The Story’s Answer Part 6

Evolutions artistic plunder,

fort me my due free film

my art

my propaganda

take your chair

and look away

to another means,

ignore self free

of thy fate.

Here is my tale

fallen 

and risen.

Rise

chant

Rise

Rise

Rise

fate

love

Rise,

Rise,

listen fortune,

to do as told

but not done,

never finished

never undone.

Yet free

no novelty

and to be free.

Free,

what is in a name?

What is in a word?

Is each word done?

Done.

For now as each idea

begins adrift without

the form of language

Peoples manipulation

Power,

all power,

no responsibility,

There for no more

power,

abandon power,

abandon authority,

yes dare not abandon

my word of health

and love.

So, This is it,

This is my end,

my Werther moment,

but the opposite,

This is me,

burning the last drop

of my midnight oil,

for the last time.

My last drop,

my last time,

my last gleam, and 

fall, no hour will end

without me ringing every

word

until I am 

blue in the face.

My voice will sour,

my veins will burst,

My body will collapse.

But I am,

I’m here

and I will,

I will to have will.

But I am lucky,

whether I know it

or believe it

I will always 

be lucky.

What is fair is only

luck?

Justice is real

but subject

to luck.

It is no test of

body,

It is what it is,

When did justice become

an abstract?

When did evil earn

respect?

Always, when does

power begone power!

Never!

Yet still one

presses on,

presses forth through

each page.

I will work.

This is work.

As much as I try

there is no removal

of self,

but back to paradox,

Could it be,

that saying “you cannot remove the self,”

you have removed 

the self.

Is balance real?

Is suffering?

Are my questions 

real?

To put any thought

to its logic is to remove

the romance.

Is there logic to 

romance,

to love,

Yes, and no.

Love is its own logic.

It needs no chemical definition,

It does not need 

your cynical scrutiny.

Love is,

Just that.

Love just is,

Love is that inherent

connection to

all and above

and below and

everything

that is.

It is love, it is

the ideas that drive

our body.

Do all or none

have these thoughts.

The interior monologue,

well, to end our

soliloquy is to

end too much.

I need liberty,

but I must earn it

for some reason,

slave here,

bow here,

and apparently I 

will be rewarded.

NO! I AM NO

SERVANT!

I AM NO SLAVE!

With my chant 

and chariot

I move on

and move to 

where I need to

be.

I go where need.

My self is only

free out of luck,

and privilege,

Others,

Nah,

all deserve this freedom.

What I have,

my luck should be no ones

privilege.

What is inherent to humanity,

to personhood,

to only treated as

a privilege by evil.

The midnight oil burns on,

almost like

a miracle,

almost.

What happened to 

Ginsberg?

Leary?

To Kesey?

i cared in high school,

now I wonder

did these and all

believe there own

words.

Do you not question

the genuine nature

of others.

Or do you march on

with your thoughts

in sync with

nothing but your thoughts.

Your thoughts

mean nothing

if you do nothing with them.

Harsh but true,

if you do nothing,

if you have no thoughts,

your existence will mean nothing.

Nothing when history

writes the pages of our time.

Nothing.

To live a full “productive

life,

and to learn nothing.

Who can accept having

no trace?

All humans,

nay,

all living creatures,

deserve to leave their

trace.

Sweet angel,

have I left mine?

To carry on as the object,

Is the enjoyment

genuine,

or will there be a fall.

A fall from a height

no man

woman

or human should see,

you are no more

a professional than

a profit nor

a wiseman

nor a professor,

It is the mother

and grandmother who

had the wisdom that saved me.

The second street regulars

back from F troop and 3

pronged hellish force

Zen is not for marketing

and enlightenment 

does not come at 

$30 a hit.

Thompson was right on that matter,

we live in the age 

of the accidental philosopher,

and the disillusioned poet.

The greats had theirs to 

but it’s all one sided.  

All wrong,

all a product,

and all, quite often,

is never all,

what is all?

It’s a fair question,

with a fair answer,

a rare service to these days,

a rare gift not

to be spoken,

I prefer the mystery,

maybe a little too much,

can you order a strike

when you are not the 

king,

not even a pundit,

and who gives these 

pundits any such

“authority.”

There audience!

It is all yet not all

audience.

