Friday, July 27, 2012

the new money

the new money by William Keckler
the new money, a photo by William Keckler on Flickr.

the hidden court

the hidden court by William Keckler
the hidden court, a photo by William Keckler on Flickr.

Lego Rothko

Lego Rothko by William Keckler
Lego Rothko, a photo by William Keckler on Flickr.

Lego Hopper

Lego Hopper by William Keckler
Lego Hopper, a photo by William Keckler on Flickr.

lego people

lego people by William Keckler
lego people, a photo by William Keckler on Flickr.

lego people

lego people by William Keckler
lego people, a photo by William Keckler on Flickr.

lego people

lego people by William Keckler
lego people, a photo by William Keckler on Flickr.


object by William Keckler
object, a photo by William Keckler on Flickr.

my name is candy

my name is candy by William Keckler
my name is candy, a photo by William Keckler on Flickr.


version by William Keckler
version, a photo by William Keckler on Flickr.


img259 by retroimagephoto
img259, a photo by retroimagephoto on Flickr.


Mountains by zuzu knew
Mountains, a photo by zuzu knew on Flickr.

dust bowl

dust bowl by sinequanone
dust bowl, a photo by sinequanone on Flickr.

Un silence tendu

Liste noire

Liste noire by andrefromont/fernandomort
Liste noire, a photo by andrefromont/fernandomort on Flickr.

erotic manoeuvres in the dark - extended

Thursday, July 26, 2012

A Bestiarie of Human Emotions, Qualities and Quiddities: Indiscretion

A word commonly used to trivialize or sanitize evil. Rather like a room deodorizer set down next to a cesspool. One appreciates the winsomeness of the gesture, but one rushes past as fast as one is able, to avoid breathing the scent molecules. Because scents have substance. When you are breathing shit, to some degree you are eating shit.

A Bestiarie of Human Emotions, Qualities and Quiddities: Artaudian

An adjective frequently used to describe artistic products which are in no way evocative of the works, life or spirit of Antonin Artaud.

The Poem


The Poem

Flaming Sword shit.

Sojourner Truth

I hate that "darky" version of her "Ain't I a Woman?' speech which everyone with a brain seems to agree is a total fabrication. That so sounds like a white dude trying to imagine how a Southern slave talked. The other version of the speech sounds like a realistic transcription and feels as though it captures the abolitionist's rhetorical style and spirit. Sojourner Truth was not a Southerner and would not have spoken in that vernacular. Sojourner Truth spoke only Dutch until she was nine years old.

I liked her response when some asshole heckler at one of her speeches yelled out that she was a man. Sojourner Truth just took out her tits. She opened her blouse and bared her breasts. (I would like to think the expression "That takes tits!" might have its origin in this incident but I suppose it's unlikely.)

When you're spending all your time, breath and energy just trying to convince a civilization that dehumanizes virtually everyone that you're a rational spirit and not a beast of burden, some strange form of talking animal, I suppose you don't have time for games like the one that man was playing.. The "reasoning" of that anonymous heckler seemed to be: "She can reason well, make philosophical arguments and is a compelling public speaker. Therefore, 'she' must be a man in drag."

I think the argument that states that slavery dehumanized slave and slave-holder alike is completely correct. I can only dimly imagine the horror of being a Spirit of Light in an age so benighted that it (almost universally) considered women debased forms of men, children as property and Africans, Australian aborigines--and  various other "candidate races"--as "The Missing Link."

I like that she was proud of her prodigious physical strength (even though it was a result of slave labor) and I like the way she taunts men in that one speech, asking them what part their dicks had in the Immaculate Conception. She was saying "Dicks ain't shit." She found a way to say that using religious metaphor as a conceit. That's wiliness.

She was a player on the stage of history and she knew it. And she was more than a little bit an ancestor of rap swag.

I might sound glib but I'm not trying to be that. I just see the extremely black sense of humor in her ethical arguments and I relish the joy she took in her rhetoric, which she knew was insurrection--but seductive insurrection. One can be an illiterate writer who changes culture in a massive way. It should make many rethink their ideas about what constitutes "literary culture." I suppose postmodernists would say "text is text" and Saussureans would talk about la parole.

I think it's horrible what happened with her son Paul. That she never even found out. It sounds like a murder at sea. Would be nice to think he escaped to a country where he could live as a freer man. Back then it's quite possible that happened and he wasn't able to make contact again. Or that he began a new life and sickness or something took him young. Sad anyway you look at it.

I wonder whether he was killed because of what he represented. Because he was the child who Sojourner Truth reclaimed legally. It was the first time a black woman had prevailed over a white man in such a case. This was surely a victory around which abolitionists rallied. So I'm thinking this might be why her son was killed, if he was. He was serving at sea and surely under white "masters." My imagination is painting a dark portrait of what I think happened. Probably there was a sick attempt at the worst form of historical revisionism. Probably they figured they would erase the man who represented a form of social progress they detested, and thus somehow it would be as though that "victory" had never occurred. Or perhaps that's imputing too much of a gift for abstract thought to the hypothetical murderer(s). Why not just call it "blood revenge?" I worry that Sojourner Truth might have felt guilt for that. I wonder if she felt her son was the blood ransom, the terrible price it cost her personally to advance a horrible "civilization." She was a spiritual person. Probably she planned on seeing her son again after her long "sojourn" was done. I find her name itself to be powerful poetry. Once one hears her name, one never forgets it. It's a form of spiritual catachresis. "Sojourner," as an abstraction personified, intrigues. This name itself seems to regard history under a long perspective, to imply that one's entire life struggle is ultimately a short (Beckettian?) fizzle in the long, combustible struggle for a just truth. And it was a way for a woman to place herself in history in a definitive way. The bravery boggles my mind. Because she did it in a time when she was supposed to have been nothing more than history's chaff, a bit fallen from its grinding. This is what I call a spirit.

