Mental Collapse

I sure feel like saying fuck it! Yep. I sure do. So what does that mean? Well does it mean that I’m absolutely wasting my time getting a seminary education when I absolutely disagree with the fundamental theology I’m surrounded by? I mean seriously. This is what it comes down to. If you were a rational person, would it drive you fucking crazy, the fundamental premise that the murder of a slightly outspoken, seemingly innocent Jew, with 12 disciples, 2000 years ago, equals the forgiveness of the sins of man? That’s right folks, homeboy gets killed for challenging the status quo, and then he becomes the only begotten son of God, who God offers as a sacrifice to atone for the original sin of eating forbidden fruit and deciding that walking around naked all the time could be improved upon? Maybe it was cold. Did anyone consider that? Give me a fucking break. I can’t take it anymore. This shit is driving me insane. It’s no wonder that seminaries are going out of business left and right. They are selling a fucking message that is way out of date! News flash! God, whatever God is, is cooler than the psychotic, jealous, little freak show that would tell “His” followers that it is forbidden to worship any other God before “Him.” God, whatever God is, does not need to sacrifice his only begotten son, because he “so loved the world.” God is bigger than that. Man sacrificed man. Not God. Man made up the story. Not God. We are the storytellers felch fuckers! Get a fucking clue. Sorry I’m not feeling more compassionate today. The Goose Wrangler is having a fucking nervous breakdown. Can he complete his seminary education? The question remains to be seen.

Another Day Another Dollar

The egg shell crates fell off the machete wagon with a crash,
While Monster Bug Wars played on the Discovery channel next to reality TV on History.
It all made so little sense,
with monkeys dancing around arguing on youtube and FOX News and CNN,
and making up religions and printing money,
and singing recklessly while wearing steak dresses and meat hats and tender loin boots.
All while advocating a vegetarian diet and getting stoned.
Yes, my friends, this was modernity.
Cold fried deforested Christmas trees and post-enlightenment apocalypse,
Nuclear Submarines swimming through radioactive water off the coast of tsunami land,
the lunch lady serving glowing green sushi
while the Nuclear reactor cleaning crew
wearing their Devo suits
have a cocaine fueled party with NASA astronauts,
looking forward to their all expense paid trip to Disney Land.
All this while while I sat in my kitchen looking up at Chinese calligraphy that says "Happiness."
Yep, everything is just fine here old boy,
counting down to the May, 21st Judgement day,
the day the judges re-date the billboards if we're lucky.
and oh the blessed You Porn, now you're watching on your I-PAD,
Preparing for the St. Patricks day parade.
In the men's restroom there is a drunk blond peeing in the urinal with disturbing sensuality,
who shows off her green panties in her left hand and smiles,
but the Hells Angels are nowhere to be seen in Los Gatos this year.
So we get a sense of the cosmos with telescopes,
from within this atmospheric bubble
and monitor the ozone layer,
keeping a tight grip on the illusory control module,
Fucking in the meantime
then wallowing in guilt and wondering what we should really be doing as the days tick by
and the years add up
while we hurtle toward a guaranteed exit plan,
where our used up bodies, whether fresh or wrinkled, will stop wiggling
and be disposed of by other "smart" monkeys
or some other animate life that we no longer relate to.
And so we say ALOHA
and enjoy our run-on sentences, loathing deeply our seminary education
as psychological warfare against an already unstable mind,
and wonder why,
ever a foolish thing to do
in a universe of non-existence, where the tulips pop up frequently
if you happen to be in the right garden,
but those damn plant stems wither and stink anyway,
although not to the earwigs, who rejoice in the decay!
Yes, my dear fellows,
the gelatin is in the henhouse again,
and the fat is jiggling,
while the bully yard is giggling,
and the dark Lord approaches,
riding a white horse,
laughing in the cosmic tide;
laughing my dear friends,
as he screams into the Ether:
"Ahoy, Is there anyone there?
These damn fools actually think I exist!
Won't somebody please tell them they invented me?!"

