Bowel Control to Major Tom. Bowel Control to Major Tom. Stomach's bubbling and we think there's something wrong.

This is Major Tom to Bowel Control
             I'm getting out of bed.

and it just might be something
 that ................I ........................ate.

in hind sight i think spices  hid meat that wasn't great. ..

My Stomachs loud in a very distrubing waaaayy............

Bowel Control to Major Tom we read explosive shit, there's something wrong, Can you hear me Major Tom? Can you Hear me Major Tom?

So here am I bubbling on the steps down...
someones stabbing me from inside
his knife is causing pain
and the Bathroom's  far away...


heeeeeere am i crawling down the steps down...
to a bathroom far away
theres stabbing pain again 

And I hope I don't shit my pants todAAAYYYY..

     Ground breaking for the new Condo of Mexican Insanity began in early summer 2014 with the her polar assertions that

     "It doesn't matter what anyone thinks about us, we know the truth about our relationship...Who care's what they say.....Do you care?  I don't...We have to get married because my family doesn't understand our relationship, it can't be a legal marriage because I will lose my pension though"

    The important thing is that it made perfect sense to her. The cognitive dissonance is all mine. My puny male brain apparently did not see the whole picture of life down here. I was new to the country.  I did not realize what it meant at the time, and thought her to be merely bat-shit crazy, like many people I know, a kalidescope of many genders and inclinations. I know wacky dykes, Vegans, fairies and furries, other types of deranged Queens, all manner of drunken louts, gadflies, layabouts, charlatans, salesmen, business men and tricksters. I have fallen in love couple few times and sold knives to my neighbors. One very passionate person even had me selling vitamins for his money-cult before he found out that I was not going to bring any of my friend to their personal marketing meetings, where the brand was me, "Man you can sell anything Harry, with your sincerity." My so-called "warm market". My friends bought knives and vitamins from me because that's what friends do. They support you. They also tell you when you are fucking up. So I in turn protect them from any bullshit I detect in the world. Mutuality. Common interests. The chilled out lifestyle.

    My point is that my bullshit detector is always functioning.  My sincerity is not for sale.

      Neither is my soul, sorry Seitan!

      In Philadelphia when I was tending bar at the Shamrock pub Iwrote and performed  a song where in one lyric I wind up apologizing to Seitan for sleeping with his daughter, A jewess.

      "....her eyes they glowed red as the sex just got hotter, then the part about sorry Mr Seitan for sleeping with your daughter. "

      You want to be careful about your Vegetarianism. The chorus was "She's a twisted illogical fruitcake and whore" This future grammy winning chesnnut came from a twenty year old poem of mine where I was first practicing making words play nice together.  I knew that I could not play the love game on her level and striking at her with my mysogynistic words was the best I could do. She was going through a self-described "whore phase". I was happy to help. Then I got sensitive.

      My pome of pain would win the page. Having won the page, I could win the day, 2AM and running out of red wine and off to bed young Bukowski, that's enough poetry for the night, forever, for the world. No one want's to hear your feelings got hurt and if they do, why would they?

   The smart ass at the Irish bar would not let it go. Well into the bottle of Black Bush or some other Irish whiskey. One type of whiskey is good for the cause, one is not, I forget whose booze I'm supposed to drink to FTQ, "fuck the Queen",  (not the type of queen i referred to earlier with the lowercase letters, the one that runs the world, but i digress).( I need a refresher course in economic support of revolutionary groups so I guess I need to get myself to a library and set a spell,end of first digression)

    Anyway, the dude needles me and says I can drink for free that night if I read a poem at his open mike night. It's early and sparsely attended, just the songbird, her girlfriend, the bar-owner, the bartender, and maybe one or two brooding drunken Mummers. So I shoot home and grab my floral journal and try to select just the right poem for this crew. It wasn't about Seitan that first night, that came later with editing. I wrote a couple of new verses because it didn't seem fair to glorify the one who turned into a bat and leave out the one that went camping with the bar-back. You try to be fair. There's enough glory for all in this horn of plenty called my brain. Sometimes the thoughts are even tangentially connected. Sometimes they are all asides, no meat, that's where Seitan comes in, see?

1. a remark or passage by a character in a play that is intended to be heard by the audience but unheard by the other characters in the play.

   synonyms:

   whispered remark, confidential remark, stage whisper; More digression, incidental remark, obiter dictum "“Her parents died,” he said in an aside"

   • a remark not intended to be heard by everyone present.

     "“Does that make him a murderer?” whispered Alice in an aside to Fred"
2. 2.

   a remark that is not directly related to the main topic of discussion.

