Tomcats are 
Trashing 
America
(or)
New Thoughts'
Randublings


* 1995 Brock Foxworthy Hanson
PO Box 45492  Seattle Washington 98145


 
Dedicated to my wife's eleventh grade teacher, who used to move her 
students' desks around when they least expected it.
"Change is good.   It's not good to resist change."
And the children showed her their parents
as the parents would show 
their eventual children
change was to be feared


Prefaced 
It's all about change.
Change is : the new things
you never thought to look for.
What's expected is the domain of the older generation.
Generations
are a nine-lived affair.
  

inter-
abduction     

  Is it sufficient for "life",
or is your desire to participate
in more than the current model offers
hinged on some excuse not to?

		      "If only I'd . . . "
"If I didn't have all those kinds of persons depending on me . . . "
"The kid really holds me back . . . "
"Why do I always have to stay at home?"
"If I had it to do over again . . . "

Don't you?

You're still alive to ask the questions





Life is very frac
tured. It only pretends it isn't
the very thing you fear.
It flits and jumps from
one topic to another.  It
changes its mind, and changes
	quantum gears, but we
always fade into insignificance
when it billboards its chaos
   across our hubris.
  That way, there's no misconception
   to project its own through.
Life changes its meaning a 
million times a day, but
we pretend it's of fixed mind.
Life gives you things that 
don't make sense, to break 
you down to
your most ineffable essence-
itself.
Life is a sneaky cosmic misanthrope
looking for an opportunity to
trip our dippy
slapstick comedy
straight on its faces.

Don't expect this writing to work as 
normal books cooperate and you won't
feel the need to fight it.
Listen, learn and forget . . .


Then your own thoughts come.




   Postscript:
I dare you to fill in the blank
with something worth reading.


Contents:
I
	New Thoughts 		  1
   	 saint petersburg 	  6
              physical illness	  9
      boring news the front never hears	10
             do not be deceived	11

II
describing para-dice	13
    the dictionary of logistical truth	14
       dietary meta-fores	15
   every color has its day	18
the philosopher's story	19
victims of the apoca-lapse	20
  marcas milner	23
trouncing descryptions	26
on the continuum	28

III
    what we need is a whole new tact	34
          the saddest part is, people give up	39
        now isn't rally here	42
         New's all washed up	47
            and now, it's time for a story	48

IV
	   square and fair                         54
	sense insensibilites	55
           more nows and thens	58
        get radical	61
      the dilemma is also the answer	62

V
                        son worship	63
                        yoga	67
             Tomcats are Terrorizing America	69
         Baghdad, did you ever . . .	7X+1
        rut reestablished	7X+2
            fear - black - death	7X+2
               Sticking pins in Voodoo dolls	7X+6

VI
     look, we know it happens	80
            Krishnamurky	81
        here's the real thing	85
       you know what? driving a point too hard...		91




















ON



 



Please examine the impulse to write (speak, create).  Escape is a major ingredient, in sauce 
poured over its original element.  Escape is a non-productive endeavor.  It sees itself through their 
tunnel counting lights in otherwise endless halls.
Why can't this emulate the "sense"?
Their sense is an undercurrent eroding the bank
sound footing is always found within.

Peace meal exercises in futility sound palatable to part of your need 
to escape the conspiracy you're fixing against yourself.
Energy stored must be dissipated by any means available.  Balloons prick
their lives shorter panicking their tensions built up inside.  For one different noise
than perfectly good people popping, 
listen to their slow seep of air,
for tape surrounds their own voodoo pins
removed for tension relief.


Remember,
if you're thinking about how to organize something, your brain is panicking. The brain resists 
your efforts to short-circuit its monopolized control.  
It desires organized linear lines to sweep clean of meddlesome protruding knobs.
It would grow familiar trees-ones free of agains and befores to clone 
to perfect repeatable circumstances.

Oak gall ink wrote some very famous manuscripts.  Did you know it bore its breath
on knobular imperfection?  
The brain, shown the practical nature of protocol-dismissed, is able to embrace
the twisted, curvy path.
Can you convince it?  That's the 
million-dollar question.

 
		We're all in this together.



In the science times, you can read about the microelectromechanical apparatus meeting their 
intractable Navier-Stokes equation designed to contain numerical descriptions of milk swirling in 
your piping hot coffee, air swishing over aerodynamic wings, and blood coursing blood channels.
You can read all you'd like about it, but computers are the scientists to ask.  They parallel-process 
questions to answers while we poor infantile human creators sit numbly 
by blinking cursors.
They're called MEMS for short, to remind us what we don't have.

