This space is sacred, and bullshit will neither be tolerated nor served at my table.

So, let’s stop fondling the balls and and start sucking. (This is a new idiomatic expression I’ve invented, so feel free to adopt it and make it your own.) This is no ordinary penis I’m sucking. mind you. No, this penis stands exulted, glistening and godly. In fact, it deserves nothing less than a capital ‘P,’ for it is the Penis of Truth. The Penis of Life. The Penis of Wisdom. I hope that you’ve inferred from all this capitalization of random nouns that what I’m about to share with you is a glorious morsel of this –for lack of a better word–PHALLIC truth. These words mark the alpha of my rebirth.

I’m sure that all of you, my lovely audience, can admit that I’m somewhat of an oddity. Yeah, so I get a little rowdy and horny when I’m drunk, I enjoy violently punching innocent people in the testicles and yes, I practice yoga so that I may someday use my flexibility to suck my own dick. But that’s pretty much elementary.

Of the myriad of Life Experiences I’ve been blessed with during my travels in Korea, Japan and Hong Kong, there is one I believe will stick with me until my deathbed. An ordeal that corroded the prejudiced and bent worldview that I once had, and opened my eyes to a world more exquisite and spectacular than I would ever have imagined.

Where to begin?

It all begins in Japan.

Sit closer, my loved ones.

An eventful night in May, I somehow became acquainted with a raggedy little street urchin in a squalid back alley in downtown Osaka. I was in a state of disorientation from the wild night before–my wallet was absent from its usual place in my ass pocket and the only personal artifact that I’d managed to retain was a pack of cigarettes drenched in what appeared to be urine. I longed for a bowl of piping hot Miso soup and the warm embrace of a Futon. Worst of all, however, my penis was severely chafed from the three obscenely cheap hookers I’d indulged myself with. (DON’T JUDGE ME.) I had a serious case of what the Japanese call, “red eel.”

Perhaps this young rascal noticed this from afar, because he approached me, genuinely concerned, and beckoned vigorously with a sooty hand. To this day, I do not know what compelled me to painfully limp over to this young rascal, but I did, and this decision altered the course of my life.

He led me to a small clearing behind a dumpster out back, and I could not believe my eyes at what I saw there. A stately looking middle aged gentleman was kneeling on the floor with his back to me, making exuberant thrusting motions with his hips. Curious and confused, I shuffled across the clearing to see what exactly it was that he was fucking! My suspicions were soon confirmed: what he was making love to was an animal–a living, breathing canine. It was a dirty little thing, with matted hair and bald patches here and there, but it was clear that the dog’s cruddy state did not deter the man from ravishing one of man’s best friends. I was shocked, baffled and disgusted. My pain from my ‘red eel’ was replaced with a nauseating knot forming in my stomach. I wanted to vomit. I looked up, and the man finished with a flourish.

In his broken English, the boy from the street explained to me what was going on. Apparently what I had just witnessed was an obscure and ancient ritual that had been repressed since its inception during the Ashikaga shogunate. Japanese history books had meticulously omitted all intimations of such a ritual, and historians paid little attention to what they saw as a nasty skidmark on an already tainted history. Most of the Japanese public were wholly ignorant of its existence, and so it lived on through a small, clandestine underground society. It seemed that I’d wandered into the very heart of this society.

I learned more. Patrons of this ritual believed in the mystic healing powers of the anal secretions of certain ‘chosen’ dogs. Victims of incurable STDs and other genital indispositions most often turned to such otherwise unthinkable methods. Pleasure was also a huge attraction, as I would soon discover for myself.

At this point, I’d regained my senses and once again felt the intense pain that had been jolting my entire pelvis. Still under the effects of alcohol and other hallucinatory drugs I’d taken earlier, I soon found myself behind a dog–a different dog. What transpired thereafter is best left un-narrated and rather obvious anyway.

After I returned to Korea several weeks ago, I found myself strangely craving the sensation again. To feel pure once more, to feel my torn skin regenerate, to feel electrified and so much alive.

I engaged in a private “purification session’ alone, at 4 am in the morning in the back streets of Sinchon two weeks ago with a stray I’d lured away from its usual nook. I felt newer and rejuvenated. I felt my heart blossom and my soul shudder with ecstasy. I was a Seraph, cavorting the universe with not two, but three pairs of wings. I uttered thanks to the twist of fate that pushed me into this world, into a lifestyle that might arouse public disgust and strong disapproval.

And with the highest hopes that you will accept me for who I am now, I humbly end my tale.

