O King Ego (Prose)

Rumbling, booming, bass-heavy music seeped through the walls behind the stage of the Boomer Theater. Partitioned by one of those walls was a room, sort of a dressing room, a place where the bands and their entourage would rev it up before shows and then wind it down when the curtain was drawn.

On this particular evening the band responsible for the racket on the stage was a quartet from Paden, Oklahoma calling themselves Red State Hypocrite. It was a great name, to be sure, though they're brand of neo-psychedelic funk was not sitting pretty at the top of any charts. That meant nothing, all they were concerned with was the music and anyone who didn't understand that or had a problem wih it was invited to state his or her case before being pummeled by 5 high school wrestlers and a cheer squad leader (just in case it is a "her" case we're talkin' about here). The Paden alumnus used to pay those wrestlers in low grade weed but the cheer squad leader insisted on a modest salary in addition to the marijuana. She was surprised they gave it to her but even more amazed that the wrestlers never said a word about it. She figured they'd each and every one on 'em to a man be as jealous as a coon dog of the majestic German Shepherd.

Most of the Red State Hypocrites' followers/hangers-on/leeches were congregated in the front row, thanks to comped tickets from the Hypocrites management. They looked like synchronized automatons with their heads swaying to and fro in rythmn with the driving music, so loud you could feel it jiggling your guts.

Of these "fans" (if "fans" you can call them) there were only three who remained in the backstage room I described so eloquently for you in a previous paragraph. Everyone called them The Lynn Triplets. This innocent appelation was the result of much consideration concerning the uncanny fact that each one of them looked exactly like Loretta Lynn. Juxtapose that with the knowledge that the three women had, until only a month prior, never seen or known one another. That's right, strange but true, these dead ringers for Loretta Lynn were the same age and looked so much like the other and yet THEY WEREN'T ACTUALLY TRIPLETS! Not even born of the same parents! So you can see why they would inherit the title The Lynn Triplets even though they were not related to Loretta or even to each other.

Loretta 1 was doing something the real Loretta Lynn may have done although she's never confessed to it so I give her the benefit of the doubt, though it's hard to imagine...and yet, that said, I'm pretty sure Tammy Wynette used to get coked up now and then, didn't she? She was married to George Jones, for crying out loud, how could she have avoided it?

Loretta 1 could have cared less as she bent over the mountain of cocaine on a mirror on the coffee table. As she bent over Loretta 1 deftly placed a rolled up hundred dollar bill in her nose and buried it into the top of the coke mountain. With an enormous snort she felt the snow travel through her nasal cavity, up and into the brain. I confess that I have never snorted cocaine so therefore am unable to describe the effects the drug has on the individual. I'm told it's pretty intense. Others have told me it's TOO intense and that I would be best served if I avoided it completely. The ones who gave me the latter advice were intelligent, sage men whose opinions I trust implicitly. Because I have respected these gurus of western thought I have very little trouble avoiding it completely. Based upon what I have learned beyond the shadow of a doubt from them I am compelled to tell anyone who is considering trying cocaine and who, by reading this, is now encouraged to put his money where his mouth is. Join me in abstinence of the Peruvian Powder.

Loretta 1, her eyes now like bloodshot marbles, would not be able to tell you the last time she considered cocaine abstinence to be a desirable choice. Did I mention she looked a lot like Loretta Lynn? Holy cow, you wouldn't believe it. I mean, it's so weird, if someone told me it was really her in here and I walked through that door to encounter...I thought it really WAS Loretta...I encountered a country music legend who is not known for debauchery snorting a third line from a Big Rock Candy Mountain.

Loretta 2 watched the woman who could have been her twin sister choke on an off-kilter snort and her mind was filled with visions. She never told anyone about these visions. They involved a host of incarnated Hindu deities, the inventor of Mister Coffee and his wife, Beverly Coffee ("You can call me Bev"), the man who wrestled Tim McVeigh into the rocket capsule they blasted him into space in, herself as the denim-clad object in Conway Twitty's "Tight Fittin' Jeans", the cast and crew of The Young and the Restless, among other hopefully meaningful oddites.