   "the recipe book has little asides about the importance of home and family"

     A visionary once wrote, "I don't care too much for money, money can't buy me love." So the twisted world we live him threw PILES of cash at him and made him famous. To test his resolve. He may have been the one shot by someone who misunderstood fame for infamy. Some dude whose name I will not repeat out of respect for the dead visionary who may or may not have writing credit for that song. Writing credit is a beautiful invention made by lawyers to make music batter.They invented the music business. Lawyers make everything fair and better. Lawyers know more ways to lie than Eskimos have words for snow.

    There are subtleties to the English language. Lawyers know all of the shaduings of words because of something called libel and sl;ander. My job is to explain these concepts to rich Mexican's kids so the whitedevil can't rip them off again. It's the sweetest scam ever. Being paid to talk to people's kids. Molding youth. To connect. So this will be my lesson plan for today mrbossman. I will use the name mrbossman, mrbossmanSIR,and the Spanish "Senor' Jefe" interchangeably to represent the source of evil in the world. A great man once said "It is easier to for a camel to be put through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to get into heaven." They killed him too.

    So no one is trying to kill me yet, except for one extremely deranged feminist who fell in love with me. That's a potentially libelous statement because it is in print. It is not libel because I have witnesses who heard her say it. She often told me she loved me despite the the horrified faces that her Valkyrie girlfriend would make. She had a mohawk and hated men even worse than the one that loved me did. I was special. It was their bond, but I loved her too because she was against most of the same things I was against. Her (now mohawkless) lawyer girlfriend who she won't marry because it represents an institution of oppression or something. You kind of stop listening to demagogs when they begin their rants. At least I do. My ears kind of "glaze over".  She was right about marriage but wrong about me. You kill great men, I'm just a troublemaker. I moved to Mexico to escape the toxic culture that birthed her. A culture that may be "too free. " If you measure freedom by gun deaths and people killed by drunk drivers. It's too easy to kill someone in the USA and "they" hate our freedom so they build for profit jails and sell stock in them and no one riots. Slavery is legal now if you break the law. So they offer prisoners ten cents an hour and everybody wins. A lawyer could help an ex-con spin their resume into a job in Congress if they have the right last name. Senators sons go to rehab. Poor kids go to jail. Democracy works.

     I didn't like living in a country that was that free. So I moved to a country where it will take me a few years to figure out just how nuts they are down here once I begin to understand the nuances of Mexican crazy. The sun is the toughest dude on the block down here, but the Mayan dudes work all day in the sun because they are true bad-asses who work for the man all day. I am trying to learn Mayan. I will bring the concept of Slack to this gentle family oriented people. Wait. Slack is the  language of the man. Mayan women run the show. They must or their men would not be working so hard in the sun all day. "The Morena in my Hamaca" will be the name of the book I write when I speak enough Mayan to be sexy. Goals. If I figure out that Mayans are crazy I will stay though. Three strikes. Three tries. Three cultures, everyone is crazy, "The trick," my married friend said. "... is to find someone whose neuroses mesh well with yours. his ADD makes him a great earner and my manic depression keeps him on his toes!"

    You are free to be as crazy as you want to be in America. The gun nuts in rural areas are frothing at the bit. Whipped into a frenzy by the radio and tv guys saying cops with tanks are going to come get their guns. That's fine with the patriotic rednecks at the bar, who say the "Gub'mint can pry my gun from my cold dead fingers." I think Ben Franklin said that. No one bothers killing these guys. They are already dead inside. They got bit by the fear virus. The fear is in their head.  As a great fictional character named Spock said, "Fear is the mind-killer". They killed him in Star Trek 2.  He said that in a Western town where the bullets only killed you if you believed in them.  That was back when visionaries wrote tv scripts. Dudes like Harlan Ellison who wrote possibly the greatest title ever, "I have no mouth and I must Scream" Dudes like him were writing for Gene Roddenberry who put a black chick in space to inspire Whoopie Goldberg as a young girl.

    Pry is a pretty nuanced word for a Patriotic weed growing, moon shine drinking, Constitutionalist to use. They GET nuance in the sticks and only act simple to throw the feds off. The same trick that students use to fool there teachers, the easy lies about "don't fro me in the briar patch". "my dog ate my homework" and I am getting into law because I  want to help people"  I saw a Patriotic movie about moonshiners killing government agents early last yeat and knew it  was time to get out of the country. Those guys are what will save America, if it is to be saved, but to do it you would have to invent a new kind of money. The kind that only works in your neighborhood. And  when you do invent it, keep it secret or the government will throw you in jail.

