The Left Column

Politics for Poets

Game of Lists

a fiction

The list parted and then the fifty angels fluttered over. "fifty, fifty," Knowit-aquillall said to the verklepmting angel. But then the fog got thicker, the special effect fog horn sound was a real fog horn! The mobile theater has hovered-over toward Maww-talk Light (In the Faraway H-Towns of long ago, off of Gardeners Island).

"Never mind that now, write this down" said the Snarking Angel, and then he recites "Tell all the papaparazzi in Holly-would (but she knows it isn't good for her so she doesn't) that "keep the deal real or feal the steal of the meal, seal the reel, don't feed the seals, give to your future a better reel."

Snark-tattor didn't understand the phrophecy and asked the Snarking Angel for a commentary. "Basically, don't make anything and put it out there that you'd be ashamed to show it to your kids or your grandkids or . . . well, we have ways. Why do you think that the spit shot was invented? It wasn't that anyone was wanting to terrorize those 1930's lunch counters. It was just funny to see someone 'get his.' And it was scandalous back then, they just couldn't have it that way."

Suddenly a voice over from the whackies at the monitor-console. "Thank you Snarking Angel, you are so sciinct"

Don't be a jerk. Don't be a jerk at work. When someone has a quirk, don't be a jerk.

July 22, 2013 (7-22-2013)

well . . .

I think I've blogged enough today.

"I'm all blogged out."

Content quickly gets stale, wicked, so it is always updated. Some content is hit with updates more often. Also: some of the content here is of a much higher quality than other content here. So if you don't like something: hey dude, whatever.

~ OK Now.

It was not cold on the dance floor. He did not approached her. She wished he had.

The copy was very well written. He thought "I am motivated by the power of positive life-giving Spirit! How do I tell the world to do this too?" It wasn't paranoia or megalomania and so he left it there. He approaches the exit. He accepts the invitation to life and goes off soberly towards the long spanses of wonderful iridescent sky of far off horizons. Drunk with light and life he leans on the Jetty railings at the top of the sea walls and watches the far-away cargo ships as they circumvent through distant shoals.

Praise God!

"It has been over a month since the Journalist was killed" said Do-teller."I can't stop thinking about it."

The taxi cab driver just wished that his fare would stop talking about politics. "Look it. The Century Plant is blooming today. But put up your window."

"Wow, I don't like that stink!" says Do-teller. Look it, can you drop me off right here, in front of the buearo?

"No, it has to be at the taxi stand."

"No, it has to be here!" barked Do-teller. In any case, to make ammends for his jerky authoritarianism, Do-teller flipped the guy twice what the guy said the fare was, even though that fare was twice what it should have been. And so, in his little 'report', which he got paid to make, and was part of the great big new shiney database (owned by Daught organization, a new entity).

After that Do-teller stole through the big bushes and off towards the far away lawns below the big oblisck. The big oblisck was shroded in a cage for repair. Surreal. Laying down on the new tide wall, and staring up at the moon over the monument, Do-teller had an appipheny about life and love (and a literary cliche, as well).

After that it was boredom about the story, Do-teller was trying to meditate but he couldn't do it. The story he was trying to tell was too dark. Hadn't he already gotten death threats? Ever sense he got out of rehab no one from the press room would speak to him anymore, either on or off the record. He never had thought of himself as a paranoid but here, at the tide break, down below the big monument shroded in a cage (the first part of a giant space ladder?), he could almost see himself as the protagonist in a novel which parodies not just Kafka (whose novels, Do-teller believes, are themselves parodies) but also Orwell and . . . maybe at time Tolkien, and then Robert Mcklusky (make way for Ducklings). In any case Do-teller has a massive headache and falling asleep seems to be the thing to do.

In his dream he is troubled. He had gotten on that fated plane to LA, but then got off of it and stood, in amazement, as it blew up after take off. It was the scene (in his dream) of a C130 exploding over the Kentucky countryside and wtih a whole crew of people in it (from another novel), a high-res DOD film frm the early 1960's which was a famous shot that no one could ever get out of their head so they never show it (the film only exists with in the other novel and within Do-teller's dream).

