A Subjective and Non-Flexible Contract with Humanity (Originally molded from Spontaneous Prose)

We grow. Yes. We must.

A great artist, was one that was said to really know how to see the jukebox, and said it looked like a coffin.

A great artist was just a person who was born in Mississippi or Baton Rouge during a strange season when snowy hills were powdered on the bayou. She was an infant once, and he, she, this human laughed and doodled a hang man drawing covered in flowers as the sun stained the windows, and whom later on in life, grew up into a great film maker, and who was laid to rest not too long ago in Oregon. They, the great artist, was foremost a great human, a great lover of life, of people.

As I’ve said over and over again, and I can’t repeat all the words and all of the states of art and love for humanity that I’ve seen; as I’ve narrated that nothing can duplicate the reels of memories of all these dreams that are just another version of history, made up of all these words that come from somewhere, a place, invisible but there, a sand-dune or an empty desert, where a friend has exiled himself from the city; places made out of words that come from somewhere, as the ghosts of the night aren’t even seen with the head that is mine.

And what will the future show all of us humanoid creatures? Generations of people who pale in comparison to the holy universe, just static from the a.m. radio, scattered places only miles away from where we first started to follow our existential adventure.

We grow. Yes. We must.

This is, this is, well this is the what have you. This is the night, and please, will you? Will you please sing some time-songs; songs, any songs. Ah Hell, just sing some songs man. Sing a song for me, for you, for everybody, and yes, for sure, yeah, we can sing it all night long.

Care for a swell before you sing. It’s not much, only vodka, but it will do just fine. Warm ya right up.

We grow. Yes. We must.

There isn’t enough ink in the world, our world, society; a human collage made by the imagination of the mind’s pallet, places built and ran by machines; there isn’t enough ink, enough craftiness left on this planet to harness the visions of the Americans, the greatness of now my American culture, people who will no longer stand for the virus that we have been given.

Local news, never mind any of this. Local distraction, boring and disruptive. Sad, so sad.

Local news causes Mozart to cringe. Albert Camus said we’re all executioners. He also said that a free press can be good or bad, but a press without freedom most certainly will be bad. What he said was, and is, still true.

Local news, never mind any of this; this local news, this local old-time white man news, this racist news, this retributive news, this insulting my intelligence news, this local pity party type of small-minded news.

Local news, never mind any of this.

We grow. Yes. We must.

Now let’s get on with it my fellow humans. Let’s pull ourselves up from the boot straps and smile, please smile, because that’s all life is for. Life is for smiling and for loving, and if you waste that, then you waste being human. And this is what the local news will never tell you. This is what I will tell you. The first thing is this:

The local news will never tell you that you are loved, and if you think that there isn’t one person or maggot or fossil-man on this planet or galaxy within…oh, I just had an idea…wait.

We grow. Yes. We must.

If you don’t think that you are loved, whoever you are, well I stand here, no, I sit here, with ink in order to say to you, that yes, I love you. That is what I will tell you.

Local news, never mind any of that.

We grow. Yes. We must.

On March 30th, 2012, and yes, I really do; I type with my very own human fingers that I love you, and I will give you everything that I have, which is not too much if you add it up with currency. But why not, yes, YES, I will give you everything, just so you can be happy.

And I’m not god, phew, or the son of the gods, and heck, I’m not even a great man, just a man; I’m just one human being that will always fight for you. I will always love you. I will always tell you that you are loved.

And I will just do this, although I do admit, that sometimes I will be angry and sometimes my hair will be messy. Sometimes I will smell badly and sometimes I will forget about everything that I’ve ever said. I will even forget these words, these words that I have physically written.

Please, please, please force me. Force me to read what I’ve just said, for I will forget, I know myself all too well, and yeah, I forget things, important things, life lesson type of things.

Help me, show me what I’ve recklessly now just jotted down, cause I will forget. At times it will seem that I’ve forgotten everything. I will get mad. I will huff and puff and roll my eyes, and even I, yes, even I will yell and get all crazy and sometimes booze bubbles with slurred words will come out of my head and dang-oops-oh why; somehow with the gift of air my words will be pointed towards the direction of my mouth. Sometimes these misgivings will be said to you, for they will at times, roll off my lips.

But please, remind me, cause I will forget. I will get manic. I will get dumb, real dumb. Sometimes I will hate, or seem to hate, and sometimes my love transforms under dirt and these words will be covered in what looks like hate. Shame me. Remind me. Do not pity me. Just show me.

