If what they say is true…you are a shadow in the fourth dimension. – MGMT


“And there were still creatures yet beyond all of these,
Who saw, heard, smelled, tasted, felt and understood…
The light, sound, scent, flavor, sensation and complexities of life…”

Cedric’s words slowly floated above the heads of those gathered, the assembly attentively studying the words as they drifted along.


Now, Grok didn’t intend to travel in time.

All he really wanted was some lovin’.


RaveBott1xX was ALWAYS in party mode.

It’s not like she really had much of a choice…

The Bottco technicians designed her to be powered by E…not electricity, but ecstasy. I’m not sure why or even how that’s possible, but they figured out a way to make the fluorescent Bott come to life only when she was rolling on ecstasy.

Rave was the pride and joy of the Dance Hall division at Bottco. Spin a record and there she’d be, glow sticks in hand, pulsating in perfect harmony with the beat. She came programmed to groove along to any style of music and in any dance style possible.

In her pursebott, she carried pink duct tape, glitter and a bottle of water, because E makes even botts thirsty.

“Erryday I’m shufflin'” – LMFAO


Urogk was bathing underneath a waterfall, near her nice litle cave…

Grok gawked from behind a bush.


Four broad, block-print letters spell out the last remaining artifact of the English language, “JAZZ.” They’re painted on the wall here at the club. I like to think that this brick wall stands as a memorial to all those dim-lit nights spent nodding along blissfully to long riffs plucked out smooothly on slinky double bass strings, poured out of saxophones, rolled off snare drums, splashed out of shiny, bronzed cymbals and coaxed beautifully out of cold ivory keys. I’ve been leaning on this old brick wall and staring off into space for years now, just trying to catch a note.

Hey, it’s not like there’s much else for me to do. I haven’t had a meal in over two hundred years…let an un-dying man wax poetically if he so pleases.


You see, RokBott was never intended to serve any “real” purpose or to accomplish any quote-unquote real task. Neither of the models in his line were designed for anything in particular, “really.” Rock and Rave were meant to be simply ceremonious creations celebrating the ingenious ingenuity of the mighty Bottco technicians.

Remember that.

“If you will suck my soul…I will lick your funky…emotion.” – Funkadelic


It’s important now to establish a few things.

First of all, this is just my account, my remembrance of some randomly improbable lives being lived within the infitite potential of the universe.

Secondly, Although I think in English, only harsh growling sounds come out when I try to speak. The zombie virus did something to my vocal cords. I catch myself humming Sam Cooke tunes sometimes. A Change Gonna Come comes out sounding more like a monkey gargling boiling water than anything. My motor skills are shot to shit as well, so no writing for me. I’m memorizing this story as I go, just something to do to keep myself entertained. I draw on the brick wall with a burnt stick sometimes, a bunch of harsh looking scribbles.

Third. I’m extremely hungry. I don’t know how long a zombie can survive without flesh…but I’ve been waiting either to eat or to finally die for centuries now.


…and the fluffy golden Himalayan house cat purred…


Urogk was a woman.


She knew well the intentions of Grok.


Of the 27 sets of RB10o and RB1Xx, only three remained in functioning condition for longer than four years. All but one of the RB1Xx models’ motherboards fried before Rock and Rave’s first anniversary. Too much E in their circuitry.

This was a bone of contention within the Bottco family of technicians for quite some time. If there was something to blame for this tragedy, it’s safe to say now that it was over-ambition in design…

“They’re just humans with wives and children…” – Flaming Lips


Grok was not a subtle hunter.

Neither was Urogk frightened prey.


The last person that I ate was an old man hiding in his bunker/panic room type thing, dug out of the basement here at the jazz club, 200-some-odd years ago. He had been listening to Giant Steps by John Coltrane down there on an old stereo record player, all rigged up to a pedal-bike-driven generator.


Bottco only lasted for another two hundred years after reaching it’s pinnacle of collective achievement with Rock and Rave.

The factory came to an untimely end when it’s home planet, Bottuia, imploded upon itself.

All Bottco botts were incinerated, along with everything else for that matter.

“Everything…in it’s right place” – Radiohead


Grok approached Urogk from behind. He grunted.

Urogk growled. She turned.

Grok breathed heavily.

Urogk growled louder.

Grok lunged.