As the Red State Hypocrites bashed out the closing chords to "Men of the Night, Unite!" Loretta 2 considered joining her newly christened triplet sister in front of that snow-covered mirror. The vision was starting to fade, aided by the slow, churning introduction to "Just Some 'o Jerry Seinfeld's Blues". With the loss of the distraction Loretta 2 was even more tempted to stick legal tender up in her nose for the sole purpose of inhaling the product of the coca leaf... We have never forgiven Coca-Cola for removing the coca leaf from their recipe. It now tastes nothing like it did and caffeine is a pale substitute for Peru's Finest (The Kind you hear about in Steely Dan songs).

Loretta 3 turned to Loretta 2 and said, "Are you gonna hit that thang or not?"

Loretta 2 turned to Loretta 1 to ask about the drug's quality. Loretta 1 didn't answer because she was passed out. Loretta 2 took this into consideration. On one hand the stuff had knocked Loretta 1 clean out of the stratosphere. She knew "1" was no beginner when it came to almost any mind-expansion project, if three snorts knocked her out cold in less than a minute that means I could probably get away with doing just one.
That was her way of thinking and she was probably right.

That's when I broke through the door and actually woke Loretta 1 up. They were startled when I made my grand entrance, talking about what they were going to do with "1" and daring each other to use more and more dangerous drugs.

"Stop this!" I yelled at the top of my lungs. All three of the Lynn Triplets gazed up at me as if I were some newly-returned Lord of the House who treats them well but indifferently.

"Are you going to talk to us about drugs?" Loretta 3 inquired.

"Yes I am," was my reply. "How did you know?"

"Oh, don't you worry about that but if you're talking about drugs you need to drag those Red State Hypocrites offa that stage and round up about half of the front row out there, you'll be able to tell which ones I mean, you'd better get a net, you'd better know how to use it, if you're going to pontificate on the evils of chemistry I ain't about to listen to it all by myself, 'specially when I know everyone else come here with those crazy Hypocrites is a lot closer to dealin' with the devil than I am...and I 'spect either of these two Loretta Lynn look-alikes feel exactly the same way about it."

"Sounds fair to me," I said...there was something I needed to say. Something that needed to be said. Something that may have been said already but if so I don't think any of these musicians, hipsters, hangers-on, hat-and-coat check boys have heard it. If they did they need to hear it again, obviously. "Round 'em up. I want everyone who came to this dive with the Red State Hypocrites right here in this room. And that includes the Red State Hypocrites. You especially."

Loretta 1 spoke, though her words were a tad garbled through a cotton mouth. "You heard the man! Round 'em up! We ain't done here until the last cretin is corraled and presented to Porpoise Pilot."

I told her to drink some water and keep her mouth closed. If what she had was contagious I think we'd all be doomed...and I'm not talking about her cotton mouth.

Long story short, the headbangers in the front row agreed to cease and desist with an emphasis on the desisting. At the time of this writing no less than 10 of the 12 front row plants were serving hard time in one of the correctional facilities operating in the state within which they were convicted and sentenced, some to death by lethal injection, some by the electric chair, some will even beg to get a firing squad there. Lotsa ways to do it, that's for sure. Anyone want to doubt it? Come on, bring it. Pick up your best, do it for us! Any old way you choose it, but your end result is always the same, you don't go out in the same way you came.

The Red State Hypocrites swore until their faces were collectively blue that they had no idea why they were being detained. It's true, they had no idea and they never found out when it was finally over. When the clock finally stopped ticking, no more o'clock, it's a thing of the past if you don't count the past in the same way as you do the present moment and the future. These guys had not a clue what they were talking about. I got the feeling this was the case in many more areas of their lives than what we're talking about here...I'm sorry, I forgot what we were talking about here.

The Lynn Triplets, along with the Red State Hypocrites and their drug-loving soulmates from the front row, all a captive audience.

