THE GREEN WILDEBEESTE MEMORIAL FOUNDATION
The Green Wildebeeste Memorial Foundation was aware in every
aspect of the defection of its most holy ruptured member, Noondo
Bisqueeta. Noondo was completely overdue in every respect and
no one could figger what he had talked bout since that fateful
fitful day when somebody gived him regional anasthesia for the
bohunk extractor he always had hoped to find. The Noondo Bisqueeta
Fanclub had grown to swollen proportions in several miss states
acrost the heaping globe and, although he was due for personal
appearances any day now, he could alas nowhere be found. Clearly,
the Foundation was shaken.
Chopped Beef, the one and
only erzatz interpolator of the entire massive dog Corporation,
scratched his three-day facial foilage in obvious startling distaste.
Spitting on the carpet, he de-livered the onion ultimatoe: "If
we don't find Noondo Bisqueeta pretty damn quick, everybunny's
gonna cancel the fanclub perscription of a lifetime and we'll
be amazonned without native guides! Ring up Andy Porstaleenda
immediately! Only he'll know what alternate coloured diversion
to plan for. After all, he's the one who pioneered the Green
Wildebeeste Foundation in its mercurial infancy like no one else
ever because!" The others in the room agreet. Andy Porstaleenda
was the only choice.
Mere hours later, a delegate
of six loose baggy windup Larrys met outside Andy Porstaleenda's
teeming squalour in order to convince him of their plight. Each
one carried a thoroughly cooked gourmet slug dish to present
as a worthless token of their esteemed up kitchens. Andy, true
to form, greeted them as one might greet a turbanned maestro
from another eventual dimension. Upon collecting their well-used
dishes after the delipeful and repulsive repass, the delgate
spokesman spoked in a bloated table manner:
"My dear vested Porstaleenda, we have come to you in a time
of great defacing confirmation in our darkest hour and now we
beseech thee to---"
"STOP!! I know why you've
come! Do you think I would've eaten your wretched slugmeal unless
I knew your ulterior decorative motives? Yes, it is true: I did
have something to do with the Foundation when it shimmered but
that was long ago. Most of you were only mere glimpses of scant
possibility then. NOW look at you... We were capable of endless
possible mutation in those days and these days, the "Foundation"
can't even agree on how to spell WILDEBEESTE anymore! Can the
ideals upon which we flounded have scraped against so many cesspools?"
The delegates swung open with
pages falling out like too many bookwormed volumes. Nervously,
they looked at their identical official yellow rubber yashoes
(bless you!) shifting crenboe from foot to blistered foot. After
a long inordinate awkwardness, the Aged One With No Teeth spoke:
"Andy, Andy, you're excrement comes as no disguise to me,
your throat so long unused and all, but it has become apparied
to me that you outdistant your bumgroob by too many to one and
somehow you neglect our decision of long ago to bear in mind
constantly the depth we all aspire to no matter how we choose
to spell it. No matter how you carry on, the question remains
thus: Will you help us locate and further abnegate the dissolute
Noondo Bisqueeta before the fanclubs dissolve or must we all
forcibly disgorge the contents of our recently filled stomachs
all over your precious living wall to wall furniture?"
The Magic Living Report Show
was about to begin and no one could say anything to the contrary.
Their eyes had all grown cold and vacuuous and clearly reminiscent
of important federal holidays where lately nobody showed up 'cept
the creaking of the floorboards. And so it came to pass that
haf pass midday, Andy Porstaleenda find hisself making he way
through the overgrowd wheatucky bushes on the northern perimeter
of her Noondo's Hideaway.
"Howd I ever let 'em
talk me inta this?..." he grumbled, "If Noondo Bisqueeta
wants to disappear, he has every ability to and whoom I to stoppim?"