At the time of the implosion of Bottuia, the last RaveBott was with the last RokBott at a nebular rager near Pligar Six. When they got the news that Bottuia was no more, Rok and Rave threw back two Pan-Galactic Gargle Blasters(*) each and hopped in their pimped out Bottco. Space-scalade and dashed home just as fast as they could at thirteen thousand times the speed of strobe lights…and yes…they were faded, crunk, tipsy, drizunk as a skizunk, pissed, jag, plastered, seeing quintuple…impaired to say the least…and no…they did not have their seat belts on…

“You may say I lost everything…but I still had my bedazzler…” – Lady Gaga


I heard his music from nearly four miles away. That’s how heightened a zombie’s senses can be when the bloodlust is at it’s worst, or best, depending on whether or not you’re a zombie.

The old man did have an amazing record collection down there with him…all the real gems.



She had seen Grok coming.

Urogk reached for the biggest object around, an enormous, woody, red mushroom cap growing close by on the cave wall, and shoved it forcefully down Grok’s throat.

Urogk knee’d Grok in the balls and stormed off.

So it was that the first man in history ate a hallucinogenic mushroom.



At times the entire assembly would sit in absolute silence for an hour or more, waiting for the next word, meditating on the previous one.

Cedric’s soft purr soothed his meditative message into cognition. He learned this technique from his one-time master, Dr. Quincy Sterieaux.



“Dance…dance ’til you’re dead.” – Yeah Yeah Yeahs

Somewhere on the trip back to see if the horrible news about Bottuia was true, the party for the last RaveBott RB1Xx ended tragically when a meteor came out of nowhere and blindsided the Bottco Spacecalade, crunching the entire side of the space ship, knocking open the trunk and spilling out all of RaveBott’s fuel…yes…her stash of E was all adrift at space. Rok and Rave were too grief-stricken, too jacked up on Pan-Galactic Gargle Blasters and psychedelic hallucinogens to notice the impact…so they just kept on going.

When they stopped at a 7-11 to fuel up…Rave found out…but too late. Her reserve tanks had been depleted. Her time was now up.
The sweet little bott ran out of E.  😥



Grok grunted.


The first trip was heavy from the start.


As I gnawed on the old beatnik’s femur, Coltrane’s melodic, sporadic and beautifully chaotic lines came wafting through the air. They hit me somewhere deep inside…deeper than the zombie virus could ever reach.

The music hit my soul.


“I drop megaton BOMBS more faster than you blink…clouds of smoke…” – GZA

RokBott was grief-stricken with the loss of his companion-bott. All Bottco botts come with personality and emotional response softwares standard, and it’s all good software too.

He blew up three moons, two rings of nearby Zanzibu 2 and collapsed a meteor field in his fit of rage.

Bottco had designed a best friend-bott for RokBott, but never built even a prototype. It’s probably for the best. His name was to be RageBott10o0 and, well, a grief-stricken RokBott on an intergalactic bender of sadness, fueled by nuclear missles, is destructive enough.

Long story short, he and his spacecraft ended up getting sucked into a worm hole.


Grok grunted.


Grok felt funny.

As he recovered from the swift kick in the nuts, the ancient man noticed that he could see through the rock walls of his home.

He could see the stars, pulsating through the layers of thick granite that sheltered him from the elements.


A zombie’s soul is probably one of the hardest targets in the universe to hit. It’s so thoroughly buried, shriveled up, decomposing, masked only by an undying bloodlust.


It took RokBott a long time to collect himself.

When he did finally regain his cool, he noticed, and not a moment too soon, that he was crashing through atmospheres of fire.

Solar flares shook his circuitry into survival mode and he skillfully maneuvered his craft toward the nearest worm hole exit, which happened to be the ancient, rarely used Earth exit.

“Please don’t slow me down…if I’m moving too fast.” – The Strokes


Grok was the first humanoid being ever to use that very same wormhole.


The ancient man watched in awe as the cave surrounding him faded away. The floor became a whirling vortex spiraling downward, taking everything down along with it.

He felt his conscious self melting down through his body…down…down through the thick layers of rock and sediment below him…down…down-y-down, down…down through the molten center of the earth and out to the cosmos.


The old man in the bunker had boxes and boxes of old books down there.

My eyes are too old, too weak, too glazed over to read any of them so I just stare at them blankly and zone out to the jazz.

That’s about as close as this old zombie can come to heaven, I’d say.

I like the way the letters flow across the page, some sparse and scattered, some rolling along smooth like incoming sets of head-high waves of thought, about to crash on the shores of comprehension.



RokBott could only think of one good thing about being temporarily stranded on the long-since evacuated mother planet of Bottco’s technicians…apparently, drugs were EVERYWHERE on earth.

“Maybe I can find some E laying around somewhere!”

RokBott’s spirit-software got lifted. He was going to try to resurrect RaveBott.

