Penrod59: Humanist Without Limits

The child runs deep in everything.

------- Ferdydurke, Witold Gombrowicz



I. Like Crumbs of a Madeleine in a Tea-Cup


My vocation allows me to experience all types of people
from all parts of the world. This is a wonderful thing. I am
supplied with a never-ending variety of human types.

Today I helped a Mother and her daughter. It stood out
because the daughter was mentally retarded. Rarely do
parents of the mentally disabled bring their afflicted children
to Auto Shops. Knowing they could be in for a long wait, etc...

The lady needed a tire and as I gave the reasons she told her
daughter, quite sternly, to "stay inside and eat her potato chips
slowly" as she, the mother, went outside to smoke a cigarette.
Pity welled up in me for the poor retarded girl. She was so kind
and cruelly abandoned in a room full of people who felt uncomfortable
just looking at her. This event reminded me of the brave comment
Penrod59 made the night before. A comment he was unjustly
condemned for by a mob of moral cretins. As crumbs of a
Madeleine in a tea-cup reminded the mature Proust of his
youth, I was, also, reminded of the injustice past.


II. Moral People and Moralists


A moral person is one who does the right thing without
fanfare and lets deeds do the talking. He or she lives
life in an exemplary manner so anyone can draw valuable
lessons from the manner of their acts.

A moralist is one who, instead of reflecting on his or her
own deeds, spends all of their time worrying about what others
do and spend a great deal of time talking about it-With great fanfare.
They are the leaders of the witch hunt who act first and think
later. They rile up a gullible mob and ignite the torches of
indignation. Always unconsciously succumbing to their
wounded vanity.

BDRadical was the leader of the torch bearing mob of
Moralists--Various, et al........They were ready to burn the
unjustly accused Penrod59.


III. Humanism Without Limits


It is easy to appease the masses by wishing to please
another human. It is easy playing to the mob and modifying
one's desire for another's pleasure within acceptable boun-
daries.

Penrod's humanism courageously leaps beyond these
boundaries--albeit beyond good and evil---and postulates
that even a mentally retarded young lady of 13 in Sweden--
or any other country for that matter-- deserves pleasure.

Oh! But the torch carrying witch burners recoil in horror!
Ejaculating off scores of e-mails to incite everyone! Without
thought they rush to condemn.

Children are sexual beings. All psychologists and scientists
who study the cognitive development of infants agree childhood
is a time of great sexual experience. Mentally Retarded children
have a limited lifespan. Their age expectancy is between 30-40.
So, logistically, Penrod59 is justified in wanting to sexually
please a mentally retarded girl of 13.

He is also justified because the lack of cognitive development in
retarded children makes them hyper-sexual. Ask anyone who has
taught retarded children or who has worked for the Special Olympics.
It is a fact. Proven by scientific studies too prolific to mention and by
the experience of people in fields caring for the mentally retarded.

Lastly, think a bit about the life of a mentally retarded person.
How many times do they have an opportunity to experience intimacy
with another human? At least Penrod59 admits he'd be willing to give
a mentally retarded girl a pleasurable experience she'd likely, in
the normal course of her life, never receive. I commend Penrod59's
selflessness. His unflinching humanism cares little about the obloquy
of a witch hunting mob of Moralists. Let them fire the torches of their
ignorant indignation. Which, again, is only their wounded vanity in the
face of something so magnanimous it leaves them dumbfounded.

I Shit My Spine Today and the Dragon Has Left Me

I began to feel a massive uncoiling from the base of my neck
to the beginning of my crack. Concerned and with a pinched
look on my face, I wondered what kind of seizure I was enduring.
Suddenly my bowels cramped up and I ran for the stool.
Sweat was pouring from me. Seated I steeled myself for the storm.
It wasn't long before shit poured out of me like life itself.
My back felt empty. My head was so light it ached from lack
of sensation. I called my girlfriend into the bathroom
to dab my forehead with a cold rag. She obeyed.
As her eyes met mine she sighed and said, "The Dragon
has left you. There is no fire in your eyes." I was too spent
and sick to ask any questions. My silence induced her to explain,
"We are all born with a Dragon coiled in our spine. Yours has
gone."
I shit my spine today. The fire has gone. I am now a cold
invertebrate. Where is my Dragon?

Eyes Wake

Tidal erosion
eddies us
to slumber

Kaleidal motion
jetties up
every wonder

Aswim against 
the dark swell
of night's veil.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------



I never felt taller. The door opened so easily. Talking on a mobile phone
as the artificial breeze parted my golden locks. Yes, it was me, talking loudly,
laughing and casting an audible shadow over the entire Music Section. A
lady told me I was yelling. How could a giant know? Everything seemed
smaller in scale.
Still as tall, I clicked the phone off and continued my search. Yes, it was me,
the ass unaware of himself.