Who is this audience?

Who takes such matters

so personal?

So trite, yet not

so by consensus.

My end is only a matter

of self consensus.

I endure,

I try,

I pursue,

I seek nothing

I seek everything

I cannot abandon

this I 

this I,

I am

an I

you are a self,

and so are we,

we are,

we are,

Do we need

any other thought

any word,

any rule besides

this one.

We are!

We see!

We feel!

We all do!

How can any forget

this!?

Yet they do!

Would a rule exist

if there is no issue?

Yes!

Would fare!

Harsh fare!

May fare!

Harsh words!

No deeds!

No truth!

No nothing!

Yes I do,

hark Mercutio!

Horatio!

My friends

writers

and artists!

My soul bellows

no service,

and  will leave no

true marks,

no true self!

No more repeated nights of

self imposed withdraw

I mark myself

for my Warhol minute.

Social contact is an

evolutionary need,

Human life,

to some beautiful,

to others expendable,

tortured to all with

ignorance or not.

But real to everyone,

no more selective,

all or nothing is easy,

but empathy is 

a burden.

And so is ego.

Does empathy mean ego?

No,

How could it?

Besides marketing,

but doesn’t the market show

the people’s self

and cater to a human 

desire.

again,

yes and no,

paradox no paradox,

self no self,

invade no invasion,

no more control,

none of it wanted,

I will not fail.

We will not fail,

we are not going 

to fall,

I will catch you all

even if you won’t 

catch me.

I am only here as a servant

of the inherent “sprit”

of all humans.

Man does not mean human,

there is much to change,

much to work on,

much to seek,

I will not spurn 

and I will not

fore sake.

I give you my word.

I give you all

my word, my deed,

my act,

no more 20/20 hindsight,

It wastes the

summer

and the moments 

we have,

just because they

don’t speak to 

you,

Doesn’t mean they

don’t look at you,

notice you,

sometimes even love you,

I am destined to live

this life,

not cursed,

never cursed,

no more cursed,

no more tortured

my suffering is 

not my master

it is my guide.

And only at my consent,

consent should never

be a matter of luck.

No matter what distraction,

I spurn every page,

like they mean

nothing,

They do,

They did,

they don’t,

and no balance.

If you can’t

find what you look

for,

you will always find

something else.

 

The Story’s Answer Part 5

How many nights?

How many hours?

How many words?

Efforts?

Deeds?

Projections?

Rejections?

Real and imposed,

now over,

now true,

not repeated.

This is an unknown

that is even unknown

so unknown the

unknown knows nothing of its

own unknown.

Rhythm all these

such no

know no rest,

no rest for the wicked,

none for the righteous

either.

None, 

press on,

press every thought

deed and break only

on the rage.

It only belongs on

the page

It only belongs on

its word

each does

each goes

each flow

each mind

each scramble

so close

to an end

so far from a beginning

and they are there,

real,

and the same,

the same truth,

the same lie,

neither are real

yet both are real

and this is

not a paradox

not a contradiction.

It is a job,

a reel, once,

source to employ

mind and hearts of

a romantic ploy

but also a way to

keep them in place.

Here is strung the real word

the real time

the real song

the real art

and I to judge

what is the real!

Ha!

So you laugh

you mock

you grunt

you sigh

I do as well.

Here it rings

rings high

High,

high on end.

End upon end.

But this is no

end.

Nor means 

nor is it even indulgence.

It is some idea,

some pursuit we have 

forgotten in the short ring of

human memory

only in the 

limiting realms

of their own history.

What history?

What winner?

What ideas?

What limiting?

What verbal?

What act?

What sight

Who is to define

the real

the what

the we

the us

the I

the self.

We are real

we are here

even only in thought.

Disease of the mind

are real diseases,

no pain

no obscurity

is ever a real choice.

No right wing politic

is true.

No demagogue rhetoric

holds fair.

All idiotic thought

drones on,

all rhetoric ends.

I don’t need

a soapbox.

I don’t need a joke-box.

I need a laugh

and a wank.

Don’t we all,

What is our lust.

Delivered.

Our medication,

a gift.

What is our truth.

Indulgence is a privilege.

Excess was supposed

to be a sin.

Extremes are the

real sin.

