never cleaned, or cared for. Never held with a pride and an esteem that my great-great-uncle in London was. He had been born with a walking stick as an arm, it accompanied a wonderful gentleman around Essex County and the surrounding woods everywhere. Bringing adoration and prestige.

Not me.

I had to be born into this day and age. The one where Fonzi had ruined what was traditionally cool, and artists like Mickey Avalon spoke about “their dicks” like it was some kind of custom, orthotic rubber shoe cover.

My life as a man with an umbrella head had turned into a nightmare. I had no choice, and even went to the doctor so I could see what she could give me. She said son, son you have gone to far, been smoking and trippin’ – betchya there are fairies that you have seen also? Yes, I said, a fairy with boots dancing with a dwarf. She gave me some Celexa. I will never forget the day.

It was the Sabbath. It was black.

Everything changed after that. I just went into drone mode. I allowed people to snap pictures of them with me, laughing outside but crying inside. Sometimes I would make elephant man noises, and speak of not being an inanimate. No one heard over the clicking of the lens or the laughter. I got into the groove of feeling what my shoulders would be like at the end of the day, having to turn this way and that to go through doors or try to use the bathroom stall. Do you know how hard it is to have to hold yourself up with two arms on the stall walls and then Turkish hover shit into the bowl a few feet below? Sure precision on the bowl is important, but if those legs start to swing or the shoes get in the way, I got some cleaning up to do later.

*sidenote – bullshit more people don’t have handicap stalls, but the fucked up thing about those is the toilet is right beside a wall and I still have to contort to the left or the right, and sometimes the tip of the umbrella touches the floor and I have to go home and use the acid-infused shower to rinse the disgusting juices of bathroom floors off.

Life was miserable, but it was the only one I had. Sitcoms, social networks and soda. My health did not matter. Even with muscular arms, a gymnasts body and chiseled set of legs, I was still an outcast. I had tried running at several points in my life, but wind gusts prevented any effective training and in fact caused some serious neck injuries that one time along the Scarborough Bluffs when that wild brine tsunami came unannounced.

I lay in bed for weeks after that resting. I don’t call it sleep, because the position and the discomfort is as close to Hell as can be imagined.

I did not even think about the word love. It was just a fantasy concept. I liked a lot of things, found joy and relief in being able to hide in some of them, but I did not know of this place in my life. No family, no friends – this shadow of a person walking the streets the way to the specially adapted cubicle, with the specially adapted ear piece, taking calls, making sure customers were always treated with dignity.

No one could “see” Umbrellahead here. They could just feel his words. He never confused people, he was very clear. Easy to use, and functional – his intellectual fabric protecting the customer, even from some of the same internal assholes who resented his 106% Satisfaction Rating, which for the record is possible is you take the 6% of the calls he resolved for his “peers” and add them to his own 100% rating.

The day that I met her, it all changed. It was as if the thunderbolt had struck me, and I had never heard such a happy person in my life. She had called to make sure to thank us for providing an adaptive kit she had been looking for all of her life, it changed her life – and my gratitude in reply was kind and real.

I had helped improve that kit based on my umbrella condition, and I was so pleased that it allowed her to see life in a new light. She told me, and I will never forget those words, the man that understood the need for this in the world, was the man that would have her heart. I pursed my lips, and my pulse grew like the cocks of the stallion steeds returning from the battles of Alexander the Great to see the fields of mares with trays of cheeses, dolmades and ouzo. I could not tell her I was that man, that would not be right. My heart sang, for the first time since being an innocent child.

I spent the entire shift on the phone with her, Ms. B. U. Stand. She was fabulous and by the end of the call, I was just calling her Stand. It was an odd name, but she was endeared to it. Said many times, it was just fate that had things happen for certain reasons, and she was happy with hers. Although never married and alone, she was educated, had a wonderful farm estate she had adapted into a pleasant place to greet company and share baked goods with the bed & breakfast guests, she said she had “hopes to put in a small Canadian shield amphitheater so she could host special events for special people and their friends.”

She helped people who were special, or with challenges, find the beauty in who they were. She asked me at the end of the call if I would be interested in meeting for a tea, she had to come down the street from the office the next day, and I would be able to receive her drawings, related to possibly enhancing the quality of life of others who may need the device, and she felt it was her duty to do that as quickly as possible. Making the world a better place was important for her, would I be so kind?

