Hel-lo! poetry lovers..

le Ballet Mecanique..un film de Fernand Leger

First of all, —or third of all, rather..thirdly, ahem! permit me to observe that some things – if not all things – cannot be translated meaningfully, can only be rendered, –this, for example: the Ballet Mechanic. The literal translation gets you>some guy comes out of the shop in a leotard clutching his wrench in a greasy mitt and looks at your motor..some guy, perhaps Cheech y Chong, a.k.a., Alice Bowie! tu-tu’d, multi-kulture’d famous inventor..of the stationary choppercycle>allows one satisfied customer to identify with the Easy Rider persona-mystique and all other diversities, while never giving up the comforts of couch and living-room; and snacks! bagging it down the open highway, your oyster, baby! boppily brilliant, –legendary, in your mind and altogether too cool..thee life! eschewing establishment squares, war-pigs and all of the rest..sleeping under stars; and yet, very narrow in commercial appeal, somehow..all too narrow, in other words, pure art. Mssr. Chong comes readily to mind whenever the caustic subject of performance art is injected in any conversation about the medium..which is, of course, the message (we all knew that); not dissimilar in its potent, pressurized delivery-apparatus’s convenient capability to invade the human psyche* (like your long-awaited YARDSALE opened after weeks of trepidation, at last! and visited, immediately, by mongol hoards, —early birds on horseback flashing scimitars, as, simultaneously – sky’s the limit in a poem about yard-sale’s – witness the arrival, on wheels, of viking ships, shields adorning..crews and warlord, flourishing axes, carving their own parking out of the driveway, ass end extended to the far curb and onto the neighbors’ lawns..by the mail-box, additively) *is spoken words, which opens an expansive list of expressive opportunities to be..or not to be considered in any comprehensive analysis of media influence on the western experience; such as Son of Word-jazz‘s dear, own the VIDIOT,-prince, and favorite goldentonsiled offspring, Ken Nordine (a.k.a., Mister “I’m the voice that says POOF! there goes..perspiration!”), and his distant cousin, Night-of-storytelling-around-a-campfire,for-the-lads..sped in time, to young manhood, lit! bonding, with nurturing leaderships’ Judeo-Christian values t’sharing, in flickering lights ‘gainst the pitch-black darkness..illuminating vague shapes that became monsters, as flames, rising, go this way and that, ceremonially taking on lives of their own, ghosts! good, bad&ugly adding fuel to bonfire’s brief Jovian existence, snuffed out! by that ounce of cautionary, adult common-sense prevention..to ensure (there will be) continuity of tribal survival and the preservation of habitats, for future boys to come..and whittle. Also, the same sun rises..some generations later, on a charred remains telling of a previous evening’s magical entertainments dipping in waters of cultural mythologies’ amnesia’s; and toilet-papers! sent, with love, from home and diverted for an artistic purpose, –skits! engaging, in occultic practices..an audience spellbound, –I sing the body, geriatric, gerbilles in all walks of life..of a people congealed in its own ingrained glories, to Rome! –dancing war-whoops! backed by slender trees, swaying moonrise, sinuous, dissolving..in morning eucalyptus mists; and, day 3! trip by school-bus to..The Sound Museum!

MOTHLIGHT Stan Brakhage, 1963..pre-merry-prankster’s, –in contrast, a dusty, free-spirited document from the vault of human ingenuity and Hollywood reject’s, occupies the mind for a brief existence, mimicking its culturally appropriated subject..staring simian orbs’ mirror reflections, –our headlights, our selves! held captive to the artist’s vision, arrived at by overexposure to poetry..of Pound when a youth; and, next internalized then rendered, with the artist’s almost casual involvement, through the agency of found organic material physically stapled between strips of clear celluloid and photo-lab’d into prints, verbatim, –rather than translated, in an obvious throwback to the primordial photography studios’ oozes of yore, extracting from the tar pits, curatable lunchable artifacts left by the first generation’s photo-chemical pioneers – pre-covered wagon – selecting green, leafy matter, flora, etc., and interlacing (them) with any other convenient translucent materials, taken for their desirable gossamer qualities; plus, whatever works! pressing collages between sun and plates – like a flower, preserved flat within a book’s pages – coated with varying kustom photo-sensitive tinctures to try, aiming for best results, in the which, discovering images having a wonderfully shallow illusion of depth, —suggesting, in the mind’s eye, a kind of specious photo-graphic truth, presented, in an off-handed..oh, baroque expressionists’ manner (there’s prob’ly a standard term known to art critics)..his labours’ enduring products, –photographically captured snap’s, burn-in’s of recognizable natural objects, i.e., leaf skeletons, mixed with manufactured see-through articles – add some opaque stuff – rendered, in a latter day, pre-modern age of enlightenment..Junior X-ray lab set-up –so to speak. To sum up it’s all about leaves, –(Great! now make like a tree and leaf..ahem!) The similarity in ideas, here, with Leger’s work, is spot-lighted in the approach to unlocking the sub-conscious through the intentional abandonment of personal preferences, the scuttling of any aesthetic demands in favor of a blind, grab-bag grocery-list ob-wanna-bees..following an arbitrary canon dictating what’s next, — a technique analogous to that hailed, as the wave of the future, by enthusiastic creators of modern music (the ones you probably don’t want to hear) through uses of various deviant dictatorial pre-determining devices, –lock and load! such as dropping a string, then getting a good read on the entrails, laying there, and – by literal translation – arbitrarily pushing the creation of incidental/accidental sonic outcomes to a logical conclusion..for contemplations, –moody at best, in most cases; and an unguided tour in white/black/grey noise in all of the rest (I mean..I MEAAN! speaking for those of us sittin’ here, –sittin’ on the bench marked Group W, –for us, now and then in a blue moon it feels like a John Cage kinda day; but most others I, eh, ahem! would prefer a little Hank Williams or Schubert or Mozart, for my money; and some sherbet, too, please..Shekinah!) And, jumping the time-line ahead, musically..Its/His/ IS! (defined) history repeating itself, –again! as, with a cheery, though inexplicable docileness (without comment), man surrenders to hip-hop&rap artistries‘ politics minus the genius of THE LAST POETS –quick! hopping off! the dizzy, revolving, stunningly lush..ante-deluvian spectral progressions of traditional>jazz>swing>western swing>rock-a-billy/be-bop>country-to-psychedelic-rock’n’roll-jazz-blues’d fusions; and a legacyplethora of soul enabling performance styles, cracked by the since long-deceased drivers of a collective heartbeat, sounding from an underworld..wall of sound, the pulse! preserved in wax..like a flower pressed inside pages of a dusty volume, in time; you wouldn’t know to hear (and they wonder why civilization’s on the skids! SHEESH), time,TIME! to change all the clocks and locks, tic-toc! tic-toc! and yes, the melting clocks/clocks melting; accompanied by the strong, uncategorizable impression of getting bath water up your nose, Lefty! –low, and a little to the inside, clear it out, tomorrow, borrow..Finnegan’s,s-s-s..snake, hwen I wake,oy!ADEE DO! “STEE-EER-RIKE!!”

