From: sabbott@nmsu.edu (SDA)
Subject: <insert subject>
Organization: WHorshipers of Lady LibertY (WHoLLY)
Date: Sun, 26 Jul 1992 06:00:47 GMT


The child cowers in the corner, eyes wide with fright.

"Goddamnit get over here and watch this"

He yanks the child by the nape and drags him to the window.
Outside, houses explode, burn, fill the sky with smoke.

He watches the sight and butterflies fill his chest.  A smile
creeps across his face.  He looks down at the boy but the child
is cowering in the corner.  

Again the man drags the child back to the window, this time tearing
down a curtain and tying the child to the frame, carefully avoiding
the shards of glass.

"You can learn to love this.  It shall never stop"

The man unfolds a lawn chair and places it next the child.  Eventually
falling asleep.
--

	\\\\\sean/////

0, unseen,,
*** EOOH ***
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre,alt.smouldering.dog.zone
From: sabbott@nmsu.edu (SDA)
Subject: <   >
Organization: WHorshipers of Lady LibertY (WHoLLY)
Date: Mon, 27 Jul 1992 15:43:14 GMT


I was trying to use the bathroom. I swiped my visa card through but it
was rejected.  Why did I have to buy that book? I could have borrowed
it from someone.  I hate borrowing books, though, if you drop it in
the sink while shaving you gotta buy them another one or hide every
time you see them.  And what if they see you first.  I started peeing
in the sink when a women walked in.  That's why my card was rejected,
it was trying to tell me I was in the wrong fucking bathroom.  The
woman snickered a little, then proceeded to tease her hair in the
mirror, I scrunched to one side to allow her better access to her
reflection.  I was rather flustered, though, and left without
finishing or even washing my hands, my kidneys throbbing with
resentment.

--

	\\\\\sean/////

0, unseen,,
*** EOOH ***
Newsgroups: alt.smouldering.dog.zone,talk.bizarre
From: sabbott@nmsu.edu (SDA)
Subject: <.,.,.>
Organization: WHorshipers of Lady LibertY (WHoLLY)
Date: Tue, 28 Jul 1992 16:16:55 GMT


'Tyle's mom got into a car wreck on her way to the delivery room.  the
car was mangled sideways between the outside of the highway shoulder
and bridge.  after prying the car door open with the "Jaws of Life"
the fire department decided that Tyle's mom was bleeding so badly Tyle
needed to be removed before his mother in kind of a double ceasarian.'

A double ceasarian...

Alfred Adler would have had a field day.

Tyle escaped remarkably untraumatized except for a thick southern drawl
inhabiting his vocal cords til the day he died, despite growing up in
sunny southern california.  

<ya got a fucking problem with this? hit 'd' now>

Tyle became a pugilist.  Not formally, but informal situations were
all battles to be fought and won.  Formally he was a computer
scientest, a computer being one of the few things capable of
tolerating him. 

Actually Tyle wasn't pugilistic at all.  In fact his boyish face,
combined with his melodic drawl, made him loved by all.  Tyle 
played in a band.  His adopted family was incredibly supportive of
his desire to be a rock n roll star.  

He made it big, v e r y  b i g.

No he didn't.

But fame and fortune are not garnishes for happiness.  First of all,
fame and fortune are much more edible than most garnishes.  Second
of all, the capitalistic intents of our society can be dangerously
undermined by not associating happiness with the proletariat sector.

What does this have to do with Tyle???

Look, who cares, schizophrenic behaviour is fun and can sometimes
take the place of *real* thought.  Follow this up with something
mindless, marry the girl/guy next door, write a tedious flame and
bask in the cathartic release, I really don't give a fuck, ok.

Tyle is dead, he never made it past the first month of life.  He was
buried in a tiny box and no one shed real tears for him because no one
ever got to know him, hear his thick southern accent, the way he would
cock his head to the side when he was curious, the way he would play
in mixolydian mode and how he would even sneak in some phrygian stuff
but it was purely accidental cause he never even studied the modes and
in fact barely knew the difference between a major and minor
pentatonic.

--

	\\\\\sean/////
*** EOOH ***
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
From: sabbott@nmsu.edu (SDA)
Subject: <****>
Organization: WHorshipers of Lady LibertY (WHoLLY)
Date: Tue, 1 Sep 1992 00:29:48 GMT


let us call him Sandor

hate and lust ... mingled

these two dipoles operated the field of his thoughts

thoughts of the correct mass & frequency would get trapped inside this
field where they would resonate for months, years.