Ex Nihilo

Hailing doxies down sidewalks,
bookend of city's bad infinity

Love, 
like hidden stars
above boulevards'
sterile fire,
swells

Blood spills dark
from starless
heaven's heart 

Women drink
the petrol and
carbon monoxide
of passing cars

Chemical destinies
poisonous and akin
to death by
asphyxiation,
but inviting as
the music and scents
of faraway banquets.

Rest: The Horizon of the Artistic

The only art is rest. From the largest to the most
infinitesimal part of the Cosmos nothing is still.
It's crushing.

Allow the moment to stand out, fair, from all becoming.
This is where artifice becomes a celestial date stamp,
taking what moves and capturing it in a manner that
moves the beholder of art's supernatural stillness.

I, too, wish to become a fallen column resting midst
cool sheets of eternity. A stillness ready to move any eye
who gazes upon my Olympian reserve. In rest I become
art. Not a mirror that walks the boulevards of cities, but
the noontide expanse of blue which, above all heads, 
never darkens.

Art is the stillness which moves. It is an eternal human
rebellion against the erosion of becoming.

Dawn of a Post Political World

Omnia mutantur nihil interit.

---- Ovid, Metamorphoses XV



The world will soon be post-political. From the grave of
the polis will rise the spirit of a new world. As dew is gathered
by the Sun into moving forms of mist so shall
our Human Community move and form itself in diverse ways.

In the post-political world nation states will become vestiges
of a barbarism no longer feasible. It is time for Humanity to
transcend the Sacral "Market-Place" and disallow its singular
universality. The root of man's relation to another man should
be an end--not a means.
As religion has lost its verity in this world, so shall politics. The
political is nothing other than Secular Religion. Faith in Human
Institutions to provide solace for hearth, head and heart. It also gives
rise to faction and a pernicious form of superstition known as "Party".
Different political entities become nation states who struggle over
"spheres or areas of geopolitical influence.".
This is an outdated mode of living. Sure, society asks for sacrifices,
but in the name of "ideals"? Even the Mayans haven't been so murderous
as Humanity has been about ideals over the past four centuries. It's time
to accept sacrifice for something concrete. Ideals are born corrupt and
petty. And ever find themselves providing a Procrustean Bed for humans
to writhe upon......
I am speaking to humans who have yet to be born- 200 years
from this time. Please listen and vouchsafe political fideism for
a well rounded life. The Market Place stop being the Holy Temple
of Political Fideism(millions are sacrificed to the Moloch of
"Hunger" daily).
It would certainly be euthanasia to put them both down together.
Incipit a new day-the Dawn of a Post Political World.

The Political is a Religion of Cynicism. It is the sectarian
Jealous, Wrathful, God of every Home.
It has no faith in humanity. Instead we have institutions and
the hegemony of Power and Markets.

Pensées

Push button frontiers are the future mode of
expansion.

Grammar will more and more be dominated by
cyber discourse.

Soon, to Proust's chagrin, places will no longer
have the presence and semantic breadth they
held in the past.

The world will be an affair of vestibules and
displays. A Hyper-Renaissance of the festive
procession. (cf. Venice and Florence 15th and 16th
Century.)

The Pit

Lost children
cry softly
in the hollow
of my chest.

It's cold
and breath does
not take.

Sharp pain
spreads in
clouds
overhead.

On the horizon
a ruddy sun
casts rays of
soft light
to nourish
them.

Ruins

Sunlight scatters
details of
debris from
the wall


In the dew of morning
fragments gleam
like gemstones
for mad foragers

a cry rises

and men and women rush
to the well of voice

bury to the other end
and see the land bathed
in numberless
tears

The heart of
the Middle Kingdom
bleeds
stone

We are
sparing
with care.
But present
with cameras,
narration,
and dead air.

Xanaxadu

Mouth dry
as a cracked
riverbed,

the Sun
is my
Nimbus.

Every stem sings.
Heavenly orisons
bind me in
bright oblivion.

Sap flows
from my fingers,
anointing everything.

So thirsty,
but the world
is content.

Here a stately pleasure dome I decree.

Spent Poets Union

We,

worn out coiners,

pages of tomes
pricked by
needle-eyed
pedants,

are spent.

                                     Out of breath
                                     and on the run
                                     from death's
                                     stifled orison. 

We,

torn out corners,

sing to somber shades
of the clamorous city

Siren cries of home

forged in harmony.

Solace Lost ( A Call at 6 A.M.)

Subdued,
a broken dream
voice answers
against a
crumpled pillow
(don't ask me,
I know).


Can we lay
together?
Is it
enough my breath
filters through
the holes
of your
cordless phone?

Expiring a continent
away,
it seems other
objects draw you
away
from the elliptic
of our love.

My heart beats
green as grass.

Tenuous as a dew drop
on the blade.