“SpottieOttieDopaliscious” – Outkast


Continue Reading…




Josephus Vice

To Life.
A Love Supreme – John Coltrane


Cedric the Wise Himalayan House-cat resonated pure energy.
His large, green eyes closed as he continued…

“…and there were creatures who saw the sound of life with their eyes…
…and there were creatures who heard the light of life with their ears…
…and there were creatures who smelled the flavor of life with their noses…
…and there were creatures who tasted the scent of life with their tongues…
…and there were creatures who felt the complexities of life with their skins…
…and there were creatures who understood the sensations of life with their minds…”

The assembly looked up, attentively.
The air was thin.


So, George Orwell and Albous Huxley had been on the right track all along. So had most of those “crazy” hippies, “paranoid” conspiracy theorists and “quacky” doomsday prophets, who always liked to “carry on like the sky was about to fall.”
It did.
But not before the Illuminati unveiled their eternal secrets, not before the 3rd World War was waged, not before what some would call the “apocalypse” came and shredded our little green planet to bits.
Zombies eventually ate everybody, even those with panic rooms.
Comets rained down and the stars aligned and the polar axes shifted…seven times…imagine that, John Lennon!
Ice age? Check. California in the ocean? Check. Pleiades visitations? Check. Haziness on the details of events so long ago transpired? Check.



Ancient man travelled through time.
The first was on a quest to find a woman.
His name was Grok. Her’s was Urogk.
How did he travel through time?


“I’m off on the adven-ture…I’m on my way to hea-ven.” – Kid Cudi
RokBott10o and RaveBott1xX used to tear it up on intergalactic levels. Light-year-long benders bounced on and on throughout the cosmos.


See, I’ve been undead for going on five hundred years now…very undead. Somehow, I’ve managed to stumble my way through this entire “final” act of modern mankind…a strange testament to the resiliency of life, I have to admit.
I haven’t seen another life form except for the eternal roach in over two hundred years…another example of life marching along, transmuting itself through the ether of endless birth and the release of infite death….all manifestations of life are for a time…life is eternal, so it seems.


Ancient man tripped on psychedelic mushrooms.
The earliest generations of man tripped on psychedelic mushrooms that made the time/space continuum warp, stretch, condense, twist. In this way, “time” as an onward marching force in and of itself didn’t exist.
Sadly, ancient man ate this particular species of mushroom into extinction. It was the first species of anything to be forced into extinction in the history of, well, history…his-story…


“Take anything you want from me…” – Jimi Hendrix

Hear that?
That’s RokBott10o keeping it 100%. He was programmed to spin the most perfect song for each and every moment that he could possibly find himself in. His other functions include rolling perfect joints every time and blowing shit up, so as not to cause tons of damage, but so as to look really badass.

“Rok” and RaveBott1xX, his “female” companion-bott, were both initially to be ingenious manifestations of a childhood dream of one Dr. Quincy Sterieaux; genius inventor, father of several sciences, and…most unfortunately, as it turns out…co-founder of BottCo., yes…THE BottCo….the infamous intergalactic machinery juggernaut. We’ll return to Dr. Sterieaux and Bottco’s fabled stories later, but back to Rok and Rave…only 27 sets of the righteously awesome pair saw the soddering gun, so to speak.

One set for every one of Bottco’s CEO’s adolescent children.


So, this is where my story now begins, well past the end of everything that meant so very much to human beings, now as a long-starved and, most likely, last-standing zombie, leaning up against the one free-standing wall of what was once, long, long ago, a small jazz club in Portland, Oregon.
It’s the only free-standing wall left in the pacific northwest, actually…a relic, just like me.

My name is Zombeatnik.
This is Sterieaux Undead.


Chapter Two

Before The Fire – Ch. 1


For the women who were/are/may-yet-be in my life.


Her hands hurt, hard in the cold rain; creases running rivers through her palms revealed the hidden nature of her life; a banyan tree’s branching limbs stretching out on the microscopic lines of her fingertips reminded a caressed ego that it’s all just passing away anyways. This cold heavy chill sunk deep down into the roots of her central nervous system…tolling her soul.

Initially, she secretly had the intention of remaining forever a delicate little flower; but somehow, a catepillar she became…and bright green, rolly-polly and clumsy she remained until her cocoon moon rose and shone down upon oceans and cosmos alike, wrapping her white-washed, moon-dusted. Once a flower, then a caterpiller…now a great white moth. Her wings stretched out like astral planes expanding, flapping in the cold March air, seeking warmth, seeking home.

Her thoughts however lingered far beneath the dark-and-heavy-springtime-rain-rain-go-away clouds.

