We are the heirs to an inheritance known as the Plastic Age, a current of the manufactured mind, a prefab collective ego reincarnate, an empty all-knowingness which sustains itself thru the inhabitation of the raw material of the ruling elite. The Plastic Age is the grandchild of the Coal Age... the spoiled child of the Oil Age. We are indeed partly plastic! As a substance, it keeps eroding and breaking down into a fine microscopic mass, which is effortlessly ingested into our bodies. It washes upon our shores daily. You see, our progeny, the next to fall from grace from the conveyor belt, will be the Children of the Silicon Age, and then on and on into the Age of Light! And what’s more, before the 50s & 60s, the people of the world actually existed in black and white, in a flat, two-dimensional plane…. Even the manner in which people thought, their emotions, their behavior, the way they lived life… was just like all the TV shows you’ve seen from the old days. So there are more angles from which we can now look back into the past. Who knows, though… as even more and more light focuses and filters thru the universal lens, just how much we’ll be able to see??

I’ve given up. As should you. I’ve decided to turn my back on the world. Because it’s true… BUSINESS BALLET is laughing at you and me behind our backs. Our Every Movement is under their relentless scrutiny. A record of every conceivable action and reaction has been carefully contrived and dissected… and stored in the Sacred Ledger, long before we even started The Game. And if this belief is what has become reality, then life can no longer go on within you or without you. The life impulse can no longer sustain when it’s just a string of quick, desperate reactions. You simply will not last.

We’ve been toiling away in Babylon processing Real Gold into cheese steaks and cheesecakes, plugged into the old bloated biofeedback mechanism, sneakily pocketing morsels only to hand them over hours later to its security guards. We ask them what the Branding Irons are for as we help them fuel the fire. They say maybe we’ll figure it out later on in the evening… or coming weekend… when we hasten to point fingers at our brothers and sisters making asses of themselves. If we decide to join in the chorus of Harsh Laughter it will be realized that it feels just like the lost cries of pubescent self-doubt. This distinct brand of laughter, over time, will morph The Face into a peculiarly MichaelJacksonesque sort of living mask.

“[Space does not live and it does not die, it does not offer truth and it does not lie.]”

But there exists a Merger Galaxy whose agents have been sent to darken our own lens on Sister Moon. It attempted to exploit and profit from our timeless bloodshed. It tried to present itself as our new guide. The considerations roll around in our heads like the balls in a pinball machine. Thoughts gamble, resist the closure of cynicism, and survive to re-set new hopes and dreams. We didn’t always have to bury the old ones. We didn’t always have to encode the imagined slights against us into Data Banks. Attachment overload. Traumatic discharge. Now we’re removing the Staples from our Sacred Ledger. And the Merger Galaxy’s agents are assisting us… so they say. We’ve sold completely dissimilar agents unseen without regard for the fiscal cycle or the tax code. Not that we even trust many of our so-called friends about it. Some of them have more loyalty to Business Ballet than they do to us.

We recycle the waste generated by the so-called Conservative Party. We have no choice but to choose our own brand of real hands-on conservatism. It’s a matter of survival for these days indefinitely.

We know true life and true death when we see it.

We are like animals in exile to your city’s streets, torn between indulging in the ambrosia of our kill and cautiously shifting our eyes side-to-side. We are unfortunately immersed in thought-forms that invite predators to exist. We are inheritors of a culture that crashes others’ parties and overstays its welcome. We are feverishly trying to escape a bastard’s existence in the sterility and cold of an inhospitable womb. We are perhaps in a rush to escape, for maybe we will choose to forget our supposed roots. And they say time is money. But bloodshed is timeless.

I see absurd existentialist brawls & bloodbaths occur where no one ever really dies… brain thefts are performed… in the aftermath of such skirmishes, bodies resurrect and wander around, literally no more than shells of flesh and bone, but whose skulls, after surgery, contain someone else’s brain, carelessly transplanted by quack surgeons, but almost to the recipient’s delight… Nomadic minds which live to wait until the next big brawl… to once again, let go… escape their current biological receptacles… end up in another one. I’ve heard that alcohol prevents your entire brain from absorbing salt. Coke is the finest… It’s the modern policy… America has lessons to learn… there seems to be a violence that will never move and that we’ll never bypass… But it tastes good… The New York Times continues mugging American Audience excitement… Do it for them!

It took only a moment enormous in the men’s room to come to terms with the subplot….

I had begun to dream about the generic, sweet innocence of a Gypsy Lullaby….

And in the morning, I saw police collecting estrogen under the bridge….

America’s resurrection from the Millenarian Hangover….

It was written by insurance companies that screw you with their logos

How do you pronounce God? I have no idea…

‘Less is more’ was our Emotional Gunfire last year… it was so last year…

Does our entrance abuse us?

Everything will be accounted for… all thoughts and actions, whether public or private. We represent the subconscious will of the downtrodden everywhere. Don’t roll your eyes, please. Don’t be complacent. Use them instead to witness the American Caste System, alive and in steady development every hour, every day in our streets. The seams of the social fabric are shorn, and psychic barriers as concrete as the sidewalks we tread upon are erected every second. Citizens wear the class of their desire as armor against the threat of invasion by true naked acknowledgment. We travel great distance, but can tune in anytime and see, across interstate highways of mind, clear in the expanse of the neon night, that we’re simply all the same person. We’ve used our 8 pairs of eyes to calibrate one target. Let the Billboard be your Guide.