Rosenbush Café

Obelisk, smeared with Roquefort, Infra Blue over the island (translated as) Natives with few teeth ill humor and large appetites

Obelisk, seasoned with rosemary, spy satellite over the island of Faux Ruins hbrpho

Cloud Rage on otherwise ordinary day; moments before the shock wave

While many ponder the end of either humanity or the mechanisms of the sentient brain, re: Electricity, forget about the universe conspiring against poor little earthy sphere. The cosmos has an unrelenting chaotic schedule to follow by embracing paradoxes, parallel universes, spinning stars into black holes and spurting whirring dervishes of gamma ray bursts towards unsuspecting quadrants.

I am into chaos and only as a truism that cannot, and should not be, ignored. The cultural malaise of apathy and proudly displaying disinterest until History International, among others, propagandizes Nostradamus, Jesus, fucking experts – more in a nanosecond – while local churches displayed bonus get-your-shit-together-or-come-in-and-be-less-doomed signage than Christmas bullshit, which, incidentally isn’t the worst tradeoff.

There is enough heartbreak, death, angst, anger, torture, bigotry to overflow encyclopedias of the worst of man-kind. Too bad it isn’t woman-kind for I believe they would be. No kindness and certainly humanity defines it in the darkest shades of twisted reverse logic. The narrators of this doomy and gloomy documentaries, better yet, crocumentaries, wherein crocs of bovine shit are higher than and Mayan Temple. I know a few people who are worried, but more about tomorrows than today.

Will the governments and economies collapse. Eventually, of course everything will plummet because humans spend money like shedding skin and never worry about the consequences which is, logically, the best manner in which to one day find yourself living beneath an Interstate Bridge or in the best possible nightmarish act; live with parents or friends, unless they are broke and move back home, too.

I preferred to get a steroid shot to avoid an early sinus infection, coupled with aura migraines, and without medical insurance and the last visit to the ear, nose and throat cartel, had to pay $158.00 in order to get a prescription for Furinol, for migraines, which I was informed today they no longer prescribe because only primary physicians and neurologists can, and just after the injection fluttered my heart and took my breath away like Ava Gardner. In the end, it did not matter. I just wanted to clear my head and ended up with nasal spray that cost more than my groceries last night and that was triple digits.

Scheduling to not get ill leads to a potential healthy tomorrow and subsequent days; I see a bleak future for the entire solar system, except for maybe Pluto, which is such prosaic irony; the planet demoted by earthlings, without consulting the Plutonium Parliament, could perhaps get singed as Sol Super Nova’s, an ultimate raspberry to the vaporized World of Upright Apes, but that’s probably five million years hence and any intelligent life forms would have vacated the balmy birth of the blues to conquer space, Alpha Proxima and Andromeda Galaxies.

With only a few copies of Playboy, one New Testament, missing the last chapter, a dictionary from 1864, and the entire history of homosapiens, on a nanogene’s whisker, but most of it was corrupted with social networking family reunions and reruns of I Love Lucy, Hee Haw and FOXNews.

Welcome to my universe where artistic license negates creative diffidence, insensitive vibes are harmonized with music from Quasars and whatever ugliness existed elsewhere is excised as language and multiculturalism on a galactic scale replaces needless suffering.

At this point in my life I write down and photograph obsessively, as if I know the end is near, but not for the world but for individual life. After misfortune was turned into freedom one would think the opportunity to start afresh would be liberating. Later, but not sooner, so for now, WestAla is home with a breathtakingly surreal and tactically extensive and risky adventure awaits soon.

“Endings are arbitrary,” says legendary musical essayist Ken Nordine and beginnings are, too. Rather than move into a bomb shelter, re: perfectly paradigm-constructed mausoleum for family and friends, or tremble at the first flicker of dimming power, I will take out my note pad or digit the keyboards of my manual typewriters and express my appreciation for chaotic simplicity. A Victoria for music, scented candles for attracting the last moths to solace and inspirit for outwardly bound mythological fairy tales of singular imagination.

Even an eXisTenTiaLNihLisT prepares for another day of philosophical amusement.