(Inspired by Kendrick Lamar – humble )
Whacked or weepiness?
Sing if you know this,
Well~ yuh, yuh.

Hey, I recall when every months with zero-balance-curse,

Therefore I lived my life with what I fit, but today I’m so ******,

When everyone gets what their want; In fact, I never wish,

I choose drink mix while you choose Crème de cassis to rid live’s blemish,

"Son, the richest man never get outta debt hub,
Duh, compare to you with just one luckless credit card?"

So let’s be rich with heart and do something bigger than Tesla,

Do read on my blog, then write it down or by heart at least,

Zero-to-the-hero, hero-to-the-pro punk,

a person who used to be dumb, dumped in the **** junk,

now 6 figures in the bank, I'm still like yesterday’s punk,

If you got this in the bank, promise to be like an old punk,

my life’s better than my virile,

my future promise me how I rolled,

Hey Mount. E, wait for me to reach your highest spot,

but I’m just play cool to it, cuz you know

Beast’s humble,
Sweet lown,
Be hierodule,
throw your crown.

Who talk money over passion won't be richman,

The dream you ever sketched, belongs to trash can,

The dream you never twig, just a goodnight,

Just do for what you love for your loved wife,

Just what you said you do it to get a better job,

Say something to me you'll be iron man like louis cyr or,

Say something like you are immune from all snide remarks,

Everyday you and I should celebrate the 'go for broke day',

I'll 'Die trying till get there',

Pave the way for success stair,

everything's gonna be okay,

God not just hear from your prayer,

He bestow for what you care,

So stay calm and feel the air,

Dont called it work - called it play,

And say "Never say ne'er",

Hardwork means modest, stay low profile, and rich heart way,

Mamma said dream big, protect it from apart, stay,

Be like the strongest humblest person in the world, OK?

I'm the strongest orphan after all, boom! beast's humble, --

-- Sweet Lown,
Snob's crumble,
Don't drown.

Vasili Kandinsky, Sally Rand & the Bauhaus
were way out ahead of their times,
the Beatles & Stones were retro then & avant-garde now---
**** is instantly retro;
not just any music is avant-garde but any naked woman
is no matter what she does or is currently doing,
Bettie Page & Marilyn Monroe,
Virginia Woolf even in their graves
Are ahead of their times;
Marquis de Sade & Masoch avant-garde;
Jean Genet retro---Blaze Starr avant-garde,
Lili St. Cyr modern & retro---Paul Klee avant-garde,
Marilyn Monroe both Modern & retro (A Gibson girl reborn---Elmer Batters a throwback w/ a camera---
To Diamond Jim Brady he & Lillian Russell were avant-garde---one day we will all be rich & naked,
dripping w/ jewels & connoisseurs)
Sol Lewitt retro; Judy O’Day modern,
To the DPRK, Kpop is avant-garde---
No one called William S. Burroughs a Modernist---
Not to his face anyway, nor Hunter S. Thompson
but the critics did call Thomas Wolfe a Modernist
& avant-garde---F. Scott Fitzgerald heralding a new age
that passed away w/ Zelda in the madhouse inferno
& Scott trying to write screenplays
but movies were retro by the 30s
& the avant-garde already history---
Modernism vanishing decades later w/ Basquiat
& Warhol & Schnabel & Fischl et al---
Martha Graham was Modern, Isadora  retro
all the way back to ancient Greece naked & barefoot---
Robots get smaller & put u out of a job,
yet so efficient fembots become a reality---
Putting women out of work in a world
where no one needs strippers---
living in a technological delusion w/ the illusion of religion
confusing their imploded minds---
The world will always need stripper retro,
modern, avant-garde & beyond
from the beginning to the end of all time,
in the Crazy Horse multiverse,
When no one needs prostitutes
only drugs will do---drugs & technology, global psychedelia,
Nationalism, racism & violence are all so retro;
Modernism has simply ceased to exist
& the avant-garde has yet to be---
Women would dance naked for drunken men---
Not anymore---now it’s fembots playing virtual games
w/ video ******
Toulouse Lautrec & Eugene O’Neill
were avant-garde but not modernists---
Dita Von Teese is postmodern as am I
& Lady Gaga & Bettie Page & Blaze Starr to this day---
Let she who is w/o sin cast the first stone
at the ghost of go-go---
No one ever complained
about an old-fashioned cooch show
except the girls that were in it
although they loved it & would do it again & again
well into their sixties, seventies, eighties, nineties---
No one complains about long forgotten stag films
left in boxes on basement floors
showing grandma w/ the neighbor
circa World War Two and into the 1950s---
No one complains about ****** harassment
unless they’ve been harassed---
No one complains about ****
except those that have been ***** & not always then---
No one complains about ******
except those that have been murdered---
No one complains about postmodern burlesque
Although the rule is ‘if anything moves, **** it’
& if any man reaches for his *****, arrest him---
The Modernist/postmodernist Marcel Duchamp’s
bride stripped bare by her bachelors even
gets no complaints from MOMA or  any other mother---
I can’t wear this mask anymore
& there’s nothing behind it---
If I kicked ur door in & shot ur mother dead
several times just to be sure
she was ******* deader than dead
& said I must have made a mistake, would that be cool w/ u, officer?
The Frankfurt School & Fassbinder & poststructuralism
are the heirs to Maria’s estates
from Frankenstein to Superman,
At the school of the Soviet fembot---
her Japanese mother is a witch who is not a stranger
to myths of night; eating off ***** plates on the floor---
Her name was Amelia then---
She’s a pig tonight---
I & the son are one
with the background radiation---
Getting people to help her
carry her ***-stained mattress
around campus is neither modern, retro & or avante-garde---
Its plain disgusting, help me carry my *** stains across campus
So you can see where my period bled & I said no---
(The ancestors of the the fembot are not strangers
She is named Emma tonight,
she is the pig tonight)