Please remind me. Please tell me that you are loved, and when I say by who? Say by you, YOU; you are the one that wrote with ink and said I love, that I am loved.

I will say that I’m sorry, that why yes my friend, I was mistaken,  that I had it all wrong. I will inform you that I’m sorry for forgetting, and It’s just, just that I was beaten badly by life. I was down and out and was dragging through the back of the city. I had nowhere to go. But yes my friend, my fellow human, I was lost. Yes, YES, YES, yes, you most certainly are loved.

And love, love is what I have to give to you, cause as I’ve told you already, on March 30th 2012, that you, whoever you are; I’ve said that you are loved. I signed the contract, and it wasn’t an agreement in subjective opinions. Nope, it was the truth, fact, a solid truism.

I must have forgotten my friend, and I did. I forgot when I was lost, when I was lost in the darkness of the orchestration that these dirty digital walls have given to my generation. But yes, I only forgot. I was just lost. Thank you for reminding me.

We grow. Yes. We must.

And now this is our time. This is our world, our country, our digital democracy. Freedom is love and freedom which is love is always elastic and can be formed into whatever you want, and as long as it is love, well then, it is also free. Love is rehabilitation. Freedom is not retributive, never.

This is our time, your time, all of our time, and we will remember. And if I do, please show me that I forgot. Show me that on March 30th 2012 I remembered. I remembered, yes, I promised to remember that we are good, we are humans, that we’re love, we are free.

Show me, make me remember in my darkest of hours, remind me that we are mere organic humans.

Show me, even when I don’t want to hear it, that the only truth that really matters, the truth of the human, is love.

We grow. Yes. We must.


P.S. Found another Typewriter at Goodwill. Eight Bucks. Still on the search for a great traveler. Fixing the other one. In time I plan on traveling around and laughing and holding a free school type of class on spontaneous prose, where those who attend will take a picture with a Polaroid picture, and then after hearing about the basic tenants of my sampled version of spontaneous prose, sit with the typewriter and crank out as much as they feel, then read and laugh and sleep and dream at night. Romantic idealization, yes, sometimes this is what I do. K. Bye

Not Words Just adventures in New Machine and paper things

I’ve had three typewriters that I’ve now used; a sears travel, a Remington noiseless steal from 1939, and a Smith Corona Galaxy twelve. The first two were left behind when I was forced to leave a city with as little as possible, or had to pay rent or eat. The last one wasn’t mine but I used it to write a manuscript, so for me, it’s as much part of my typewriter history as the first two. Today I went to some thrift stores, and I don’t have very much of money, so spedning thirty bucks on writing materials is a shopping spree to me. I’m a writer, and I’m not bitter, I like the hard and almost impossible road to being a respected writer. Yeah, it’s emotionally draining and what not and maybe a lost cause, but  I’ve accepted this part of the written life, but today I had a good day. I found a new typewriter, a stack of paper, and got four new books: The adventures of Augie march by Saul Bellow, the premier book of major poets, a very old version of Ulysses by James Joyce, and no exit and other plays by Sartre. The typewriter is a royal electric, and it’s really heavy, but it’s the only typewriter I can afford as of now. Cost seven bucks and works fine, only needs a new ribbon and I will be set to type on this giant stack of stationary that I found at good will. I only post because this for me was another adventure in writing, and I’m tired and you have to take the minor victories in life, or you will be a mean person, and I don’t want to be a mean person, I just want to write and be happy. Nuff said. Here are some pictures. I will use this machine that I was given, and when I can get a compact travel again I will for sure do that, because of my lifestyle and the weight and my philosophy on writing. I like to sit outside with a typewriter or wherever i feel, but for now, this will do very nicely.

Questions for Humanity. Included are the A, B,C, and the Z variable.

So I can’t sleep. And I don’t know, I thought I would ask the humans a question, but coming up with questions to ask humanity is difficult. Because as a person I can’t really make sense (I’m just a monkey) with how we even talk to each other in the first place, let alone ask another human something to help me comprehend the world. Still, ill give it a shot.

First episode season One: Question for Humanity number one:

(A)Is it human nature to want to close in on one another? People move to the cities, and in alien invasions I think that’s where they go first, cause that’s where the aliens can find the most humans. I mean if you’re hunting things you go where the herd is most concentrated, then you work out towards the exterior. Next you hunt, and then you make hunting a sport in order to preserve the sport, your history, of the lore of conquest; that is, you hunt and create history, if you can make money from it. For Money, even without meaning, is a form of conquest preservation…?