The man she’d loved had nearly passed away not yet four hours ago; trapped, suffocating, burning. He’d just barely made it to the hospital in time for emergency surgery. Skin grafts, life support, blood transfusions…the whole deal. She stood at the entrance of the hospital for thirty-seven minutes before she found the strength to push open the door, to go through the motions of being a dutiful “significant other.”

Wheel-chaired patients, aides, nurses, doctors and pizza delivery guys all brushed passed her. All she could do was look up at the tarmac roof. In the cold night, moths frantically swish-swooshed across the fluorescent lighting fixtures seeking heat. She stood and watched her fellow kind. “There they are, struggling with every fiber of their being to reach that stupid fluorescent bulb…and what would happen when they finally squeezed through some small crack in the plastic cover, realizing their nirvana? They’ll get zapped and out their inner lights will go for good.”

Somehow she could relate.

She’d loved him first upon a Wednesday like no other, when earlier she’d found herself’s reflection reciting stories of their future lifetime’s journey together. Earlier that evening, he’d played her a song titled “Just the Same as Your Name” and that moment stays forever suspended in the clear-jelly atmospheres that fueled her fondest memories. His music had her hypnotized, allured her, led her into his masterful hands and the rest for her was simply learning how to tolerate the man that he was regardless of her influence.

Her love had been a cellist/vocalist in an early-90′s jazz/hip-hop ensemble called, “Ambilance.” Their song, “If it don’t smell funky, it ain’t ripe ’nuff for me…” was funkier than a dill pickle stuffed with cheese, fried in chicken grease on a buttermilk waffle smothered in maple syrup AND sausage gravy, served with a side of “…but gottamn that bass line holds it down!!”…and to top it all off, a maraschino cherry. The ensemble never really amounted to much in the grand scheme of Rolling Stone top 40 or anything, though in Ambilance’s defense, as their bassist “Big Marc” so elegantly phrased it, “…the Man did fuck us over.” Regardless of what the critics had to say about their lack of wide-spread marketability, Ambilance made the ladies swoon. Screw the haters.

He had told her all about Ambilance that first Wednesday. She swooned.

“Ahh, yeah you know the music I make really does become a part of me…and the real beauty of it is that once you take it in, then you become a part of it too”…he’d whisper sweet nothings in her ear, her eyes flashing golden nebulas…breasts perking…his fingers quaking tension though the strings of her heart, digging deeply into the rosewood fretboard of the small of her lower back…He took hold of her hair with a firmness she’d never felt. Often, in the heat of it all, the reverberations had a tendency to short circuit her brain’s ability to form coherent sentences…”Ahh the cello’s mellow bellow…a yellow sparrow chirps a friendly ‘helloooo finnnee fellow’…I mean, ahh whatever, let it ride…how’s it feel inside?” She’d drone on, moaning nonsensical phrases of possibility…….Oohhhh….His pressure made her wince in pain. They came simultaneously, and, coincidentally, they climaxed simultaneously concurrent with the rising of the morning sun. Then, yes…also simultaneously, they slept deeply, limbs and hair all criss-crossing like a two-human pretzel, through all sorts of alarm clockery until nearly sunset the following day.

He’d hummed a melody all that magical Wednesday in his sleep as they wandered lazily between states of intermingled consciousness. She subconsciously danced in her dreams to it’s wafty melody. It later went on to become his magnum opus. So, it too was once a catepillar; for it began by be-bumping here and there, wherever, until it found a cocoon moon of it’s own in those sparkling eyes of hers. Three years later that melodic catepillar blossomed into a symphony-painted butterfly and flittered and fluttered over the heads of bewildered, enraptured, esctatic or otherwise pleasantly amused audiences world wide…all because of her sparkling eyes…

He was to her a path leading towards a much-needed home. ”You’ve given me the strength to live my dreams!” She was to him a path leading towards a much-needed redemption. “I’d give my life for you.” Whenever he’d bring up salvation, she’d simply show love. Whenever he brought up impending damnation, she’d simply rolled her eyes in disgust…real punk rock style. He had sensed a burning fate all his life, so he said himself. “I can almost smell the sulfur.” She’d thought this only melodrama…but now a new thought manifested.

“Perhaps, it was simply the heat of preminition…not that of impending pergatory…that had haunted him all along…” She thought again…”perhaps the future had sent a fiery message to the memory of the momentarily-present man of the past…a warning shot…Hey! Don’t get burned!

“Fluorescent lighting isn’t very condusive to abstract thinking.”

She rubbed her eyes. Inside the lobby area now and the receptionist didn’t even seem to notice her, too busy…too, too busy. This night seemed to be “Half-off-your-entire-hospital-bill” night in the E.R. The blue-scrub-donned receptionist, dashing back and forth between two computers, a whole isle of filing cabinets and a leaning tower of clipboards simply pointed at a deli-style ticket machine and gave a, “Sucks, don’t it?” sort of half-smile and went back to digging through her mounds of manilla insurance files like some kind of damned office gopher.