The first Book of The Word
In Nonsense we Trust

Assembled from pre-existing works by John Burroughs, Ryan P. Kinney, Jack McGuane, Cee Williams, Don Lee, Susan Grimm, Joe Roarty, Russ Vidrick, Dianne Boresnik, Mitch James, Tanya Pilumeli, Julie Ursem Marchand, Vicki Acquah, Terry Provost, Adam Brodsky, Lennart Lundh, Raymond McNiece, Hannah Williams, MaxWell Shell, Tim Richards, Ayla Atash, RC (Bob Wilson), Chuck Joy, Katie Daley, Solomon Dixon, Mary Weems, Cat Russell, and Gordon Downie
Mostly taken as quotes during live poetry readings. Some stolen from other sources.
Additional content from predictive text by JM Romig, Linkin Park “Powerless,” “Saga of the Swamp Thing” vol. 1, T.S. Eliot, Amalgam Mythos, Kurt Vonnegut, Kevin Smith, and Psalms (chap.):13
Added original content by Ryan P. Kinney, Mitch James, Ellie St. Cyr, and Evan Spooner

“Lords Temple Basement Men,” it says on the door in a badly photocopied sign, replaced freshly each week. The original was built from torn up pieces of bootleg band vinyl stickers left plastered all over the windows of some teenager, surely passed into decaying adulthood long ago.

They gather in the bottom of an abandoned house in the heart of mostly warehouses. Something, someone long ago forgot to bull doze in the wake of morbid industrialization and the zeal to just get more men more jobs while giving them no life, no place to live. They built in their own obsolescence.

A Man stands outside; half catcalling, half showman barker; daring, tempting, bribing people to worship with him. In paint stained torn jeans, long shaggy hair with the bald spot landing pad directly in the center of his head, and shoes barely hanging together on his feet, he bellows out The Word. Somewhere between slam poetry performance and theology lesson, he entices and seduces people to enter. Here, they do not call him Father, or Brother, just person:  Man.  “Hey, Man,” is how they great him.

“But when your empty heart is weighed”
"What are you really worth?
These people call this Faith,
bring them to my table
the next bit of gospel
I wrote on a napkin”

People enter a crooked doorway. The Man pulls the peeling door behind them, scrapping the ground as he does so, and leads his flock down the concrete stairs to the basement. They come to a dingy dirt gravel floor and spread out.
The people in the room greet one another, then swarm around one woman,
“You will be used to the treatments.”
“I am not sure that you are.”
“You will be missed.”

