A wooden framework surrounded an outlet from the cave and as we opened it we were treated to a great expanse of the Afghan mountain-scape, from a high vantage. The ten-or-so marines with which we were embedded, kept talking of a large movement of personnel that scouts and UAV's had observed and radio'ed into them. Our guide, a white haired, Indian looking and sounding wise-man sat quietly between their nervous ranks intermittently conversing with his assistant, our translator, as well as a plucky, bright-faced young television journalist. A rocky, natural out ridge served as the apparent path up to this wooden facade; a deck and several log beams and broken planks that nested between them, clods of rock and wild-flowers creeping up out of their gaps gave the location a decidedly ancient-Buddhist flavor; it evoked a time before Islam. Some of the soldiers perched from the edge of the deck began firing down into the valley at several clearly deleneated figures running back and fourth. I covered my mouth as the group voted to pursue these sporadic figures down below. It was decided that we would stay behind, the translator was given an M-16 and the journalist a handgun. As they snaked their way down the path we saw flashes of light from their guns like little lightning-bugs, and their poses and shadows were etched nightmarishly on the walls around them like huge caricatures of fright. Finally we glimpsed their small battle with a tribe of Taliban at the base of the mountain. Some had already fallen, and some were falling in the skirmish now. A cloud of dust soon enveloped their fast, bug-like movements and they had disappeared. The T.V. journalist was busy behind me, and as I looked back he was bare-chested, ripping the sleeve off his white undershirt and tying it to a long strip of a wooden plank which he had broken off. Our wise-man sherpa began adjusting the red-lit dials on a short wave radio, his hands slow and patient. Suddenly we heard cries of agony, a moment later arabic dancing music, and then silence again. His face was leather, frozen in a sort of amused countenance; he was not afraid of death. The dark haired, serious looking translator snatched up the machine gun as we heard the sound of falling rocks not too far down the trail.

A long night

When the pregnant woman stood up from the milk-bath she told me that it would be easier when she went into labor to be lubricated in such a way as to ease the passing of the infant at the canal. She had been a black woman that had sat next to me as professor Richard explained 'le raison d'etre' regarding the logic behind giving Finance students several levels of calculus during their matriculation. A fart had brought my attention to her--I did not notice it being emitted, but as soon as I had smelt it we were playing footsie at each other's loins. I was then lost in the engineering building trying to find classrooms off concrete dust spilling cliffs and empty warrens.

Once I was infected with the virus the other contagious persons who, for whatever reason, had joined each other in wearing all-black, informed me that it was my duty to execute the remaining members of my squad, in a ploy designed to prove loyalty to their cause. I looked at my teeth in the mirror and at will I could change their shape to my liking. Two of them were on the second floor spa-room which overlooked my doomed ex-partners in the courtyard. A small afro sporting black child was sitting terrified as we watched the water in his large placid jacuzzi rush from clear to black--a frightful thrashing ensued, akin to observing a dying snail.

I was sent running at the invitation of (professor) Richard and his wife--I ran so fast, and at such an angle that my speed was the result of a churning motion with the toes of my feet, like climbing a ladder. I was apparently unexpected--the furrowed brow of Richard's wife being my tip-off. I tend to land in this situation often--the reticent host, and me the clueless guest. Was it my physical appearance that lent itself to this constant ridicule?

Day 1 of abe kobo Ex.

freewrite:

The long and winding road. The beginning of the end. There is something there which is no longer me when I end up talking about it in the dark; the secrets which go beyond the dark. The end of darkeness and the beginning of the light. There is a mathematical tipping point I’m sure. There is nothing wrong with the feeling that the words that I write are altogether ineffectual. They have no meaning. They have style. That’s for sure. They sure do have style. The type of style they have is not of any interest to people of this world. Perhaps that’s because I’m not writing this for people. I’m writing this for the future tthere’s al lot of people that are involved very heavily in the interstice of justie between the right and the wrong. The intertice, the mathematical judgement call where rounding errors and shaving data are forgiven because there’s a point to be driven in by the data. Data is ever so slowly marginalized in favor of a desirous conclusion.