Please guys, I know it’s hard to accept. Most people I told laughed it off and told me to stop fucking with them. And I don’t blame them. Fucking dogs seems like another one of my disgusting jokes, but it’s not. This is real, guys. And if you love me, please don’t let this change that.

Peace.”

**Courtesy of my biographer’s protegee, “The Alrighty” Makseeksay>> http://enomushiki.wordpress.com/

The penalty for destroying spices is a considerable term of servitude.

The penalty for endangering an ox is a warning.

The penalty for a nobleman possessing certain spell components is a few months’ imprisonment.

The penalty for a member of a lower class plotting against a servant is branding.

The penalty for abusing a war horse is the loss of a limb.

The penalty for inciting rebellion is a long imprisonment.

The penalty for breaking an oath is a flogging.

The penalty for destroying gems is death.

The penalty for a priest comitting acts of public indecency is a small fine.

The penalty for a priest abusing a pet is a brief imprisonment.

The penalty for trespassing is a moderate fine.

The penalty for stealing enchanted items is the loss of privileges.

The penalty for endangering a draft horse is a few months’ imprisonment.

The penalty for endangering a courtesan is a few years’ imprisonment.

.
Chant.
Darkness, Duty, Compassion

Clarity and Light

Loyalty from Judgment

Faith from Trickery

Death, Sovereignty, Serenity

Light, Opulence, Talent

Control, Law, Water

Zeal, Sovereign, Water

Morality, Ancestry, Courage

Courage from Divinity

Diversity, Sisterhood, Reason

Truth, Patriotism, Beauty

Music, Harmony, Luck

Dread is Fate

Democracy and Motherland

.

The Coconut Revolution on Bougainville…a Model for The Barbaric Revolution to Take Place in Oklahoma? Stay Tuned.

COFFEE AND CIGARETTES ‘DELIRIUM’

.

..

…

….and how we do in Hong Kong: CHAN PO CHU!!

Niggi Niggi Noo Noos e nu nu noos

Man misses his Miss Massachusetts

missing her man in Thailand, dreams of

negligee of Sunflower’s in the marlboro morn’

and fresh T of hickey, conceived the night

of the mild seven, remain to her remindment

The Panic of VD.

..

All-in-all, a roundtrip-misfortune out-of-town extravaganza!

Almost of it for sex but

some other stuff met too.

A rickshawed glance.

The meat skewered, in the sand.

Said rainbow said to pass said beach.

…

Along with the stone on the balcony,

Man reminisces between the ashy pipe:

“In commonly them all wore uniforms”

Stone: “Strict with it. Also strict with fingernails, shoes, and loads of other stuff”

Man:  “A robin had no choice but to die.”

Cigarette:  “And the late Miss Massachusetts always

had a knack for more than meets the eye.”

….

“Patriarchies are prevalent, and they appear to be strongest in societies in which men control significant goods that are exchanged with people outside the family. Regardless of who produces the food, the person who gives it to others creates the obligations and alliances that are at the center of all political relations. The greater the male monopoly on the distribution of scarce items, the stronger their control of women seems to be…If male dominance depends on controlling the supply of meat, then the degree of male dominance in a society should vary with the amount of meat available and the amount of meat supplied by the men…men and women [sometimes] work together in communal hunts and as teams gathering edible plants, as did the Washo Indians of North America…Among the most egalitarian of hunter-gatherer societies are the Washo Indians, who inhabited the valleys of the Sierra Nevada in what is now southern California and Nevada. In the spring they moved north to lake Tahoe for the large fish runs of sucker and native trout. Everyone-men,women, and children-participated in the fishing…Since everyone participated…[there were] no individual distributors of…male and female rights. Men and women…were free…lovers…whenever they chose…one…celebrate[-ing] hunting…the other celebrate[-ing] gathering.

.

The Washo Indians

The valleys of  the Sierra Nevada

In the spring the large fish runs

Everyone-men, women, and children-fish

..

From William S. Burrough’s “The Adding Machine”

Les Voleurs
Out of the closet and into the museums, libraries, architectural monuments, concert halls, ,bookstores, recording sudios and film studios of the world. Everything belongs to the inspired and dedicated thief. All the artists of history, from cave painters to Picasso, all the poets and writers, the musicians and architects, offer their wares, importuning him like street vendors. They supplicate him from the bored minds of school children, from the prisons of uncritical veneration, from dead museums and dusty archives. Sculptors stretch forth their limestone arms to receive the life-giving transfusion of flesh as their severed limbs are grafted onto Mister America. Mais le voleur n’est pas presse’ — the thief is in no hurry. He must assure himself of the quality of the merchandise and its suitability for his purpose before he conveys the supreme honor and benediction of his theft. Words, colors, light, sounds, stone, wood, bronze belong to the living artist. They belong to anyone who can use them. Loot the Louvre! a bas l’originalite’, the sterile and assertive ego that imprisons as it creates. Vive le vol– pure, shameless, total. We are not responsible. Steal anything in sight.