(B)Then you have the internet. shrinking people and bottling their own voices and thoughts into nothingness. We get closer and closer and have more control placed on us. We try to keep adults children forever. Inside and out. Not explaining but collapsing, as if our society is a collapsing star, an imploding black hole. Human nature…?

(C)So I sit and think. That’s what I’m doing, and it’s hard to concentrate on what question I would like to ask humanity. But now, you can get arrested on the internet, from lands over oceans where you weren’t even born, and this, that, well that isn’t what is called Freedom…?

(Z)What we see here, is a collapsing star, a declining empire trying to shrink the minds of the masses so they can hold onto whatever silly and childish scheme they have left. We’re no longer americans. We are whatever-so it goes, and really, I don’t have a clue what any of this means. These are just questions for you to reply to or kinda just say huh? P.S Humans. The Font calibre sucks. Thanks for that one Microsoft . High Five. In Space. In Your Face…?

Blaise Blatin

Who cared? Who had time to stop for a moment in this fast paced and self-absorbed world? Who even had the time think anymore?

Oh how I just wanted to taste the bottom layer of the American Dream, and even if I suffered from panic attacks and yearned for a life with an apartment that wasn’t overrun by ants and bats and any other critter than squatted within the walls and pipes and boarded up milk drops and shoots of the complex; even if I was starting to think that the internet was out of control and that nothing made sense in the United States anymore; even then, just like so many other people, well I still kept my mouth shut.
I did what we all do, at least those of us who are conscious and free thinking citizens of the STATE, I just swallowed my fear and kept going on and on. I just did the same thing as I did the day before. Like my country’s own government, I too was guilty, I too conducted business as usual.

And just like the day before, I would open my eyes to the sun or the snow or the rain. I would get up and take a piss, put my sweater of the day on, and then I would feed my cat.
Just like every other day I would look in the mirror and see a new wrinkle or swell on my face, another bone would crack, some days my gums would bleed. Before my very eyes I was turning into a bloody pirate.
On most days when I was looking in the mirror I would hear a pop and thank goodness I wasnt concerned in the least that my bones were breaking for no reason at all, because I was so zoned into my mind. I wasn’t  even thinking about my body, a body that seemed to be falling apart.
And I say thank goodness, because luckily this pop sound was the toast that was released from the gridlock of the toaster, the same kind of whole grain wheat toast that I ate just like every other morning.
Every day I would slip on my shoes, usually I would stub my toe on the same corner of the new blue chair that I recently was given by my brother. He told me the chair cost more than I make in two months.
“Thank you Felix” I said.
“I hate you. You know that felix”. Of course I said this in my head.

After stubbing my toe that was constantly bleeding (there was blood on one sock of every pair I owned) I would grab the butter from the fridge and eat my toast while walking to work on these same old streets that I walked every day; these very same streets that I now walk upon with Cloud.
Like every fucking hour and second and blink of my life I would fold my toast in half, and like a French fry and ketchup I would dip my toast into the rectangle container of spreadable butter, of course getting crumbs all over my sweater.
With this lovely and  monotonous life I was tuning into quite a bummer to be around, but so what?

I gave in and said “this is just the way it is”. Just the way it goes as you pass the years from young adult to middle age, and then with a snap of the fingers you turn into a fragile bitter man, just humming sick and demented tunes to himself, as he was pushed right along the straight line that led only to one place, which is of course the end of the road, death.

Still, with every day that the milky way provided I thought something was going on, that something needed to change. And even if that something was only within me, only within my everyday routine, well I sure as hell was going to try. I was going to figure out some way to make this shit show called my life as reasonably pleasant as I possibly could.

You know what I did? I thought about ordering cable, but instead, I became a closet drunk.

Like so many people do, I kept on doing the same thing over and over again. Repeating what caused my anxiety and mimicking the same thing that has provided the same results that always did one thing consistently, that is, frighten the living shit out of me.

And I tried to sleep like I did when I was a kid. I tried to sleep every damn night to the sounds of cop sirens and beggars pleading, the sounds of the streets, the sounds of barking dogs and the spraying of pesticides; the sounds of loneliness, the sounds of only my mind, the sounds of echoing beats within the subwoofers that are my temples; the sounds of hungry children and skinny puppy dogs, the sounds of midnight bankers and drunken heartbreakers. The sounds of paranoia and theological political conversations; the sounds of the deadbolt locked three times, unlocked, and once again locked three more times. The sounds of my two feet rubbing together trying to stay warm, and Yep, these were just the sounds of the everyday night.