Ok..Irregardless of circumstances, the advent of cinematic form, one way or another, got us the Hollywood narrative..and the Hollywood community! spawned by energetic American geniuses, of that peculiar type of entrepeneurial wunderkinder..untermensch, –a race of melancholy men, as fascinated with seeing new stuff as they were with getting rich quickly by whatever means; whereas the europeans seem to have processed the arrival of the new art, its meaning and latent possibilities a bit differently..through the lens of an older, more discerning culture, clamouring, not for moolah! but refinements, yeah? (they’re europeans, you know). Ballet Mecanique points the gun of imagination at its captive audience not so crudely as does Porter’s The Great Train Robbery, in aiming its literal six-shooter directly at the camera, scattering viewers, terrified! diving..not accustomed to the perceived realism of an event caused by sequences of projected still photographs serially machine-gunning the brain*, (–as, with equal/unequal crudity, a vaguely similar thing is accomplished – I mentioned it earlier – in Stan ‘Wind-the-camera-and-throw-it-off-the-cliff,-it’s-art!’ Brakhage’s Mothlight..by forcing a series of neuro-chemical events, in the cerebrum, uncorked by the steady bombardment – at 18 fps – of found objects’ direct prints governed by no particular rules, presented, as-is? like a true poet) *–producing an objective illusion of motion wrought by a fresh technology, –hot-tarred on bare white shoulders of the new industrial goddess, –mass entertainment! which, as we know, threw everything for a loop..as in vintage praxinoscope-loop (no privacy, there! if you’re seeing it on youtube; probably even the very eccentric Reynaud, –Emile, himself and father of Disney would have been floored, momentarily, at the sight&sound of it, “KLINKETY-KLANKETY!” fully automated waking consciousness replica, larger than life animation’s, electro-mechanically projected onto a flat screen, –arc! of the welder’s rod, blazing behind celluloid, before a box of chocolates, seated, stuffed with multi-colored eyes, –mostly brown, I’m betting, “Cough! cough!” smell the smoke..movies

Movies are a time-machinE..E=2-D+3-D=.========,–?TV=MiltonBerlE=Emcee.sq‘uare)

Whosoever! the artists of Europe..painters, playwrights, circus performers, and the like, qualified immigrants, all..poets, even! – sandwich’d between two apocalyptic wars, one, only recently settled, and the other, just ahead and down the hall – seeking, ever, for a novel way to mesmerize patrons, –and seeing it! gave the new medium some fresh eyes (literally); and for the jaded art lovers, some food for thought. On this social phenomenon, one word..Freud. Freud and his couch. And Vienna, or Wien, –those europeans! they have their own word for everything, they speak and understand English perfectly, you know it! but just it’s utterly beneath their dignity’s to stoop so low and engage in it with us American’s especially the French! Selavvy!Rrose..her fingerprints are all over it, –stars in the Mechanical Ballet picture, ?I think..perhaps. It opens on a ?female? (everything we know here’s called in ?question??) seated on a swing, swinging (so far, so good), angle is appealing..calls up WOODSTOCK, free love, flower-power babes, ala Lily Langtree, –all of that (Lola Montez)..this is what cameras were invented for! ‘ow-eh-vehr, –and this is where it gets..psychological (?can you smell the cigars,taste the cocaine tainted fluids, dripping inside the nose cavities, perceive..a vague numbness? A-D DO! hear the thick, Wien-sausage dialect that goes, hand-in-hand, with the patently authentic, unchallenged interpretation of a human’s nightly sojourn..throughout a long, winter’s night, right? Well, –) The easy action with the woman on a swing is here brought to a grinding, screeching point of termination with..the CUT TO a downward angle/suspended camera view, ala Foucault’s pendulum,x2, our minds’ eyes..in a blink! now overhead gazing down on our winsome subject, whose eyes – which..are like limpid pools – return an implied parody of seduction (counter-part to Boyer’s? “Meet me in thee Cas-bah!” all of that?), the shift in perspective throwing everything double out-of-whack in contrary motions, which, though singularly satisfying in a musical setting, and etiquette of the road, do tend to be jarringly disorienting in the cinematic..environs, –CUT TO: HERE, I, on a night of a blue moon, –literally (rippling shadows bathed in computerlight’s glow); and, me, personally, noticing the appearance, on my right, of another sentient smaller being than me, seeking for companionship, –I..myself, turn the screen holding these images, to the white, mostly white and somewhat muscular, but partially flabby, with soft, rabbit-white fur..cat! at my elbow (and a dark tail) to gage his impression of the ART..both of us at the table or on the table as the case might be; and it grabs his attention, –held captive! le cat, by the black&white play of images, m&m’s, –like, campfire flickers! so,like, here, back with Boy Scouts of America there is witnessed to some degree, by an animal, le animal kitabu! the effective results on consciousness (generally) of Leger’s approach to manipulation of the plastic medium called cinema (european cinema, vs. vulgar Hollywood), for, by i t he has grabbed a cat..by its black tail! *(In all fairness, though, to ME! –mice-elf, I..I could probably engender a similar level of titillation easily! by capturing the movements of the cats and the dog in our chambers, changing stations through the course of a night, stirring from my satisfying sleep, to instead, be shooting infra-red, yo –Me! cinematographer-auteur-somnambulisto, –with the SONY camcorder, there, in everybody’s face, a southern california..Fellini! phenomenal..and probably wind up tripping over one of them, the cats, while trying to stay focused on maintaining an acceptable level of artistic quality, in process of controlling elements of what’s inside the frame..Guhh! half-awake, not noticing my own rebel feet taking me suddenly to the floor with a perfunctoryTHUD! and quite likely breaking the camera, lighting gizmo’s, etc., kit and le boodle. I would probably make art out of that, too, no doubt..If it ever happened (it’s all in the re-edit); but I digressed! alright..Who’s next?)