I begin by telling of a fire which consumed the pornographic theatre in 2008. Hanging on a thread of brain matter flesh which was assaulted by hormonal imbalance, drug and alcohol abuse daily a man with a a cat fetish murdered 13 fellow depraved inmates of the human race. Earlier that night his wife had joked about the Parmesean cheese she saw on his shirt shoulders, in reference to his chronic dandruff problem. That was it. He went into the kitchen, found a silver crystal bowl holder, approached her from behind and slammed the pointy end through her head’s temple and into her brain cavity--exposing a pink viscous muck…undisturbed in laces at first--then interrupted in spurting black convulsive attacks of blood-shots.

Kobo Again

How to live a Post-political life.
Politics cannotes divisiveness and division of groups into polar spheres or polemics. In this way politics is a large scale representation of the rights of the individual up and over that of the whole of humanity. How is this defeated? Does morality provide us with a shematic for overcoming the bastion of individuality? No. Morality is fallible, and subjective. A correct morality has never and will never exist. In this sense, I agree in spirit with my predessesors including Nitzche, and wholly disagree with the philosophy espoused by Emanuel Kant and his modern counterparts. I have several proofs of this hypothesis, and though I feel it's a wasted effort I shall provide some of these proofs in the passages to follow:--

Why is this important

The Red Head

The bombadier seat of a trainer aircraft presents itself to me on a rainy day. Given tours of these wonderful machines I suppose. A man in a business suit goes up a couple of extra steps to the pilot's seat. In the bombadier cockpit there's a mini T.V. screen and two poles to direct the bombs with gentile taps to go off in different directions. Semi-smart bombs. Another little screen can be made to look out the front, through the use of tiny cameras--however, it is lit up only with a rudimentary blue and white doplar radar screen. A storm is coming.

A column of rainclouds travels up to me from the south, and I hear rumors of my friend's presence, on the automobile highway, amid the blowing grass and occasional blip of rain. His house in the mountains is beautiful and I don't want to get too attached. A redhead asks me about fliers that I'd been passing out for the military in hopes of getting drafted into the elite air-force. The China conflict is coming and there is less than a wing of F-22's. What a beautiful girl, what a beautiful storm--she asks me like the wind, "do you think it will work this time?" as she sits above me. No words.

Clarinet

I fit the two cylinders together. Beautiful music.

There is something deadly about my dreams. The suffocation of reality. Boats watching aircraft. Azure blue water. I sit and watch the water carve out the beach. The water takes the beach and scoops it up, settling it elsewhere. It would almost be a tidepool here, if it weren't for the waves. They're huge, disruptive and scary. It must be the result of some storm beyond the horizon. Liquid harbingers. Sand is completely white. The entire earth will one day be covered by sand. The biosphere will fossilize; limestone to be pulverized into this beautiful powdercake dust.
I see no meaning in objects. In objects I see no symbols. An apple is not sin, it is not even a conveyance for tree seeds (subjective). An apple is not a concept. It can be cut and eaten, though it cannot be understood. Some would say that Apple means: "It is better to be alive". I find this to be troubling. Objects are inpenetrable by the human mind. They frustrate a desire to inject humanity. They destroy teleological fantasy. In that sense, objects exist outside of good and evil. A skull is a good example.

Steel and glass cage. Halogen lights. The wire curled around itself after many twists.

I am on this side of town. The Atom Bomb went off underground (crater and dusty miniskis earthquake) and Rick Moranis is running at me. A waterfall, figure 8 tunnel and columns made of lava-rock. If I hold in my breath I can crawl ontop of the inflatable buildings. The rails ride is up there. The front cover is pressing in on my crotch uncomfotably--whelp I've got to go in any event. The buildings depress and shoot out cobwebs if I don't puff myself up with air.