Consolation never
comes from
tired sighs
or drawn out
love laden
goodbyes.

Song of the Towers

Leaden wings coldly sculpt skyclad reflection.
Smoke steals cordial light from this sheltered season.
Tired limbs beat against bland skies to sate motion.
Clouds of motes waft from pyres of human reason.

Towers rise to crown heaven with iron diadems.

The End of an Era: The Nature Boy Retires

As a child I had two obsessions my father
fretted over, Professional Wrestling and
Soul Train. He bemoaned their derogatory
effect on my character.

I only enjoyed "Rasslin" because of one
man, "The Nature Boy" Ric Flair. He was always
dressed well, had long blonde hair, sported gold
chains and watches and talked about how wonderful
it was to be him. He flew in jets, was driven around in
limousines and had all the gorgeous women he wanted.
In short, I viewed him as a God.

He'd appear on TBS back in the 80's insulting
everyone, cheating in matches and making people
"learn to love it". He was the "best thing going today!".
His interviews were the stuff of Shakespearean
soliloquies. Anyone who fell short of his impossible
standards were "ham and eggers".

He was the best entertainer in the world for three
decades. Wowing crowds everywhere from North Korea
to New York City. A consummate performer who never
had an off night.

His performances captured my imagination as a child
and still have the vibrancy and glory of the first witnessing
of them. Ric Flair will always be "the Man". He is a legend
unrecognized by so many due to class prejudices against
rasslin. Of course it's fake---just like movies and most
music(production)--does that detract from them?

A part of my childhood has died. Happily I have

buried it in my heart.

Psalm 2003

By the Rivers of Babylon,
yes, we wept sore.
No boughs to hang
our assault rifles on,
we wept for America
gone.

By the Rivers of Babylon
no flowers greeted
our burning eyes.
The song of America
from a dry throat never
cries.

By the Rivers of Babylon
they made a harp of
my brother's hands.
We wept sore as the flame  
of shock and awe
expands.

By the Rivers of Babylon
grains of sand rattle
in each empty cup.
Hateful eyes follow us
like Sunlight in cloudless
ruts.

By the Rivers of Babylon
yes, we wept sore
and thought of home,
the lush green of America,
taken by desert anon and
anon.

Neo-Kantian Mileposts(2008)

Becoming: the consumption of time

Space: the promotion of being

The antinomies of reason are market place choices.

Hegel's logic only moves the bowels.

Synthetic A Priori: Free Markets= Peace and Prosperity

Konigsberg fits on Wall Street. The French Revolution has become
a Bull Market of "Imaginary Thalers".

Rousseau becomes the dog who walks with Immanuel, not
the "Newton of Ethics".

Universal Peace, cf. Free Markets.

David Hume. The unhappy consciousness of the consumer.

the consumption of debt is the aufheben of consumption

but it's a negative dialectic--you end up consuming yourself--

(Marlowe's famous motto--that which nourishes me destroys me")

My first girlfriend's last name was Marlowe.

My last girlfriend's first name, Kit?

Drowning Shelley

Clouds drift
above scattered
fragments

A lock of auburn,
like clipped
Faery's wing,
buoys
with mysterious
levity

free from
the weight
of foundering
bark

Prosaic

The sun, kindled by wind,
casts a gentle beam lifting
gold from horizon's end.

Like a miner carefully sifting
remains of night's ore away,
children brushed by the light lifting

Open eyes to greet day.
Mother wakes to whispered mirth
of light, oblivious play,

As the sun slowly leaves Earth.

O Céu Escoando

Want takes me to the galley,
one turn lost to others.......
trying to rescue
the drowning sky.

                                                                    Turning away
                                                                  from the dream
                                                               of light’s warmth.
Waves double our vessel's pulse. 
                                                        Allowing respite to creased brows
Night awaits
on Calvary,                                                  
her bed,
remembrance keeps us.

                                                       Song's vigil sweeps this residue on.
Brutal Utopias
in the clouds:
The mast turns
to reflection
but skies fall..........
                                                    We are sung by eyes clouded over.
We curl into 
 skyless ombre.
                                                         Mother Night enwombs.
Day is Father's wake.
With Sun's ascent                  
he lowers eyes                           
and the son strains
under its brilliance.                                    In his eyes
                                                                      the Cosmos
                                                               taken from our eyes.

Frontier

Exuberant violence of new love,
scratches in unreachable places, 
pale spots on sheets

Bigger than number but fragile
as infant's peace

Lightning strikes from 
unseen, incalculable,
electron clouds.

Can we outrun our stars?

Close eyes when we kiss.
Dare not fall into black hole pores.
Pull my hair as you take me
below horizons where the dewy
abodes of paradise unfold.

There we'll drink
ambrosial founts of pleasure
with the alacrity 
of misers fondling treasure.