So! to return, the tomato on a swing is now become –Apollyon! for us at least, a taunting teasing vixenish countenance of, –cabaret singer or circus performer – whichever (poet?) – un-horsed! of the swing, as all breaks loose, –labour-forces’ marching feet..mechanized everything multiplied kaleidoscopically, eyes..teeth! inclosed in made-up lips so haltingly BLACK you can wake up from your hypnosis in a dark, impressionable pocket, prone! and smell the to-dive-for cigars’ butt’s, tossed – by the prosperously-dressed, somewhat dour gentleman, clearly up-tight..seated, carriage erect, in the chair appraising you curiously you may have noticed..through his pince-nez – cigar-butts, marking a measure of time, tossed! unceremoniously onto the unswept wood floor by the edge of a Persian rug; and then up, a little, to the leather couch, presently occupied, –he, or she (not nude!), reclining on the proprietary button-tuck (buttons of brass!) specialty item of kustom order furniture, manufactured and sold exclusively! for its intended use as a maximum efficiency psychiatric office vehicle, a dream machine, expressly designed for the comfort and convenience of a subject..or subjects!desirous to have a rendering, or, an interpretation, rather, of his or her (or their) nocturnal sub-supraconscious episodes, –or dreams..and willing to pay! stuffed with horse hair supported by good european quality coil-springs, –and a guarantee! affording her..or him..THEM! a relaxing view, tilting down from the ceiling, and angling onto a legion or two..dozens of framed certificates, smothering walls in shadow, helped by gaslight, certifying you are in the hands of a certified brain genius..about to certify YOU, –well! all of these dissolves and tricks we see in Ballet have gone on, to the pallets of visual artists everywhere down the line in the histoire du cinema, from Fritz Lang (shades of METROPOLIS) to Nicholas Roeg’s celebrated ‘everything and the kitchen-sink’ tool-box of cinematic tricks, including, for example, his double exposure moving-picture portraits of seated subjects..in this instance, hooligans, with hidden gifts..brushed over lightly, in TV-blues, revealing a certain condition of the heart..spiritual darkness lurking beneath bland smiles, and STOP! shot of the jury having facts represented, in a case of a highly-charged political nature, by a clever defense attorney, cross-dissolves with rows of patrons in a seedy movie-house, viewing a blue film, on a scene portraying a concept for justice..blinded by smut, roughly mirroring edits in ‘M’ earliest of the ‘soundies’ –(excepting THE JAZZ SINGER,#1). Again, we are shown what, in our casual waking hours we accept as all of it, in contradistinction with what is lying in wait, under cover in the spirit realm (and all of the rest). The only thing left after this is the giant squid fight..but we’ll come to that. The point, here, where we shall dwell, is What do europeans thinK? what’s their bag??, in other words, you know? They are not like us, we are not..THEM! (though obviously we can all succumb to that same horrifying and grisly end of being masticated alive..and sweating! by pods of giant atomic ant mutations out for sugar in the middle of the Nevada summer desert, –but RELAX! it’s a dry heat..so don’t freek).