…

….

Clarifications; Walter Bendix Schönflies Benjamin’s, “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction”, linked below:

The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction 1936

…..good studying!

(http://anijunkie.com/index.php?option=com_seyret&Itemid=269&task=videodirectlink&id=9682&navstart=0)

Bending a piece of my lighter’s metal safety today, I remembered my father the blacksmith telling me that if a metal was bent in one direction, it could never be bent back into the same shape again. I guess the only way to return the metal to its shape would be to melt it down into its original form, its simplest components, and to cast it into shape again. Metals are hard like that, unbending. It reminded me of a story of the zen monk, Nan-in, who famously poured to the brim tea for a university professor. Then, still pouring, Nan-in poured until the tea was overflowing into the professor’s lap. The professor, unable to contain himself, shouted, “Its overfull! No more will go in.”, to which the monk replied, “You are like this cup, so full with your opinions and knowledge that nothing can be added. How can I show you zen unless you first empty your cup?”

Yukari’s birth-day ended today with a game of jungle-gym tag, two boxes of Valor, and we’re back on the roof, good-day!

..

dream sequence?:

eat the gods! this year’s yukari-cup tottered from reeling, zanarkand hands, who, after four consecutive wins and a neck-and-neck final match, were bested by  the what-should-I-put-on-your-tombstone-motherfuckers? analysts contribute this devastating loss to zanarkand’s satoshi and mark’s use of performance enhancing valor and excessive ritual prayer (instant replay: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DTGdMv0i-c4). Let’s pray that they will see  better luck at the 201o international hong kong beer pong championships next latenight.

the valor went down fast and my third spliff of the day too before three am dim-sum nabbed a barefooted-australian on the way in the road ‘said he sold diamonds.

six am off course of course on the roof pants torn lighteningstorm by the fire warmed morning sun. the rain-dance. a grey sun.

Thinking medium-sized, left shoulder-blade, with black outline and full color from Chopstick Tattoo, Osaka, Japan.

Open to constructive suggestions, comments, and concerns*…

*All concerns will undergo an automatic screening process by a young boy who I keep in a 10-foot square cage with only a typewriter, feed whiskey and raw whores to, and belt-buckle pretty good; three or four times a week.  He comes up with most of my stuff  these days. (Thanks for the tip Bukowski)

Picture of Mission San Juan Capistrano, Photographer: Unknown

Nothin’ you can learn there you can’t livin’ off the land. Ought to take you boys from that baby-sitter-you-call-school and back to Oklahoma. Been trying to for years too. Gettin’ you two out there and startin’ our own’sall I ever wanted. It’d be easy too. Plenty of water on the land; creeks and streams and a lake to fish in. Wild turkey, quail and deer’re there too. Been tellin’ you this city’s no place for a man. Will have you crazy in no-time-at-all.

Brian was the resident blacksmith at Mission San Juan Capistrano for five years. Visitors to the mission were able to watch Brian forge his work and often commented that it was like magic. Brian has perfected traditional blacksmithing techniques by forging nearly everyday for over 25 years. Hours of repetition to hone his skills have made him a well known blacksmith who can confidently create excellent work time and time again. All joinery is in a traditional forged manner, adding to the beauty and durability of the piece. Forged not forgery, Brian Brazeal.

The trailer we lived in we shared with a Mexican family father met through the proprietor of Sycamore Trails. And since he lived there alone for most of the year, he figured it was only fair to fit the family of seven into the bigger half. The space we occupied then was a hallway with a toilet at one end and door at the other. There was a floppy bed with sleeping-bags, a dial teevee, and a fridge with beer, limes and cheese. The only window a dirty skylight with an ancient Eucalyptus sighing down on it. I remember well waking to dark skies and street lights abuzz. Morning meant 4:30, father pulled boots over socks and was outdoor by 5:00. With aching, mechanical movement, I would slide out of the sleeping bag and shuffle-feet to the cold bathroom tiles. Father would tinker round home-shop outside, getting ready tools and the day’s metal stock. I’d pull on my own cowboy boots and button up a flannel. Then, stepped out the door, splosh sleepy-handed in the shop’s water barrel, washing my face, my mouth and start to make the rounds of the farriers’ workplaces; rummaging through old barrels of shoes, collecting those intact and tossing them with a clank in a box. It was father’s idea at first, to gather the used horseshoes, clean them up and sell them as “lucky horseshoes”. Only he told me that if I wanted to I could do the work myself and keep any money I made off of tourists. I remember how we’d trek our way to the mission by dusty road and old track; I, with jerkey-filled pockets and horseshoe-box in hand; father, with towel-wrapped sledge-hammers and a rack of Tecate. He would tell me all kinds of things during those long walks; stories and the things that he’d thought up. About Oklahoma. About the land. We also talked a long time about blacksmithing. But there was one thing that I didn’t talk much at all about with my father. Which was that my lucky horseshoes were the only things that made us any money in that sooty corner of San Juan.