What it is, or is it?

Everybody wants to know what it's all about. Is it delivery or is it Digiorno?

Good Morning Winterberries. Happy Full Moon and Spring.

We are nothing more than whispers fluttering our lashes on momentary glimpses of time; and nothing less than the eyes of creation, witnessing this moment, the culmination of everything that has happened since the birth of existence, and the next blink of the rest of infinity. We stand here on the precipice of a new age. What is the next chapter we will write with our thoughts and actions?

A Sad State of Affairs.

Basically crew, the old Wrangler has lost his mind. I'm afraid that my brain no longer functions the way it used to. My procrastination has become a thing of magnificence. I cannot seem to get all this work done that is piling up on me, and I feel like the mud at the bottom of the piles of tar sands in Canada. It's a sad state of affairs, and now it has even come to this. Here I sit, writing to you, the nobody reading. I have scrolled through the news so many times now, read all the interesting looking stories from across the world, I have checked facebook, and checked again, and now my boredom has lead me here, to write these blatherings while I listen to Beethoven, and think about trying to write this review of an article in the Journal of Pastoral Psychology. This is all sad indeed. I'm wearing my dead grandfathers bathrobe at 7:30 pm, having skipped the Seven Circles Pipe ceremony to do this work. I have continued to deprive my liver of alcohol, my lungs of the green goddess herb, I'm sober as can be, yet my brain does not seem to recover its wits. Se la vie. The mind is a bizarre contraption. I don't understand it. Aloha nui loa. Pray for the study cells to begin firing. Good night.

Winning! (30 second commercial seems unavoidable-MUTE!)

sludge

The dream floats down into the jelly house,
somewhere far left of mainstreet.
Lost in the spell of repetition,
the jungle fellow at a loss for words.
Is it early onset alzheimers?
There are questions about wasting time.
Too much information,
too many interviews with Charlie Sheen.
No answers
The curse of the open mind
Calm now.
Too far from mania for comfort.

Something Different.

We are the evolution of consciousness. Which is to say that we, human beings, are the embodiment of something beyond physical reproduction, beyond matter. We are thought creators. Our bodies have evolved for millions of years to be the vessels of thought; of ideas of possibility, of creation. We are the evolution of consciousness. Where do we take this ship? Where do we guide these vessels? Do we embrace our power? Or do we continue to fall victim to outmoded thought, the creations of minds with the limited understanding of the past, that which no longer exists? We were working in different paradigms then, yet now we are still collectively living in outmoded experience, constructions of reality from our former minds. Now is the moment for the expansion of our own creative understanding, moving forward with an enlightened perspective on the present, not as simply the culmination of the past, but as something truly new, with potentialities for a different future.

Check out the New Updated Church of the Open Mind Welcome message and a few changes! (click here to visit)

Happy Groundhog Day My Friends

Well, it's Groundhog day, again; and that must mean we are all headed down to Gobblers Nob, but what with all this news about oral sex causing throat and mouth cancer, we should all just take a breath and think twice. Well, on second thought, maybe not. The weather is fine out here in Berkeley California, and the Goose Wrangler is terribly sorry about not writing you for so long. It's been strange times in the mad life of my favorite lunatic. So, please forgive us, the Lord and I, for not being more proactive about posting our drivel. We'll try to do better from now on, and we'll expect the same from you. You and the Lord that is. I'd like to hear more about your idea of It anyway. I've stopped trying to figure it out. Is it the Magic Chicken, or the Queen of Soup, the Emptiness at the bottom of the beginning, at the center of the center of the center of the Atom, the nothing at the basis of the Higgs Boson? I certainly can't be sure, so I'd appreciate your input. We are back on the wagon train after rigorous prayers and madness in my lungs, gullet, and nasal passages. We came in for landing on 01/11/11, as promised, and the landing was actually rather soft,and for our blogs name, apropos, to be sure. So here we are again, sober, writing to you dear reader, whoever you are, wherever you are, whenever you are. We love you. I love you. I thank you for my life, dear Mother, dear Father, Great Creator, the Is ever after. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Aloha. Good night.