Now where were we? oh! yes, here we are standing on sticky carpet before the soda head, surveying movie-palaces’ grandeur, overhead, in line at the snack-bar, –purchasing SKITTLES and JUJUBES..and pop-corn and COKE! plus a skinny juicy hot-dog on a spit, bathing under the heat-spot’s, smothered in mustard and pickle-relish on a bun..and catsup! between screenings of The Great Brain Robbery, and hit co-feature, UN CHIEN ANDALOU, –second-of-all, with a tango, So! (Wagner, notwithstanding) so, — BALLET (mechanical) among many doors opened on a room full of mirrors – by suggestion – takes us on its flickery flight of fancy?over a landscape garden of infinite possible musicalities and samples (besides what’s offered), to suture on the images, and add spice..thought processes, hovering over alternate choices, banks of audio that may be swapped-out, to blunt consciousness, and/or implode brainwaves! as synapses, sympathetic, –shudders all a-flutter, spontaneously undulate, uh —DANCE TO THE MUSIC? sensibly altering perceptions, associations by the, –inputing of the funky sensory data-?overload of any given musical substitution’s interior fine qualities (x=why) dumped unintentionally on the filmgoers’ personal movie experience, –cut&paste job, whether a film depicting a straightforward plebeian single event, as in White Christmas‘s spectacular production number, MANDY, *–suggestion: mute the choruses on the original movie soundtrack in exchange for throaty, whispered groanings of a B-3 jazzy Hammond organ under the influence of a master’s touch..bluesman, in dialogue with a cool tenor sax-player’s meaty, theological chops, –‘n’throbbing Leslie‘s, spinning ear-candy like gold! top and bottom, like, down to 12 or 08 Hz coming across from a parallel galaxy of stellar oceanic wonders..saturnine stereo out of a vacuum tube hi-fi build, purple light! –source, picked at random, drawn off the liberry onna wall, wall-paper’d with treasures..eons of collected, selected vinyl, –walla-walla! results? you’re the genius, auteur, creator or what-ever..whatever you picked, if it worked, you own it (if not, you can always excuse yourself later..”I’m so sorry I picked that! Please! excuse me!!”); *or! take the nascent, trez arthouse edit-convention of montage, as cut-together in Eisenstein’s appropriation of D.W. Griffith’s Brahminic brainchild, THE BIRTH OF A NATION..notice: in contra-distinction to the clips of mounted Klansmen, and all of the rest of it..baby-stroller bumping, slo-mo, down Odessa’s steps, INSERT..sabre slashes..look of horror, the broken glasses, horseback Kossacks, horses..restless, poised, now pawing, begin: bloody massacre on ALICE! ala Zhivago, –Guthrie In Hippieland. Running with that ball of wax you get a cuter slant on the movies than you ever imagined you would if you have tolerance at all to shift from a Hollywood conventional mental outlook/paradigm, obeying rules, take it as it comes..for no good reason and CHILL! simply by turning down the TV-sound on the usual late-night feed over-the-air, from a local licensee, of, gosh! say, a re-re-broadcast of the classic KING KONG, –and substituting the title track to ALICE’S RESTAURANT, Arlo up there doing his Rudy Vallee number..yeah! dominating and outshining the dandyish ape’s misbehavin’s, by overlaying the new hippie national anthem and original Vietnam protest, claiming – in the name of the queen, and all your queen buddies there on the couch, what’s-‘is-name – absolute personal autonomy, smack! dab in square society, GROUND ZER0, throwing off all yokes of oppression installed since ‘straights’ first took over everything (?maybe this only works if you’re having a grande pot-party soiree, plus registering everyone to vote..MCGOVERN ’72 –open house! in Frisco, –Come on?), and teaming that with the clip of Fay Wray’s assisted ascent – ostensibly against her will- up the north face of the Empire State Building – being incessantly harassed by hostile vintage military aircraft – while camped securely inside a swarthy, hairy, warm and friendly giant hand..which, by the way, is a metaphor, in the language of cinema, meaning gondola. Here, the sultry, psychologically numbing first sudden impact of Harryhausen<Melies<Reynaud, is beat, in intensity, only by..JAWS! for which we shall have to wait, patiently, nearly half of a century, to get, –“Oh! the humanity!” (Where’s my yoga-mat?)

..for all its mass-gifting of moviemaking tools to future generations of visual story-tellers, many of BALLET‘s cinematic devices are uncomplicated. It is the carefully controlled lighting and other quiet, behind-the-scenes production elements, along with Man Ray’s genius for the golden image that make the presentation of mannequin parts – choreographed – such a pleasantly enticing, and oddly sexy experience (recalling, by the bye, an experimental animation film hailing from Poland somewhere in the 60’s, entitled “Concert of M. Caballe” (can’t find, take – in lieu of – my RHINOCEROS..Please!) with similar eviscerations done on the principal, and similarly comprehending the work of Busby Berkeley at his best, –the dream, fantastique! but on a lower budget). And, among other post-hypnotic suggestions ginned up by the Ballet, is its impression, in one of the clips, of the in-motion, spinning outer carriage of a praxinoscope, — miracle contraption! for the parlour, or smoking room, to amuse..guests, in which animation-loops, either a series of photographs or drawings, on strips, are placed, then rotated, before an arrangement of mirrors at center, facing outwards, which, when gazed upon render for the viewer the original primordial experience of the first motion picture or animated image generating device, the very human thing that drives us all nuts! (persistence of vision, why we’re here). Oh! if I could go on and on..You, no doubt, by NOW appreciate that. So! and, like, don’t leave out without a mention, at least, of the clip of..the stout woman, and her burden she shoulders – captured under the camera – mid-motion, looking up, ascending, from about the middle of a flight of stairs, the unfortunate recipient of somebody else’s deja vu’s..repeatedly! ARS GRATIA ARTIS..stop me before I..EDIT again! but, here, let’s call it a day, –or render, rather


Q: Given all the Socio-economic political terrorisms BEING LEVERAGED against us..what with The covid, COV! COV! and all, can we ever look forward and expect to have another deal like the WOODSTOCK art&musci festival, peace&luv?, –ANSWER: YES, It’s handled, It’s been arranged, LIVE! TONITE ONLY: DEAD SUSPECTS..BRAY-FART..SHEEP THRILLS! y Los Contaminantes del Norte! Plus Special Guests: TEN-4; also, THE SAMUEL DRUCKER EXPERIENCE (More to be announced as the ‘artists’ continue to get signed, don’t miss it, this the concert of the century..tickets, while they last!)