    The new kind of money should have an expiration date on it, an IOU, valid thru 2015. The problem with money is it just accumulates in piles which have to be protected from the professional thieves that the invention of money money created. What a great scam early money was! Here's a metal portrait of me, I will protect you from those assholes in the Castle from France and those nasty slave-trading Muslims. They call us infidels. They are different, they don;t even charge interest.The clever thief whoi invented "interest" rates "created" money out of thin air. What a hero. Then insurance policies which took the banking industry to the next level Protecting slave ships from storms. But rich people are said to have consciences too, or at least their wives do, so they called these loans to slave owners "Bonds". Bondage. English is nuanced sometimes, and sometimes it smacks you in the face. The rich guys told their wives the bank the bank they insured merchant ships. The wives figured that out, so they invented financial instruments business.

     "I'm just buying stock in a bank my cousin owns honey, its in Boston and slaves are illegal there." Who the Bank loaned money to was their business and money laundering was born to keep the women off their back.  When they started explaining how the futures market worked and what derivatives were their wives ears glazed over. Polite conversation was saved in the salons and tea rooms and matrimonial beds. And it was all legal.

     We stole this country from England after emptying the prisons to exterminate the Native population. It was all legal, France adopted a wait and see attitude after saying the paper looks official. SO maybe they weren't assholes in castles after all. the French do not work at night or longer than eight hours a day because they will burn Paris down. They saw the Nazi's for who they were and realized the true enemies of freedom were rich dudes. America will figure it out soon or turn into one large Prison. I love apologizing to the kids about stealing California, Texas and Florida form them, but like I said, they are smart. They realized it  was bad politics to mess with a well armed nation of psychopathic killers. A nation whose lawyers coined phrases like "justifiable homicide" which cops refer to as a "good kill" There's an oxymorn for ya.

     My IOU's will read something like this. I owe you one days work. Lets define our terms. You are reading one days work here. Now I'm gonna go talk  to some rich  Mexicans kids for three hours to get lentil  money.  And I'm done. I could be convinced to do about an hour of leisuirely gardening and don't mind cooking. There's some stuff that a natural man  has to do each day to feel good about life and I intend to spend part of each day doing that so let's call that 3 hours. So that's 7-8 hours of heavy thinking and talking there.  l can sometimes bed be convinced to do a couple few hours of back breaking labor, some day in the near future, in return for some booze or some flowers to smoke. Or just because it needs to be done, it depends on my mood, it just isn' happening today without a bribe that fixes my thinking during the labor. There's a case of beer behind the woodpile sort of thing. It  doesn't hurt to ask but don't be hurt when I say no. I value my time more than most bosses do, that's for sure. I will always make enough to scrape by, and that's fine with me. It's not fine with most American women and  that's one of the main reasons I'm single with my pretty blue eyes and kind nature. Plus, what half end  in divorce? More money for lawyers. Yeah. usa usa.

There were a lot of people there...

   People were talking about going to see a Famous Musician. The capital letters were in their inflection. It was an exciting event that one needed tickets for.  I was unsure of my work schedule and told you so. WE were unable to commit, at that point in time. How that morphed into "Do you still want to go to listen to the pianist and singer Di Blasio Friday night at 8 p.m.?" Didn't Chomsky write about "manufactured consent?" Please do not try to Noam me, Noam and me are pals in the struggle, even if there are some that question his lack of curiosity about specific subjects.
   I never indicated a preference, so you made up an feeling for me and that's great if it works for you. Just try not to be disappointed again when your fantasy me comes up short again. I tend to prefer my own company on most evenings. Especially when school starts and Capitalism dictates that if I am nice to people I can have some money for behaving. There is a balance. There is an inevitability about having a schedule which chaffs me like a loose piece of rubber in an undergarment.  Specifically, it rustles my bustle.  I wear a bustle to highlight my man boobs, my decolletage.
   Another problem I would like to highlight is just exactly what WE means. I was a little miffed by the knowing look exchanged between your namesake and me when the topic of sex came up at that same party. I know that you have no control over the knowing looks of people who share your name. The look implied carnal knowledge. So she doesn't "get" who we are and maybe that's just another case of a woman hearing what she wants to hear instead of the intended message. A lack of clarity. Claro.
  Perhaps crystalline clarity is too high a standard, but that is the standard I attempt to eschew.  With words like decolletage and eschew, what could be clearer? The world changes with each breath. I meant it when I sang "Crosstown Traffic" to you in my classroom.  But in the interests of clarity, it would be unfathomable, a remote happenstance. Sorry that those terms do not transfer well into this culture and that people make assumptions about patterns repeating themselves. I am an outlier. I thought that was clear.