The Man steps upon his usual milk crate to open the service. He intones the Capitalist Mantra,
“God Save the Queen
Long live the King
Hail to the Chief
The Lord of all Lies”

And the people chant, “I will not kiss you. I will not bow. I will not bow. I will not be moved.
I love the idea of what I have to be”

Princess Mommy steps up to explain their purpose here,
“This is a strange, mad religious service. Everything is out of place, nothing and no one seems to fit together. We all gather here, but no one seems to-gether. This is less a sermon and more a discussion where the gospel is debated. The (holy) Word is debated, discussed, dissected, compromised, altered, changed, shredded, reused, updated, recreated. It is burnt to cinders, then rises as a phoenix, built out of the broken pieces of all that was said before; what used to be true, but is now casually agreed to be fallacy. This Faith makes up a multitude. There are Baptists, Catholics, Jews, Muslims, Agnostics, Atheists, Satanists, Buddhists, Capitalists, hippies, goth kids, Starbuck’s sipping bloggers, just plain weird kids in the back working on their latest D&D campaign. We are just people. And he, is just a Man.”
“As the recovering Catholic Kevin Smith wrote, It’s not important which faith you are, just that you have faith.”

The People are ready to receive The Holy Spirit and his unique brand of performance poetry,

“In the beginning, there was only The Word, a word. And then more. Which were collected into a story; The Story. And from The Story came creation.
And then came the questions. And The Question was man. Who are we? What are we? Why? Who am I?”

“I am the mask wearing the man of eternity. In me, you see the face of history. A history we make up as we go.
The God of fallen leaves, leaves us... waiting for eternity to begin.
The Prophet Vonnegut says, ‘The question echoes back through time and disappears.
History. Read it and weep.
Tonight is a verb.”

From the crowd come the First voice, reading from his screenplay, "I was the table of contents, a footnote... running away from the beginning of the book. Perhaps no one knew we were living happily ever after until the book was over."

The Mallrat replies,
“Of all the words of Mice and Men the saddest words are ‘It Might’ve been.’
No need to despair
It was
It has
Somewhere else
Your soul is saved
All that Might’ve has already happened. ‘

“We are charming little liars,” retorts The Man, “We are a beautiful blasphemy to God’s word.”

The comic nerd slowly whispers, “All is truth, but every man is a liar. Sell me another artificially-derived slow suicide.”

A scientist cleans his glasses as he recites, “A world full of smoke and mirror nonsense -
It’s a religion of smoke and mirror nonsense
Only The Word is true and we make it up as we go.
In Nonsense is strength”

“So it is spoken, so it is true,” The Man energetically agrees.

An alien voice asks choppily, “Touch me
if you want to
believe in me
and the nothing I know”

“Sing the praises of the Holy Unknowing,” croons The Man, “We know nothing, therefore, we know all.”

And then, he drops into a haiku,


A bi-gender beauty asks no one (for permission), “Let me sling a little freestyle verse,

I'm steeple chased because some animal church wants to make me foxtrot in tempo with the braying boy
Pinnochio wants to make me hog its slops like Pigpen McSomething grateful and dead.
A fountain of youthful talent chemically imbalanced.
...with a grey skull full of He-man."

"Look at him!" they say.
"Give him a gun!" says another.
"A bomb!" a third spurts.
"Shows us your trigger finger!" they yell.

"My little boy," Princess Mommy whispers below the rush of gruff voices, her words staccato.

They answer her, "So I CAN taste the infernal darkness,” as the crowd falls silent

Princess Mommy chides them, “We know there is a sweetness in that which we cannot see. We know there is danger in that which we cannot hear.
Our bodies shake, our minds quake in anticipation of his words. It is almost time.”

The Man speaks again.
"Surely it is known, my brethren, that we are the Third Coming, the Breaking of the Seventh Seal that will signal the end of our oppressors. When we emerge victorious from the fires of battle, there will be no value left in the binary. No twos, only two or more. The Old Ways shall perish. We will shake off the chains, pull out the nails from our hands and feet, and the world which rejected us will rise anew under our leadership. Surely, it is known. Surely, it has been spoken. Jesus themself is at our back, and therefore we shall not fail."

“What a wealthy country, but no one’s coming to pay my bail,” sings the rainbow man, “They’re bragging they own my soul.”