"I AM THE DUST," said ITZIK
ISRAEL IS NOT A PLACE
IT'S A STORY
THE NAME THAT CANNOT BE NAMED
IS THE ONLY NAME













the rest is just our head

INVENTED REALITY
NOT REAL

or it's real what we make it

The Lunar Module

The Deletante is in the kitchen
reading fruit loops in the rain
There are side drops in the living room
but the sandwich makers sit lazily on parade floats
in buildings where there are lithe people dancing in barrooms
while lullaby's are sung by the Vegan Boys
in the best parade
in this galaxy of spaceships

Thanksgiving morning 2010

Sitting on Alcatraz
watching the sunrise
as the fire burns
and the singers sing
and the dancers dance
like Indians
Dancing to pray
praying for the indigenous people
praying for us all
to wake up
and stop digging each other up
digging up our ancestors and putting them in museums.

Craw Horses

Felt pens and big heaping piles of dilapidated hot dog carts
These soft cry-babies in a dream about 80 year old Charles Rangel
getting censured for ethics violations
The mental shrimp police under the table sleeping
Watching the time machine show on the weather channel
trying to figure out the news
Sucking hose juice through a Slurpee straw on Fridays
waiting for the days to change
Traveling through the universe on a disappearing wheel
Isn't this so much fun
going around and around
mentally praying for a miracle to interrupt this cranium trap?
"Gveld, gvold," Glenn Beck said gently on his show
listening to himself
and playing a special little game for oyster eaters.

11/3/10-Blackberries

It's all in the past
these mixed up universes
the slowly beating heart
under influence of barbiturates
the soft pliant emptiness whispering dreams

There are blackberries on this thorny bush
at the top of a hill in Lagunitas, California
No more paved road beyond this point
just big trees, damp earth, and hippies

There are blackberry bushes in my mind
growing along a fence
in the southern countryside of England
in 1986
next to my mothers house
with cigarette smoke and thatched roof
and it's all inside my brain in 2010
right here in the verdant California green
next to a blackberry bush
at the brightest hour of dusk
in the silence

Around the end of October 2010...

All the madness rolled in on us again from over there in the clouds near the southern rainbows where silent mornings dreamt of star bursts eating nuclear joy parades. Those are other places--now--we can't go there again. It's over. Give up. 10:00 pm, Oct 27th, 2010, stoned again. This ever engrossing dream, yet we have to let go. We must let go. There is a greater power in this universe. That One is _Od. And I turn it over to that-to that power-while that Who song plays and says "you are forgiven." An agreement? hmm. Well Scotty pants...? I don't know about that. There is a very kind joint outside that has yet to be finished--the addiction said. The higher [the higher higher self that doesn't need to get high] self has to take over, the observer has to take charge, otherwise it's more shadow, more fake mystery, burying ourselves in these substances and fun, fake union with the divine. Doing nothing all the time, experiencing ultimate connection, and yet perpetuating the lie.

Striped polo shirts and 300 thread count brown cotton sheets
Tennis shoes and a flat screen television
A washing machine, a dish rack, a kitchen table
and futuristic couch
more cars than a very small village might have,
scattered across the globe
little dancing fairy girls
and nothing talking over and over again
about the very thing it knows something about

An Introduction to What Comes Before It After it in the Backwards Book

It was so up and down, inside out and right side in, under water and under glass, and looking at myself through a dream of some future that never was. So I lost the game and shut down the computer and said nothing out of some care for what you thought. You. Audience, the ones who don't read, who leave me lonesome before the page, the illuminated screen, the past placement of the dream. So it was lost and it was found, and under California maple leaves with a squirrel taunting Kingston from the tree, I bid you hello again. That's now, and now I'll open the pages of the notebooks and try and find some semblance of scribbles and transcribe them to this machine and we'll celebrate this nothingness, in the midst of nothing, as everything unfolds from the midst of this earth orbiting this sun, while we zoom out with telescopes, through our little orbs called eyes, into the past, and make up stories about meaning and shoot each other with inventions, talk politics, eat snakes, and take seriously the myths we call religion. Up slick mind head dreadful bears. Beware.