If it had not been for the fact both of them felt something over the phone that day, combined with her incredible intelligence and foresight to be able to predict that he would never break a professional code to have a tea with a customer, let alone risk being seen and rebuked. The one time he had tried this, all the change she had been counting as she waited for his arrival was thrown right at his umbrella, one of the dimes had an evil ridge, it left a permanent scar. Still sees it to this day. He smiles today though.

If we can make one less person suffer, let’s do this.

Lunch the next day was a good time, and Umbrellahead would still have to eat, so he suggested 12:30 and he would treat with the tea. It was best it stayed in his hands and the tray, that shit is hot if thrown. Lessons learned. *sigh* She was going to be wearing orange, their favorite color.

Umbrellahead came from the back, it was the best way to approach for him, and in this case, it was fate. What he saw, expecting to see Stand in orange, was anything but a regular stand.

She was beautiful. Her shape was like no other one he had ever seen, and to some it may have been contrived as even over weight, gaudy. Un-natural even. Horrible, ignorant people would say this. Real men, true gentle, kind, loving, magical men would not care about such a dalliance of thought, they would be so struck by the unique and beautiful nature of who she was, and what she held in such high regard.

She had an umbrella stand on her back.
Back U. Stand.

My head was spinning.
It was making sense now, her name.
The u.

A large, ornate, flesh covered umbrella stand. In it were several orange umbrellas, each with a small orange heart shaped piece of paper that said “Be kind, share the orange.” They were beautiful, and somehow would be hidden from the front. Her hair, this beautiful Natalie Wood/Brigitte Bardot creation was flowing in the back and also worked well with her choice of outfit.

I was about to turn, and run – I had on some Dockers, and an orange plaid shirt. I thought it would be funny to wear orange socks and my flip-flops, cause dressing a little like a clown might disarm most, and one of the creamers fell off the tray. She turned gently, and our eyes met.

I never went back to work.

I moved out of my apartment 2 weeks later.

My umbrella head helped keep the sun and rain off the back for 2 summers.

Igneous, sedimentary and metamorphic all created one beautiful blend.

The people in our lives are beautiful people.
Unique, smart, funny, loving – people.

The happiest day in our lives, was when we found out we were pregnant. It took several months for the doctors to confirm, but I am happy to announce, we are expecting twins. Sometime in the fall, 2014. Two peas in her pod, but momma umbrella stand is doing well and we remain blessed for all the magic in our lives.

Umbrellahead, Back and our two peas.

Please say hello to us after the show, the matinee is the best one to bring the kids along for pictures and autographs, the evening shows can get a bit more cheeky when we include our special guests, Clothesline Arms and Jackhammer Dick.

Fuck, life is a trip eh.

*abide*

By

Abide is not passive.

a·bide [uh-bahyd], a·bode or a·bid·ed, a·bid·ing.

verb (used without object)
1. to remain; continue; stay: Abide with me.
2. to have one’s abode; dwell; reside: to abide in a small Scottish village.
3. to continue in a particular condition, attitude, relationship, etc.; last.

verb (used with object)
4. to put up with; tolerate; stand: I can’t abide dishonesty!
5. to endure, sustain, or withstand without yielding or submitting: to abide a vigorous onslaught.
6. to wait for; await: to abide the coming of the Lord.
7. to accept without opposition or question: to abide the verdict of the judges.
8. to pay the price or penalty of; suffer for.

Verb phrases
9. abide by,
     a. to act in accord with.
     b. to submit to; agree to: to abide by the court’s decision.
     c. to remain steadfast or faithful to; keep: If you make a promise, abide by it.

Origin:
before 1000; Middle English abiden, Old English ābīdan; cognate with Old High German irbītan await, Gothic usbeisns expectation, patience.

Related forms
a·bid·er, noun

Synonyms
1. tarry. 2. live. 3. persevere, endure. 4. bear, endure, brook; support.

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

Citizenship in a Republic, Theodore Roosevelt

Think about it. Then don’t try.

When you do, I’ll be around.

Will you?

*abide*

By

The Cost of the Corn on my Cob has Gone up.

Time, more than a magazine. Smart apes, and strainers with transmissions.