Some Whore Jokes

(I would preface this by saying this is NOT intended misogynstically, since I visualize the whores in these as male just as often as female.)


A whore walks into a burning building and says to the first person encountered (who happens to be on fire) "Give me your  money."


A whore is approved by NASA and goes into space. When NASA jovially opens up morning banter with the Space Shuttle by asking cornily, "How's the weather up there?" the whore astronaut laughs very telegenically on CNN and says while floating, "Give me your money."

A whore is dying and is asked by the priest administering unction if there are any last words. "Give me your money" is the death rattle.

A whore is posing as a panhandler on the street in a sort of conceptualist joke. All passersby are solicited with the line "Give me your money." But only the whore gets the irony.

 A whore is thrown into the Black Hole of Calcutta. The whore lands next to a virtuous man who is loudly complaining that the Fates have not dealt fairly with him. And keening. He asks the whore who has just landed next to him to promise to tell his tale and plead his cause after he is dead. "I don't know about all that," the whore says. "But give me your money."

 A whore dates a thief. The whore says "Give me all your money." The thief says, "No, give me all your money." The whore repeats the original line and so does the thief. They both fall into a childish rage. The whore kills the thief. At the funeral, the whore is dressed in black and someone comes up and expresses their condolences to the whore for the thief's death in a very sincere manner. "Give me all your money," the whore says.


A whore is in a toy shop and looking around at the bewildering range of puppets, stuffed animals, and other more fantastical creatures. "We have talking toys" the shop owner says. "What would you like a toy to say?' "Give me your money" the whore says. "I don't believe we have one that says that," the shop owner apologizes. "I wasn't talking about toys" the whore says. "Give me all your money."


A whore dies and requests the epitaph "GIVE ME ALL YOUR MONEY."  But the whore was related only to other whores and they took all the whore's money, even the money  marked "for death."


A whore wins the Nobel Peace Prize and goes to Stockholm to accept the award. A woman in the audience, a noted mendicant and peaceworker from India, approaches the Nobel Laureate and says, "Congratulations. Give me all your money." The whore laureate speaks directly to the country of Sweden. "I am sorry for your country's recent tragedy, the tragedy of having been born Swedish in a largely non-Swedish world. Now Pay a ho."


A whore who is living in Its Own Private Pay-a-Ho continually asks itself for money. This creates a feedback loop which results in cash insanity and the whore disappears into a blackhole about which Morgan Freeman then waxes wistful.

והעץ לא עומד לזכר דבר, אלא לזכר האביב הזה

Más alto que el horizonte

Más alto que el horizonte by nametor
Más alto que el horizonte, a photo by nametor on Flickr.

Peculiar moons With round staring eyes

((( The end ,,, détail

Two Hands and the Bush Niether a Baker Be


Untitled by Kaometet
Untitled, a photo by Kaometet on Flickr.


BADGURL$, a photo by P//RETTY P U K E on Flickr.

////// L ON E LY :( :.

* L U R K

* L U R K by P//RETTY P U K E
* L U R K, a photo by P//RETTY P U K E on Flickr.

Is a bear, a white bear that will be our totemic leader

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

This one's in mine this week.

Me and Roy Orbison

I spent like eighteen seconds this afternoon staring at a pair of French doors and imagining I could make the time pass more quickly by trying to hone my telekinetic skills to the point where I could smash them with my mind like Carrie.

Because, really, hands are just way too easy.

I also spent a lot of time crying.

What's that joke about a fat man crying?

I try to keep reminding myself that suffering like this is a form of vanity.

But the walking several miles I have to do right now in the heat. That's a different form of suffering.

And he lied. When I sold my car and handed him the money in December, he promised.

He promised this wouldn't happen.

He just got a new (vile) tattoo and a piercing.

I soon won't have internet and possibly not even air conditioning.

I wouldn't even know how to begin to explain this to an attorney.

I think I am going to try to find the meanest, sneakiest gay hoodlum out there and fall in love with him.

The kind of guy who hold vicarious grudges for you.

I find that sexy.

They can't arrest you for psycopathy-by-proxy.

They really can't.


sonnet by William Keckler
sonnet, a photo by William Keckler on Flickr.


sonnet by William Keckler
sonnet, a photo by William Keckler on Flickr.

fractured sonnet

fractured sonnet by William Keckler
fractured sonnet, a photo by William Keckler on Flickr.


sonnet by William Keckler
sonnet, a photo by William Keckler on Flickr.

A Bestiarie of Human Emotions, Qualities and Quiddities: Excrementality

In biology, the inevitable egestion of materials that have been ingested and which have no real use or value to the human body, and so have slowly percolated their way out of it.

In human art, the same thing.

Note the presence of mentality in excrementality.

Excrementality (artistic or otherwise) is a way for the human body to rid itself of the waste products of human nutriments (joy and grief, to cite just two) whose essential nutrients have been absorbed, but which linger on in the biological system and must be removed by this or that peristalsis--if impaction is not to occur.