               (song lyric of the day) blues riff...

   I'm an outlier baby, i said I thought that much was clear
   I said im an outlier baby, i thought thay much was clear
            but what you heard was "outlaw",
                               and thats what brought you near

  An out li ar is statistics
  and statistics are used to lie
  and that is why there are so many cop drones in the sky
 
 you can not grow that plant,
 you cant brew more than beer
 im choking on all the freedom
 that Ads say you enjoy here

 Im an outlier baby
 an out and out lying
 snake of a man
 and im out to love any
 slow moving hottie that i can

     Thin, rosey colored cloudlets on a Perfect Yucatecco morning transported me back to college and a thin girl named Rosie.  The birds were magical and I started singing the zepplin song about her.  "oh Rosieee< oh girl, Oh rosey , oh gurl"  Alas, Rosie's heart was set on the Captain and Founder of the club, a dynamic, Gangly giant of a man.  Jimmy Stewart if he was a drunken lout with no class. His favorite phrase at practice was, "What are ya? A bunch of Pussies?"  I loved talking to her, everything was interesting about her, but it was never to be.  This was before I spent the summer running home from work and I was stiull finding my style.  And boy did I find my style that summer. 
     She was Jeff Terrie's girlfriend, a thin brown haired, doe-eyed country girl.  She would pull up next to me as I was running home and offer me a ride.  We would pull off the road and get high and do some back seat yoga in her compact car asa the Allman Brothers played on the cassette.  Nothing beats a dark country night with someone elses girl.  On the hood of her car with the crickets so loud. At work in the dark room on the floor.  That's what he gets for trying to beat me up when I was the new kid at school and didn't know how to fight a lick. 
     That was before I was a hulking brute, before the growth-spurt that had people at Community College of Philadelphia calling me big guy.  I was scrawny in high school and wrestled at 125 pounds without cutting weight.  I put some inches on in every direction and for a year I thought people calling me "big guy"  were actually calling me fat so I did 500 crunches a day and "curls for girls" like by the wrestling coach would say.  One day I was invited to play Rugby by  a colleague of my Dad's at the college.
     I was a little pudgy my first year at college, but running home from work every night was fresh and clean and as the summer progressed I found longer routes to run home to make up for the nights I missed doing my karma fucking.

Thanks again!

For jostling around my neurons with words.  With the spark to open the can of worms again.  There will be worms all over the place,  worms are all protein, eating and sex. Worms on the sidewalk, stuck together in asexual bliss.  (musical interlude)

THE WORM MORRISSEY.  I wriggle with you, asexually on the sidewalk, on a rainy day in Bristol, oh whoa whoa oaaaaa.... It's heaven on a sticky Bristol sidewalk in the rain with you, ooo ooo ooo. whoa ooo oah oah oah aaahhhhhh

I borrowed Morrissey's muse there for a while, he wasn't using it.

So I was chatting to a hottie from my past, sharing music and her insight into the weird music I shared with her opened up fifth grade for me again.  1974, the year baseball cards started to look lame, the first year in the BIG middle school.  Time for the well-meaning Health  teacher to help kids adapt to this sprawling mega school  Get them ready for Industrial  schooling.  Interest Inventory.  Write down five things that  you like to do in your spare time on this index card.  This is Private and only for the other kids to see, there is no grade or anything, we just want you to see how many other girls and boys in this big new school are just like you.We will pass them around to all the other new students who will then decide if you would be a school friend, a friend to invite home, or someone to eat lunch with, something like that.."won;t this be fun?"  ("eat lunch with" is a clear case of my mind synthesizing and editing a bad lesson plan, I do it automatically, making things better, more stream lined, unless its a stream of Conshy burst)
So I was in a bit of a dark place and I wrote that I enjoyed S.W.A.T.  There was a song  with a cool synthesizer bit in it.  And a TV show about how cool cops could be if only they had more and bigger guns.  Brainwashing was so much simpler then.  When I was ten.
I wrote S.W.A.T. because it was in my head.  Pop music as a control system back-firing?  Or was a chicken coming home to roost?  I changed it to Street War Against Teachers.  I also said I loved nuclear war, radiation, baseball cards, reading and the  Beatles. 
The Psychiatrist hauled me into his office and sat behins his big  desk  asking me if I had anything I wanted to talk about.  "Nope" Was there anything that bothered me? "Unh -uh", he was patient, and I was missing math. so I stone  walled him and read magazines until he got to the reason for my visit to his office. He took out the PRIVATE index card for kids eyes only and told me that another student had alerted the teacher to my card... BUSTED, down on Bourbon Street,  set up, it gets to wearing thin, if you got a warrant I guess you better come in..
The shrink said that I still had time to do the  card "right" and circulate it among the remaining health classes.  The card was flagged the first time around, there was still time to be normal I guess.  So I put in the expected stuff about soccer and chess and the Shrink was happy to help me adjust to this scary new school.  The scary new school that separated me from the love of my life, Susan Black.  I was in Orange house, she was in Blue.   My teacher, Mrs. Smith was an institution,  Whe had been my mothers teacher.
I am proudest of the fact that I beat the shrink  and did not crack.  I kept the family secret. I boiiled and  stewed in juices about skies full of Russian missles and cringed every time at noon when they sounded the air-raid siren.  That's some very un-subtle conditioning right  there. Teach the kids to Duck and Cover  and blast the air raid sirens a few times a day.  You hear, you fear, you hope the tone ends.  The long unbroker tome is  the  one they will play when the nukes are in the air.  No wonder I am crazy.