COWBOY BEBOP ‘MUSHROOM HUNTING’:

Cowboy Bebop \”Mushroom Samba\”

COWBOY BEBOP OST 1 ‘SPOKEY DOKEY’:

SOIL AND PIMP SESSIONS ‘FUNKY GOLDMAN’:

AIR FEAT. BECK ‘THE VAGABOND’:

DUB FX FEAT. WOODNOTE ‘FLOW’:

MUDDY WATERS ‘CHAMPAGNE AND REEFER:

SELECTIONS FROM ‘COMING THROUGH SLAUGHTER’ BY MICHAEL ONDAATJE:

“But here there is little recorded history, though tales of ‘The Swamp’ and ‘Smoky Row,’ both notorious communities where about 100 black prostitutes from pre-puberty to their seventies would line the banquette to hustle, come down to us in fragments. Here the famous whore Bricktop Jackson carried a 15 inch knife and her lover John Miller had no left arm and wore a chain with an iron ball on the end to replace it – killed by Bricktop herself on December 7, 1861, because of his ‘bestial habits and ferocious manners’. And here ‘One-legged Duffy’ (born Mary Rich) was stabbed by her boyfriend and had her head beaten in with her own wooden leg. ‘And gamblers carrying cocaine to a game’.”

“No matter how much you took with you, you would lose it all in paying for extras. Such as watching an oyster dance – where a naked woman on a small stage danced alone to piano music. The best was Olivia the oyster dancer who would place a raw oyster on her forehead and lean back and shimmy it down all over her body without ever dropping it. The oyster would criss-cross and move finally down into her instep. Then she would kick it high into the air and would catch it on her forehead and begin again.”

“He was the best and the loudest and most loved jazzman of his time, but never professional in the brain. Unconcerned with the crack of the lip he threw out and held immense notes, could reach a force on the first note that attacked the ear. He was obsessed with the magic of air, those smells that turned neuter as they revolved in his lung then spat out in the chosen key. The way the side of his mouth would drag a new of air in and dress it in notes and make it last and last, yearning to leave it up there in the sky like air transformed into a cloud. He could see the air, could tell where it was freshest in a room by the colour.”

Nora’s Song

Dragging his bone over town. Dragging his bone over town.

Dragging his bone over town. Dragging his

bone over town. Dragging his bone

over and over dragging his bone over town.

Then and then and then and then

dragging his bone over town

and then

dragging his bone home.

“There were his dreams of his children dying…

The other kid came in with the news he’s dead, sobbing, and he jumped and ran in one movement and caught the boy’s shoulders WHO IS he heard himself weep out loud and being told floated into the kitchen picked up the wood handled knife with the serrated edge and pushed it again and again into his left wrist, then the open hand which was numb already, through the door and the police amazed at him his white shirt bloody looking at the cops who brought the news he’d always imagined each night – hit by a car, god. After the boy’s words he hadn’t heard a thing but his own screaming, went past the cop and leaned over the hot metal of the hood of the police truck, his face and his wet arm on it.”

“The silver knife curves calm and fast against carrots and fingers. Onto the cuts in the table’s brown flesh.”

“He woke to see the train disappearing from his body like a vein. He continued to stand hiding behind the mail wagon. Help me. He was scared of everybody. He didn’t want to meet anybody he knew again, ever in his life.

“He collected and was filled by every noise as if luscious poison entering the ear like a lady’s tongue thickening it and blocking it until he couldn’t be entered anymore. A fat full king. The hawk its locked claws full of salmon going under greedy with it for the final time. Nicotine from the small smokes he found burning into his nails, the socks thick with dry sweat, the nose blowing out the day’s dirt into a newspaper. Asking for a glass of water and pouring in the free ketchup to make soup. Sank through the pavement into the music of the town of Shell Beach.”