I pointed at the Star Fleet patch I had personally embroideried onto my shirt. "Men, Women of the Starship Enterprise, Law enforcement types, water-bearers, authors of New York Times Bestselling Books, talk show hosts, light-workers for Magnetic Service, THIS is what Kryon says to you...Open your ears to hear, your heart will follow. You've come with me this far, let's not stop just yet."

The throng before me had taken to chanting a nickname they'd given me. "O King Ego! O King Ego! " I didn't know exactly what it meant, this Ego stuff. I assumed they thought my aloof posturings were more endearing. But "King Ego"? Really? Do I have to live the rest of my life branded, as it were, in my psyche, in that there will never come a day when I won't think of myself as "King Ego". Though I have no reason to believe that this King Ego persona is anything more than a Jungian joke told in the dry confines of a Golden Dawn hermitage, nevertheless like good soil for the sower I accept the seed, now I am cursed with the harvest: a new name branded on the most vulnerable part of my brain and then chiselled into my skull...King Ego. Yes. I own it. That's me, alright. That's alright mama, that's me! I am King Ego! O King Ego! O King Ego!"

In unison the Lynn Triplets said, "We christen thee, King Ego. You said you had a message, King Ego. O King Ego! The message. Deliver the message. We await, yea, we await to go home."

"I do. I do have a message for you. Especially for the young lady who doesn't think we can't see the powdered mask of cocaine that's somehow found itself attached to her face. Young lady, I want to tell you that this lifestyle is killing you. Statistics show that young ladies with your particular habits and peccadillios won't last too long if you keep it up at your present pace. You got to slow down. You got to stay off the drugs and I mean the drugs, you know what I mean."

The others in the room looked slightly disappointed. I didn't ask them why.

Ozzy Stillborn

Ozzy Stillborn, croak your dirge
The fire's still a-blazin'
Drown out the crickles and crackles
The tickles and tackles of tongues red with fire
An image so amazin'
You can't get it out of your head
Dirge or chant, the choice is yours
Sing or hum, nobody cares
Sing of the absence of motion
A song celebrating decay
or the Life, the Truth, the Way
A song to motivate and get us going on our way
A musical composition done in the style of one
Ozzy Stillborn

Careful ladies, his shoulders weigh heavy
Hoist the static girth then hoist him into his bed
Let's see how long it takes for him to clear his sleepy head
Assume the position around him, arms akimbo, jocko homo
The calibration will needs be performed by sadists and nuns
From the local population of same we were blessed to return with seven sadists and a whopping twelve nuns
The calibration, followed by the celebration of the calibration
Will concentrate on the irate segment of the population unhappy with
The lack of education his infatuation with off campus shenanigans
Denigrated and deteriorated him
He must be validated
This is the point and purpose of the calibration
Although it is often noted that the celebration of the calibration is considerably less sure of it's vocation

Your Promised Serving of Nonsense

How to make nonsense out of bitter citrus fruits
Leave them be, already a font of nonsensical egg yolks
You do this for yourself, your own self, and no other self
Endure another fortnight daliance, you dance forthrightly

Absorb information like paranoia
The facts are lying in bed with an orange banana
How to make something lasting in a world cursed with impermanence
It cannot be done. It simply cannot be done.

The length of a breadbasket will often determine
the size of the loaf
The ratio of meat to potatoes makes nonsensical lemonade
The worst kind...worse than the worst

This document is not intended for distribution
during the lifetime of the author
Only with his passing disseminate expecting sympathy for
the old poet's story, how rarely it truly changes

The ingredients for the above mentioned nonsense
have been properly proportortioned and mixed per instruction
Take a wiff, you can smell the sweet aroma of their baking vapor
As a child I ate spoonfuls of baking powder

The aroma certainly saturates the proceedings
Almost intoxicating how it smacks your heart with nostalgia
The stupid cartoons, the National Lampoon stolen from the convenience store you hung out in
Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in

That, my friend, is the beginning from the end
That, my foe, is the bleedin' end of the road
I'm in Ian Curtis' voice, deadening repetion
Day in Day out, Day in Day out, Day in Day out, Day in Day out, Day in Day out