Impaction can require immediate medical treatment. (Plus it's exceedingly icky and gross.)

A Bestiarie of Human Emotions, Qualities and Behavior: Murderous Rage

An extreme psychological state which most often occurs when some weirdly overblown sense of the majestic or the sublime is given the kibosh. Most often the rage is occasioned by the word "no" or some similar expression of negation indicative of "counter-will." The "no" may be spoken, written or merely a tacit negative. The murderous rage can occur in a personal ego, a national ego, a cultural ego, a religion's ego, etc. That is, murderous rage can be shared, can become a wildly popular social phenomenon, and for this reason it is considered to be one of the building blocks of civilization. Some theorists consider it synonymous with culture itself. Not confined to any one age group, murderous rage can be found alike and to like degree in children and the eldest of elder statesmen.

A Bestiarie of Human Emotions, Qualities and Quiddities: Immaturity

The state in which virtually all human beings pass their infancy, childhood, dotage ("second childhood") and everything in between.

A Bestiarie of Human Emotions, Qualities and Quiddities: Self-Absorption

I think it's funnily unjust when we refer to a human being who is plagued by ongoing problems and who is very mindful of (and perhaps a tad loquacious about) these difficulties as self-absorbed..

I notice people rarely refer to successful and/or happy people who are just as mindful of (and perhaps similarly loquacious about) their current situation or predicament as self-absorbed.

We tend to just call these latter people lucky. And I suppose sometimes they get called annoying. Or they get called both these things.

But even the epithet annoying--when applied to a successful, happy person--seems to be much less pejorative, and to bear much less stigma, than the epithet self-absorbed when it is applied to someone who is "happiness-challenged" or "success-challenged."

For example, it would probably be ridiculous and simple-minded to refer to a celebrity as self-absorbed.

That would be like calling a cloud cloudy.

And yet even among clouds there are those different degrees of cloudness. Some clouds seem hardly to be clouds at all. Other clouds seem to bruit about that they are the very apotheosis of cloudiness, the quintessence of cloud, with the obnoxiousness of a royal fanfare whined out on long brasses.

If you stand at any distance, such musical hyperbole just sounds like a bunch of mosquitoes. (Maybe the human theme itself is a tired one, exhausted.)

I can only draw the conclusion that my culture believes that unhappy and/or unsuccessful human beings should somehow try to view themselves less as selves, or as selves in the actualized sense, meaning selves which are in the process of becoming selves through the acti of selfing, which would seem to almost invariably and constantly require some degree of self-absorption.

And how is an unhappy person to escape this fatal and fatalistic self-absorption without constantly scrutinizing its self (or possibly selves) to see if it is even making improvements?

So here we glimpse the vicious circle whereby the self-absorbed person finds itself faced with the lamentable predicament of trying to ignore itself to be a "better person."

What can the self think about that is not the self?


There are others, after all. And their problems. But I digress.

Some degree of self-absortion would seem to be a sine qua non for a self to exist at all. Whether one is going to exist for improvement or just exist for the hell of it, the hell of existing.

Maybe if one's self was a rock. Or a fire hydrant. Or a Buddhist.

But even those things seem to possess certain qualities of expressiveness and seem to express themselves.

And I mean even when those things seem not to want to express themselves at all. The third example I cite above seems to be saying that all the time. Seemingly this is without "getting" the irony. I consider all talking Buddhists oxymorons.. I should only hear your sandals. If that.

Some people would say I'm silly to even ponder this question of self-absorption and everyone knows it's a matter of degree and speaks to the sense of propriety. It is a matter of civility. It is not civil to constantly air one's miseries. It is indecent.  And yet...

Misery might love company but it seems to desire the p.a. system more.

I think the idea is not to be a songbird of one's own difficulties.

Or not to be onlyl that. Unless you're like Sojourner Truth or something. Then I think it's okay.

One must insert a few warbling notes of optimism. Into one's despair ditty.

Sing your complaints and they seem less like complaints. One's Hell with such music could become a Disney film. For God's sake cartoonize yourself just a little bit at least or you'll end up Jean-Paul Fucking Sartre. And that's nobody's dream date. (I bet he wasn't even that giraffe Simone's dream date.)

Just look at the Hellish Disneyland Morrissey made of his life! Those dreary songs are wonderful and woeful amusement park rides! "YOU MUST BE THIS TALL TO HAVE THIS MUCH WELTSCHMERZ AND RIDE THIS RIDE."

Yet we're not all born Stephens. Daedalus or otherwise.

I get the creepy feeling one is supposed to insert those few warbling notes of optimism into one's "song" of despair, one's Song of Myself, even if one is not in possession of such notes.

How will we get those cheerful notes?

Steal them.

Just steal them from another songbird.

Birds steal things from each other all the time and I'm pretty sure some of those pilfered things are musical notes.

Birds and bards are not much different in this regard.

Not that I suffer from the delusion that there are that many completely happy people out there, or that I presume that those birds which seem to be singing happy notes are actually feeling that much (or even any) happiness.

A bird's mind might as well be a blackhole. I mean if you're trying to figure out what they're thinking or feeling. We'll probably know the blackhole's thoughts first.

And I haven't even done much linguistic analysis on the word itself here.

There is the ascetic's self-absorption and  there is the sociopath's self-absorption.