What happens when you eat ice cream. (Yes, that’s a statement.) I don’t know what happens to you, then, but when I am getting it out the dog hears the freezer door open and comes right over there by me. She’s a golden retriever more or less, I don’t know if that’s important; but she hears everything (like magnetic door-gasket seals separating from the ice-box going, “KRACKLE!”). Dogs and poets are like people..who like ice cream. Hooked! (they are). Greeks didn’t make ice cream because they got no ice, ’cause over there the weather’s nice; and there were poets, too..and flies! like cause and effect; which didn’t go unnoticed by THEM! the Greek’s they had the scientists, too, believe you/me, –though, could all be false (lies). But anyway I guess they invented the poetry (da Greeks did it didn’t just invent itself). Poets don’t tell it like it is, they tell you a story..about WHAT IT IS (brother). Philosophers – immortals, like James Brown: “It’s a ma-a-an’s world..” – did all the hard brain work and poets do what comes easily, naturally..the clean-up; and that touches on philosophy, but is not bound by it. Well philosophy is great, up to a point; until it is consumed by its own rules (weighing upon the SOUL). Where is the fun in that? Poest,POET’S! poets connive to figure out how to bypass the rules, and people hate that about us. “Well we have to do it like this so why shouldn’t they?” Good poets are few. And they hate all the bad poets. Why? because the bad poets suck all the oxygen out of the room whenever the awards are being handed out..for the poetry (for more on that see Rod McKuen; whose name is a bad poem by the way I think I think you..should think about it). The Unknown Poet probably, when no one was looking, will donate a turd, in lieu of a word. Is that called concrete poetry? Maybe..after it hardens, some (might take a few days). Is it any good? turd, at the gate; ‘stead-o’-words, like on a scrap of paper..Mate?? Only the gods of poetry know that; but taken as a HOLE, and left for the philosophers, or linguists to decide, it may be brilliant! or just sour grapes. I believe that’s a fable, from the Greeks of course! most of our stuff IS, left-overs from an estate sale set up on the Mount Olympus, nothing new under the sun, beating down on the heads of all us poet-centaurs hanging out, pen in hoof amid buzzing of beehives, cemented, UP! in limbs of trees, lazy spring afternoon..fawnskin’s goat, –get yours? did I, did I?? But as for the common volk (another word for common is vulgar), TURD, that is something to think about. Turds, like words (a rhyming pair the hobbyist-poet Benjamin Franklin fancied) can have many meanings..and shades thereof; but you will aks/ask yourself, “Is that a dog-turd? If so, then we accept; but IF a poet’s turd THEN we hate it..because we hate poets” (because they reject rules and get away with it and it’s unfair; and we hate THAT about THEM.) So! to know the difference you have to have somewhat of a discriminating palate; else you are plainly just another run-of-the-mill plebeian, eating your plain Greek yogurt..no fruit, no nuts. But it’s just raw material after all, having no value or even an existence until one of the gods changes it, by making it into something, with an effortless output of divine energy..maybe add little honey; or changing it, from its sort-of earthbound condition..like, like when a man-poet starts his finger-painting project, tentatively smearing at it a bit, –or even a girl doing it, a girl poet! poking at it wit-a-shtick, “Oy!” But that’s getting into the nebulous area of PERFORMANCE ART’s a thing to be avoided..egregious! all philosophers agree: VOTED Worst Art (genders and sh**s-for-brains notwithstanding). So! now, getting back to what happens when you eat the ice cream..not YOU,you personally, but rather, the figurative YOU, the collective YOU..the humanity all around us/you’s, which, “..oh! the humanity!” which..well, I don’t know about all of that, oarawluvyooz; but only I, poet! what happens with me when I get da ICE CREAM. So here it is

totally. This gets to the science, BELIEVE SCIENCE! (you must).

The Poet and ‘Honey’ Honey the Golden Retriever..believe all Golden’s!

So, as we are told by the neurologists, when you taste the ice cream, and you’re like, going, “MM! MM! mm-MM-mm!” you are not actually having a direct experience with the product on the spoon, no! it’s far more complicated than that..sure it is. By the way, I am in the bathroom with the ice cream, now, the chocolate ice cream, the Hägan-Daz brand, –and have you noticed they are making them smaller and smaller all the time?? The dog certainly has. She has picked-up that whenever she gets to have a couple of bites, –because she begs! that the stuff in the tiny containers is noticeably superior in quality to the stuff from the half-gallon size containers; which are actually reduced in volume, as well, a marketing innovation dating back more than a few years now, —Lower the quantity, raise the price. Regardless, they were on sale. The deal: buy five, get $dollar+.00 off/ea. So we got ’em home, the chocolate (2); rum raisin(1); green tea&butter pecan (1 ea.), and I wanted to have mine in peace and seeing the dog laying there apparently half-asleep under the table, I opened the freezer-door, “Krackle-krackle!” grabbed the ice cream and ran away with it, and the spoon! into the bath room, and shut the door for privacy..before she could catch up, with Mary just getting in the tub as I entered; so I could eat it without being eyeballed! I don’t need this crap I’m retired; and dogs don’t get to have chocolate, anyway, everybody knows that. WHY? because it’d kill ’em! (so they say). So I get the first spoon in my mouth, and my tongue is tasting chocolate, right? no! WRONG!! Neurologists explain there is a circuitous path in what we presume to be the pleasurable experience of tasting the ice cream; and I am sure if any Greek philosophers had tasted that..instead of their dumb yogurts, they would all agree that it causes pleasure to happen (all dogs agree, too); but, where they probably will not agree is whether or not the pleasure thus derived is a good thing, or a bad thing..there’re all the ethical and practical issues to consider (like getting fat). You must remember! that, according to the philosophers..the Greek philosophers of the fourth century B.C. (Before Christ Jesus, so there!) – such as Socrates and his students Plato and Diogenes after him, the ‘WhyDon’tWeDoItInTheRoad’ ubiquitous Diogenes – pleasure..pleasure, while clearly a good thing, and possibly a very good thing! is not an end in and of itself; and taking sensual gratification as the highest good – like the voluptuaries do – and pursuing it (i.e., the Pleasure Principle) will lead inexorably to a life of dissipation; and moral collapse; and that impacts society as a hole and that is not good. And so there’s all of that. But back to The Science..Believe all scientists!!

