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Sunday, April 21, 2019

Enjoy Selected Poems from Fractalverse: Volume One!

Download it here, or subscribe
and get access to my entire library!

Note: If you would like to see the associated fractal that goes with each poem,
please do me the honor and buy the book! Thank you!
One more note: the formatting for each poem may be messed up,
depending on your browser and its settings.


It’s what people do best.
They join a herd.
They become a herd animal.
Christian, Buddhist, capitalist, socialist, anarchist.
Republican, vegan, suburbanist, Kool Aid-drinking cultist.
Jungian, Rovian, Randian, Blandian.
Atheist, deist, theist, solipsist, nihilist, neo-pissed no-spinalist.
In the end, it’s all the same:
over the stinking, barren, trash-filled plains roam the herds,
indistinguishable when you get far enough away from them.
Perhaps, though, my chosen imagery isn’t accurate enough.
Perhaps what I’m really thinking of isn’t herds,
but cogs, or automatons.
A place for everyone, and everyone in his or her place.
Take that butcher knife, bloody to the end of its handle,
and cut, cut, cut out everything—everything!—that makes you different,
that makes you unique.
Do it! Corners won’t do, no!
If you want to eat, you’ll obey.
If you want a roof over your head, you’ll get chopping and hacking and sawing!
If you don’t want to live in isolation, you’ll bow before the great god Corporation.
You’ll do anything to gain its dribbles of crumbs. Anything!
Do so, however, and you can count yourself among the dead.
It doesn’t matter if you are still breathing, if you have a heartbeat.
There’s nothing left of you worth calling you.
Don’t agree?
That’s okay.
Ignore this bit of free verse and get back to work for your bloated taskmasters.
After all, they represent all that’s left to you and of you.

The understanding of days is this:
I can’t do what you want.
I can’t believe as you do.
I can’t think as you do.
It’s poison.
There is tightness in your gait.
There is absence in your eyes.
Your colon clenches.
I can hear it from here.
You’ve got your children packaged so neatly
you could display them on a shelf.
They look like all the other children.
You’re doing a great job killing their souls.

It’s time to speed home, and curse at those too busy
taking in the grandeur that you’re too important to give attention to.
It’s time to flip open that cell phone with purpose and drive.
It’s time to unclench that colon enough to let the coal drop.
It was food once. But you couldn’t even tell what it was you ate.
It might just as well have been shit.

Past the raking of flesh and dumb inertia,
the crushing weight of empty years, the hot, lifeless breeze,
endless days in a lonesome fog, cash gone, eviction notices and betrayal thick as
Past the singular belief in a project, the words, the images,
the solace in a surprisingly sure heart, past the apathy, the apathy, the apathy …
Past the abuse and narcissism and selfishness, the dust gathering in the corner,
the impinged shoulders and racing heart,
Past unforgiving daylight and clenching nights that could promise only a brief respite from it
all, past all of it, there was still me.

Too often the “great” are called so out of the cesspool’s need and no other reason.
How they got that way isn’t questioned. To the cesspool, “great” is amoral. It is nothing
more than one’s seismic significance to the subsurface turds. A great good and a great
evil deserve the same attention, the same worshipfulness, the same veneration, the same
press, the same coverage, the same fame. It’s the seismic reading that counts, not the
merits of one’s deeds, one’s contributions, one’s psychosis or one’s penchant for mass
murder. Virtue, or the lack of it, doesn’t count in the final tally.
But for those with eyes to see, great goodness and great evil are measured by completely
different means. For true goodness is greatness, and can only come about through
individuals, through their vision and determination, their persistence and optimism, their
virtue and prudence, their shunning of fame and glory. They have no need of followers or
devotees or the applause of the burbling shit; they require no holy sanction; and they
disdain the blessings of the wealthy and powerful. True goodness stands alone.
Great evil, on the other hand, can only come about through the consent, silent
or otherwise, of the mass of turds, rich and powerful or not. It cannot survive otherwise.
The turds spawn evil. It may have its genesis in a single person, that is true. But there it will
surely die without the obeisance of all the shit who adopt it and raise it and shower upon
it the cheap imitation of love they have substituted for the authentic kind, but which
frighten and anger them, for true love, like true goodness, requires courage of spirit, and
can be found only in very few.
The shit spew and spit their spreading evil as good; and with it they rape the countryside
and climate and commonweal; they eviscerate the dignity of others who oppose them;
and, eventually, they destroy what’s left of their souls, if souls they have by that point.
They’ll select an unimpressive and mundane individual to represent their evil, and they’ll
build him palaces and statues and conquering armies and revisionist constitutions and
riches beyond measure.
Great good is bred and borne in and by individuals. Great evil is, and will be always,