No center

no balance

this is my culture

and these are my tears.

This is my pain,

and it is healed.

Your concern is to 

all its own medicine,

in any dose,

in any grace,

any necrophilic

ideal fails

and only love’s 

lust wins.

Love lust and

lust is love

and understanding

brings balance.

Once brought,

it is sold

never cheap

never a waste.

So here,

this new color,

this bright ring this

undue end.

Bought,

sold

paid

and broken feature.

No more “god”

only the real god.

the real

unnamed

not a tao

for that is a name,

no more names,

end the name,

but gain the self

and do all with 

love,

to gain

to gain and give

is to hold that gain

even in moments

of the worst luck

will this be true.

No point in derivative

lies,

excess extent and wasted

seconds

and ink

and pages.

Smoke, drink, sing,

and read.

Life is not a bitch

but a beautiful woman.

Listen to his fable,

sweet talk this 

princess.

  

The Story’s Answer Part 4

War, no, fear, no,

Crime, no, 

Game!

Simply game!

Game for identity.

Game for group

and safety.

Game for instinct,

Game for the pursuit

but not gain of truth.

But what is to gain

truth?

What is to gain knowledge?

Where is any truth?

Is this my page?

Is this my night?

Damn this me!

Damn this I!

Damn this self!

Damn this search!

Damn!

Damn!

Damn all!

I will not end until

my sides ache,

until my illusion of self

is beyond illusion,

narrate on!

Is this the hope?

The end?

The gain?

No, only a fine tune,

only a new common thought,

Here one stands,

no bare social scene,

no honest truth,

Avoid,

lie,

escape,

deciet, toll,

Hurt,

sado-social-masochism,

a condition?

A truth?

Both, beyond,

done?

Lie?

No, no question,

no truth,

Why can no thought

bare the truth,

Why can no thought

 be truthful,

Why can no impulse

stop!?

No!

No more drive,

hyperbole, I’m not

the only one with a gift.

I am not the only one

for truth.

Well now such as

shall end,

Now I have such,

let me work,

let each thought

be born on the page,

This is a repeat,

this is another fall,

Another repeat

and end,

and again,

repeat, and dare

no original.

Only ask for truth,

end each thought,

with a comma,

so it goes on to

the next page.

Follow end of page

follow false words,

follow barren privelage,

corrected words,

but still out

to hell with self

what self?

Who is self?

Dare not answer

your own

“bookish” questions?

No.

No need is not

self is a lie

and each misstep

is a time unwanted.

Forget her face

and paint a new one.

Breed speaks of a self,

ego speaks of a self,

I promised

that each page

would be full,

I,

I,

we cannot remove the

I

we cannot remove the self,

I will not offer

thought,

but

I do,

I do and

bare truth,

honest fault

no end

laugh at your gain

true thought

honesty,

must hit will

iron hot.

Make em stereotype

stream of consciousness

what a false word

false step

False

False

FALSE

ALL FALSE

DAMN IT!

War

Death

hungerr

murder

rape

shame

shun

Judgement

these!

These are not false!

These are true!

These are not needed for 

timing these are not

wanted for truth?

Barren?

Ask or fortune!

Hurt no hunger

Ask for no tune

but walk a land

barren!

We are hearing our thoughts!

What is a song!

Are our modern DJ’s songs

even worth an effort!?

The regulars.

Judge and judge

sit and ask

and stare and wonder

and wander

and drift and sing

and sting

and fall

and fault

and ask where is our tribute

tonight?

Where is our human

sexual product!

Yes, ha!

Yes!

Dare laugh!

Dare evil!

Our human

product!

Yet die!

Yet end!

Yet call every sordid

pathetic sale!

Accept it! Demand it!

Ask fort it!

I will not let my thoughts

be wasted,

I will not let my hopes

diminish,

No soul,

and I dare say

soul will not waste,

will not diminish.

You!

You are a soul,

You are beautiful,

You are not defeated

You are not alone,

You are you and

only you!

Call this corny!

Call this cliche!

Call this sordid

Call this!

The fact you call this,

The fact you call,

you only waste,

you only drive

trivial

and trivialize

you are trivial.

And I am judgement

you are weak

I am strong

you dumb

me smart

me poetic

me eccentric

give me attention

give me sex

give me lust

give me 

give me

give me 

give me

give me

give me

give me

give me.