"FUCK 'EM IF THEY CAN'T TAKE A JOKE"

yeah fuckem...

there is a jujitsu for every situation, there is a way out, believe
it or be lost forever.  don't let the irony of the situation getcha
down...

lust and hate, hate and lust, rite and wrong...

rights of passage.  yeah right.  

give me a "l"
give me a "i"
give me a "f"
give me a "e"

what do you got?

got a lot.

sometimes a vacant lot.

hate and lust and lust and hate...

"hello"

"hello"

"do you like my writing?"

"no, I do not like your writing"

"goodbye"

"goodbye"

--

"Life is like a big C program with no documentation"  - Ted Slater

	\\\\\sean/////
*** EOOH ***
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
From: sabbott@nmsu.edu (SDA)
Subject: <..,,..>
Organization: WHorshipers of Lady LibertY (WHoLLY)
Date: Tue, 1 Sep 1992 01:34:13 GMT



"lets play a game"

"trivial pursuit?"

"grrrr"

"pictionary?"

"how about guilt and anger"

"ok, you toss"

I get the die from the hall cabinet.  It has two sides and no edge,
sort of a moebius quarter.  I throw the die and it lands on G.

	It is four in the morning and her frustration has 
	turned to tears.
   
	I pretend to be asleep while she sobs silently against my chest.

	After she's asleep, I wipe the tears and snot from the
	place above my sternum, then roll onto my side and stare
	at the wall, feeling helpless.

"another round?"

"sure"

I roll the die and it lands on A.

	We are in the parking garage.  I am getting my guitar out
	of the trunk.	

	"I have put so much into this goddamn relationship and
	you just put me at the bottom of your list of things to do.
	I am sick of trying.  What's the point"

	"I just want to make a life for myself, that is what is
	important to me right now"

	"So I'm not important any more?"

	"I love you . . . I just need to be my own person for a while"

"again?"

"naw, its getting boring"

"ok, I'll call you in six months or something and we'll pretend to 
be friends"

"ok"

I gather up my things and leave.

--

"Life is like a big C program with no documentation"  - Ted Slater

	\\\\\sean/////

*** EOOH ***
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre,alt.smouldering.dog.zone
From: sabbott@nmsu.edu (SDA)
Subject: <****>
Organization: WHorshipers of Lady LibertY (WHoLLY)
Date: Mon, 28 Sep 1992 23:04:24 GMT


The light is brown, this world exists inside a beer bottle.  

The Weather is pleasantly humid.  The bay smells of paranoia and
brine.  The shop windows are filled with color cardboard posters
of old tv personalities hawking overpriced goods.

I take a two-dimensional piece of myself and place it the scene.
My fragment walks down the busy concrete looking for an interesting
incident to begin his life.  He enters a bookstore and wanders over
to the environmental section.  Lots of books with glossy photos of the
earth.  He buys some to give to a passing member of the apologentsia.
While the cashier is ringing up the books my fragment sneaks of drink
of her coffee.  

Back in the brown light, bouncing down the sidewalk.  The Fragment
is getting bored and starts to fade out of the setting, his books
are no longer supported by his insubstantial hand, they fall to the
sidewalk with the grace of a mutilated ballet slipper.  A mechanical
roadrunner scoops them into its beak and scurries away with jerky 
reptilian movements.  

The Fragment wanders over to the waterfront, a mere whisper of an
echo--nothing like a little paranoia to liven up a dull afternoon.
Taking deep breathes of salty air, the fragment realizes that je suis,
french for 'I am', can be pronounced geez you is.  

This is no coincindence.

The Fragment is no longer insubstantial

The word neuron contains 'on', the computer consent code,
the digital high.  

Synchronicity abounds.  Jack Kereouac wanders past, a rheumy old
bastard with a splotchy beard and a tired gait.

"I'll give you ten dollars worth of food stamps for that bottle of Jack"

The Fragment looks down to see a half-full-empty bottle of whiskey in
his hand.  The label bears a picture of Dean Moriarty and Sal.  

"Hey Jack, whatever happened to Sal?"

". . . ran over by a train," he says between slugs.