Enjoy Random Chance & the Paradise that is Earth!

Download it here, or subscribe
and get access to my entire library!

Notes: My intent with this story is to present it in ten-chapter segments (or so), something like a television mini-series. I wrote the first ten chapters, which appear in the volume above, got started on the next ten, and promptly hit a wall. I'm currently re-editing Book One; when I'm finished I'll give Book Two another go. 

It's science fiction, but told from less of a techno-wiz-bang perspective and more from a soulful, spiritual one. That right there subverts the science in science fiction, which is what I wanted to do. I very strongly oppose the materialist, atheistic mindset that has swept over the world like a noxious infection. It is my belief, held very strongly, that humanity, if it is to survive even to the next century, will have to return to its spiritual roots and embrace them. The 35th century, where Random Chance lives, will be a much more soulful one than this one is--by necessity.

That said, don't mistake me as a religionist or fundamentalist. I'm not. In fact, I'm very much not. Both in the end are outgrowths of materialism itself, and must as well be seen for what they are--toxic.



>>Table of Contents<<


When you crack the sky, ‘scrapers fill the air.
Will you keep on building higher
till there's no more room up there?
Will you make us laugh, will you make us cry?
Will you tell us when to live, will you tell us when to die?
--Cat Stevens


Year: 3467 AD
Aboard the UOT Adelson, a day out from Mars

The captain of the Adelson didn't look up from his palm-pad.
"Sir," said the officer. "I think we've found him."
"Found who, sailor?"
It wasn't that the information on his palm-pad was too important to look up from. It was, after all, nothing more than real estate listings on Rhea.
"We believe it's The Pompatus … er, The Pompatus of … of, er, Love, er, sir—"
One didn't speak such nonsense to the captain. And that included such words like "Pompatus" or "love." It was enough to release him from the technology in his grip, which he tossed on the table. He brought his glare to the sailor.
"Pompatus, yes, sir—"
"And this concerns me why?" demanded the captain of the UOT Adelson.
"It's his ship, sir," said the sailor quickly. "The traitor’s son’s ship. Random Chance's—"
The captain squinted. "You believe it's his?"
"Yes, sir."
"You're wasting my time, Lieutenant! I'm not interested in belief; I want certainty, do you hear me? Certainty!"
"Y-Yes, sir.”
"Make sure it's him. If it is, pursue and overtake. Now get out!"

Chapter One


The Spirits of Will

The Spirits of Will


Saturday, April 20, 2019

Pierwalker Log: April 20, 2019

Writing start: 10:14 A.M.
Finish: 4:04 P.M.
Total new words (est.): 200
Edited (est.): 6700

1. Failure: Primary edit number on of chapter twenty-five

2. Book Three Melody: 200 new words
Notes: Slow-going.

3. Angel: Book Three: Primary edit number two of chapter one

4. Rumpel: Off

5. Random Chance: Off

6. LOTR: Off

7. Port Story: Off till Monday

8. Hidden Bookmarks: Off till next Thursday
Notes: This is a brand-new project (one I've been thinking on and off again about for more than two years).

Special Projects: Transcribing Montaigne: day 2/3

Extra notes: None today. Have a good weekend.