Though he knew Noondo's favourite places to hide, he had never
gone to any of them before much in the same fashion that others
had not come to his regardless of how much he had hoped. Now
here he was stalking the wild Bisqueeta and Euell Gibbons certainly
had nothing on him for the trail was not an easy one and any
minute he could be up a creaky tree or lookoe for pimple rocks
on the bottoe of the ribber. Swarms of bees told him obviously
fabricated stories trying to divert him and he began to question
his dedication to a situation which implied very few little if
any. Nonethelest, him struckle onwurz in splattering persistence
All at once, a little voice box called from underneath the sacred
mushroom flowers: "You'll never find me 'til you take off
your dress-up shoes!" So Andy taked off his caked-up wingtips
and LO! there stood Noondo Bisqueeta, a mere four inches laughyready.
He was dressed in maginary teeveeshow wrap and he spokee without
moving his lisp:
"Andy, I'm surprised
at you after all these manyo soupstocks! When was the last time
you came to see me? HA! In those days, we usta just sit in our
respective doghouses and let jellyspirits shoot out of our imaginary
doughnuts. Continually we promenaded together and yet rarely
did we really be in the same fiscal radiance of city and town.
Come, Sloppo, what brings you here anywise?"
Sunnedly, Andy rememblur every
aspec of doughnut jelly spirits and haveta smile warmly to heself.
As his smile spread like warm butter, he get to grow smaller
than even and by the time he stop laugha, he see Noondo eye to
eye! "Shoulda took them shoes off hours ago!" Andy
Porstaleenda'd. "At last I recall vague notion what humane
dirtgrinding is all about! I very nearly got lost in the trapping
of the trapezoidal trapeze after I thought my favourite radial
diversion station got pinched off. Ah my dear Noondo...do you
still lick rosebuds at dawn?" Bisqueeta chuckle heartily
"We gotta lotto catchi up to do, eh Smoley?"
Andy do a recapitulate double take. "What th-? Nobody's
called me that since Lectric Sophie lost her gazebo somewhere
"Hey Noon'! Let's go
pile our exhalations like we always do and see if the ponies
are still talking!" And they both go through the field past
a ladybug big as Sammie Dolinda's house singing two-part Papa
Oom Mow Mow as if they never stop yet.
that zebra look
that zebra look again; the one the nuns at St. Formica's always
took the wrong way and BOOM! there goes: "Anabelle go sit
in the sanctuary and say 75 rosaries!" and she always said
'em all and now after so many unintentioned zebra looks and rosaries,
she saw how it was actually better to sit alone in the quiet
sanctuary for hours uninterrupted and sucked like a whirlpool
in---better than having dead people snore even.
Spuvada put his feet in the compartment under Anabelle's seatdesk
one on either side which usually she liked but today everything
was in another language and everybody was like windup and even
Mr. Galiene the custodian (who was usually the BEST person in
the whole school to talk to) looked like a drawing of himself
somebody on acid made. To top it off, in the middle of the night
last night, Mr. Scrugglenuggles, the Persian catpet, threw up
big juicy hairballs all over Anabelle's beloved 8 x 10 glossy
picture of Solidago Walnut Hornbeam she had sent away for and
it took SIX WEEKS to get it and she JUST GOT IT DAY BEFORE YESTERDAY!!!
All of this
contributed to the zebra look on Anabelle's face which was now
in progress and which Sister Perestroika hadn't noticed as of
yet just wait. Sister P. had the oddest habits of any of the
other sisters there at Pius Umbeeda's Drive-through Church and
Cataclysm Class and she was definitely not a zebra fan. Suddenly
time moved like a peach somebody runned over or stepped on and
then it was yet another "Anabelle, go sit in the sanctuary
and this time say 83 hail marys and 68 rosaries of beer on the
wall, 68 rosaries of beer..."
It was so
quiet in the sanctuary, Anabelle could hear the drips of blood
from the lifelike full scale model of the founder and saviour
hanging right there in an altared state on his own doublecross
at the front of the sanctuary. After about 42 hail marys, Anabelle
could see the stained glass changing colour like a slow kaleidoscope.