"I don't want to bother anyone with my prayers,” prays the bi-gender person, secretly proud of leading the riot.

Sensing it is time to take to the streets, The Man closes the meeting with the same send off,
“The Word has evolved, my friends.”

Jean Sévère était fort ivre.
Ô barrière ! ô lieu divin
Où Surène nous délivre
Avec l'azur de son vin !

Un faune habitant d'un antre,
Sous les pampres de l'été,
Aurait approuvé son ventre
Et vénéré sa gaieté.

Il était beau de l'entendre.
On voit, quand cet homme rit,
Chacun des convives tendre
Comme un verre son esprit.

À travers les mille choses
Qu'on dit parmi les chansons,
Tandis qu'errent sous les roses
Les filles et les garçons,

On parla d'une bataille ;
Deux peuples, russe et prussien,
Sont hachés par la mitraille ;
Les deux rois se portent bien.

Chacun de ces deux bons princes
(De là tous leurs différends)
Trouve ses États trop minces
Et ceux du voisin trop grands.

Les peuples, eux, sont candides ;
Tout se termine à leur gré
Par un dôme d'Invalides
Plein d'infirmes et doré.

Les rois font pour la victoire
Un hospice, où le guerrier
Ira boiter dans la gloire,
Borgne, et coiffé d'un laurier.

Nous admirions ; mais, farouche,
En nous voyant tous béats,
Jean Sévère ouvrit la bouche
Et dit ces alinéas :

« Le pauvre genre humain pleure,
« Nos pas sont tremblants et courts,
« Je suis très ivre, et c'est l'heure
« De faire un sage discours.

« Le penseur joint sous la treille
« La logique à la boisson ;
« Le sage, après la bouteille,
« Doit déboucher la raison.

« Faire, au lieu des deux armées,
« Battre les deux généraux,
« Diminuerait les fumées
« Et grandirait les héros.

« Que me sert le dithyrambe
« Qu'on va chantant devant eux,
« Et que Dieu m'ait fait ingambe
« Si les rois me font boiteux ?

« Ils ne me connaissent guère
« S'ils pensent qu'il me suffit
« D'avoir les coups de la guerre
« Quand ils en ont le profit.

« Foin des beaux portails de marbre
« De la Flèche et de Saint-Cyr !
« Lorsqu'avril fait pousser l'arbre,
« Je n'éprouve aucun plaisir,

« En voyant la branche, où flambe
« L'aurore qui m'éveilla,
« À dire : « C'est une jambe
« Peut-être qui me vient là ! »

« L'invalide altier se traîne,
« Du poids d'un bras déchargé ;
« Mais moi je n'ai nulle haine
« Pour tous les membres que j'ai.

« Recevoir des coups de sabre,
« Choir sous les pieds furieux
« D'un escadron qui se cabre,
« C'est charmant ; boire vaut mieux.

« Plutôt gambader sur l'herbe
« Que d'être criblé de plomb !
« Le nez coupé, c'est superbe ;
« J'aime autant mon nez trop long.

« Décoré par mon monarque,
« Je m'en reviens, ébloui,
« Mais bancal, et je remarque
« Qu'il a ses deux pattes, lui.

« Manchot, fier, l'***** m'attire ;
« Je vois celle qui me plaît
« En lorgner d'autres et dire :
« Je l'aimerais mieux complet. »

« Fils, c'est vrai, je ne savoure
« Qu'en douteur voltairien
« Cet effet de ma bravoure
« De n'être plus bon à rien.

« La jambe de bois est noire ;
« La guerre est un dur sentier ;
« Quant à ce qu'on nomme gloire,
« La gloire, c'est d'être entier.

« L'infirme adosse son râble,
« En trébuchant, aux piliers ;
« C'est une chose admirable,
« Fils, que d'user deux souliers.

« Fils, j'aimerais que mon prince,
« En qui je mets mon orgueil,
« Pût gagner une province
« Sans me faire perdre un oeil.

« Un discours de cette espèce
« Sortant de mon hiatus,
« Prouve que la langue épaisse
« Ne fait pas l'esprit obtus. »

Ainsi parla Jean Sévère,
Ayant dans son coeur sans fiel
La justice, et dans son verre
Un vin bleu comme le ciel.