Urinal Otearai

In the toilet reception room I see pie faces watching me. The mood is rotten here, the walls are brown, and the ruddy lamp lights aren't helping. The sink in my washbasin otearai is a flat steel affair inclining towards me, pattering cheaply. I wonder do they know I'm pissing on it? These people eyeing me so intently beyond the aluminum partition. In any case, when did the act of relieving oneself become such drawn out process as to necessitate a drawing room?   

The bathroom I'm describing is here:     X-------------------------

the observers are here:                                                           O                O  o O                     O o         O

Whole families! Through tinny intercom I hear read in spanish: Ojala que las personas de este ciudad puedan usar los lavatorios regularmente para llavar los manos muchos tiempos durante el dia. Montener su salud! 

Outside the vestibule lies the station great room, where a ticket agent sits in a marble/glass box like a centralized purveyor of great lands, the lone great rock to watch over the plains.  

The Murder of John Lennon

I walked through the townhome. I'd like to say it was four-directional. Even the wood smelled that way. I walk down stairs wooden frameworks around me. Water boiling beneath metal cages.

Ratiocination

Everything was contained in that awkward embrace. It was a product of a mutual recognition of the compulsory familial obligations. The singular act can be further boiled down to the embarrassed glance. Her eyes moved to avert mine, and meaning to disguise her natural southern aversion, she leaned far to the right--an almost sarcastic embellishment. I wasn't interested. People are base and self absorbed by nature, and in any event, they are also forgetful. In retort, I noted her blond hair mussed by the wind, and her dropsical face caked with flaking putty. In youthful ignorance I had loved her once, scratching letters into my back with long faux fingernails--now she seemed nothing more than flesh built around a tired southern caricature. As she leaned I defeated this caricature. The sun caught my eyes and I left them there. Tabula rosa--the peace of nothingness, shared by vacuums, rocks and death. The sound of bags sliding, banging steel walls.

Later, my wife and I were in the back of their 1980s Ford Bronco. I could smell that he was drinking. I told my wife to look out beyond the front windshield because we were entering a verdant tunnel of trees and ivy; one so emblematic of the state.

We walked and could not get back. How did we get here? The process of ratiocination set in.

Nobody Knows

The sun had set but the sky was still a pale blue overcast, like a white bed-sheet stained with blueberry. The two sat there facing the strobe-lights of Haneda Kukou, their black and silver silhouettes assuring me that anything was possible. 

Carnival

The orgasm was in my head. I realize now thats where it came from. If the world is a desert, then my head is spring-water. Electric particles are floating in the air. Unrealized potential behind secret viewing windows. Everything is a secret. There are two types of sun-fish. Working through the pain is impossible. The pain lies in the back of the head--it too is the pain of unrealized potential. 

I pissed out of the building onto a tree that was three meters down, and 45 degrees across from me. My piss shot long and true onto the trunk. Further down a brook was the entertainment of broken children. Everything was mauve red, green and brown. A minute after I had finished, an elderly asian woman in a bucket-hat peeked out from behind the tree, holding the hand of a toddler. She looked right at me, but was scared by my return glance (perhaps a xenophobic reaction) and walked down a flight of stone steps, allowing her child to join the broken ones. 

Several men watched us fuck. I guess this was for money, but I'm on the wrong side to tell you. I live here, and they'll never let us go. 

Castle

Meat, blood coursing, pain, lungs burn. My head bounced as I ran back to the castle. The blue knights had invaded and taken over our home while we were away in the forest with the king. The king was furious and slayed four blue knights immediately, as he dispatched me and other red officers to the side of the castle to regain a foothold. The fellow next to me ran a bit faster, slammed into a blue officer at the side entranceway as I slipped through. Blue scholars and merchants had already set up shop! I slaughtered anyone in arm's reach-- the red blood betraying their uniforms.