The forest goes on forever.
Forgiving is hard. Accepting is really hard. Being kind is hard to do.
Coming back in an instant like an oiled steel scorpion is important too.
All fools are foes, ya know, and every book's a love letter.
Bring down heaven's hammer with higher goals set in pious poetry, delicious kicks, and a feral use of logic and jostling reality itself - if that ain't a blessed falcon punch of creativity then you can revoke my Birdwatcher's license.
The Hard Stuff is worth doing.
The Pleasant Stuff is pure sport. Be true to your school though - to them that don't harm, to them that love fierce and true blue.
On the horizon is another horizon.
Here, there by Tygers.
We've come back to kiss quiet country.
America is hitting one if its all time lows.
"The Shadows are here to dance, jack. The Shadows are here to stay." hissed the cackling checkered devil during the RNC.
We love you America, oh stinking in the unholy mires
of ole's scratch hisself - that snake.
Happy Holidays. Keep coiled and yuh nuh, solidarity between freaky dreamers and visionary wanderers - like on the streets of Compton, San Diego, Honolulu or Milwaukee. Thank you, wonderful assortment of minds. Our exam in moral truth has been afoot since the time that time stopped forgetting. Are we somehow collectively inhabiting an archived reliquary of our times, trapped in misstressed media amber? I'm not sure.
But I hope you kiss whoever your sweet heart is.
From thhheeee deeeeessss...
(inaudible)
San Francisco, California
WE SAY NO
TO FASCIST PIGS
AND WHITE SUPREMICISTS.
WE SAY NO
TO LOVELESS BASTARDS
AND DICKLESS ANTAGONISM
FROM NAZI SLEEPER CELLS,
OR TACKY COSPLAY TYRANTS.
THINK AS YOU WISH, BUT ALL THOSE KKK DOLTS ARE ALL MERELY SCREAMING LEAVES IN LONELY MISERABLE AGONY, CHEWED TO BITS BY EXISTENTIAL ANXIETY - SO MENTALLY MALNOURISHED AND INSANE THAT IT IS CLEARLY BEYOND THE COMPREHENSION OF MOST TO PERCEIVE THE SHEER POVERTY OF THOUGHT THAT HAUNTS THEM. FOOLS FOR FOOLS SAKE INDEED, ENSLAVED AND EMPOWERED BY THE DEMON FIGURE UPON THE PULPIT AND PODIUM.
THE GUN OR KNIFE OR CAR IS NOT OUR WEAPON.
A MIND IS SWIFTER.
A PEN IS SHARPER.
A HEART IS STRONGER.
WE SEND LOVE TO THOSE FACING THIS WRETCHED STRUGGLE IN THIS DISTORTED, OTHERWORLDLY NIGHTMARE AMERICA. ITS NEXT PHASES INTO THE DARK SIDE OF THE MOON MIGHT MEAN SOME NEEDLESSLY TAWDRY TOTAL WAR, BUT THEN AGAIN IT MIGHT MEAN EXOTIC RAINBOWS OF SUBSTANCE IF ONE WERE KEEN ON CARRYING PRISMS. WITHIN OUR CONTEMPORARY MANIC PANIC WE HAVE WIZ KIDS, OPTIMISTS, AND FEARLESS PUSHERS OF COSMIC ODYSSEY, WISHING TO SHARE THE NEXT STEPS TO HUMAN EVOLUTION WITH INTREPID THOUGHT.
IT'LL HAVE TO BE YOU AND ME, BABE.
WORLD WAR FOUR MAY WELL HAVE BEEN PREDICTED TO ONE DAY BE FOUGHT WITH STICKS AND STONES AFTER CIVILIZATION IS SQUASHED BENEATH NUCLEAR BOMBS AMID IRRADIATED FIELDS OF PELENNOR, IF TRULY FORETOLD BY EINSTEIN HIMSELF. BUT ALAS, MARSHALL MCLUHAN SAID IT BEST (WE FRET) THAT CURRENT CIRCUMSTANCES PAINT THE POINT THAT THE IMPLOSION OF WAR AWAITS AT HOME.
FROM THE DESK OF MARSHALL MCLUHAN
World War III is a guerilla information war with no division between military and civilian participation.
WAS THE WEB ALWAYS A WEAPON OR WAS IT WEAPONIZED?
