Burning leaves at the institute, I happened into the “media center”(the literate among us call the media center “library”), produced a volume of decades ignored verse from their furrows–mind, this was so many acres protected by a rent-a-cop, not exactly public property where the legally incompetent-to-stand-trial roam around with knives and guns–and God knows, I’m not yet flailing from here to eternity towards ascending to the feet of Jesus, trailing the sunshine–I mean, Bread of Life, they asked me to introduce myself, so its kinda their fault, right? Lord they know not what they do.--49 and back in school, school brick fascia implying in horrified social media reports that a thumbnail of poetry chalked with the hands of a bald and carcinogenic might have, could have, would have, been less semantic aphasia, was in truth a dyslexic overture to say hello to the students.
Dickinson is a lunatic engorged in claustrophobia, asphyxiating but lucid to the extent she documents her delusions, which to the similarly inclined, appears to be joy. It's not; it is flaccid acceptance of myriad bounds upon her existence, that ironically fall away after her time, leaving us a darn good puzzle of a woman that wanted, but did not, that wrote her thoughts, but had not a jot of inclination or inspiration outside of her own person beyond boredom.
It would speak so much to the bane of her existence if we said we wanted her for her mind.
Whitman discards humanity for himself, and ejects himself for all of humanity: quite happy with whatever it was that comprised his world in his own day. He points towards things and gesticulates, without measurement, idly mumbling but for the interjection of an exclamation point to tell us something is important to him, that his pie landed on his shirt or the boardwalk is pretty, or even that his pie stain induced him to crazy laughter over the pure idiopathic place setting of the universe: an impressionist among utilitarians and communists.
His yammering conveys joy, gives us a feeling.
O how he could have been button-up Dickinson's worldly button-down child had fate allowed!
While Dickinson may have waited for midnight chimes to mask the sounds of her withheld screams, Whitman, for all his exclamation points, was as at ease sitting under a bridge heckling his beloved commoners, or hopping on his motorcycle to help Kerouac find that damn sweater. Propriety gave one a pillow to silence those screams, while her foil, her Pollux was as bonelessly draped about as a dirty comfort blanket.
Screaming down the streets of evermore, the depth of feeling is the perplexity of the grocery list noodler hemmed-up like a Puritan, and a granola fiend sandal-wearer who makes his book his own name, but for the proprietary rights-holding promotionalism of a concrete-fisted mogul. He is exactly the same damn guy they think he is at home. Maybe at home on the lazy susan beside the powdered garlic, USB-b chord, spare keys that were for a car sold 15 years ago, an uncle’s pocket knife, and a forgotten dartboard hardware baggie. Mahomet, after all, had he no mountain, was only a disillusioned rhetorician.
Tales From The Darkside: Yatterling
William Demarest(Wilson Diaz)
Rupert Petticoat(soul stealer)
Winifred Gibson(Lisa Diaz, daughter of Wilson Diaz)
Well, it was, in fact Christmas after all: a time for giving, a time for friends and love ones, sharing and caring, candles in the windows and marauding troupes of carolers assailing entire neighborhoods.
Beelzebub was in the Screwtape business of claiming human souls. And near Christmas time one year, he found himself low in his quota of damnations. And what was he to do, but claim a particular juicy soul?
Enter the nutjob, Wilson Diaz: old fellow with a chipper disposition, a positive outlook sort of kindly innocuous sort that spread good cheer. As in the old rhetorical question, of what binds such an unflappable, unassailable man of Inner Citadel Uber Mensch male version of Martha Stewart, what holds on together while pulling one apart:
1)Epoxy
2)Cinnamon
Petticoat, remembered for his sundry roles in 80’s television, endured spiked leather wardrobe, red paint, and a Rick James hairdo in one of Hollywood’s classical uses of “midgets”. But the little soldier played it to a tee; picture him standing on a chair in his dressing room saying to himself: “I am a mean little gremlin and I’m gonna go steal someone’s soul”.
But it was, this foray into artistry, as Romero himself stated, all because of the “Laurel money”, Laurel entertainment later chudding-out beneath the larger umbrella of Orion Pictures, the group behind Robocop and other Hollywood hits, before Orion Pictures itself chudded-out.
After the Yatterling tries to ruin Christmas by destroying the yuletide decorations in the Diaz living room, Diaz gets him with the “let’s try to get out the back door”, while standing at the front door: silly Yatterling, myopic bullishness sending him running from the front to the back, Diaz merely opens his front door and makes egress.
He was particularly a prize target of Beelzebub, he explains to Lisa Diaz in his best Debbie Gibson, that the soul stealer was given so many great opportunities at length to shake his query’s disposition, because somewhere way up in his family’s past, there had been a sorcerer. So Diaz was low-hanging fruit, a false-flag of good tidings, pretending to care while secretly being a very bad guy.
And yet, not. He was a great guy.
“...they will persecute you in my name…”
Another of the chuckings of “The Laurel Money”, this one somehow finding distribution rights in the CBS portfolio(Rubinstein you lovable swine!). God bless muthafuggin America, what I says to that, friends and neighbors.
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