Time, more than a magazine. Smart apes, and strainers with transmissions. It was just a photo that spoke of an age when there was a scent of change. It smelled so clean, and wonderful. The programs had told us so, this was how one would wake up and live. This was emancipation from slavery. They believed. Duplicity, delicious in this proLean (c) smoothie. *changes channel, opinion sound, dilates pupils, gulps senses*

I recently had to undergo some review of my health and my diet as of late, as some of the resulting issues post cancer(s) are non-terminal. Sure, they also mean they cannot be considered “life ending” – but that is all about how you define life, and the quality of it. Consider the loss of your vision, devoid of the current “life” you see. Is that a loss of life? A disability? Something you think you can overcome?

I have made that mistake in the past, and realize people (a) have limited intelligence to be able to comprehend context unless it is spelled out to them explicitly, and (b) most are fucking gossip cunts, that have to feed off the bullshit they create, and then spread it so their field can creep what they flow.

Feel free to look around, in fact, please do. Then make sure you inquire or inspire, but light the fire and bask in the glow of whatever flame is before you, hot or cold.

I know one thing, that the cost of “shit” is just fucking unreal when you consider a whole bunch of the most common elements, and somehow people continue to think they are “rich” and “have” more than in the past, and I have to smirk, I really do.

So I made a list, of some of the most common items I remember as a child and then created a table which listed them, my memory of them as a “cost” (*for the soon to be haters, please fuck off if you expect full blown reference back tracks to what the actuals were, fuck. I remember getting 2 dozen corncob in my rural “hood” or thereabouts, and that shit was a buck. If you can’t remember that, or never experienced it, well whatever, make your own table) and what that means per unit.

So, as an example let us consider a corn example. Back in the 70’s, as children travelling to the 8 tracks the old man wanted to turn up, we would stop roadside and get this massive paper bag of them for $1.00. The means, there were 24 cobs/ears (*yes, often more with the quick hands of a slick parent I am sure) or about $0.04/each. There was not marketed “ethanol” back then, unless it involved some kind of fermented inebriant that fuelled a hard days work trying to feed people who really did not appreciate how much more complex food, the politics of it, the inclusion of the “machine policy” within the profit margins and of course, the overall devastating changes that would come to occur with humankind and the world we occupy.

A snap of the Google fingers, and www.usinflationcalculator.com allows us to calculate that over the course of a number of years, backwards or forwards. Nice. Simple, and I do not want to get into the debate of how they calculate that rate, and if they are appropriately illustrating a cumulative rate of inflation or not. If you got the picture about the rate of inflation is not really discussing the type of clouds some may thing of cumulusly or humilisly.

*sip

Simply put, if you look at the cumulative inflation over two periods, there are going to be a variety of factors, but just create your own list like I had referenced above and play with some shit you remembered as a child. You will be fucking amazed. If I had shown you a list, you would not be able to emotionally relate to the findings on your own. If you brain functions in a visual, and empirical manner – the math is just astounding.

But the machine says there is a different math, so I insist.

I bought, 3 ears of corn the other day for $1.99 at an Asian grocery/vegetable store. They are known to have the lowest prices, and perhaps not the best decor and stuff at times, but other times and in season, great options relative to the $3.99 price I would pay at the super premium locations that demand certain auxiliary and complimentary assets allow entrance.

*no comment*

Here is where it gets confusing for most.

If I simply multiply the current cost of the low end, with $2/3 ears of corn, so $8 for a dozen? Or if it is the Uber-Corn, that is $16 for the dozen – right? Or $16/$32 for that same two dozen. So pull off to the side of the road, and now hand that dude a cool $35 bucks, cause you got to make sure the farmer is tipped.

But, no – you have tax now – so please factor that in accordingly in life, but here, let’s just keep it flat for right now.

How does that $16.00 not look anywhere near the same 4:1 ratio that www.usinflationcalculator.com put in for a 1974-2013 spread? When we plugged $1.00 into the calculator, it quickly burped that we would pay $4.72 for the same product, and the cumulative rate of inflation amounted to 371.1%.

Someone pass some more alcohol intelligence to the folks chirping about the use of marijuana, ’cause I can pretty much assure you most of the abiders or the gliders are in the full effect of understanding right about now.

I wonder if it has anything to do with math?

Don’t ask me – cheese can’t do math. Or spell. Or care.