California

OK, this is really getting tedious. The post modern apocalypse is well under way and I'm just not sure how much more I can stand. We are so uncool that we have made being uncool the cool thing to do. Being hip nowadays basically just means dressing up like an idiot taking a number of different things that were hip and "new" at some time in the last century or so, pretty much before there was the internet, and then throwing it down on yourself and hitting the town. So go for it. Mustache, tight pants, a scarf, a number of tattoos, converse shoes, some plaid, some checkers, a fedora, a bouffant, which was already regurgitated under reputation of hip in the 80's, so you are pretty much double reusing it. Cool. It's just that everybody (generalizations are cool) out here in California, and I'm really speaking especially for the bay area here, as I'm not spending too much time anywhere else at the moment, is just so totally uncool trying to be cool that I just don't even know what's happening anymore. I've completely gone insane, and I'm going to Brooks Brothers immediately, but wait, it's all so fucking hip, that I'll even be hip if I try to not be hip by dressing like a preppy unhip person who shops at Brooks Brothers, because some other hipster trying to uphip the other hipsters has already gone full on Brooks Brothers because it's so unhip that it's now hip. It's just ridiculous. Hip. You are loud, obnoxious, smiling incessantly like you're posing for a facebook profile picture, spouting off in your little group of collectively stylized individuals each individually stylized and collectively hip, so much so that you seem to forget that you are living in La La land and you think you are cool. You think this is all so cool. With your little Matthew Dear and the Band show. Matthew Dear with his little Bouffant, with his trumpet player with his little Bouffant, with his drummer with his little Bouffant. Matthew Dear with your tambourine and your tight fitting vest. Dude, please stop. I want off this merry-go-round, and I want off now. The Talking Heads were awesome. They were cool. They were hip. You doing them is not cool. I'm not cool. I'm not trying to be cool. Or am I? The problem is that not trying to be cool is the cool thing to do now. So to be really cool maybe you have to try to be cool, because that's just gotta be the hip thing to do if everybody else is trying to be uncool to make sure everybody knows they aren't trying to be cool. Are you getting the picture Matthew Dearest? Is there any other option than suicide? Suicide is cool because it's proof that you aren't trying to be cool, because like to kill yourself you have to be really depressed, and that's not something you can fake like you can fake hipness by shopping at Brooks Brothers, growing a mustache and showing off your tattooed arms in a short sleeve collared shirt buttoned to the top and finished with a bow tie and a sweater vest, along with a gold tooth and a gangster accent, remnants of times past when you thought that was cool. I miss New York City and I miss Aspen Colorado, I miss Barcelona, Spain, places where assholes are really assholes, and not just pretending to be assholes because they think its cool. I've traveled all over this world and never been to a place like California, so full of people who think they are cool and willing to be totally uncool to prove how cool they are because they think being uncool is cool. California. What a bunch of hype. There may be real people out here somewhere. But they are lost in translation, lost in a sea of sweater vests and tattoos and people too hip to be cool. I'm an asshole. Sure. I'm a critical prick in the midst of post modern apocalypse. It's over. We're post history. Information overload is waiting for you to turn on your computer and put your mouth around the fire hose called the internet. I'm drowning in it. I don't know about you. We're watching reality TV on the History Channel. Where is the reset button?

Captain

don't listen to that brain, it does not know what it's thinking.

OK Crew

Cawbirds. Let's just admit the game, and get this going. From now on we are in training. Let's get to it. We have work to do. Let's get to it. LGTI.