He hears a voice "Mr. Hasty, Mr. Hasty."

"I am not Mr. Hasty." he says, perhaps calling out as he is laying there. No one is bothering him, they figure he is a homeless person. Press pass and all.

Next he is in LA. The fancy Volvo he bought doesn't have a GPS. He is lost somewhere, sees flowers adorning a palm tree as he wizzes by, who has got cameras? I'm a photographer too, he says, but when he stops the brake on his old car has a time machine effect (Danny, from the other dream had warned Do-teller about this, Do-teller likes to write article, but he never really hears what anyone is saying).

When he goes back in time a little more than a month it the middle of the night and a car goes zooming through so he follows it but he is incorrperal (as it is with these Carmode time machines) and he is filming the people filmming. Suddenly he swings around and he sees an angel with a telecorder vido box pointed at him filming them, but he can see them. The angel flies over to Do-teller.

"What are you doing here? What are you doing here? I'm here to collect the souls of the holy dead and carry them to the fabric districts of the lower-nethers" Says this collecting angel.

"He only thinks he's dreaming" says a secondary angel.

"But he could still interfere." says the collecting angel.

At that point the secondary angel, who seemed to be assigned to Do-teller, puffed up really large and did a booo-ha haa-ya-gonna get a whoopping face but Do-teller is immune to bullying (he'd been a [some slur about a group who are often portrayed as put down] at the gym and used to . . . well do I need to tell this?] and was immune to bullying)

The secondary angel was impressed with Do-teller's emotional strength as Do-teller says (in his mind) "presence of God in all things". This was like a slap back at the secondary angel in one sense but then Do-teller flew around him and caught him. "The truth isn't supposed to kill you, just your fallacious ideas about the world and others around you." says Do-teller.

"Why don't you write that as your story?" says the secondary angel.

By then the accident had already happened. The secondary angel had distarcted Do-teller and all was well with that (the story line is lost, no one is talking about it).

Next Do-teller awakens. He is now convinced, beyond a shadow of a doubt, there is the story, the real story. That is the cover. The cover that they should have printed. RIP my friend who I never knew. "I used to lust after him." Do-teller thinks, as he boards the plane. "he was the only one who had the balls to tell them all to go and f-the-hell off. I can still read his posts. It is like he wrote them yesterday."

LA is hot, of course. There are no rental cars at LAX so he has to take a cab to LongBeach which cost him a lot. But he was going to rent a hot rod, something without any modern communications. Nothing but points and wires, plugs and a rotor.

They said my cliffs were burning

They said my cliffs were burning
     not that I'd ever be able to see it
   it would be happening behind the veil
   of the light you get at the end of the day
             stepple glow were there isn't any steeple
      Aspen-glow but not trees growing there
   on a cliff, thirty three thousand times higher
           than El Capitan
      that no one can seee
      with light
   from an imaginary sun
  which is mathamatically real.

  At this point
      a Psalm would go off
         into another voice
     not talking to the congregation
       now but 
    speaking to the listeners
         in the know
     off their
          in the conceptual fogs
    of understanding
         seeking
    reaching
    finding nothing
   but knowing that it is all there.


See the pretty lights

The following poem is fresh, whipped up, off the cuff.

  
That was a day of rage for him.
    He'd spent half the morning at the gym
       even though they wouldn't let him in
         for the fact that he stunk of gin.

   All day long he'd lamented and woed
     the sad sap urges he feard he goad.
       The car weaved vaugely on the road.
         He worried about what he owed.
   
 
  Praise God!
  









Wake up!



"Apple Dappery? What the . . . does that mean?"

Very sad about bear that need to be put down, not really funny but . . . so we don't all die of sadness . . . for some reason I have made a parady about this which I share in an earlier coloumn. So look for that. You can see the arrow, now it is blue, that lets you go to an earlier column..