There was so much space between her heartbeats, she could slide
right through between 'em and fly around for hours before the
next heartbeat would come. The electrical edge of her skin reached
out into seven other layers.
sitting next to her was the most bizarre little shrunken man
all dressed up in a brown wrinkled leotard with a long funny
brown cap who spoke in a shivery giggly voice. Essept he whisper
without movee he lisp. "By now you recognize everything,
don't you?" he inquired and Anabelle never uttered a sound
when she answered "It is always new and yet I have always
The brown man said "In stillness you move through the plasma
and hypnosyncratic synaptics open and close like little fish
mouths strong enough to make fish-hickies." and with that,
he became a newborn baby who grew through his whole life on fast
forward time lapseleap right there in front of Anabelle. When
he was the oldest man on the edge of dust, he waved goodbye slowly
and made a silly face and his cells moved apart just enough for
the cohesion of his aggregate form to break down apart and through.
All that remained was a faint dusting of bluish brown powder.
quietly to herself and even the drippy lifelike full scale
model up front giggled a little...
in the whirl
you are whereverthe little scrolly-dollys who look like fat peanuts
and dress up like lemons are shredding their taut hearts and
starting to fart art. although nothing needs to be or can be
done at this most convincing moment of tepid intrepid certitude,
a dizzying reflection at best is re-veiled, all close up and
googly looking, nearly wiggly. plenty of time as cascading worlds
rain blustery mustard- coloured custard, the very sight of that
most prominent probiscus (that nose too well) opens and shinnies
like acrobatic skunks and zebras up any ol tree in threes. i
hear a trilly-voice centipede artichoke choking out a joke about
the tremulous voice of hebben or sebendeelebben.
All of this a mere bagatelle batter up in a game of waffle ball
in a stereo brain. tangentially simultaneous, a breeze blows
through a foreshadowing of helpful touch spots in those hard-to-get-at
places and so i open the leaves of the book with the rake of
my fingers and pile high the autumn of my words like books that
read themselves. however many goed unotice, youisma senigisma
daruma menehune hoho powglorba.
Here in the arcing aching heat of a sun totally different than
southland i scramble to find my egg dreams both poached and over
easy. poached because they feel like someone else's and over
easy because i am awake again, in the arms of heaven again here
to awaken fully in an earth day blossom of blue blue sky and
soft ocean air. summer has barely taken hold and the evening
damp and chill brought the first hint of wintermint (at least
autumn) to the nostrils of univers-all he-art.
Bounces have been far and wide wild in ride and occurance. the
souls i have known for years ( and too those i have only just
and not yet met) are amazing in the pirouettes of the upheavals
in these lives, so many getting brave new messages and listening
to pulse and wave of this planet of waters. truly i see myself
mirrored in everyone. of my accumulated tools and old ways, nothing
seems workable or relevant. like the first blush of ray of new
daze opening bold and taking hold. i am as a child with trembling
fingers unwrapping bulgy gifts of present tense. all i can seem
to be able to do is follow the air currents and magnetic fields,
tripping into anti-gravity like it is an old tone poem i know
and bestow and hurl and twirl. yes, but weakness. yes anyway.
i can listen and hear and dream envisioning parrallelogisms and
spontenacity in languages undreamed of yet and barely ever spoke.
like a tangible in a china shop, symptomatic pulse thots wave
far beyond myopic utopia. veils remove themselves and the terrible
beauty of that revealed core is so much this and more all laughyready
and pulse worthy truly speaking NONETHELESS IS ALL THE MORE
There is unraveling in travelling and the weave is enough to
get you pulled over by the slapstick po-leece. at least this
time i'm in a position of adventageous outrageousness wherein
all i know is revealed in the moment as it comes more and more
like huang po's "sages who have abandoned learning and come
to rest in spontenaeity". each becomes and procures it's
own medicine and dis-ease and healing crisis process as nearly
as eternity is all at once and then there's basho peripetetic
poet leaving hitch haikus on his travels where'ere he be like
the poem he and his companion wrote on their hats in pure glee:
"nowhere in this universe have we a fixed abode" ahem
and a stitch and 11:11 to you.