I cannot produce

with such attitudes.

I cannot bare

such lies.

Trivialize no origine

Find no weakness,

Find no truth.

To escape,

is escape “truth.”

Dare,

dare not ask!

Dare not ask!

Dare never

ask

become

and yell

Free all thought

lie and delusion,

yet bare no judgement,

If you judge

forgive,

forget,

and free,

free all.

None be free

until all are free.

To state the obvious,

it’s now intellectualism.

If I did it

for reward,

I’d be over,

lost,

pathetic,

sad,

I will never fall like you

and I admit

I am no person to judge

anymore,

I don’t want

to be a reflection

in my genetic mirror,

am I not me!?

Am I not here!?

Do I not breath!?

Is this life,

is this truth!?

is this our hope.

We will, our will.

Yes We!

Yes We!

Yes We again!

Barroom ettiqute

social standards,

norms!

Protection!

self!

Evil!

Evil!

Evil!

Who is to say

what is and is not evil!?

Human!

Person!

Law!

Law is from

MAN!

Ha!

Law.

HA! Man?

Both are the curse

of my existence.

My existence!

It is true!

It is self!

It is!

It is!

It is

It is

It is.

As good is real

as evil is real.

I am none to judge.

But I

Yes I

am one to state,

I am one to hope,

to prospect,

to hope,

to think,

to feel,

to touch,

to hold,

to do,

to fight,

to stream,

to question,

to market.

Curse you Damien Hurst,

Curse you Andy Warhol,

Curse you perverts

of the market.

Curse you regulars.

Curse you 

and curse you.

Flashback

training truth.

Yes it is truth!

It is real!

It is feeling!

It is here!

It is self.

It

It

It

It

self

self

self

truth

truth

truth

I am sick of these words.

I am

I

Another world 

I want to escape

but can’t.

None can,

Oh what a fool

What a fool you are

and what I have been!

None can escape

the self.

None can

deny a self.

We are observors.

We are the observers.

We are

We are

We lost,

lost in pain and hope.

And love, is an unescapable

concept.

Short Stream of an Amatuer Yogi

Silent witness, bare fruit,

no fortune, old words

wasted again.

Always wasted, both literal and 

figurative.

Timeless time and other repeated

sceneries.

Loop upon loop.

Repetition mass trivial

repetition in cylcles,

Acting as no repetition at all.

What is repeated,

is reworded.

And the logic of rhetoric

is extorted.

No weakness, only the shortcomings

of our strengths.

Only, that which is thought

is real

Only that which is precieved

is thouught.

Gramercy, The Journey of Jack Lewis Chapter 16

chapter 16  The Aftermath

    Judge Bachman was ecstatic to hear Lewis was in custody.  He was disappointed to hear he was in another state and would be tried by a separate Judge, but he would watch the trial coverage on FOX NEWS as close as possible.

    Once Jack was caught, it wasn’t long until a cop leaked info to the press.  It also wasn’t long until the guy who broke out of jail by walking out the front door became the news of the century.  His trial would have more followers than Scott Peterson, OJ, and Casey Anthony combined and unlike all of them, the public loved him.  The more they dug up the more they realized this guy was less of a criminal and more of a conundrum.  The more they retraced his steps the more they all saw a man who had beat the system, had lived the ultimate adventure, and had made a strong network of friends.   Alex Kobe and Fiona did not mind the publicity.  Others, like Hal and Conner, disconnected their phones to not be bothered.  Kate showed her face without fear, and before her highly ttrated 60 minutes interview, she had released only one statement.  “I love him so much.”

    Then a girl named Ann delivered a rebuttal and was used as a character witness by prosecution.  “I Hate him! He got me pregnant and I had to…” She broke down “I destroyed my first child, and it’s his fault. But I’m in college, I can’t have …”  It then went on to become more about her and less about Jack.  It wasn’t long until no one gave a shit about the rich-bitch sorority girl he had a one night stand with.  That’s how fast the news moved on social media.  The jury also didn’t think much of her either.

    Another girl came to the press about having sex with Jack, in a more positive sense because he had rescued her from what she said would have been “a guaranteed rape.”