*context smirk* Gus is around, maybe this is Gus. There are going to be a handful of people that read the site, and keep in touch via Twitter, and that believe, that are going to get a sneak peak at an inside tip for the book, likely within this week. Send out an email to me here at the site, or you can T/RT this posting with a #GusAbides tag, and consider that a belief grenade, you know, an abide flare of sorts. *shakes Fetaglobe*

But it seems to me, that $0.04 is what got an ear back then. Now, that same ear can cost as much as $1.33, or thereabouts. Is that how they got 371.7%? Missing something.

*headscratch*

Pretty sure I am not, but play along – it can get even “funner”.

Like remembering a drunk father who made sure to insist that $20 was used to buy his carton of smokes and a 24 of Molson. Yeah, hope they serve beer in hell old man.

I know one thing. When you plug in $20, there is no fucking way that $94.33 is going to cover the cost of a carton of smokes, let alone the case of beer with it. What is interesting is the rate of inflation there, the “slower” crawl that seems to jump out at me.

I mean, over those same years the cost to purchase has not gone as ballistic as food or groceries, but whenever we begin to discuss food, and how families can survive, or the quality of the food they are trying to survive on, some rich asshole comes wandering in and insists anyone can eat well.

All they have to know is what inflation means, and ensure the trust fund is handled by the right accountants, at the right time – right?

After all, intergenerational wealth is just not worth what it used to be.

Unless you still collect the stamps, and not use them, or their new forms.

This message sponsored by some complex origami for most.

For others, it is just another series of folds on the way.

*abide*

By

To relatives.

The entire series, was almost a decade ago. You expect me to sit here, and be passive as my name and effort is slandered – I watch my own parade sunshine, your escapades are for others to deem interest worthy, or note scurvy. I stand by what I write, how I write, and for whom. Anyone, questions always welcome. You stare at the cover and wonder what the words mean, but I can’t hear what you’re saying. Then again, more than likely, I could give a fuq to hear it. *jar rattles*

Enthusiasm is relative. Not a relative. Make the mistake of thinking that you are married to some kind of blood kin, that is supposed to come rushing out of you like unbridled enthusiasm, and deep breath – and you are cooked.

Some like to take things to a point, and then are willing to walk away from them, even when there is residual value in them, they have become so exasperated by the struggle, but the effort, by the cause that may or may not have been treated with the fair and right regal attention it deserved, but then again, that is what has allowed us today to capitalize on the failures of the past.

The lessons they learned, from succeeding to move the bar, or the ones that were failures inspiring a new line of thinking, all the way to the one’s that have allowed us to see man truly flying on his own. In the air, on a prayer.

For the thrill, for the purpose.

To not be away from it. To peer at the thrill of it all, and know that life is worth living only when the seize of insomnia ask for no permission they know will never be granted.

Life is precious, in any regard.
Wake the fuck up and live it.
Today.
Now.

You are in a position that is “close to the edge”?

This is where success, separates from “them” who stand on the edge and don’t jump for the thrill.

Fucking pussies.
I was there.
Once.

Many times actually, but that is a collective once now.

The Man in the Arena, “if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

I will not stop daring.
I will not stop trying.
I will not allow someone to just smirk at the sand.
I will not abide.
I will not try.

(licks pin on brine grenade, filled with belief every morning upon awakening, I carry it on me at all times, and reloads are always near by)

Each particle, each fragment – united, it becomes a greater force. A clearer image, filled with the pixels of purpose and the thorns to be rested on the weary head that must shield their eyes, their orifices, their very souls from the cerebral tsunami before them.

That is ok sunshine, stay in the concrete tent.
That is where your God has asked to stay, serve the rebar.

If you mix your effort with cloak, it will go awry He said, and still you decided to press. Remove the caramel and sugar coated textile from the tin, and dance with the sure grin on the fluoride tainted taste provide by the Machine.

Follow at your own will, and under your prowess.

Blessings, once aboden, become surety.

Bounties on the soul, with actions and flaming fuqtardation to espouse matrimony with mental mavericks or midgets.

Listen, to the call of the loon.

Disturbance or peace, is a reflection which remains, and always shall be – relative.

To health, happiness and prosperity – the last of which, is fully defined by ourselves. The old chicken, has the juice.

What kind of side dish you want served with that corn bread, ma’am.

*abide*

By

Here, the reign.

You hear the train a comin’
Just round the bend,
You know you won’t be sleeping,
When the IRS steps in.
Stuck in Fulsom Fed,
Euros or fine Yen.
But these papers keeps a-rollin’,
Down to Variance.