Ding, Ding, the timer in the kitchen chimes it's melancholy ring
The nonsense is at this present moment complete
Ready to serve, ready to eat
and please don't choke on my words, I'm half asleep

Morning Recognition

Separate the lies
Can't close it once it's wide
Didn't know what you were getting
A way of life
Pull up the slack
Yesterday happened
Eros ascended
Left me alone this morning to write about it
Blue news
Black ink from the morning paper
Staining

Wait until it's all over and done
That's when you really find out
Is it going to make sense?
Will it bewilder?
Erotica doesn't care

I wish you'd never told me I was beautiful
Because I know you would never lie
"Just look at yourself"
And I know I could see it through your eyes
If I only could shed this morning slumber
It would be easy to pretend
Vanity, get the best of me
Routine drags me to the mirror
I remove my clothes and stare
At this person who arouses him
I look harder
I gaze at the hologram in the glass
Whose eyes blink with mine
Whose chest rises and falls
With the same rhythm as my own
Who looks at me with the same intense curiosity as I view her
I wonder what she sees?
Does she see the same beauty that confounds my love?
The expression on her face tells me
She is as clueless as I am

I turn to leave
She turns with me
I walk away
She vanishes
I wonder if she looks forward
To seeing me again
If she looks forward, as I do, to our next meeting
For I cannot get her out of my head

My God
She's so beautiful

Misplaced Song

Stuck here in the middle
with my thoughts swirlin' 'round me
Like a storm come to sweep me away

Too much thinking,
I'm so tired of my own voice
Won't be quiet, ain't got nothin' to say...

...says it anyway.

sorrowful songs

I'm bottoming out again
My masochist atmosphere
Littered with notes, a minor key,
Of a melancholic symphony
An old, familiar enemy
Without the courtesy of knocking
Threatens to break down the door
Only to catch me bathing
In blood-thick self-loathing
Listening to Gorecki
Ringing out the thoughts in my head
In yet another vain attempt at description
But I'm thwarted by words
And my inability to place them in the proper order
To convey the physical sensation
Accompanying hopelessness, despair
None of which would be so bad
If it didn't feel like home

The Protection of Infancy's Garb

He was slowly drowning in air
He was fading away and he just didn't care
He knew somewhere in his heart
There had to be something better out there
Just out of reach, forever denied him
...or maybe not
...or maybe not

I recall we were friends
He and I raised some hell in the old days
At least I thought we were friends
He bought me beer and I gave him a ride home
He told me stories how his daddy would break down
How the old man had laid a burden on him
Something he never could tell anybody
How the pain brings a serious change
He knew, he said, from a very young age
He was cursed to be curious, different and strange
Perhaps that's why we got along so well
Both of us taking solace in each others' personal hell
Each others' highway to hell
Adjoining rooms in our different hells

There was a moment. There's always a moment.
He would think of every day for the rest of his life
It would haunt him until the day he chose to die
Some will say that he didn't even try
Some will say everything he ever said was a lie
...and I sometimes think those people are right
...and I won't deny it

A scarecrow hanging from a rope in the bedroom
Moon shines through an open window
Bathes the crow in the gleam of the moonlight's glow
Swinging back and forth as the spirit breeze blows
Just a scare crow, not so creepy
But what's it doing in the bedroom?
I gotta know
I gotta know

Circus

Somewhere up yonder
A roll is to be called
One day and on that day
Rest assured
I will be there

I can't help it
I haven't felt it
But I think about it all the time
Whole notes are ghosts
Too often trodded upon
Lost in evolution
Or left behind
In the chase for nausea and bliss
I think about it all the time

You were expecting a circus?
Relax, baby, why you so nervous?
Settle down, babe, here, hit this
It'll redefine the term "circus"
You'll easily catch the blatant innuendo
Poorly hidden between the lines
A sort of circus envy for air-breathing man
Burning and bleeding man
The arrows which pierced Sebastian
Were meant for me and you