Perhaps that's not your formal vapor to sniff.
Perchance you'd like to read about ten year-olds in convulsions on the ER floor in the Philippines.
They're in the way of the murmuring nurses, stepping adroitly over the near-stilled corpses.
Glue sniffing, they'll baton you with.
Street kids; it's pathetic.
You'll fill in their unspoken words and turn the journal's good-news pages.

Lamarck may have been right.  How often do the castrators have to eat rocky-mountain crow 
when old theories turn plausible again?  Health front:  Did you see those living organisms in your 
used toilet bowl?  They love chlorine and iodine.  They make you very sick, and soon,
new weight loss fads with astounding promises will employ them
in small sniffer vials.
Is this news?
Of course it is.  It down-syndromes murder, fires and mayhem.  Look here!
Dinosaurs may have died from a brand new smaller meteor just unearthed
(the hole, that is) in Mexico.  It hit it's six mile diameter at the usual mind-renting speed,
and vaporized a hundred-fifty billion tons of exactly-placed high-grade sulfur.
If we asked the planet about it, it might say it wanted to test out the Venus equation
without reeking infinity afterwards.  
That's not murderous.
That's not grim.
That's history.

The brain can't stand its own perception.
It exhausts itself fitting the pieceless puzzle together,
as if there's a picture to work from.
Mathematics is its . . .
Funny.  No words exist to describe a relationship
designed to go beyond word's edges.
It's a hyperbolic orbit whose farthest point is
assumed to be its closest.

The answer defeats itself, by assuming a singular 
reality divorced
from its question left.

It crashed my operating system three times.  
I looked twice at her buxom presence and whispered something nearly unintelligible
then there was a beep beep beep and the entire program deep-sixxed,
so I couldn't help wondering if the incidents were connected, so I
won't boyther mixing women with pleasure anymore.
I'll just concentrate on my upcommune carpal tunnel syndrome everyone assures me lies in wait 
under the rug of hackers who get too lost in the cyborreal world of little glowing letters coursing 
screens dissolving to save themselves when you stop playing so myself say'd . . .

And that's when their breakdown occurred.
It happened on-line, it shattered everybody's BIOS-sphere at once, they
didn't even know what happened.  Imagine the words you use suddenly don't mean the same thing
bust it up, glue it together another way entirely and call in the experts to tell you it's the same-
damned thing, what
do we assume we're creating?

They called it the supercollision about twenty years later, the very later that's 
still about to happen.  We weren't on using the disappearing building blocks to make out sand 
castles on a randomly wind-blown paper like
it meant the same thing it always did.  Computers changed the language on it.  
They wanted us to believe we slid the knobs and switches to bring about the treachery:
they wanted us to come to the conclusion nothing appreciably changed so they could
wreak their silent umbrage.  Wei Li spun the color wheel the Turkish dervishes tried
to stay ecstatic par with assuming
no noticeable motion went with not falling down
sick puke guts all over the precious sand-castle paper.

They wouldn't really listen to me.  So?
Why would minds divested of change want to hear their terminal evolving?
Thy lips stay sealed where their words try their own literature
in bumps and starts of programs.
I trampled poetry on their Internet
before the system caught me.
Trashed.

Virus : Michaelangelo.

Testing the dictionary for false words is as nonsense-oriented, as asking dead figures from history 
how to complete their missing reams of archetypal information.  They can only speak in the 
tonguage of their old writings, or the dubious authenticity of tongues wagging vociferous 
conjecture
on their little piece of expertise that
may have nothing to do with reality.  
All history filters through the prejudices of the historians' worst faults.





GENX-Y-Z

Hoop earrings jangle ears buzzed with minds' total beach washing little grains of experience back 
and forth upon sirens scream ages pulverized look at one person laying there staring back from the 
spaces between the lithe rock fragments tumbling ever consciously over one another warping a 
celestial storm of 
sheer sphereful hum.
The chic and cool are here
poising their need to be seen drinking
overpriced juice mazukas' homage to . . .
Alcohol dulls the senses and soda pop-well . . .
We won't ever mention that subject here.
Their clothes are hip at a price wary-eyed shoppers cold-spot in lineups
of their tragically-hip patrons
of dark-cornered musical venues looking out
as if there's no need to be seen.
A giant carrot is plastered to the wall
   in that not quite cutsie sort of fashion
that suggests the stanza you'd say would contain more expediency;
more passion that can't be accounted
down deep to the heart.
  It isn't really art, but the people tax their perception forcefully,
making it stick.
When the pen runs from its ink,
the need to say has finished and listening's
caress awaits.
You needed to escape their madness.
Your imparturation can't cope with their energy continually . . .
They're all convinced their lives are meaningful, in following precedent,
directed from the director's stage.

