Pushcarts

Overflights from the Desk of Pedro Escadero by elimae.Herbal Cures of Orc Tongue nominated by Ghoti Mag. Nominated for Pushcart Prize 2014. On acceptance Editor Paul Corman-Roberts had said, "love to run "The War on Neptune" for our Fall Full of Crow!" After Thanksgiving he wrote, "Full of Crow Fiction has nominated you for this year's Pushcart short story in fiction prize for the story The War on Neptune.  Congratulations and thank you for sharing such excellent writing with us!"

Theory of Paragory. Fabulist. Writing on Wall

Andrew plays Vegas

Paragory joins a known to an un,
what we're doing in biology,
splicing one gene after another,
not just for effect,
but to create some good,
union of the disparate,
opposites, unlikes,
not random matched,
part of a solution,
emergence out of work,
not the goal , the result.
The good of paragory
is insight to either part.

A fabulist makes fables.
Say that it means anthropomorphizing nature and conversely that parables naturalize man.
The youth who patterns his identity on a hero is fabulist, who identifies with ants like Arthur does in T.H. White's The Book of Merlyn or like Kerouac in Dharma Bums catches up the rapture of the butterfly, being, beauty, transparency, attributing some kinship, deeper purpose to nature,...to the hummingbird as I do in Herbal Cures of Orc Tongue http://www.ghotimag.com/Reiff.htm, all fabulists.

What isn't fabulism if language needs to be reformed, nouns are politicized? I could stand to hear more on this. I just saw No Country for Old Men. McCarthy is a fabulist. Even if it is naturalized in the landscape and violence it amounts to a style, a myth of American being, the west. Think of all the fabulous identities of McKenna, gurus, mystics. I was dilating on our trip of the illusion, buddhistly and otherwise to boys of the veil of the senses, that I must die to see what is not there because what is there is not there, but when I die how can I see at all, urged for their consideration. But since I am dead why bother to speak, save only to raise a test of their emerging consciousness, the motive of the fable, parable.

Perhaps this is not fabulist, just saying your name.

 

 Why Vandalism

ESL once
lined metropolis,
blasted eight feet off the ground.
Acrobatic block-long wigglers
like engravings covered freeways, signs.
Then it disappeared. What happened?
Civilization waxing? Democracy made safe?
City Sandblast and Paint
fell vacant.
The writing
was extinct.
Triumph’s come, they boasted, but mind forged, engraved in walls,
it penetrated down to bone in invisibly soul-marred boys.
You could
imagine the original,
but the outside now
was gone.
How did the writing
off the wall
get down
into the bone?
Sure there’s time
Before the blood-brain
barrier bursts,
ESL is syntax,
not just verse,
it’s hieroglyphs
like Mayan.
People glad
Johnny readin’,
sure, that’s a good sign.
But we needs some cats to sandblast Johnny’s mind.

 

Johnny’s
a palimpsest,
that’s where the writing went
in eye and ear in hypertext,
it don’t mean Johnny’s reading
when he’s read to death.
Deliberate beneath
the “paint,”
and look in
Johnny’s
head.
That’s what
Saint Blake did.
He said these days a net would cover mind,
called a Promethean to break the chain, the world wide web.
Don’t put him on the side of Microsoft.
He left his will engraved.

 https://web.archive.org/web/20080724214544/http://www.whyvandalism.com/issue_nov07.html#2

 https://whyvandalism.bitbucket.io/journal/2007/11-november/02-writing-on-wall-.html

Beulah

We came to Beulah Bula-bula land, the East Bluff stared down at the sea. Call it the bay. We left early that day, yesterday, to make up for the lost hour. That tells you how things are. We arrived two hours early. The lower altitude sea air, rough resurfaced courts suggest a clay court style, an approach that takes the opponent off with top spin as sweat pours down and it is only 60 degrees. This is not my last trip as you see. I have been to the mountain.

Flight

I want to conduct a history of living beings in flight,  natural life, qualities of  elements I see symbolically everywhere. Jimmy is an artist too, I saw his portraits of himself stuck in the ground mire of being, as if he doesn't know the difference between that and air. The water must cleanse him. He will say you don't have to read it. I reply you cannot fly and be mired. I want to fly toward the sun and be consumed.