   

    A former prostitute gave a short interview from her room at a rehab clinic, apparently Jack was her “Guardian Angel”, who guided her with fatherly words and a much needed iron fist.”  The girl was quite poetic now that she was sober.

    Some hipster told a story of how he had been beaten senseless by Jack.

    Conner and Hal only appeared in court and offered no statement to the media.  They only voiced their support for their captured friend and acted as character witnesses for the defense.

    Nancy delivered only one statement, he burned his supena in a video he posted on youtube.  He refused to show up for court and be at risk of saying anything against his friend, period.  “Fuck you.  He’s a good man, good men don’t belong in the shit house!”

    The whole trial if it so can be called, was more of a rush of media, the law waving theirrestored masculinity around, and a fast forward of witness after witness that Jack didn’t even pay attention to.  Jack didn’t even know his lawyer’s name.  

    Jack was sent back to prison, obviously.  He was to serve at least 20 of his 25 to life years before he could start serving an eight year sentence for escaping and another eight for the various assaults, and finally two more for assaulting an officer.  Jack was to serve at least forty years, not eligible for parole until half of it.  The outrage from his fans was massive and pushed on the verge of rioting.  Jack got endless flows of fan mail, none of which he read.

    Jack accepted his fate with the usual discourse and lack of emotion he always had before.  Except one thing was different.  He never could stop thinking about Kate, every second he wasn’t with her he wanted to die.  He was not allowed a conjugal visit until they were married, which they were soon after the “trial” had ended.  

    Jack’s cellmates were two black guys and a hispanic man, all in for drug charges.  When they learned they were on the same cell block as the famous Jack Lewis, they spread the word and before dinner, Jack was a hero.

    Jack got a package every other week when Kate visited.  It consisted of cigarettes, suggestive photos of herself for lonely nights, and books.  

    Jack was keeping his reading up like never before.  Reading everything he was sent from beginning to end. Jack also took advantage of the book cart every chance he could.  Reading the classics, pop fiction garbage, anything that looked interesting.  For the first month of his sentence he was on an Oscar Wilde kick. Then he started to read some prison narratives by Leonard Peltier or Mumia Abu Jamal.  Soon he began a Kurt Vonnegut and Stephen King phase.

    One day on the book cart, jammed between two volumes of War and Peace, was less of a book and more of a pamphlet.  Jack looked to see it was by the same author Kate and he would read together.  Memories of his last hours in Kate’s bed came to him.  He decided to read this pamphlet.  He hoped it wouldn’t be as demented as the writer’s fiction or as archaic and scattered as the authors poems.

The parody of the self

a manifesto to the young millennium.

by James J Jackson Jr

“the more i see, the less i know, the more i like to let it go.” Snow by red hot chili peppers.

Introduction

We, as a species, are ever burdened yet rewarded with the human condition.  We have been given this gift of logical thought and consciousness; yet, we are ever burdened with the knowledge of our own mortality, the weight of physical and emotional pains coincided with our pleasurable emotions, and the fact that there is and are things in this universe that we shall never comprehend, not even in death.

We as a generation, are cursed.  We live in the generation that is blank abstract and a parody of itself.  Every cliche sense of identity, every generation has lived through some sense of identity, except ours, and the more we think we figured it out the more abstract it becomes.  We elected Obama and thought a new generation of peace and tolerance would take over the country, but other than killing Osama and marijuana dispensaries, we see Obama is just the black Clinton, left but not left enough.  A progressive American, but still an American, still putting delusional faith in the ultimate evil, the “market.”

We as a generation, have no sense of identity because of this sense of American economy.  Every sense of identity has now already been taken, and our generation is nothing but vintage chic that copy other generations.  We have people living the hip hop lifestyle that died with Easy E and Tupac.  We have hippies wearing their granola parents old clothes.  We have club kids creating multiple genres of rave and electronic music that would make the 1980’s blush.  We have the “fashionable” still flocking to the mall to throw away their money.  Everything, it seems, from the art world, to the film world, to the simple world around us, is blank because all that could be done with each medium has been done before.  Is there anything wrong with this pursuit of identity?  No, it is a part of the human condition.  It is one of the burdens of our gifts of conscious thought.  It could use a little more structure however.