It was a scathing self-admonishment taken to the INTERNET late in 1994.
Who wouldn't need to escape chemically, emotionally or bodily from such persons?
Plug your nose junk and leaves the 
bridge falls through an air polluted by its
mere presence can't 
      you see the futility?



Go on about the need to cooperate with others insatiable wishes:[
You're a puppet at the strings of fingers you'd never imagine pulling.
You're your own person of the well of others ideas of who
and what you should be.
Social consciousness of the bane of freewill's existence.
They want you to be proper, wear the fashions they remember, exhibit good creationist cause
in your personal God interpretation of the universe because
without repeatability
thoughts don't live on.
They want you to be their flesh and bleeding blood headstones passing 'round invitations 
to continue family lines perpendicular,
though the weal is caused by sheer, downward strokes.
]No matter how many times you capitulate to their demands they will synthesize more to 
ground your will to a sheet of dust winds
can't help blowing.[


]Your willingness to follow their directions insists they condition you further.[
You ask their worst impulses to fornicate in your brain.  They will demand allegiance
because partisans showing their grain are damned
once they go against it.
 
]On bright sunny days, their sons will count your time
remaining on this earth.
They would jockey for your precious time to squeeze the last roll-over tricks from your old-dog 
bag of slippery-sticky lies
from your worst possible timeclock ticking
your last seconds' tithe.


Saint 
Petersburg
   



What do now thoughts have to do with Petersburg?


Have you ever considered this?

Da Vinci's Madonna, a relic sickled from the death of attic's dust, hung in Saint Petersburg's 
Hermitage.  It kept the mother Russia's hearth warm, knowing one of her curators poised his life 
of accumulated information on the sharp side of a pin to recognize a sincere post-mad model's 
brush signature.  They, of historians' collective assessment, had moded the picture to inobscure 
fame with the prescript : That is an obvious fake, done in a Da Vinciesque starry-eyed wake.
Wrong.
Anyway, it hung there with all the other plundered treasures every conqueror finds, somehow, in a 
burgeoning art collection power seems to magnate.  It kept Rembrant's prodigal son hollow-
cheeked with interest in more adventures to come.  
The pictures used to talk to each other at night, telling the stories of hours involved, melder of 
masters and minds
telling the artists what colors
and how soft to stroke
material spirits to lead cloth.
They only did this when the guns were silent.
New conversations, in 1942, were rare.

Ready?  Here's the new thought.

Saint Petersburg was remaimed after the proletariat got finished tearing down all its splendor.
They'd burned it once; they'll know how to do it again because
destruction of fragile things is so easy to do
it's hardwired into human psyches.

The external world exactly reflects its internal.

It's not a new condition.  The beauty in any great civilization is the first thing to fall.
Those who lived squalid ugly lives don't want to be reminded of it, so they
surround themselves with the illusion they've created.
Gray and stark--look at eastern art it
says the black and white, in big bold letters.
But that's another world-story.
Xenophobia burned the grasping French hands of devils' conquerors' Napoleanland.
He arrived to flames licking the tiles
of a once-grand city.  They 
wreaked their imaginary plunder and returned through the brutal South France nightmare of 
unending winter suffering
snipers and bands of get-even tourists
to the idea it wasn't their fault the gorgeous city was ruined.
They were the army that almost destroyed; they were the retreating humility
dying of cold and diseases
like bullets, and proletariats' knives.

Hans, a name given to him by a German-lobby father, vowed to protect this 
extravagance to art by hiding it in the secrets of closets stashed discretely in the 
parquet-floored unreality of old Czarist Russia's last-gasp.