Ohh…this is going to be a long, long night!

*Rippp* She glanced at her ticket ever-so-briefly and found the most current, least mangled and somewhat interesting edition of whatever waiting room caliber magazine she could find. The pile of magazines on the one coffee table looked like a pile of dead soldiers in some strange newsroom war; torn and tattered covers with graffiti’d-in beards on supermodels, beaten up and abused corners, barely corners anymore, wadded up hunks of decomposing paper left to rot. She ended up with a Better Homes and Gardens issue from 2001 about “10 Revolutionary New Ways to Decorate your Foyer to Get Your Neighbors Talking.” She thought back to 2001…

“I can’t remember a single foyer that year…nobody must’a read this one.”

The loudspeaker cracked on.
“#121. #121 please come to the main window…#121.”

Well, that wasn’t so bad, she thought to herself. Her legs were stiff as she got up from the war torn waiting room chair. She stretched. She glanced at her ticket again…

“Oh shit! I’m #211?!”

This thought came bellowing out from somewhere deep. The other soon-to-be-attended-to’s all looked up at her. Some smirked, some nodded, some coughed sickly, some looked as if to say, “Hey, at least you’re not #237 like I am!”

With a huff and a puff she blew herself back down into the well-worn padding of an uncomfortable waiting room chair and re-opened an uninteresting magazine.

“Damn…” she thought, “that…” her heart break-danced, “man.”

I. and I, Known as Y. – Ch. 1


“He’s a good man, that Charlie Brown.”

No, Charlie Brown isn’t his real name, but the expression seems to fit. He’s done some pretty interesting things, gone some pretty interesting places and met some really interesting people all along the way. He’s made an honest attempt at an honest life. The only words inscribed next to his name in the Holy Book of Life Everlasting, if said book does indeed exist, should simply be,

“No Complaints.”

Anything else written about him or anyone else for that matter, seems to me now as simply frivolous and as time progresses, increasingly-less important. So as one frivolous and increasingly-less important point begets another, allow me to continue. Oh, Lord…forgive me my frivolousity!

But I digress…

My brother has had an affinity for Laz-E Boy reclining armchairs since he was four years old, the first time he ever sat down in one. If blindfolded and placed inside a foreign living room and told to sit down, “I.” could verify not only the authenticity of said Laz-E Boy, as there are countless hundreds of knock-offs out there, but also the make, model and, judging on the amount of “give” in the cushions and “spring” of the, well, springs, the age of the armchair in question.

He knows a helluva lot more about them, but that’s all that I can remember him mentioning to me right now, off the top of my head. I used to blindfold him in furniture stores and test him out. He never got one wrong. He could usually guess the color correctly too…blindfolded. Some people know all about wine. My brother knows all about Laz-E Boy reclining armchairs.

His obsession with armchairs ended up suiting him just fine. Iihyheai Wynn, my older brother, worked quite happily moving furniture for 23 years.

Iihyheai has also “suffered” from autism. My brother I. is autistic. His brother, me, has probably “suffered” more from being, simply, artistic.

I once told him that since he had autism, then that made him an “autist.” He was quite proud of this. He smiled big.

“Yea…I’m an autist!”

He’d walk right up to someone in the frozen food section and reveal his diagnosis to them as if they had been lifelong friends.

“Hey! I’m an autist!”

If his mark were too polite to simply run away, they might respond with something like…

“Oh…you’re an ‘artist,’ huh?”

My brother would correct them,

“No…my brother, Y. Wynn, he’s the artist. I’m an aut-ist.”

Then, if whoever my brother had had cornered next to the crinkle-cut spuds were either too polite for their own good, or perhaps they were seriously invested into the enforcement of maintaining grammatical purity in the language of the everyday person, (and there are far more grammar Gestapo out there than one might think) then they might persist with something like;

“Hmm…’Ryan’s’ an ‘artist.’ How interesting!” and they’d rush off to find the chickpeas.

My brother got frustrated with people like this.

“Who’s ‘Ryan,’, Y. Wynn?”

He’d look at me with the Questioner’s eyebrow going full-force. What’s the Questioner’s eyebrow, you ask as your outer left brow rises and your inner right brow lowers, wrinkles forming like fleshy sets of incoming waves over the long smooth plane of your forehead, making your wavy brow pay homage to that ol’ faithful levee that held on through the storm?
Oh, never mind.