Obviously those are two vastly different things.

This may just actually prove to be an untenable hyphenate, this self-absorption thingie.

Maybe there are only quieter people and more voluble people.

The most self-absorbed person in the crowd could actually be the quietest one in there.. I'm speaking mere public decibels here.

So to judge the loosened tongue merely for being loose might just be like the slide-rule calling the calculator a diva.

Both contain infinities of numerically directed and sensible epistemologies--otherwise known as equations and calculations.

It's just one has that funny battery.

You probably can't help it if you're born with funny batteries.

I'm still trying to forgive myself for being born with "funny batteries."

Probably the tree sloth shouldn't spend even one moment worrying that human crossword puzzles are talking about it all the time.

It should have better and greater slothful things to do.

Even that sloth must have a "Song of Myself."

Probably you should just absorb yourself all day long.

But donate some money and other things to the less fortunate.

Maybe even share some of your self-absorption with them.

Because you know it's burning a hole in your pocket right this instant.

I know you've got self-absorption game.

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

48 Hours Mystery: "Millionaire Boys Club"

No, this isn't the Billionaire Boys Club that was made into such a terrible t.v. movie. This is a younger group of kids down in Manassas, VA, who set up an extremely successful drug network. They specialized in "the chronic" and their chief supplier was in Seattle. Many of the dealer kids were scoring several hundred thousand dollars a year. And of course tax free..They almost all looked clean cut and appeared to be standup guys in their high schools.

In March 2001, A former Secret Service agent's 21-year-old son is killed, and the victim's friend and business "associate," young Justin Wolf, is soon facing a capital murder case.

Wolf is blond. He's athletic. He looks totally collegiate and sounds like your average young jock.

He's convicted of first degree murder.

Then he's sentenced to death.

It's an interesting study in how a cleancut white kid can become Scarface in the suburbs.

What fascinated me in rewatching this is what an awful "tell" Justin Wolf has!

I was going to say it was a good thing Wolf didn't go into professional poker rather than into drug dealing.

Then I realized how stupid that was.  That would have actually have been a much better thing, since he probably wouldn't have murdered anyone!

If you ever watch this episdode, watch Justin Wolf's left eye. Every time he tells a lie, he blinks that one eye, his left.

It's so obvious, it's ridiculous.

If he had an even halfway attorney, he or she would have reined that tell in.

The show ends by saying that Wolf's attorneys are working on his available appeals right now and implies previous appeals have been unsuccessful..

I was surprised at how shoddy 48 Hours Mystery's handling of this was since there has been a significant reversal in this case and there was zero mention of this.

Wolf's conviction was reversed and vacated this year and the State of VA is fighting vigorously right now to prevent his imminent release.

Usually, these shows at least put up a text announcement of significant changes which have occurred in cases they are covering..

But nothing on this one.

You'd think Investigation Discovery might have a little oversight desk where
they could do viewers the service of Googling things like this and keeping the programs au courant.

wood apparition

wood apparition by William Keckler
wood apparition, a photo by William Keckler on Flickr.

Flower, Poem

So the flower presents
a universal

as a particular,
is deeply philosophical

as well as frothy,
light, and horny.

It is just a flower.

It is wild.
and it is waste.

Best Date

We have our best date ever in the psych ward of a five star hospital. All the staff knows me and we're all on a first name basis so when Autumn leads us back to the quiet rooms it's almost like I have my own maitre d'. She is jovial and comments on my change of hairystyle. She's so buoyant I think she must be in new love but maybe she just has the gift. The television mounted up in the corner of the ceiling of thi private, second waiting room is already set to "police's deadliest car crashes and shoot outs" and the volume is way too loud but we sit and watch it in placidity. I feel the urge to touch you. I touch the back of your hair which is so well-tended. I touch your strong back like we are brothers who go fishing together. I am deliberately obvious because I know you like and only slightly fear that. The staff and other patients who notice seem almost grateful that I have you. Probably your presence makes me look slighly less suicidal or homicidal, which are often the same thing, really. If you watch the news. You don't complain once though we watch at least eight violent deaths over several hours and never even look for the remote to adjust the volume. We aren't arguing at least. I get examined close to midnight in a room and a procedure that reminds me of a scary Eakins but the nurse is wearing Hello Kitty scrubs and I think someone should paint those into all the Eakins paintings. You stand behind the curtain while the doctor looks inside my body and reassures me this is another hallucination. I feel slightly young after this, maybe seventy-eight as opposed to the ninety-four I felt earlier in the day. A ninety-four year old goldfish swimming in the very small bowl of its life. That was before you came over. I only had to leave seventeen messages. We're improving. After we leave the hospital it's night and three women in burkahs pass in front of your headlights and I say "How beautiful." Watching them walk on the parking lot gravel, unbalanced in the night. I am wearing a sort of mental burkah. Purdah. We were both glad they tore down Joe Paterno. Killing things is not great art. No matter how smart you are. I keep trying to learn. You take me through a drive through and then we eat together at the house although you weren't going to stay. We start to make love and then I want to wash you after the hospital so we stand in the big downstairs shower whose temperature only you know how to adjust and we wash each other and I don't feel bovine even once. I feel sexy and old and I rest my head on you a lot and you don't mind at all. Then we watch a show about a bunch of polite whores in competition for some prize and make more love. I do functional things like move dishes and refill ice tea glasses and make room for a cat. I empty a sink. We are both walking around naked and nobody is screaming or sorrowfully retreating so it could be funny if I let it but I don't. Let it be. You wanted to go home but I lure you to the big bed and we make love like we did at twenty-four. You agree to stay if I set the alarm. One mustn't induldge a madman too much. I like sleeping with you again as much as sex and I think this was the best date in years. I try to picture ways these feelings could be recaptured again soon, but find myself disappointed to have words like "Auschwitz" or "Treblinka" come to mind. We didn't see any patients with really horrible conditions. One woman wobbled horribly with a virus. And there was a child in a wheelchair but he had a sister who made him laugh and later I saw the wheelchair without him which I took to be a good sign. It was a wheelchair as convention. I think of all these wheelchairs racing fast downhill towards a furious ocean. I think a wheelchair is like a shopping cart of compassion. I worry that I am becoming that. A shopping cart of compassion. If you buy only tiny things and drop them in a shopping cart of compassion they fall right through the holes and it's sort of funny. People will call you dumbass to your face. For not carrying a bag or plastic shopping basket. Last night I tried to imagine a world without Vaseline and couldn't. It made me smile. You were like my lucky monkey even when I was asleep. Because I dreamt great photographs all night long. Most of them were orange monochromes. They had such mysterious skin in them. Driving home from the hospital when I wasn't sure yet if you would come inside, "My Own Private Idaho" came on and I thought I hated the song and then remembered I loved it. If the song were diagnosed, physicians would surely agree on the lack of "proper affect." But what would they say about anything by The Smiths or Morrissey? I haven't checked prices to Auschwitz on Travelocity or even left a message for you this morning so I guess I'm doing better. I fed the cat and am going to take pills now and try not to focus on how terrible it was to leave the house last night but how everything turned out all right. It was nice of you not to use your normalcy as a weapon. Nobody did last night. It was an unusual day and night. The nurse told me Dear Daniel and Hello Kitty do eventually get together and marry. I had no idea. I just figured he was gay and it ended tragically. You know the Japanese. Sometimes I get pessimisitic and think if you are a gay man the only things you can really count on your entire life is darkness and an erection.