Besides it's not like it's the end of an era. it's the ear of
bulletins as they occur. big bag bagels to you where'ere, from
me nearly simultaneous in the juncture of heart and mind. no
matter, never mind.
your corn forest spondent,
ah so the
sounds of this veiled planet return to me as i swim to the surface
of the ocean of dreams to refocus and awaken, to shake off sleep
(always delicious morpheus dessert) and see shapes solidify and
cajole arranging their barely cellular matter in forms i have
come to recognize and even think i know. still it comes as a
surprise to me each new waking that light is caught this way
barely visible and yet seemingly oh-so-solid and "true".
whatever are we to do? I've been thinking of water: how it is
the same water through all "time" that rises, falls,
evaporates, freezes, condenses, accumulates into lake, ocean,
river, snow, hails, quenches, sweats and the waters of our primordial
age or even from 8th century time of huang po all the same water
now. an actual physical demonstrative wo/manifestation of time's
simultanaeity and us, these beings with souls in process, nearly
all water and the same in molecular as saline sea, our blood
and tears and sweat and saliva animated in some crazed water
that is too, edifying fire that can neither be destroyed nor
created. in the depths, our arcspark of electric elasticity is
pure life moving through all the kaleidoscope of forms but not
dependent on any form for continuance (continuous nuance). the
beauty of course is that this inspired soulmatrix will continue,
does continue, cannot uncontinue no matter what we outpicture
in life as we insist it must be.
the lifetestgrace we've perpetuated comes again to transition
of form. once again we blindly overprocreate (go ye forth and
subdivide) stripping resource off a dwindling roll like so much
toilet paper. once again we have made our distractions a way
of life, more important than evolution. once again we've incarnated
and forgotten why believing this veiled world of maya to be true,
the only true and do so little to persue the soul virgin birth
as conscious pilot maintaining breath and clarity integrity.
still souls who do maintain the spear-it of who they truly are
becoming and theirs is powerful medicine of vision and re-vision
for these times not the end of an era but rather the ear of ananda.
souls who bless our lives with vital force as we, by daring to
question and process, BE clear blessing creation in endless reciprocation.
it may not be "world unbalanced and babelling" but
the crisiscruxcrucible of opportunity to be multidimensional
now and not overly attached to form, sweet as this human tragedy
all i know is the miracle of now of each sequential revealing
now through movement now and perfect return now as the space
between idea and outpicturing is close enough to be synchronized
and the spirit that is self aware and self reflective is indeed
(and word) what conscious-ness implies. all this now a steamroll
of thought to break fast upon my return from the mountain of
night embracing sweet cool fragrancedance of new morning now
in these forms. i hear from wide open souls i encounter and mirror
in travel how multidimensionality is more each turning of the
sun and moon, how psychic worlds and physical gifts overlap into
etheric. surely the medicine is appropos to the level of dis-ease
and commensurate healing in condensed time like this (day is
week, week is month, month is...), outside of routine i am humbled
amazed andtruly abzellirated by the liquid implication of the
panoply of light, texture and sound. sometimes i can even glimpse
what all this movement is about, what the entire body of lifework
can look like as sculpture, poem, song or piece on beyond zebra
word and certainly outside conceptual thot. there is order, there
is chaos, there is sublime simpatico in our dee licious revel-ation
a worthy cause for celebration calibration celebration calibration
ad infinitum into the vacuum river of soundless endless: hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
spondent and eye conduit
Ozymandias and The Greyhound
took a bus to MinneapolisilopaenniM and nearly got kicked off
in Stle St. Marie for getting drunk on Minnesota-water. Nobody
can fine they eyes whose bagatelle grew imperceptibly into darker
toupees of infernalized rhythm.
The moon was splendicious
and nearly evaporated any dangling participle anyone had left
right yes no because I told you that was the last time and all
around trees and the ground beckoned ever closer with reflected
poignant light that was in itself a mere efficacioius reflection
Ozymandias apologized to the
driver and all the other passengers for getting drunk on Minnesotawater
right there in front of them. The Greyhound had to promise to
leave the driving to them/us and nobody forgot how good that
black man in the orange suit smelled even after he ate his cheese
and crackers that he brung all the way from Houston with him...