Everybody called my brother “autistic,” but I think that he simply resided above and beyond all the silly business of “humanity” and its many tangled snares, pitfalls and loopholes. My brother, I. Wynn, simply was I. Wynn. He saw other people simply as whoever they said they were and whatever they acted like.

If and inevitably whenever I’d be forced to explain the irratic behavior of “normal” people like this grammar Gestapo character in the frozen foods isle to my brother, I’d usually just tell him not to worry about it.

“Don’t worry about it, I., They thought that you had mispronounced my name or something.”

Then I. might get slightly self-conscious. His voice would squeak a little.

“Oh, did I say something wrong?”

He really did try his damnedest to roll with the ever-crashing tides of human society.

“No, I., you said everything just fine. 
They’re just retarded.”

Then my brother and I would both have a good laugh. My brother always got my jokes immediately. It varies drastically with everyone else. Our family has always practiced a peculiar brand of comedy. I think its best illustrated by the way our parents chose to name us.

My brother’s name was Iihyheai Wynn. My own name is Yyweilje Wynn. We were born, we screamed, and the sound of our first respective breath in this life became our first respective name that would follow us all the way through it. Mother wanted each first name to be punctuated with an exclamation mark, but Father wouldn’t stand for it. He said that the exclamation mark part was completely up to us.

I’ve never minded my name, neither did Iihyheai, but for the sake of everyone else, I chose early on to simply go by “Y.” My brother, although four years older than me, pretty much just went along with whatever I thought was best, so he became simply, “I.” So that makes us I. Wynn and Y. Wynn.

I’ve always referred to us like this;

“This is I., and I go simply by Y.”



Money…with it, we do whatever we want…

Without it, we can’t do shit…at least that’s the lie that gets whispered seductively into our ears, all widely accepted and pre-packaged along with mass media’s “of-course-that’s-how-it-is” attitude.

“Get the $hoe$!”

Spend $200 dollars on something that we’ll wear twice this year and get pissed if they get scuffed. Oh and then next year, the Kanye in the group’s just gonna be callin us out like, “Homey, you ain’t up on these NEW $hoe$!”

“Propaganda!” cries the rasta.
”Conspiracy, man…” drifts the stoner.
“Inevitability” reflects me.

Money…it can destroy entire populations or it can builds entire villages, and all from the comfort of far, far away and all without the bother of it having to exist in the form of a living being burdened down with day to day pressures and responsibilities. It blows along the breeze of greed, seeking out new shoes to stack on shelves in the name of “need.”

The ability for any one thing to so dramatically contribute to either cause, good or evil; so brutally, so potentially equally, so non-partially is a trait that, I feel, shouldn’t be entrusted to green paper, electronic figures in institutionalized banks, or “ownership” of all that shit that you can’t take with you when you leave this world…look at all the pharaohs…still slowly decomposing in their golden sarcophogi.

But at least we got those shiny new $hoe$…and if we don’t yet…we’ll get rich to cop ‘em or die trying to.

Truth be told, we all were created to breathe. To walk the earth. To look up and to be amazed. All the rest is just about reacting appropriately in each of the moments we all find ourselves encountering on a day to day basis. With our heads to the heavens, we worry little about our $hoe$.

Praise the Most High for that.

Unfortunately, “our” realities, “our” moments, “our” lives have become controlled by tugging forces…good and evil…Babylon has many resources. Many, most of us will get led astray.

But the Most High dwells within us all.
Heed the call.
Money must have a fall.


The Sleepwalking Sheep

*This is script for an up-coming picture book…drawing on the way soon =) *

For Shoshanna…
Whoever you are.

Shot 1 – A far shot of a sports car as it turns a sharp corner on some remote, scenic highway.

“Her name was something like Shoshanna. She was a part-time, quasi-artist from somewhere in the south of France.”

Shot 2 – A close up of a well-dressed sheep driving the sports car, sunglasses on. Shoshanna laughs in the reflection from the rearview mirror.

“Her plush ivory wool danced on the breeze as the car sped along.
He held the wheel firmly with one hoof. He smoothly caressed her thigh with the other.”

Shot 3 – A side shot of the car, two very fancy sheep nestled inside. They look happy.

“His name was something like Julian and he owned the convertible Leopard-print Lamborghini that they currently found themselves nestled cozily within.”

Shot 4 – A far shot of the car driving closer to a picturesque mansion on the outer stretches of nowhere, on a cliff.

“She sipped on only the finest of the driest French Champagnes and said things like, “Love is all.”

He drank only the finest of the driest vermouth-ed martinis and said things like, Spin for me doll.

Shot 5 – A shot of a muddy foot mid-kick in freeze-frame motion. Real “BAM! POW!” style

“And then sheep #132 awoke abruptly with a swift kick in the ribs.”