Neurologists, now, they are a specialized bunch of truth seekers, –or least of facts, seekers of facts (and very special, they are). So what they found – or think they found – in advancing the knowledge of certain biological quirks (or anomalies) in us humans, is that there seems to be this superhighway of nerves, and nerve-related items “..all over my bo-dy!”; and these neural paths involve synapses and a ton of electro-chemical operations that communicate with each other behind the scenes, actually producing flashes of light! in their ordering and sending of stuff, such as anti-bodies, to fight with foreign invaders, and therewith neutralize the unwanted riff-raff that’s constantly breaking and entering into the body, barbarians at the gate! –like in FANTASTIC VOYAGE with

..out for the blood-clot in that scientist’s brain, and hell bent for neoprene..she’s on her pedestal (believe all blood-clot’s)

Raquel Welch! (featured onboard biologist; and Donald Pleasance as the double agent, –Believe all double agents) where the white blood cells and their blood cell cell privilege, when they catch up, are squeezing her in her wet-suit like it’s Welch’s grapes..as far as I recall, my understanding of it at the time, when I was hearing it all, back in school, and later, eating a FUDGESICLE out on the playground ten minutes before they shoot Kennedy – 10 cent! (for the ice cream) – which breaks several rules including where food is allowed; or disallowed, very similar to the social order of/when you are in the county jail (that’s LA! county..to those of you’s from the east coast who maybe are reading this). So all the neurologists here believe – like it’s a religion – that all these synapses are firing, as spark-plugs do, all the way up and down to the brain and back to tell it to release chemicals, like endorphins, to tell your thinking, reasoning soul that you are having pleasure from eating the ice cream; when actually all it is is a batch of secondary events stirred by certain neurological processes into bio-trash reaction formations which the activity of eating the ice cream initially caused, but by now is totally separated from the cyclical knee-jerk dipping-in-of-the-spoon action in the tiny Hägan-Daz carton because the brain is telling you the ice cream before your eyes is the cause of your pleasure, –which is not precisely the case; and a premise – according to them – which, given all of what they’re giving us, and all of the rest, seems, in terms of fact-checking magnitude, to approach handing out, to US


Well and good. So IF true THEN – having brought it all to light – did they earn their money? which originally, anyway, was stolen from the taxpayers by the i.r.s., (or more likely borrowed from china and payed out in chinese plastic), –and then, also, with the taxpayers’ money – or whatever – they buy all the ammo off the shelves – so you can’t have it and they can! – to protect themselves when the taxpayers revolt; which, to survive, is thought by the majority to be the highest good (and for bureaucrats at least that works), so they will do anything within their means to ensure their precious livelihood..to the exclusion of that of those of us being investigated for tax evasion’s, et cetera, etc.; guilty of hate crimes (whatever that is); and generally loathing and despising those in authority, –a euphemism for da nazi’s (or top dogs in all the alphabet’s). And all of it, of course, based not on facts, or fair science; but merely, pleasure of the moment. And if they believe that they’ll believe ANY THING.

TO BE CONTINUED (for the higher good..if I feel like it)


Your portfolio, including hedge funds and venture-cap. options, you went broke now, –Congratulations! Believe all investment consultants.

ps: do YOU like poetry?? and knowing all of this, is eating ice cream really worth all the hassle? Depends how you define..IS! So, here’s the consolation-prize (a poem): Earth is warming, dog’s in heat..we’re all in heat and cops are swarming, –civilization’s, uh, neat.

Cats are kind of a design miracle, you know? poetry in motion, as it were! They start out in a pile..squeaking blobs of wet fur, squirming inside a cardboard box lined with towels (or blankets), –eyes taped shut, fighting over a teat; and next playing army all over the house, springing an ambush from around the corner of a chair..with conspicuous scratches to the upholstery; or taking out a machine-gun nest at the top of the curtains, clawing his way to the top, carrying a hand grenade..in the skin of his baby teeth! then, a little dry food with a milk chaser. Eventually Mom cuts them off, they’re on their own, now..in front of the supermarket, confined, once again, to a cardboard box; and a sign hung on their stiff little necks: FREE KITTENS “Mom! Mom!! can we keep this one? Ohh, pleeze, he’s so cute!” A horrible fate; but then it sure beats a free one-way ticket to the research-lab’s. And there’s always the not unlikely chance that that kitty-cat will be the next king, sweet-smelling in his fur..sweet as his own spit! and an early retirement. New ruler of the old neighborhood:


“Here, kitty-kitty!”

To0 whom it (is that shows a total lack of) concern’s: Dear (MCCC) president, As a former pupil enrolled in your fine school I am somewhta appalled at having to write this, a letter of protest against the department at MAT..you can kindly take out the ‘ART’ part of Media Arts Technology (exclamation-point). I went to mcccx to finish a degree in art I almost concluded in 1984 but in any case did not. I was just going for one semester to take a print-making course..something

I had overlooked while attending USC; and when discovered, I found they were only able to hand me a dummy diploama at the graduation ceremony (a ‘dummy’ this dummy still has). There at Oceanside (MCCC junior-college), I found the class I needed to finish the req’s for my Bachelors’ and was excited beyond measure when, with the help of one of your professors, I was able to join printmaking classes a little late, perhaps a week or two into the semester; but with a solemn promise to maintain a standard of excellence to the wigs of that department, time was waived. I was terrified! Never in my entire college career spanning almost half a century had I been called upon to rely almost entirely upon computers, from going in the front door until fulfilling the terms of an exit strategy. In fact, when USC’s bureaucrats allowed me to take Computer Science to meet their GED requirement for a science, I not flunked out with computers once..but twice! So now here I was, inactive with college programs for two or three decades, and barely being able – even given a high motivation factor – hardly able to navigate ee-bay! Fantastic!!