WUZZA WUZZIT?
ASK THE POISONOUS ORANGE SPIDERS IN OFFICE.
ASK THEM THAT HAVE TASTED THE FREEDOM OF FLIGHT.
NOTWITHSTANDING WE'RE STILL STANDING AFTER DEMOCRACY TOOK A BAD HIT LAST NOVEMBER WHEN A FASCIST NAZI SWINE WAS ELECTED WITH OPEN AID OF DUBIOUS RUSSIAN INFLUENCES ALONGSIDE.
LOVE AND KISSES TO THOSE THAT FACE THE STRUGGLE.
LOVE TO THOSE THAT RESIST THE INFLUENCE OF MINDLESSNESS.
LOVE TO THE KIND ONES THAT KEEP FIGHTING.
LOVE FOR OUR DEAD.
With Love For Heather Heyer For Ever
THANK YOU.
THANK YOU SO MUCH.
I'M SANCTIFIED BY YOUR LOVE.
YA KNOW LIKE A BLOW JOB FROM A NAIL GUN.
OH IT'S A HOLEY EXPERIENCE
TO FEEL SO TRANSPARENT
THAT SADNESS LEAKS FROM EXIT HOLES
LIKE GEYSERS TO HEAVEN.
WE ARE GONNA ARCHIVE MORE THINGS.
AND PUT MOOORE FUN IMAGES UP. REASSEMBLE THE WORKS. SOOONGS OF THE SOUND. YOU DESERVE IT. WE WANNA SHARE LOVE.
REDESIGN THE HOLE PLACE.
OTHER LIQUID COLUMNS AND CLEAR EXAMPLES OF FINE LITERATURE BY BB AND FRIENDS TOO. OOPS - KICKED OVER THE FAX AGAIN. SHALO P IS STILL HANDLING RESEARCH AND DEVELOPING THE GREAT LAST "SOUND AND VISION" CHAPTERS OF VALLEY FOR THE ONCOMING ROLL-OUT. MORE INFO FOR ANOTHER TIME.
THANK YOU TO ALL OUR FRIENDS OUT THERE, AND TO ALL THE KIND FOLKS THAT PERCHANCE COME TO VISIT US HERE.
KEEP HUGGING YOUR PALS. KISS YOUR FRIENDS ON THE CHEEKS. HOLD HANDS AND SING SONGS YOU LIKE.
BE GOOD.
BE KIND.
BE GENTLE AND SUBLIME.
IF THERE'S A CHANCE THAT WE DON'T HAVE TO FIGHT EVERY NAZI TO THE FUCKING DEATH, THEN LET US HOPE IN OUR MAD HEARTS THAT WELL CONSIDERED, THOUGHTFUL LOVELY ART CAN INFUSE THE HUMAN SPIRIT WE ALL SHARE TO BRING THOSE ASSHOLES ONTO OUR SIDE INSTEAD. YOU CAN LAZER OFF A SWASTIKA TRAMP STAMP AND NIX THAT HITLER HAIRCUT WITH A TEMPERED GONG TO THAT COSMIC PIT OF A SOUL. REDEMPTION IS STRONGER THAN TRAGEDY.
PERHAPS WE CAN FIND FRIENDS SOMEWHERE UNPREDICTABLE IN THE ROVING FANTASTIC PHANTOM COUNTRY COMPRISED OF LOVERS AND TRUE FUCKING BELIEVERS OF MERCY AND COMPASSION, OF INQUIRY AND UNDERSTANDING, OF LAUGHTER AND UNBOUND CREATIVITY. THAT SWEET SPIRIT LIVES PEACEFULLY QUIET IN THE HEART OF MOST.
MAYBE IT DOESN'T HAVE A VOICE.
BUT IT SINGS.
IT SINGS.
THANK YOU.
THANK YOU.
THANK YOU.
LOVE.
we here, doing our best.
Television For Ghosts Aug. 2017
San Francisco, California
Smell the smelter. The iron works.
A charmed mind is resilient in its efforts to evade the rusted palaces, shoreside.
Paperwork. Paperwork.
Had some π and coffee, thinking of that old mathematic mechanic cafe that used to be around here.
There was also a boutique that played songs with a stir of strings when it got lights out and late.