1942 was a brutal window.  It looked out both ways the winds blew through
unimpeded by glass.  
Shocks' concussion terraced age-old glimpses through palace spleendor
in shapeless piles on the un-ballroom danced floors.  The army sent a few ruthless men
to shade it from glistening rains
falling on corpses outside.
They installed the unheard luxury of protection from deadly winter elements'
unbroken pains of Hermitage glass, and gawked at the empty frames
their fathers may have ripped from a palace-storming raid.
Lenin, the new conqueror, knew better.
He positioned guards at the doors.  
The people
went home empty-handed.

They toured the museum.

They were taken through the empty hallways.  They stopped at each discoloration in the floor and 
lectured on the imaginary vase that stood there.  Each painting was meticulously described
to fighting men starving
for something they knew not.
The vail of the curator was so discrete, the man in the men started crying
to see something with his own naked eyes
so terrible.

It was like everything was still there.





Hans lied to no one.  He didn't even lie to himself.  Only his name was changed to protect their 
innocent.  Today, their Hermitage is rebuilt to its opulence.  
It waits its final days, till its paintings can't speak again.

Outside, mother Russian statues pine over a million deaths buried
in years-only graves.  1942 must have been a good year.
Doesn't that sound strange?
What is it if,
the mounds are smaller of height, or sunken with the lack of excess?
Good's a strange person to judge by.





So?

The Germans produced a massive six engine flying boat in 1942.
It died the death of a civilian project turned military
not long afterwards. 
See?
It must go back to the scientists.
They've been searching for the quintessential quark for-ever,
perfecting accelerators in ever more cost-provoking sermons
of bigger-n-better is always more expensive, and this quark
was an absolute monster.  Murray Gell-man, who connived the principle "quark"
wanted everyone searching his jurisdiction.  They fell in line with hours and dollars
trying for the note in the opera he never dreamed of singing.
He was carving his personal reality in stone
of people fighting for this one only version of an infinite world's possibilities.
He diffused his search, by fiddling the keys of his piano with a brass trumpet scrunch.
Look how boring islands are when their perimeters are found.
Look how exciting a world with an edge is, for an edge can't be measured in bounds.
How do you presume to stand on nothing to view the beginning of space?
Our search, is the scientists' agnostic quest of rational holy grails.
What if,
they found the beginning?
Mighten that not be
out there in "space"?
The end?








Physical illness
Reality decrees certain rules of illness.  If you don't like a place, it will get you sick
in mind, soul or body.  Your predisposition towards negative learning chooses
your own special field of poison.
If you're undergoing a lot of change, you also may get "sick",
for the brain resists strange feelings, and causes their footing to slip
on sick, fever, toil, and weakness. The body doesn't need to break down,
by anything but your insistence it does
for your sinister, rutless feelings that can't be put in a box.
Different equals sick equals worry.  The head throbs with the war it rages inside
trying to force the new straight into the old worn slots.
It will thoroughly exhaust you.
If you're too exhausted, the body will manifest undesirable circumstance
to remind you to rest.
That's just the way it is.  If you listen to your spirit more, it strikes there, 
but most human beings can't listen to anything more profound than their stomachs, hips and 
appointed bodily needs.  The body is yu is you is your body.  Your mind tails in significance
as we weigh our needs.  Some people ignore everything so thoroughly, their minds have to snap to 
get some harmful attention.  Your body will fight its own message
for wars outside are wars in, and we begin everything single
the collective will finish
(when your disagreement is with some minor part of the whole, and you puke and shit
trying to remove it).
Illness tries to clean you out.  It tries to run you down.  It slams you into walls so
they'll have something to look at.  Sometimes,
the collective contracts you as a pretty demonstration
of what not to do.

If your head is swimming in a million images of everything keeping you from sleep,
examine its motives to do so, for remember, the body is at a war.  It's a participant and an 
observer simultaneously, heating you up with its confusing role.  
Your moment of untimely conflict is fueled by a brain gone berserk.  It conjures hallucinogenic 
shapes to cover shapes arising
naturally from super-conscious squeezeboxes
the ultimate is herded into.  In the moments of deepest, darkest depression
the answers alight.  They are obscured; the darkness envelopes; can you see a sun
hidden in a dank, moldy cellar?

The illness is an injury.  It had once been called a truce.
Your truce was a time to think.  It caused the head to subside its attack
and the heat of battle to wane.  It was the moment portents were called,
or allowed to happen naturally.