We as a culture, lack culture.  Our authors have shifted from literature to nothing but commercial interests.  Mark twain would not survive the literary world unless he took shock value to another level.  50 Shades of Grey is a hit when its writing is pure garbage and names like Kurt Vonnegut, ee cummings, and Ralph Waldo Emerson are in danger of slipping into hipster obscurity.  We have no respect for the academic and the educational like we should, and those in the academic or educational run the risk of being cut off from reality and being stuck in theory.  Both people, academic and non, are guilty of ego and entitlement.

    We are so egotistical, so up our own ass, we refuse to acknowledge the Us government is guilty of genocide of natives and blacks, that immigrants and gays are being attacked for being who they are, that the authority of teachers is needed to educate our students, and that media is more powerful than it should be.

    The human condition, despite its strifes, is a beautiful and amazing thing.  We live in a beautiful world, and are capable of leading beautiful lives.  Yet these lives we constantly refuse to mold and make our own.  Not only that, but we are often under the delusion that we are the molders of our life, when in fact we are not.  As Goethe said, “ No person is more enslaved than one who falsely believes they are free “

We as a generation, are the generation of the 21st century.  We have to make up for the mistakes of our ancestors.  They promised so much to us by this century and none of it was delivered.  I say we deliver more than what they asked for.  Let’s not just shock and awe our failed ancestors with our technology and progressive inclusion. Let’s amaze them with a philosophical, artistic and creative strength not seen since the enlightenment and the renaissance.  That is where the waves are shifting.  Our existence, pointless. Our efforts for professional success, a waste of time, it is in the creative world that our generation belongs, and it is there we will stay.

The poet, the artist, the sculptor, the filmmaker, the musician, these people now live as “starving artists” and garner no respect from the public as they should because they don’t hold “productive careers”, they just express themselves.  Well, maybe if some of these white-collar conservative jerks expressed themselves once in while they wouldn’t be stuck in their meaningless existence. An existence where the only thing left behind to show for their lives will be a stack of money that will some day be gone and spent, and maybe a plaque on some office or library wall that will be up for a few years before the building is moved or torn down;  While the author and the artist have a lifetime of work to leave behind to show for their lives.  If that is not productive, and if that is not what this world needs right now, I do not know what is.  Also, these people make no money and live as they do because these Same people who criticize them for living so meagerly download and exchange their work with each other for free.  Capitalism has created the worst kind of entitlement, the kind where we practically have enslaved our artists and entertainers.  They look down on people trying to make a living through their creative side and then go around stealing it.

Consider this a manifesto, a philosophy much needed for the modern age.  Call it whatever you want, just take what it says to heart.  My only hope is that this book teaches you something, if you can walk away from this book with one difference of opinion from when you started, whether or not it’s agreeing or disagreeing with me, I will know I have done my job.

Also, I wish to mention that not a single original thought exists in this book, everything in this book has been said a thousand times before, and will always be said a thousand times again.  But every once in a while it needs to be put on to paper.

Lastly, I wish the reader to remember that this is merely a book, do not find meaning in this work where there is none and don’t miss the actual meanings altogether.  But remember this is merely one book written by one man, and in all respects should never have had to be written; for as Lao tzu said, “those who know don’t talk and those who talk don’t know.”

And there is hope, there is always hope.  For if there is not hope, these people strangling our culture, strangling our generation, which is a generation of artists, then our generation has already lost.

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When he finished, Jack  closed the book, sighed, and waited for his thoughts to catch up with him.

Jack enjoyed the read.  He was a little excited after he finished.  He stood and looked out the cell door.  Down the hall he could see the only window high at top by the catwalk that the guards use to look over the entire cell block.  He could see through the window that it was a blue sky and a sunny day, and despite all of Jack’s best efforts to stay grounded in reality, to keep himself from getting any fruitless ideas, he couldn’t help it.  After what he had just read, he could not help but feel that the author was, in fact, right.  If you want to stay victorious, there always has to be hope.

    As Jack looked at that tiny window far off in the distance, at that one square of blue in a bleak wall of gray that was almost blocked by a guard with a rifle and an NFL build, Jack could not shake the feeling that there was hope.  He then turned to his cellmates and joined their game of cards, still smiling, and he started to get excited for his visit with Kate tomorrow.