Shot 6 – A wide shot of a pasture, other sheep, a dilapidated old shed and “Julian” sprawled out behind it.

“Yea, I found him. Dumb sheep passed out behind ol’ MacGregor’s fruit stand again…”

Shot 7 – A shot of “Julian” reaching out for Shoshanna, who seems to be falling away from him.

“The shepard reached down, scooped up sheep #132 and hauled him back to the pasture.”

Shot 8 – A shot of sheep #132 standing in the pasture watching the shepard.

“His name was certainly not Julian….
and who’s ever heard of a sheep named Shoshanna?”

Shot 9 – A close up of #132’s face. He looks ugly, dumb…pathetic.

“No, in this silly place called “real life” his name was #132. The tag in his ear said so.”

Shot 10 – A 3 side-by-side-by-side shot of his patchy wool, janked up hoofs and of his gnarly snout, burping up a gnarly belch.

“His wool was all patchy, nothing like a nice alpaca’s. His hoofs stuck out so that when he walked it looked like he was doing gymnastics…and his breath smelled terrible, even by sheep standards.”

Shot 11- A shot of the other sheep in the flock, all “baaaa-ing” in distain of the ugly #132.

“There was little else to be said about him. The rest of the flock ignored him most of the time and went along doing whatever it is that sheep normally do.”

Shot 12 – A very close in shot of #132’s eyes. In them, we see the pasture with faint reflections of the scenic cliffs from his dreams.

“#132 rarely ever thought about the kicks or the sneers. In his waking hours sheep #132 walked, sat, ate, shat and spent the rest of his time staring off into space.”

Shot 13- Now, grand and extravagant scenes of Julian and Shoshanna dancing off into the sunrise of whenever.

“In his dreams, however, he explored the outer realms of the universe. That was enough for #132. It was good.”

Shot 14 – A shot of a letter laying on an otherwise empty desk in a nicely furnished bedroom.

“I leave you this story now for I fear we have been but witless dreamers and little more…”

Shot 15 – A shot of an attractive woman looking out over a fancy balcony, crying.

“Perhaps if we were sheep, dreams would have been enough to make us happy.”

Shot 16 – A silhouette shot of a well-dressed man leaving a fancy villa on a cliff.

“I think it’s out of some strange tribute to this conundrum of love which has made it so…so that the dreams of dreamers are always remembered.”

Shot 17 – A far shot of a leopard print Lamborghini driving away from the picturesque mansion.

“Adieu I’amour, Adieu.

Shot 18 – A wide pan shot showing #132 sleeping peacefully behind MacGregor’s old fruit stand. Dream bubbles show the scene that he’s dreaming.

“Would you mind pouring me a bit more champagne, love?” She was wearing satin lace and pirouetting on the patio.

“Not at all dear.”

The Miser’s Miserable Miseries

The miser spoke of his miseries to a thief convicted of thirty thieveries in a dimly-lit jail cell on one particularly humid, summer night.

“Oh, miserable, miserable me!”

The thief listened patiently, allthewhile keeping a keen eye on something heavy and circular that was weighing down the miser’s left pant pocket. A stratagem began to emerge. The thief dripped thick nectar from his tongue.
“Tell me more, good fellow, if you please.”

The miser’s bellowing belly bounced boarishly.
“Take from me my m-misery!”

The one lightbulb in the hallway flickered. A full moon watched from the other side of the cell’s one cast-iron barred window.

“Why…friend, that is very easily achieved…” The thief casually mentioned that he could save the miser from himself…
“for a simple one-time fee.” His voice dripped like ripened honeycomb.

The miser leered at the thief…unknowing…
“Are you trying to rob me?”

“May such a thing never come to be!” The thief recoiled in disbelief.
“In the past, yes, I was a thief…but must this current summer’s heat be subdued by the chill of a long ago whispered winter wind? My friend, the suffering you speak of is very easily remedied.”

The miser felt miserably about his present situation and the perspiration intervened on his behalf in stating the obvious masterfully, yet he tried his best to defend his nonexistent honor. His hand was drawn to his pant pocket almost magnetically. His thumb and middle finger caressed his last and only coin.

“You had b-better not take me for a fool. You speak sweat-ly…I mean, ‘sweetly’, but look where your wisdom has le-led you to be…you who s-sit here, imprisoned just the s-same as me!” With his last shred of resolution, he bluffed…just a bit too loudly.

“Quiet in there, you fools!”
The warden rattled the cold iron bars with his billy club.

The thief “shhh-ed” the miser.