Saturday, July 21, 2012

Creepy Motels

They stopped printing

new postcards
in 1981. After

the twenty-third
unsolved murder.

But if you like
kitsch, here...

take a photo
of what's clearly

a serial killer's
dream date.

Twelve little rooms,
little David Lynch

egg cartons
in the 70s' mind.

I'll confess
I still like

the gnomes
holding lanterns

all the way up
the too-long driveway.

Little crackhead

Dead vanity
salutes you


A blear of
something pink.

What was that?

Wild bloom
against brick?

A hooker's
abstract expressionistic

lipstick smear into pillow.?
Something was smothered

but remembers fuschia.

Queen Anne's Lace

Flies seem
to enjoy

this funny

of flower.

I'm watching flies walk
on Queen Anne's lace

(ho-bag flower)

and think for some reason
of Anne Hathaway

(is she really gay?)

She is elegant
and beautiful

and sloe-eyed.
She minces like a fly

sometimes. Quite
lovely. Quaint

toed as some
extinct gazelle,

her dainty snuffle
somehow Victorian.

The flies walk
gingerly across

a white dry-froth sea
of evaporated milk

or across Tim Burton shrooms
these big kids walk

and bounce furiously
on fuck-buckled motel beds

in a burned out structure
I see from the highway.

Some young pogo sticks.
It's been left open.

The fire marshal
must be a crackhead.

This creepy
aesthetic roadside

decision that strikes
me as somehow German

pornographic vagary.
Big Red Spray-Paint Vagina.

Queen Anne's lace
grows right into the rooms.

Flowers are now
the room service.

Motels don't really have
room service. That's

a whore myth.

When heavier bugs,
 bumblebies, land

on the chalkless moon
of Queen Anne's planetoid,

it's a funny wobble kids
like to watch

because it's sexual,
a labret in fuzz.

It's like "The Moonhouse'
inflated on summer fair nights

to teach the littlest kids
how their drunk

(who will also

often act like flies )
experience life

when they're 40
on a strange body,

the globous
funny wobble

of scrambling over
one in panic to answer

a ringing, more
gravitationally stable


So the flower presents
a universal

as a particular,
is deeply philosophical

as much as frothy,
light, and horny.

It's pretty much
all of suburbia.

Quiet. Plunder.

It is just a flower.

It is wild.
and it is waste.

Vegetal Autobiography (after Arcimboldo?)

I am self

I have
these many

with my

I wear the ishes

like Elizabethan
ruff round

my flower

my too-green neck.

Sir Walter Palely.

My selfishness
is like

the Queen Anne's

overdone daisy's
mazy surface,

picaresque scribbles
on a faded map

that led somewhere once,
 unglamorous even then.

 "You're so roadside."
Drama Queen 101.

Or maybe
just Dramamine.

That showy
tawdry lacework

of delicate worry

and "Lack-a-Day!"

tops a fat
and fattening

tuber hid below.
Damn unsexy

dirty carrot.
Every man's cock

at root
 is really

this sleepy
subterranean heart.

Flies seem
to enjoy

the funny

of flower

so like
a fuck-buckled

motel bed.
They stopped printing

new postcards
in 1980something.

But if you like
kitsch, here

take a photo
of what's clearly

a serial killer's
dream date.