Thanks

     Thank you for trying to "cure" my virginity 33 years ago or so.  I am sorry for my primitive Neanderthal mind and libido.  At he time, at the raw age of 18 or 19 years old, my brain was unable to process what was going on.  The selfless nature of your act.  Your beauty was all I was able to fathom.  I was in awe.  The way you looked in your blue jean shorts.  The way you filled your sweater up so nicely.  Your brain, your evil laugh, you GOT me.  So of course my mind had to race to fuck up what should have been a beautiful moment.  This was was supposed to be the culmination, my graduation into adulthood, my moment.
     What was going through my brain on that night was far from sexy.  All I could think was, that is where Pee comes from.  Why in the world would this beautiful, perfect girl, want anything to do with my pee hole?
At this point in my development as a "player" I had never had a conscious orgasm.  I programmed myself to wake up in the middle of wet dreams, but usually just missed them.  I had no facial hair.  I used to sit in awee and terror of the kids in highschool who had to shave, the primtive brutes.  Even Todd Sherman's gay-ass peachfuzzstache was intimidating to me.  When he asked me if I had ever had sex, of course I lied.  The beginning of a lovely pattern.
     I remember one awkward moment with my father.  The famous 'bird and bees speech". A real hallmark moment.  "son do you know?"  "Jeez Daad, come on, yeah"  End of discussion.  Again lying about something that was terrifying to me.  Terrifyingly opening a closed bedroom door.  A mistake you only make once.  You learn the sounds of Love.  And associate the terror with those sounds.  And your life goes the way your life goes and this minor trauma is nothing in the big picture, but everything really.  Shaping part of you life forever.
But I am a piker, compared to my father's journey of love and women folk.
     Abandoned by his drunk Irish father at a very tender age.  He just threw his laundry in the front seat one day and left.  My grandmother was a tough old broad.  She didn't take any shit.  Obviously, neither did the woman my father married.  He was raised as the only male in the hen house.  Two sisters, two maiden Aunts upstairs, Vera and Marguerite.  His adolescence forever scented with Estrogen and God.  He was going to be a priest.  That was the only true calling for a man.  A natural people-pleaser and  "good boy" Something happened.  He never shared the details of his big decision to leave the Cloister, or whatever you call that closet that priests and young men live in, training the altar boys in the ways of God, the ways of the Father, On Earth as it is in Heaven. 
     I tried to bust my cherry in high school.  In a cornfield with a willing girl.  In another cornfield with her.  An Intellectual type.  That's my type, they get me.  But nothing is more embarrassing and technical than busting another intellectuals cherry, sober, in a cornfield.  There is no greater struggle than that of the smart ass genius faces with a condom in the dark.  Where was my love assistant alcohol?  Nowhere.  I was a rebel.  My parents were hippies.  They enjoyed the social lubrication of alcohol.  My piety at the time revolved around abstinence, and a good healthy fear of sex (because of my accidental eye full of awful when I was a wee lad.  As a rebel with cool parents I almost had to turn republican.  That's what kids do.  They rebel.  It took me decades to understand the beauty and commitment and selflessness that kept my family together.
    My mother gave up the freedom of the sixties to be up to her elbows in me and my three brothers feces.  All she wanted was a little ballerina to dress up and talk to.  My father's sperm had other plans.  The years of estrogen overdose turned his testes into alpha male machines.