Washington Square could spare some more tales, a splash of port mayhaps for this salty dog.
It serves a dood draped in ox-blood any ole' time.
This goldern necronomicon got side-saddled stitching and was distributed by this zine distro out near where James Dean got wrangled in the reins of his Little Bastard.
In life's free-for-all explosions of emotions the question persists as well.
Is the internet about good or bad vibes?
Does hell prevail? Oh well, I'm not sure. The demon-haunted world seems undaunted - joyous, even.
But the kicks are getting higher than a legion of chicas' can-can.
Another fax came in with all the words - funny ones.
The end came with the question of when a joke is a joke or a funny statement a funny statement or just merely an actual inescapable position witnessed from afar.
Laughter draws blood into the lungs.
Singing is thrilling.
Singing is resisting.
----
I know of a day that stays in bed and runs around at night.
Damn fucker would steal a car and steer it into the bay if it could.
The pictures on the wall around this place are taped like messages from a kidnapper.
They say Shalo P suddenly disappeared somehow.
Who knows?
I can hear a humming through the walls and this place smells like an ashy furnace with its dancing swirls on the mottled surfaces - more messages. At the foot of the fax I found an old coin with lewd marks in its face. Penny for a thought.
I'm not aware if any creature so low-down could be up for transubstantiation. A tricky creature knows all forms of tricksey, if ya listen close to quiet ones rowing their little boats along the shore of their subterranean bog.
I'll leave some cookies here. I'll step on the poor little things to not spoil the artist with pomp or pristine.
I'm told that broken shapes ease even the foulest of moods.
I'm tempted to leave a fire within the wall to smoke out the saint, but I reckon that title is already held by another, elsewhere.
Somehow, I imagine a fire smoldering still from once when I pitched a chewed stogie into one of the whispering mouths along the hallway.
Perhaps it's just a small game of a door and her sisters.
In this match we connote a fractured window by the desk with perhaps just some poor lazy cousin made with feet. Grainy prisms mark where the glass was reinserted into the kicked-in pane.
I can't stay in this room too long. I'd just keep dancing here and bopping away the witching hour until it switches night for a midnight morn. That's the place, consequently - my home town.
The room just melts out of shape when I feel that manic panic tug at the socks.
There is unknown music somewhere in this place.
juice,
------
OH MY.
took a look.
there's a room of animals.
there's a room with drawings all over the place.
it's scary.
oh yeah, another hole in the wall now looking greasy along the edges.
IT'S A MESSAGE.
did something disappear within like a sick animal or is this another calling crevasse?
more faxes came in. the pile is a pattern. too much damn profanity in it. it mentions some orange chump whose name rhymes with CHUMP.
it's abominable stuff, the work of this creature and its minions. Yuck.
there's also a love letter to trans people.
we aren't slowing down for shit.
it's just a bit of quiet civil war that we beloved artists are facing. will we give up? HAH.
fuck, i got a high-five last week for yelling at some pig in his patrol car. fucking pig sped up at me at a crosswalk on the stroll home. lousy stinking swine then goes all Biff Tanner with sly mocking "watch where you're going..." like some fascist scum out of a movie. The pig was dark-skinned; pig traits travel along all the pathways of the body to taint its souls. It's a nasty power trip that seemingly attracts weak characters and unpleasant bullies into its service here in the good 'ole USA. His eyes were brimming with menace, the frustrated eyes of a murderer with free time on his clenched fists.
I yelled back, "you're supposed to look out for us" and then called the pig "the proverbial" as I turned to leave. he stayed in his squad car, angry as a beaten back rapist.
FROM THE DESK OF SHALO P
honestly kids, fuck the pigs.
this won't make news. it won't set the world on fire, but an old Italian fellow followed me into the store I'd ducked into for cover and shook my hand with love and spirit.
he said "good work, they should be looking out for us, but that just isn't the case".
his smiling eyes were a pep.
keep love in your heart and don't let those pigs get to ya.
love,
The Management
transcribed by Dordery Marks and laid down here by a kind creature...
check this space tonight.
we switch some keys.
they're dragging something away and it's screaming snakes loud as humble hell
woo hoo hoo hoo!
UH WHUTTUP? WHO'S THIS?
om The De
I'm a silica saleswoman they let off the leash...