The miser continued…at a whisper,”But you speak like a man who knows something worth knowing…be a true friend and do not charge me for your words…for I have nothing left to be taken from me…nothing to give that won’t yet be owing…” The miser barely squeaked out the last few words. He had come to his final reservoir of inner strength.

The wind blew coldly through the iron cell bars and a rebuke shook the thief’s soul. His stratagem, though flawlessly effective, began to dissolve.The thief turned and looked out the barred window.

“I would eventually become just like you if I held on to this wisdom that you seek. I realize now how easily we all may fall into holding onto the world as we perceive it to be, thus becoming miserly.” He saw the moon. It smiled freely down at him. A smile infected the thief’s heart. “This world is nothing to be held onto so tightly.”

The miser looked out that same barred window and saw only a world that was being held just out of his reach. He was reminded of all the things that had been stripped from him. He became impatient with the thief and his nonsense.

“Well, are you going to help me or not?”

The thief turned back towards the miser, moonlight embers burning now in his eyes. The thick, deceptive honey had been stripped from his voice, leaving it true, elemental now.

“It is my belief, you see, that a miser holds only onto his own misery.”

The miser’s perspiring hand grasped for the coin again, which slipped through a hole in the lining of his pocket, fell to the floor and rolled under the cell door, rattling loudly as it settled out in the hallway.

The thief looked at the coin…the miser looked at the thief…the coin lay silent now…the dead president on the face-up side of the coin looked at the bare light bulb in the hallway…the bare lightbulb looked down on it all and hummed with electricity….

“Lights out!” shouted the warden and the lightbulb fell silent for the remainder of the night.

The coin was gone in the morning, as was the thief.
The miser felt miserably indeed. He clutched the iron bars, the only thing left to hold onto…
“Oh woe, oh woe is me! Miserable, miserly me!”


– Josephus Vice

Memoirs from Out There

“Left field!” she cries as clouds arrive overhead. I’m daydreaming again, out loud, to a friend and she’s wondering when I’ll arrive at a point.

“Far out,” she goes on as we dance to a song that’s only playing in our heads. See, the on-looking few don’t appear to be pleased with our blatantly doing solely only as we please, so they boo-hoo and sneeze and then they get weak in the knees at the prospect of someone busting up all our blissful un-realities.

“La la land,” she reminisces her spent youth on golden coasts as I continue to relish in my own youthful moments spent on sun-drenched shores and we walk down the street to the places where we’ll meet new passerby’s and butterflies and people we’ve sworn we’ve seen somewhere else before.

“Lost it,” she found out the hard way that life isn’t about finding or losing or both or neither. It simply is and it is what it is all the way until it isn’t anything anymore. I left my last step right where the sidewalk stopped, so now my right foot’s treading through the sand once again.

“Gone man, gone,” she held on too long, the damage was done. If she’ll let it go then I’ll sing her a song and she’ll smile and dip her toes in the crystalline sands and we’ll laugh as the sun as it plays peek-a-boo with us again, popping in and out of the clouds.

“Slipping, always slipping away…” I speak my thoughts aloud to the girl that thinks I’m okay, which I am, I guess, as okay as all the rest…perhaps the Most High wanted it this way so that one day, late at night, right before tomorrow’s morning arrives, we’ll think back on all these yesterdays we’ve spent and we’ll both breathe deeply in the moment we find ourselves together in and the world will continue to spin.

“Out there!”

– Josephus Vice


Lay beside me, solitude…as I wonder what else could be new under the sun…though I know that nothing truly is. I see the way it’s all unfolding in the eyes of old men, all revolving around something hidden, ethereal, shining, returning to it all the same.

And…I see the sun and moon and sun and moon and stars and constellations all passing over under over under…and again and again and yet still again…and I stand in awe-struck wonder. Why did we ever corrupt this? Why are we forsaking everything we’ve been blessed with? Run that by me once again…

Lay beside me, solitute…let me bask in the old, familiar sun. Let me gain a broader, gentler perspective. Let me find the pursuit of truth and the distribution of untruth as notions meant for those still residing in resolute, steadfast human insanity. Let me think more as a tree might and less as a man does. Let me become unconcerned with the happenings contained within modern man’s linear concept of time and allow me to focus my energies instead on the depth and breadth and wealth and the further nurture-ment of my burrowing roots.

And…I feel the warmth from the light that cascades down upon me and I know that I’m not the only one who feels this embrace. What a crazed race to neglect such a heavenly place…

Lay beside me, solitude…may I no longer be”me” if that is possible…allow this energy to become not unlike that which composes this humanly body, molecules colliding…cosmic energies mingling in the gelatinous ether of the omnipotent “Be.”

And…if possible, may we all forget the word, “me” entirely.