Souveniers of the Second Coming

treeoflifeYou are smoking bidis so that anyone who happens to glance your way and see the blue smoke dribbling out from your mouth will know you are ‘unique’.

They will ask you to come and sit with them and tell them your stories of late night 7-11 adventures, drinking malt liquor and pelting the empty bottles at cop cars.

Smoking an endless procession of the hand-wrapped-and-tied in case any one important drives by, anyone but the usual rotation of life’s extras that inhabit this corner of this dimension of this dance diagram in this reflection on the surface.

bidiYou are dreaming of the bright-eyed piper stalking the beach wearing only a teddy, the breasts stuffed tight with his merchandise.

He is looking for you.

Sand stuck to the red polyester curves and his pink-neon sun-burnt legs, cancerous resins peel away from his flesh to stone the sand creatures.

He is arranging dandelions on your lawn into I-Ching hexagrams. He is sending you messages in the letters and numbers on the license plates of the cars that line your street.

You listen to his voice late at night on the jazz station, under the music he is muttering knowledge into your head. “You know how God got rich? Real estate, man, look at all the property dedicated to his name. Church hierarchy is the worlds longest running pyramid scheme, even more so than the Egyptians.”

tribeIn the late afternoon you find yourself awake and sober again, having to restart your buzz. You light up your first smoke, breathe in with a sigh, and out with a yawn, gazing at the string holding the brown leaf of paper together, studying the intricacies of the tiny knot, your pink thread mandala.

You are simply killing time, waiting for the day when you will meet the second coming in the subway tunnel, playing guitar for spare change. He will explain, in order to make as big an impact as last time, he will need a steady rotation on MTV.

You will bum a bidi from him and wait for your love to come and steal you away. He the man in the red teddy with the green smokey aura, he is the woman for you.

Don’t be fooled by the bristle of his beard.


gnosisI think its obvious by now that the residents and Dick Cheney are the five Illuminati Primi who secretly control the world. tomorrow will be different right Dave? Aren’t we all champions of that?

A group calling itself the ‘California People’s Suicide Insurgency’ has claimed responsibility for last months tragic incident where a train collided with a truck on the tracks; the group’s spokesperson stating that, “Had this happened in any other country, there would be terrorists clamoring to claim responsibility. While the ‘CPSI’ are not terrorists, we are just very, very sad, and this will be a nice addition to our burden.”

It’s healing now but left some paralysis in small area my left side. I think it was a right brain thing?

What’s the trouble, what’s the season?

Paul Harvey, reading out of the ‘Anarchist Cookbook’, flips Mini Cooper crashed and i am devastated doesn’t everyone think about the abyss but whats the rush?

Vertigo. Oblivion.

I keep checking the news for the Apocalypse. Goodbye to anyone that scrolls. Happy Valentine day where ever you are, white robe and disco planetary implementation of post modern sagacity, one can upload different versions of emotional effects for special occasions.

For instance, a stun gun set on 3.1428571428571425871 will affect a person’s ability see films without imagining themselves as the star. All of humanity will seem like an autobiography, reading serving suggestions and wink. No, I just heard of Kalamazoo and I thought that was real ironic. I thought it was real music.

I tried to remind them of the coming of the crow. Getting old. Can’t stand the cold. Every Shakespeare play is a suicide letter. Wow… full plate. Nice to have that one on one with the sky boss pink. I used to twist the words and say, “We had to wear life like a loose Kevlar garment.”

The shoulders are scooping moonlight out of sand, you can see the beach from here. I stood at the stop sign, frozen. You tried your hardest. I’ll take two of what you’re having, I’ll take everything you got. I talked about my footsteps being forgotten and useless amongst the millions of sand prints, It seems like every one before.

© Robert Emmett McWhorter

Celebrity DNA Code Found in 11- Minute Guitar Solo

dnaLate last Thursday as I was scrolling around the different sections of my site, just to see the hit counters go up, when I suddenly came across the error message stating that my site had been ‘deleted due to violation of terms of use’. 

I quickly shot off a couple hundred emails to different branches of the company who hosted the site, and went off to scan through their Terms of Use page to see if I could see any rule which I had violated. I remained dumb-founded for much of the weekend.

It was only this morning, after a maze of format reply emails and inane questions like‘is your browser currently accepting cookies?’, that I finally received official word on why my site was deleted.

The last mp3 I had posted was the 16 minute, and in my mind definitive, version of Thunks ‘Bluegrass Anesthesia’ recorded live on Halloween night of 2002. The basic matter of the song itself is about three minutes– a few verses and choruses- but on this night we stretched the song waaaay out, improvising the piece to five times its usual length.

Apparently in the course of this completely sporadic and serendipitous exploration of sound, I played a guitar solo only consisting of four notes; A, C, D, and G; being repeated over and over in an ever-changing algorithm. It turns out that when dissected from the song and charted onto paper, this random-seeming progression of four notes matches exactly the specific and unique DNA coding of a certain controversial celebrity (who shall remain nameless and will be referred to as PH).
It seems that PH came across my site when she was scouring the net one night for illegal, unauthorized photographs of herself. She came upon my site from a search engine after requesting “Pictures of (major french city) (famous hotel chain) in igloos”.

At first PH was taken by the absurd and audacious artwork I had collected on the site, and spent a few hours browsing and giggling. But when she heard Bluegrass Anesthesia, specifically the instrumental section, she instinctually knew somehow that the notes being played by the guitar corresponded with the genetic map that makes her who she is.

She contacted the International Associates of Genetic Information and Technology (IAGIT– pronounced like ‘i-jit’) to see if there was anyway she could sue me for‘Genetic Infringement’ or some such thing.


Thunk- aboard the Mothership- circa’ Holloween 2002

The good news and the bad news: There are no laws currently in the realm of genetic piracy or any similar precedent which any lawyer is willing to pursue against me; but the IAGIT does compile and adhere to a very strict ‘No Clone’ list, and apparently PH is among the many humans who will never be replicated under any circumstances.

The IAGIT had my site immediately shut down for reasons of international well-being. Having the genetic code to mass produce an army of bimbo clones right out in the open like that was an invitation to tug at the already fraying threads of decent society, and a threat to humanity in general.

I am currently exploring options for a place to host a new and improved version of my web-site, and the engineers at ‘We Hate Music’ are close, I am assured, to reconfiguring the corrupt guitar solo with Pro-Tools to map the genetic coding of the harmless spidermonkey.