I'll confess
I still like

the gnomes
holding lanterns

all the way up
the driveway.

Dead vanity
salutes you


Sucide Prevention Trowels

Some people try to help.
They give me words.
Some even hand me bits of masonry,
scrolls, instructions on building
the  Necessary Walls.
I understand the propaganda
but  I stop listening..
I  know this is Masada.
My God, there are still chilren in here,
oblivious, laughing.. Funny kids playing tag
under a death sentence.
No one gives a shit.
We're so sorry.
This is the best form of protection
we could come up with.
You know many of the masons
of Masada whistled while they worked.
Occasionally, a tiny, cock-eyed bird
would perch nearby and watch.
We will fuck the Dour,
fuck the door.
We retreat to that blue window
over our heads,.we will
gather the children up
by luring them close
with funny riddles.

Thursday, July 19, 2012

Praise Jesus. Praise Mary. Praise Dru.Praise Malkin.

I conider it a great honor to have spent so much time in the light of all of you, all of you. You are so many and yet you all remain so bright. If you have no faith, please think of this truth. Pity is only a broken piece of grass. I cannot pity myself.

listening to vinyl for the first time in a while

did you notice the album designer's visual pun on Mozart's Cosi Fan Tutti? It's fairly obvious.

just in case you thought we took our cats lightly in steelton

the beautiful thing is cats are never turned into the pound.

well beautiful if you believe cats can survive in "the wild."

thank God for the Mill. they  keep them alive through the winter. steelworkers mostly have big hearts.

and among my neighbors there are several feeders.

there are many fat stray cats.

but winter and disease are my worries for them.

i think in winter many take shelter in the fires of the Mill. my brother said they do so i know it's true. they keep at the periphery but have enough warmth to stay alive.

i forced myself out of the house yesterday.

and i was amused when i saw this police cruiser with our steelton cat logo.

it sort of made my town feel a little witchier.

which i liked.


at the number of human beings in the history of everyone who committed suicide "while laughing."

Thinking this number would probably be surprisingly high if we could learn it.

We will never learn it.

I'm not counting hysterical literary suicides like that one in the Camus play.

That's fake.

I mean real people.

These Bills

The bills that were allegedly paid "through next month" are, I now learn, severely overdue. So I place an ad for renters (while biting through my tongue doing so).

And I get responses from women named Esmeralda or Mysteeq.

How can I not visualize gypsies slitting my throat in the night.

Chained in my own basement by my erstwhile renter.

I think I'd rather sell an organ.

My mom keeps reminding me of the rich relations but I can't bring myself to do this.

I think I'll cash in the life insurance policy first.

After that, le deluge.

Maybe I will become a highwayman.

Do people still do that?

Wednesday, July 18, 2012


Untitled by William Keckler
Untitled, a photo by William Keckler on Flickr.

a disquieting muse.


psychotherapy by William Keckler
psychotherapy, a photo by William Keckler on Flickr.

is receding. you can watch the rust form on the arbesques of Freudian, etc. thought.


steelton by William Keckler
steelton, a photo by William Keckler on Flickr.

yes i wanted the stop sign annoyingly angled. just hideous. they try. these small businesses, they do. fiberglass sheetrock and pressboard. the glamor.


eyes by William Keckler
eyes, a photo by William Keckler on Flickr.

the steelton has eyes

facebook maneuvers

facebook maneuvers by William Keckler
facebook maneuvers, a photo by William Keckler on Flickr.


Steelton is so tough even the stray cats wear crucifixes.

Monster Love

Something in the way your inhumanity matches up with mine sometimes keeps me curious. I remember the textbooks we used in first grade in the seventies that probably dated to the fifties where an aproned Hausfrau (always a red-head!) spread a red and white checked oilcloth as though she were making a Tabernacle. That post-Holocaust, waving flies from fresh milk smile that could accomplish anything. And there was, of course, a prodigious pair of tits. Her tiny turned-up nose. Somehow this image was at war with the sexually potent kids of Scooby Doo,  who reminded us more of our brothers and sisters, jocks and lesbians and potheads and other real creatures like that. Mom was already more like Gollum crawled out of a cave and wearing a magic Mom suit. Who didn't want to walk like those kids on Scooby Doo? The way their elbows and knees moved in perfect time with one another? Muybridge would have had to have been tied down to watch animation like that.

Monday, July 16, 2012


I will be losing my internet connection soon and I don't know when so will have no means of communicating electronically. No email either. Trusted the wrong person. I'll probably lose my house. I have no vehicle, no way to get anywhere that's not within walking distance. I'm so worried about these cats. I suppose it's a long process so maybe something good will happen. I remember when I was the wronging party. Well to be the wronged party doesn't feel any better (there's no moral superiority really since the gutted feelin trumps that). I suppose I should feel it's the justice thing, but that won't help me either. To think that it can come to the point that someone you would have trusted with your life now cannot even be trusted not to steal money. Paid his last car payment and started his new life. Too funny. For those of you saying, "It couldn't happen to a nicer person!" Well, here's your moment. Enjoy. This isn't posted for empathy comments, a place to leave greeting cards or anything. I think I know who wishes me well by now, so Thanks for that. Just explaining.

Sunday, July 15, 2012

The "Princeton Eggs"

Do you follow this?

I watched a documentary today (yes, Morgan Freeman was involved, duh!) in which the alleged spike pre 9-11 was presented as an undeniable deviation in the general randomness of the system.