When I was just a new curd,
My Momma told me, “Feta,
Abide as a good cheese,
Don’t ever play with olives,”
But I shot a man in Athens,
Just cause I heard ‘em lie.
Since I hear that thistle howlin’,
Gus’s alibi.

I get there’s rich folks cheatin’,
Prestige kontiki bars,
Probably dunkin’ choda,
Troughin’ meat cigars.
But I know they had it comin’,
I know they can’t be me.
Still those people keep a-cheatin’,
It’s what tortures thee.

Greed freed me from a prison,
Road tracks made of brine,
So I check bet just a Skittle,
Satan shoves all in. Blind.
Leavin’ Fulsom Fed,
Got my papers today.
Said abide’s not a lonesome whistle,
It blows their blues away.

*abide*

 

By

Die. Cot. Ah, me.

The wonderful world of alliteration.

The pageantry of being able to see the defining moments of the world that is seen to be so clear, and crisp to some, but clouded to others.

Some by choice have had this path thrust upon them, as a reward for the vengeance that they sought to take on anything that was to control them. The parrot speaking to the wooden dummy, a host of the outcast misfortunes that led him along the seizure, a salted taste on the good days when there was a river of it on his tongue, hydrated for a moment as a man should be walking the piles.

Around we see the badges of accomplishment, flare that is presented to stress our importance and want for an acceptance or a call. We see people that will lie and cheat, not to preserve some kind of mental challenges they may face or the hardships of their lives, but more so to flee the horror of their own choices. Leaving a path of almost undetectable traces to the naked eh, to another – it is a clear presentation of the fraud that they presented, and in time they will get to enjoy the fruits of their labours.

Bitter or sweet is not only a sub routine of the season alone.

It is a parcel of the package that was delivered to the senses, and then tasted with the intent of the day.

My heart bleeds for the challenges here, and the reality is much different than anyone could imagine – unless they had walked a mile in my shoes. It would be a slow walk, for many reasons. I would hope we could pause a little, and gather some thoughts from the fields beside us. It is hard to believe, but I am going to prove that the grass is orange, and that is the truth.

Whether other’s want to see it or not, will not matter to those of us that do.

The site is not dedicated to selling anyone anything.

There is no beggar here that is pleading for some kind of hand out, or screaming that there is a way for you to make those lovely pumps shine with so much love if you lose 10 lbs. or wear this floral print propaganda.

I am more than happy to hoist an ale, or smoke a smile or two with you.

I really don’t care who you are, just know who you are.

Stand and take pride in that, regardless of the adversity that you made it through.

The complexity of philanthropy is not an easy one to understand for ourselves, let alone for others.

It is always your choice, and you can smile knowing you did what and how for a reason.

But that reason, is all mine.

These, are just the spilling syllables of the tales I tell, and the life I have lived.

Two spreadsheets and a microphone.

Listen, and you can hear the fuq’s given.

Understand if it was a fuck that was important enough to be saved, or one that was entered in the alliterative form of modern day gladiators entering their own arena of stupidity to do battle with the legions of the fucks that will pander to the machine for want of being accepted.

Stand tall, and know when one is proven to be real – not some fictional picture, or some false prophet on radio speaking the words of his kind.

Real – then you can get more than the nickel.

But those dollars you took, they have another toll that has to be paid.

If you listen closely to the complex symphony, the overture – you can hear the sound of the timpany drum in the forest.

Here it was, thinking that no one would listen.

No one cared enough.

It was not the cost of the beer, or the flavour of the weeds. It was not the gester that would be seen as anticipatory, earning one the right to get a pre-release of the book he was penning on that corner. He was a broken man, broke by the standards of the society that many thought were just to judge him. There his riches were of another kind, here the multiplied in force. In purpose, in a tense capacity moving naturally.

They had come from the heart, because they had been touched. Like walking around the corner and touching the pavement, anxious to see the man who had a story for every day.

Many days, there was no day without his stories. It was merely a stretch of the same composite construction of lame office humour and a desperate hiding spot until Ollie has had enough time to ponder his weak mule as an ox. It was a sad circus, and the man knew it. But he had to find something in his day that mattered, and so he came and listened. He thought no one else would.

You did, and that – has made all the difference.

*abide*