Sunday’s message, NOTES: Unto him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in his own blood, 6 And hath made us kings and priests unto God and his Father; to him be glory and dominion for ever and ever. When I was a child I spoke as a child..for now through a glass darkly (our understanding of who we are to the Father)..behold I shew you a mystery..we shall not all sleep; but we shall all be changed. Psalm 23..O! taste and see that the LORD is good. -and the sea shall give up her dead. Revelation 4:6 And before the throne there was a sea of glass like unto crystal; and in the midst of the throne, and round about the throne, were four beasts full of eyes before and behind..lion, calf, man..flying eagle. 11 4&20 elders: Thou art worthy, O Lord, to receive glory and honor and power; for thou hast created all things, and for thy pleasure they are and were created. 5:4 And I wept much, because no man was found worthy to open and to read the book, neither to look thereon. 6 ..9 ..thou wast slain, and hast redeemed us to God by thy blood out of every kindred, and tongue, and people, and nation; 10 And hast made us unto our God kings and priests: and we shall reign on the earth. 11 ..beheld, heard voice of angels, beasts, elders..10kX10k&k’s&k’s..all creatures, heaven, earth&everywhere: (w/a loud voice) Worthy is the lamb that was slain to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, &strength&honor&glory,&blessing. (1st at the throne, then every creature every where) then the 4 beasts said amen and the elders fell down and worshipped him that liveth for ever and ever. 6:9 5th seal..those slain for their testimony 7:3..20:4 ..souls of them..beheaded for the witness of Jesus and for the word of G_d 13 And the sea gave up the dead which were in it; and death and hell delivered 21..saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first were passed away; and there was no more sea. 2 ..new Jerusalem..(bride..coming down from God out of heaven..pure gold, like unto clear glass..22 no temple therein; for the Lord God Almighty and the Lamb are the temple of it.) 22:2 ..river, water of life clear as crystal proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb..either side of river was there the tree of life..12 fruits..yielded every month: leaves for healing of nations. Take no offense for the love of G_d


ps: Somebody said I preached it good. Wife, actually.

Doves (hearing them in my ear) cooing, are landing on your head, your hair softly flaming in a new sunrise; a lizard, little black one with tiny dots for eyes, crawling across your nose, smells something. It’s this poem..terrible, –Surprise!


Ps:Did the Russians invade Washington, yet? Nan-cee! they’re coming to getya, Babe..Chuck-ee! Chuckee-cheeze..Louise.

WHY I LOVE VLADIMIR PUTIN – TOP 10: ~10) Because..he’s not Pelosi&Chuck Shmoomer; 9) He’s not lindsey graham; 8) The FAKE news hates him; 7) He is leader of a great country with an amazing history; 6) He’s not obamma; 5) Like those mentioned previously God has placed him in a position of authority in the manner of kings..and I aught to respect that; 4) Because he’s not Barbra Streisand&Joseph Stalin; 3) According to FAKE news he has a nice looking girlfriend; 2) Girlfriend is in Switzerland..if FAKE news-journalists can be trusted; and

NUMBER 1: Because Jesus commands it and that should make it a piece of cake.


PS: Pray for President Putin to settle peaceably with People of Ukraine and souls to be saved. Pray for the Republic (USA), return to God..in Jesus’ name, Amen!

Contentment..Contentment is but the rustling of a breeze that vaguely interrupts the still, eternal night. Nowhere is the veil of darkness lifted..save, in twilight of memories growing ever distant, unburied! in an instant’s recognition; only to be whisked teasingly beyond reach..a horizon that can ne’er be regained. Carry me on thy journey, as well, that I may know an end to this misery..0! cursed winds of despair, —

~c. –c. 1984 B.C., Before Christ

Poetry-contests! what a lot of hooey!! (they are). I got taken in by one of those things once, well..not I, but my family and friends did, they purchased OUR WESTERN WORLD’S GREATEST POEMS from Edie Lou Cole and her Cole-leagues, her Cole-conspirators – thespians, the lot of them! – ’cause one of my poems I sent them was very good! good enough to be included – so they said – in that great volume, soon to be published (with my permission of course); although not good enough to win the Prize and the cash, but it was there, alright, in the fat volume when it arrived..scrunched down onto a page with forty other poems the size of your thumb from poet hopeful’s the wide world of poetry over, which believed Vincent Price, Esq., Mr. Poetry himself! when he gave his endorsement for it, saying, “This is a real important poetry, Ahem! contest.” (for a basic financial consideration..that had a gag order). And so on and so on..so waht is

what is a poetry contest? (Depends how you define IS) And how do you decide who won it (between the finalists being considered for the ‘big hair’-like crown); and what immediately comes to mind as being the correct answer for that is: 0ne sucks..and the other sucks a little bit less harder, ha-ha. Poets! wake up!! These people have it figured out..like the Clinton’s and their foundation. If there was a Jeopardy answer to that it would be this: WHAT IS A ‘SUCKER’ ALEX? and the question (or whatever) would have been P.T. BARNUM SAID, “THERE IS ONE OF THESE BORN EVERY MINUTE.”

“Descent of poets, –and poetesses”


PS: Keep writing, genius, –one day it’ll pay off.