Even Wiki does a much better job of putting that "statistical sampling" into perspective.

It seems dubious at fantastical best.

I was amused that "proof" of precognition seems to have been most strongly borne out in matters where sex was at stake (sexually exciting matter allegedly sparked psi-intuition).

So, we're all only psychic when there's ass at stake. Lovely.

Dunbar's Number

Dunbar's number is a suggested cognitive limit to the number of people with whom one can maintain stable social relationships. These are relationships in which an individual knows who each person is, and how each person relates to every other person.[1] Proponents assert that numbers larger than this generally require more restrictive rules, laws, and enforced norms to maintain a stable, cohesive group. No precise value has been proposed for Dunbar's number. It has been proposed to lie between 100 and 230, with a commonly used value of 150.[2][3] Dunbar's number states the number of people one knows and keeps social contact with, and it does not include the number of people known personally with a ceased social relationship, nor people just generally known with a lack of persistent social relationship, a number which might be much higher and likely depends on long-term memory size.

Dunbar's number was first proposed by British anthropologist Robin Dunbar, who theorized that "this limit is a direct function of relative neocortex size, and that this in turn limits group size ... the limit imposed by neocortical processing capacity is simply on the number of individuals with whom a stable inter-personal relationship can be maintained." On the periphery, the number also includes past colleagues such as high school friends with whom a person would want to reacquaint oneself if they met again.[4]

Research background

Primatologists have noted that, due to their highly social nature, primates must maintain personal contact with the other members of their social group, usually through social grooming. Such social groups function as protective cliques within the physical groups in which the primates live. The number of social group members a primate can track appears to be limited by the volume of the neocortex. This suggests that there is a species-specific index of the social group size, computable from the species' mean neocortical volume.
In a 1992 article, Dunbar used the correlation observed for non-human primates to predict a social group size for humans. Using a regression equation on data for 38 primate genera, Dunbar predicted a human "mean group size" of 148 (casually rounded to 150), a result he considered exploratory due to the large error measure (a 95% confidence interval of 100 to 230).

Dunbar then compared this prediction with observable group sizes for humans. Beginning with the assumption that the current mean size of the human neocortex had developed about 250,000 years ago, during the Pleistocene, Dunbar searched the anthropological and ethnographical literature for census-like group size information for various hunter–gatherer societies, the closest existing approximations to how anthropology reconstructs the Pleistocene societies. Dunbar noted that the groups fell into three categories — small, medium and large, equivalent to bands, cultural lineage groups and tribes — with respective size ranges of 30–50, 100–200 and 500–2500 members each.

Dunbar's surveys of village and tribe sizes also appeared to approximate this predicted value, including 150 as the estimated size of a Neolithic farming village; 150 as the splitting point of Hutterite settlements; 200 as the upper bound on the number of academics in a discipline's sub-specialization; 150 as the basic unit size of professional armies in Roman antiquity and in modern times since the 16th century; and notions of appropriate company size.

Dunbar has argued that 150 would be the mean group size only for communities with a very high incentive to remain together. For a group of this size to remain cohesive, Dunbar speculated that as much as 42% of the group's time would have to be devoted to social grooming. Correspondingly, only groups under intense survival pressure,[citation needed] such as subsistence villages, nomadic tribes, and historical military groupings, have, on average, achieved the 150-member mark. Moreover, Dunbar noted that such groups are almost always physically close: "... we might expect the upper limit on group size to depend on the degree of social dispersal. In dispersed societies, individuals will meet less often and will thus be less familiar with each, so group sizes should be smaller in consequence." Thus, the 150-member group would occur only because of absolute necessity—due to intense environmental and economic pressures.

Dunbar, in Grooming, Gossip, and the Evolution of Language, proposes furthermore that language may have arisen as a "cheap" means of social grooming, allowing early humans to efficiently maintain social cohesion. Without language, Dunbar speculates, humans would have to expend nearly half their time on social grooming, which would have made productive, cooperative effort nearly impossible. Language may have allowed societies to remain cohesive, while reducing the need for physical and social intimacy.[5]
Dunbar's number has since become of interest in anthropology, evolutionary psychology,[6] statistics, and business management. For example, developers of social software are interested in it, as they need to know the size of social networks their software needs to take into account; and in the modern military, operational psychologists seek such data to support or refute policies related to maintaining or improving unit cohesion and morale.
A recent study has suggested that Dunbar's number is applicable to online social networks as well.[7][8]

Alternative numbers

Anthropologist H. Russell Bernard and Peter Killworth and associates have done a variety of field studies in the United States that came up with an estimated mean number of ties, 290, that is roughly double Dunbar's estimate. The Bernard–Killworth median of 231 is lower, due to upward straggle in the distribution, but still appreciably larger than Dunbar's estimate. The Bernard–Killworth estimate of the maximum likelihood of the size of a person's social network is based on a number of field studies using different methods in various populations. It is not an average of study averages but a repeated finding.[9][10][11] Nevertheless, the Bernard–Killworth number has not been popularized as widely as Dunbar's.


the futures

the futures by William Keckler
the futures, a photo by William Keckler on Flickr.

sexual explorers

sexual explorers by William Keckler
sexual explorers, a photo by William Keckler on Flickr.