Who wants to listen to a little Duran Duran?
What?
Nobody?
Even if it's "Hungry Like the Wolf"?
Especially "Hungry Like the Wolf"!
The white wolf does get hungry
But it does not sit around bitching and moaning
Complaining about trivialities
London's infamous fang
Taught me everything I know
About wolves
This knowledge and understanding,
Almost a transferral of will,
Has saved my ass on many a treachorous occasion

McCartney...Sir McCartney...James Paul McCartney
I would likely have been much more popular in school
Had you chosen to use instead of choosing to be called Paul
You were called, Paul
Paul, you were called
Paul, you were called to a ministry
Of healing
Healing of the soul
Paul, you were called
Many things by a few
Their critical words vanished
Sucked into the void, infused with pollen
Your majesty's a pretty nice girl
McCartney won't you join me on my death bed
I called out to you as I was dying
I saw it clearly with my own two eyes
A prophecy, true and sure
Psychotic Messiah, Paul McCartney
You live in the future, you live in the past
But you die and are raised every moment by moment
Psychotic Messiah, not GG Allin
Who loseth thy soul long before severing thy mortal coil
Opening his heart to the foulness
Reveling in degradation
Pain blunted by much heavy use
Who drinks down deep the costliest grace
Without knowing
That
A trumpet will sound and a roll will be called
And if you're breathing the air
You're gonna be there
It doesn't matter what you think
Or what you believe or you do not believe
Justice is and will be served
Love overcomes hate in the moment


I can't pretend you give a rat's ass
For the words that are spurting from my brain
I won't pretend I ain't hurting, I'm not a Superman
My mind has deserted me more often than I remember

It's Dracula at the door, dear
Won't you let him in?
What's that you say?
The paths that Dracula doth trod
Are enshrouded with the fog of decay
None which pass his gaze are safe
From death and damnation
I beseech thee, leave the door open until he leaves.
I say, won't we be considered discourteous to our guest here?
Let the heathen think it if they so please
This visitation must be the portent of some novel evil
Hideous harbinger of an unhappy day
When the roll is called up yonder
When the trumpet is sounded I'll blow my own horn
You'll hear it for miles carried by a north wind
You may not recognize it as the trumpet of heaven
It might sound a lot like Miles Davis to you
Turning that horn into a life force

I can't help it, you know I can't help it
All the singers on Sirius XM's 40s on 4 are dead
I could be wrong but it's hard to imagine anyone living that long
They're dead as doornails and some flat plain forgotten
And it's a super shitty world that'll do that to you
Ride to the top, the top of the charts
Dig your way into a million hearts
Some forgotten, some revered
They sang they're song
Now they're gone
And that's why I'm gonna listen
Gotta pay my respects to the old crew
They never knew new wave or metal or punk
Brains not contaminated with that horrid boy band junk
They knew a good tune when they heard one
They carried that weight for a short while
Everybody knows the voice of a singer
Is a glimpse into his soul, her beautiful soul
A glimpse most would die for
Even if for a day
A long day and tiring, glad for sleep
With it she shares more than even she knows
Understand that an aeon begins and ends
As surely as the day

Eagle Felled

Pray for the poor bald eagle
Felled by a bullet from a gun
Killing eagles is surely illegal
You better harness your weapon and run

Play for the old bald idiot
Who pays to see your crappy old band
It's him who keeps hollering "Play Free Bird"
When you've just finished playing "Free Bird"

He's an idiot
Killed a majestic bald eagle
Someone took photos
Isn't that also illegal?
Just an idiot
weilding deadly propulsion
clinching the deal with precise aim
He's no amateur
Just sloppy, careless
Might as well be an amateur
Don't feel sorry for the creep
He killed a big old bald eagle

Stay in your homes, for no reason leave
Comfortably dumb in the webs that you weave
Trapped by the ridiculous things you believe
Pray for the eagle, and grieve

Now you come to realize
Roy Orbison was the man
But you never played any of his songs
In your dreadfully crappy old band

The crowd could chant "Pretty Woman"
For all the good it would do
Your crappy old band couldn't play it
Even if they wanted to