My love, oh! my darling, I must, you know, dearest Clementine, continue to wear the deep-sea divers’ shoes with the lead soles to keep my feet firmly on this dry earth; and not float away, with these feelings I get being here with you. I may have to, additionally, strap the tanks on my back, –yeah, the Russian tanks! a nice pair of them, to keep me here, I feel so light-headed from your presence beside me next to the fire; in fact, it may actually take a regular nuclear attack submarine, crew, and the full compliment of atomic missiles – multiple warheads and all – chained to my ankle to supply me enough ballast..so you don’t, –Fly Me To The Moon! See? You do that to me, you see, –here! let me play that tune for you on my new tenor saxophone, the new old one you got me for the physical therapy, “DA-DA! DA-DA! DAHH..” right? Now! when we were kids back in the last millennium, we used to create lots of stuff together, you and I (you and me..heckle the politicians) and travel, –didn’t we! We took some trips, did the poetry thing and made lots of music together, beautiful music..great! seals along the Oregon coast serenading us for our honeymoon, throw ’em a fish. So now, what of that has changed? You have! You have changed, and you have only gotten better, and my health-related reporting has filled in some heavy books with my medical histories. First! first there was the eye-thing, that was first..involving the shot-gun..remember?? (sawed-off). Then,

and then there was nothing I can think of, for a very long time..Oh yes! and after that there was the ripe old age of 40, hit; and, of a sudden! the alarms went off, all the bells and whistles and we heard the order to..DIVE! Doctor opened the door to our exam-room, came in, looked around, stared blankly, and left. In a couple minutes he came back and asked if it was me (Chris Robertson). I said, “Yeah, that’s me.” and he had all these folders with the reports and evaluations of my blood tests. And so we studied him; and he studied us back, and so I said, “What.” And he shook one of the folders at me and said, “Based on these numbers I expected to find a 400-lb. man hibernating in a wheelchair.” (Mm-mm!) And I kept looking at him, and said, like, “Okay..what’s next?” And he said, “You’re going to die.” And he stared, deadpan, quizzically, letting the words hang there; then he cracked a slight grin, so I knew everything was basically okay; except I had a joker for a doctor..Doctor Jokester and Mr. Snyde, it was a snide remark, see? in the sense we shall all die, in God’s good time (except the Rapture). So, as it turned out I didn’t have A) narcolepsy, I had a thyroid with ZER0 function that made me sleepy all the time (from the nuclear radiation therapy I got when I was two after they cut out the tumor up in Burney from my shoulder, south of Mt. Shasta..and north, a little, of Weed; and a little while later, all the Strontium-90 dust blowing over from the A-bomb tests in Las Vegas when we were living in Newhall, California back of the San Fernando Valley); and then next on the list i didn’t have B) a hernia, I had what he termed a severe groin pull, and I remembered what gave me that; and whatever the third complaint was about, C) I didn’t have that either..yet! And, well, you promised..you promised to cherish me in sickness and in health. So here’s to that health! So then it went along fine with the new thyroid med’s for some years following, and laying off the lifting of heavy items, a little, like submarines, and, and tanks..You’re welcome! And so here at the Seashell Bar&Grill this morning, having an espresso and a soggy bagel with you with lots of cream cheese, looking back to the start of the new age, and our new millennium together up to now, my heart health-book grew fat, its pages un-slenderized with the dodgy details of 1) my hernia surgeries; and lots of NORCOs with that, –To the pain! while I line-danced, with a cane, at The Convention Center..following my discharge from hospital (so I could say I did); and 2) the amnesia’s, Spellbound! from the Hungarian Tokaji plus Hitchcock on our anniversary (lying on a bed, again, under casual observation after being ambulanced-down for the rarely diagnosed Transient Global Amnesia’s, or TGAs, as they say, with the vital functions monitors going BEEP! occasionally, watching the Ferguson deal unfolding being hosted by Megyn Kelly and her black leather skirt on FOX, –thanks Obamma! (if you had a daughter I don’t think she’d look like Megyn); and 3) the roto-rootering of my heart’s artery when it came to that and i was lying on my back on the cold concrete looking at marmalade skies waiting for the answering-quite-slowly ambulance to arrive and take me to all the newspaper heli-copter’s (waiting at the FAKE NEWS heliport) when I had my first coronary event..and long overdue; and then 4) peeing blood and visceral blobs with it from the cancer that was up there in my bladder, in your airbnb you were cleaning for Gary over there in Big Bear Lake, –in Gary’s toilet, Oy! And lately the surgeries and treatments for it numbering about a dozen, give or take, and interrupted only by 5) the life-saving four-way heart by-pass, with Dr’s Hilliard and Chung looking in on me through that, Hilliard making all the arrangements for it on quite short notice; and first night out after they chain-saw open my chest, fighting with Ci-Ci my night nurse from New York who was trying to kill me, I swear! dying of thirst, right after the surgery; and then, after noodling on the sax a couple of months to re-build my strength, back to the new #6, –the tubercular instill/feeds in ward in series in my bladder, and all of that; and still you hung in there with me in my sicknesses and my health’s. And so that’s why I got fluttery-feet’s syndrome..or FFS – not yet officially diagnosed – from all the love you give me without reserve and for that – plus the helium I suspect they inflate in the balloons on the end of the Foley catheter’s they shove up there Friday’s – I cannot stay earthbound; and for that, and all of the rest of it..and so much more, I love you! Now please help, won’t you? with getting this submarine cut loose from my leg (or my ankle, actually), here’s these torches, here, please cut it..it’s becoming a bother; and tanks!



“PS:I Love You..You-oo, you-oo Yu-u-u-u! I love You!” (Thanks,Paul.) And I think also if they..if they were between us, betwixt you and me..you and I, –I! I would fight the whole Russian Military Machine, with only my pocket switch-blade pen-knife in my hand, just to go get re-marry’d with you in Vegas; and an Elvis or two on the side to sing us that song, a song we love so much, –“Fly me to the moon! let me play amongst the star-r-r–rz, –in other words, hold..” (segue) “..and I-I-I (Clap-clap!), say that something..I wanna hold your ha-a-a-nd, –Komm, gib mir deine hand!” ~Tolstoy, Dostoevski, and Poe, Esq’s..the BEATLES! (“And Evgeny’s grandmother over there on drums.”)

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