4 cats

4 cats by William Keckler
4 cats, a photo by William Keckler on Flickr.


whee by William Keckler
whee, a photo by William Keckler on Flickr.

divine flies

divine flies by William Keckler
divine flies, a photo by William Keckler on Flickr.

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

We Have Sirius

in the car but when DISH tried to fuck us over we told them take the fucker down and now we have FIOS and you get Music Choice (yuck! horrible logo for it! design allergy!) This "Sounds of the Seasons" station (no clue why the name unless around major holidays it gets co-opted) plays some decent stuff. Craig Armstrong's century trippin "Hymn 2" just now from As if to Nothing (2002). Maybe I'll even hear some Yann Tiersen or something. Bizarre. Lots of crap played here too though.

The Weirder Thing

I couldn't take that music anymore so I jumped channels to Music Choice's "Sounds of the Seasons," which is actually occasionally weird enough that I pay attention. And it also soothes Malkin. Right now enjoying OGM's "Five Easy Pisseuses." Love the pun. Apparently they're some sort of Gainsbourg electronica (tribute?) band. They're mellow enough and have just a soupcon of hiphop so it's relaxing "club in the empty afternoon, shades drawn" type music. Soothe your eyes and hangover type music.

The Weird Thing

The weird thing is this music (Music Choice's "Soundscapes") is working on Malkin. He's "buying it," and has suddenly mellowed since I put this on. He hasn't played the "red dots game" or "handcuffs" on me all day. And he's looking and acting tranquil. So maybe I'll suffer the depressed way it makes me feel if it means he will be weirdly content and get a New Age buzz off this shit.

I Can't Decide

if I have suddenly entered the depressive side of my bipolar disorder or it's just that I put on Music Choice's "Soundscapes" channel for the past 24 hours. Half of this music seems written to induce a severe depression. But there are some halfway decent Eno and Budd rip-offs every so often. Some of them wake me up from my sleep and I listen for a few bars and then drift back off. Right now it's this terrible thing best used on a commercial for a dementia drug or some other equally depressing thing aimed at geriatrics. It's totally "change of life" New Age music. Totally commercial drama in a thirty second nutshell of piano chords gathered by a schmaltzy squirrel who inhabits a piano instead of a tree.

The Joys of the Decay of Age

The not insignificant joy of realizing that I no longer give a fuck who is "important."

I care more about what you say, your generosity, what you can create.

Just because people talk about you.

People talk about syphilis all the time too.

That don't impress me much.

The Stupid Ass Modern Paradox

YOU SHOULDN'T REALLY CARE ABOUT ANYBODY WHO EXISTS BEYOND THE REALM OF YOUR ACTUAL HUMAN TOUCH, YOUR FAMILY AND THE FAMILIES YOU MAKE OR JOIN. But then. YOU SHOULDN'T REALLY CARE ABOUT THE PEOPLE YOU ACTUALLY TOUCH BECAUSE EVERYBODY KNOWS THE MOST FABULOUS PEOPLE EXIST BEYOND EVERYONE'S TOUCH. THESE PEOPLE WERE THE INTERNET BEFORE THERE WAS AN INTERNET. And yet in seeking to tend those you physically touch, the fabulous people must die. Must die to your mind and soul. What loss is this? Can you quantify the weight in millionths of a percent of the weight of a postage stamp that has been on an unseemly crash diet that crazily skeletonized it? And in seeking to tend to the spirits of light who fly through the new mythological skies of SEO engrams and sparkles, the others die. A little or possibly even real newspaper dying. In some extreme cases. OCD can't be real if a single invention could make billions of people suddenly have it....or simulate it or something. I really believe "I is an other." I think that was really just a statement about technology and where A.R. saw it going. Because now the technology is thinking us. Because it is completely unnatural and counterintuitive that a human being would prefer to text rather than speak to an expressive human voice. That's culture. That's Kulturkampff. Is there only one f at the end of that German word? Well, then I put two ff's there so you'd think of bumpff. Which is another funny convention of culture. A culture must be like an alimentary canal. Must consume and excrete. An entire nation makes a nearly Roman ritual of "The Death of Disco" in the late seventies. Burning records in football stadiums. Witchy dancing. So it is with the replacement of one president with another. Purge. Catharsis. Society can't live, apparently, without its dream narrative and constantly shifting itineraries. The flux of caring and uncaring. The Waves. And yet of course even people who only exist as light and words are real. Light and words. Light can mean imagery, images. And words made only of light can indeed be kindness, the only sort of kindness you can give to the others, the ones you will never meet or touch. Someone's whose hair you won't flip out of their eyes in a gesture that scares you even as you are instinctively doing it. You can be a total shit or not. Change like the weather. Change, the funny forecast. Predicted backwards. MMQ,. Or to believe the way everybody and especially the news talks. We didn't even know how to be friends when they sent us to kindergarten or the classes before. We had to negotiate that jungle on our three or four or five year old selves. There is no course in primary or secondary education to teach friendship or kindness. Okay, maybe nursing. And even there the tenderness part is probably not a large percentage of your grade. Lock the wheels. Learn to roll a body out of a bed with the help of one other and inertia. And I think that backwardness would be beautiful. And is somehow sorely missing. Also, there are no classes in non-violence or even violence---to learn the ability to recognize the various forms of it and not euphemize or even glamorize these types of behavior with misleading and socially-self-serving adjectives.


intent by William Keckler
intent, a photo by William Keckler on Flickr.