Kereouac throws the empty bottle in the sea, "Geez you is"

"I am"

Kereouac wanders away, his eyes lighting up from the booze.  The
Fragment wants to speak longer with the great beat hero, but he really
couldn't stand to be seen around such a bum--even in this strange
light.  

Fragment looks far out to sea, Hemingway's old man could be struggling
with a big fish at this moment, but he is not.

The bits in Fragment's brain do a shift left logical.  

The word one contains the word 'on'

The word one becomes the word on, Fragment enters a logical universe.

To us he is no longer visible....
--

"Life is like a big C program with no documentation"  - Ted Slater

	\\\\\sean/////

*** EOOH ***
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre,alt.smouldering.dog.zone
From: sabbott@nmsu.edu (SDA)
Subject: <****>
Organization: WHorshipers of Lady LibertY (WHoLLY)
Date: Tue, 29 Sep 1992 23:31:46 GMT


"Someone has spelled jesus with an i"

"No thats je suis"

"I am not" 

"Geez you is not"

"I sent my computer it a string of ones and it really got off on it,
you know..."

"If I don't get some shelter, I'm gonna fade to grey"

"You've got a touch of grey"

"Yes, it distinguishes me among the distinguished"

"Dont talk with your brain full"

"She is good as gold, good as gone, good as dead, grateful for being alive..."

"The Dead are too shaggy for my taste"

"The DA's too shaggy for my dog"

"It's a dog eat dead world"

"A boy and his dog and the Grateful Dead..."

"Yeah and Yawn Hammer"

"Take a passing thought, place it a binary shackle, feed it out onto
the billowing bellicose aether and then you shall be allowed to enter
the zone"

"Slothrop's zone?"

"DogZone: between O-zone and Interzone"

"Fuck you is redundant because fuck contains the letter 'u'..."

"advTHANKSance off, then"

"big 'S', little `tea`, little 'why', big 'L', big 'E'"



"Life is like a big C program with no documentation"  - Ted Slater


*** EOOH ***


"Call me back when you have stopped crying"

I set the cordless telephone down but forget to 
turn it off.  A few sobs pierce the the tv twilight,
I realize my mistake and hit the off button.

My thoughts revolve in vicious circles like a beer bottle
resonating in circles on a formica top.

If I could just fuck her once....

The sins of my ancestors are sprawled on my head, lounging like 
haughty cats. 

My wonderfully boring neighbor comes over to drink a beer.

"Can I borrow your VCR tonight?  Gonna rent Back Door Betty 
and make a copy, want one?"

"Back door movies bore me, 'nother beer?"

"Sure, you got any bud?"

"No, but I'll add some sprite to it . . ."

Later, I watch my roomate write a paper for a girl he works with.  I
flirt with her in the living room while key-tapping sounds float out
of the kitchen.  I succeed in making one of her son's GI Joe dolls
stand on one foot and her son is delighted.  We go in the bathroom and
make love standing up while my roomate is running the spellchecker.  I
feel a little guilty even though my roomate is the one letting himself
get used.  

We go back out to the living room and watch a documentary on fish.

I ponder an existence of no blinking.

--

"when marriage is outlawed, only outlaws will have in-laws"
					-R.A. Wilson
*** EOOH ***

What's that ringing in your ear???

Perhaps the cheap shoephone you got along with last years subscription
to Sports Illustrated.  

Fallen asleep on the phone, woken by its foul screaming chirp.
Sent into surrogate senility by a silly telephone solicitor.

Or is it, perhaps, the sound of one hand masturbating, rubbing a tired
washed-up organ with a sweaty squeak in oblivious self-coital
subconscious habit.

Or the red red blood gushing through those teeny tiny capillaries,
their paths congested by layers of cholesteric kroovy-constricting
crud.

Those pernicious thoughts inflate your brain into wakeful reality, or
at least this working version of it.  But why were you asleep with the
phone propped against your head?

	< in a different section of your tape loop you would have
	thought of your son, dead by his own hand, and the emptiness
	would have gasped and wheezed inside your soul>

You cannot recall.

You dress for work.  The car doesn't start.  You check under the hood
and a large grinning skull asks for a lollipop.  Some part of you
protests briefly, then you reach into your briefcase and proffer
the bribe.  

The car starts up with a slight clattering sound.  

'Gotta check those ligaments,' you think as you pull into the bright
blue asphalt.



--

"when marriage is outlawed, only outlaws will have in-laws"  -R.A. Wilson

	\\\\\sean/////