L'ivresse mit dans sa tête
Ce bon sens qu'il nous versa.
Quelquefois Silène prête
Son âne à Sancho Pança.

She (a living piece of candy) living or dead; he, dead, how not now;
we, she said, she said - he, POTUS shot dead
right in the head by a ghost face killer; she,
dancing in the club up on stage in the spotlight;
me, his ride to & from the hit - she never had to
pay him back for the beak; letting her start
dancing at 14 for the sedate day crowd;  
him in the back, never gave up her career;
old lady angel, remember old man Gary used
to watch the desk for Harry; old friends of XXXX's
back when he was a gambler-***-******,
smart cookie that XXXX; Harry didn't know
Oswald, not unknown b/c a Soviet Manchurian
walks right up to the camera: (half of America woke up
                                                & the other half didn't -] [
                                                half was already awake;
                                                the racist half that never
                                                really sleeps; collections of
                                                soulless dark ghouls lurking
                                                in midnight shadows deluded not  romantics
[Ka-chow! Ka-chow!] - my li'l poet-bunny
kept dancing; one of the best to sniff the used
******* of; a pioneer in the *****-dance; so,
Blaze Starr Superstar never said said a ******
thing about the Texas honey jar;  [there was
never a  feud among the top-shelf girls | no one
liked Lily St. Cyr, so I don't like St. Cyr, champagne
cheap trick / *******; read her book, u almost
had t be an intellectual to a professional burlesque
stripper b/c u had to have a theory [gimmick] a\ab
about ur own body in motion; some used fire -
Sally Patented the Fan Dance but others performed
it as it fed a lucrative market in ostrich feathers;
who the **** saw that coming - classic strippers
were avant-garde for the most part;
                       [(       )][(       )] [Gypsy Rose Lee]
                                    the [Picasso of Strippers:]

Here’s to strippers, who don’t like to be called strippers,
Although smart women have been taking their clothes off
To spectacular effect since the dawn of time—
Go to the Brooklyn Museum and see the history of women, lesbians all,
Every woman you’ve ever dreamed of naked as the earth, shorn of leaves,
Like bon bons set out for Santa Claus,
St. Cyr’s dreams of bubbles—
The abstract strippers walking across my retina like nomads in the desert,
Her voice a meaty thing, chewing her way out of the toilet,
We want *** to drink from beautiful woman like rain—
The abstract expressionist beat method
Was born three years after Dylan Thomas died
And seven years before Sylvia Plath,
Decca had rejected the Beatles as out of style
Before anyone had ever really heard them, avant-garde has-beens maybe,
But Gypsy Rose Lee was still dancing and writing
And Martha Graham was still dancing and writing
And Isadora was looking down from her see-through cloud
So we could see up her headless tunic and Mary Wigman was a legend
Too big for Richard Wagner to conceive,
And Trakl and Kleist never met a great stripper
Like Toulouse Lautrec painted masterpieces
From the spurting blood of a syringe—
Doctors order sunshine and she shines
And rock and roll moved Bettie to jazz cellars
Where Pollack and Kerouac drink the wine—
The Soviet Union had good ugly strippers but that’s over now—
Now they’re pretty expensive but not any good,
If you were reading On The Road while crying over the death of Pollack
And laughing at the birth of rock and roll
While jerking off to Bettie in *******
You were there at the big bang—
Picasso and Einstein lining up behind TS Eliot and Pound to kiss your ***
Eugene O’Neill and Lenny Bruce looking on
From their basement apartment windows,
****** addled sailors waiting for 1969 (Hart Crane the only poet to beat himself to death---) Glacial ice melting
under Diana’s roller-coaster heat—
No color, line or shape, Araki, Gutai, Butoh and Kaiju emerging from Japan
After the war and the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki,
All of this been subsumed into manga cosplay,
Though no one knows or is asking why
Mothers pride themselves on giving good head
They don’t close their eyes or dream of monsters,
It’s all about the prince no matter what lesbians say, lesbians like **** too
And they know where to get it but that’s too easy—
Better to have a crush on a stripper who won’t turn you away
Than a boy or a fashion model that needs money and drugs to survive,
Just give it time and an Asian girl will love you—