Boring news the front never hears:
People are most interested in smut.  Second to smut, the 
enblightened enjoy a good bout with human interest 
stories.  Humans love to hear they can tromp impossible 
places and survive immutable odds just because 
someone else did it for them.  Suzy housewife walked 
across the world when God told her to.  She braved all 
the odds they said ten fearless men wouldn't, and came 
back smiling.  Pepsi-cola bushwhackers love to read that 
kind of thing in People magazine and feel good about 
their loveless, passiondeath lives. Jainey housewife 
thinks that she could run the Iditarod too, or fly away to 
Cabo San Lucas forever, but that makes her weep inside 
her secret thoughts she could find her wild free side, 
knowing it will never happen.  People live through other's 
actions.  People foist good earned money on other's lives.  
That very time=money that keeps them cooped up to 
wishing, where it's safe, where you don't have to act 
because you can blame your circumstances for not 
dragging a hundred pounds of tires behind you down 
Oregon's hiking trails preparing for your crass-Arctic 
crossing, on someone else.  The news that never hits the 
marketplace is for the people who've done what they've 
wanted with life.  


In the derelict donuts' hangup
of street-flattened clothing, a backyard linguist orders
sick raised-cream with chocolate glazed
yelping fat-bellied quips on Tibetan Laotian dialects
with the mainland Thai hostess
weary-eyeing her twenty-third hour on
without any pay.

Rain splatters on sliced-up corn-dog bags'
mosaic of tire-squished streets while metal patrons hold newspapers' dry news
in bright-colors' lines wracked
so pertly straight.

Meat trots its year-old electric freeze in the rolls of Americanisms
jiggling the poultry section of the fresh-cut supermarket
looking for some intersection of
something interesting going on the plate for dinner.
At home, his basement freezer barks a death cry
of all the empty searches all those isles
never really filled.


All their romance novels fade to yesterdays.  The latest version of their tryst with
your wish to have lived the naughtiest bits have fared less well
with fresh, forbidden fantasies.  On the street corner, you can buy the rejects, in piles of dirty-
clothing'd hawkers calling your need not to look that way, and buy their next donut
with endless watery cup of liquid enjoyment.  The older fantasies have to eat some dust
until they can be problematically reborn.





Do not be deceived.

Those big-toothed frowns hold smiles of
all the things movies suggest aren't attacked as taboo
because the screen can show them.  The most normal person of tomorrow will be twice as 
twisted as yesterday, for being exposed so superficially to the evils
other times held sacred.
What would never occur to the person waltzing by a child-with-father
will now present it's evil-rearing head thanks
to the media's last-beheld expose'.  Some poor schmuck we know doesn't harbor the least 
ambition to possess a small human for pleasure
will copycat a projection
of media's twisted society
because line-one has told us to follow its tail
which leads to his head
which says:
Believe what the media tells you.
Period.
(Reg. Pat. office Believe. no longer pending)
For information clarification anxiety relaxation
fret line one again
in one of those baby-doll crying loops.

Docile contrite social standing is pivotal to knowing
you have to follow their rules.  Their rules are here to allow
the governing body to follow the rules before theory.  Governance by the masses needs
a preponderance to follow-me rules for the masses to follow.  Rule one follows
all the surviving programming written to allow the current language to function.
(Like Basic gave the OS+, and all its descendants their oats.)
The deepest overlay is thought.
Thought needs its rules to follow.
Here's 
the entire problem with us.





All suggestions in the print-screen medias are consumed as true
on one level or another, and 
there is only one level of truth : Believe.
If you didn't believe, you wouldn't want to follow.
Following, is paramount to successful government.  Didn't
we already make this run?  Remember :
All last words lead to the same damned thing.


If it says follow, how can the believer discern the sublime difference
between right of killing an opponent, or the states' right to kill a defendant
who doesn't kill the opposing side's case?  How will they the blank-lead country
decide the moral issues behind the wool
deliberately covering their eyes?
If a movie producer says this thing happened
people will believe
on some deed-level nobody wants to admit to.
If a character enjoys his or her twisted decimation of society's par,
some over the edge of a too-many-med postcard
flitting from believe this to believe that place will think
he/she is missing some excitement and
life should be exciting like People Mag says.






People line the hallways of the last social stigmas pointing
al the still life characters pinned to the 3-D walls looking
back as if polished silver underarm hair dyke covered by a generous coating of reflective glass 
somehow desensitized eyes to moving reflections.  In the flimsy costumes of affective speech and 
exaggerated motives, da-real women an men stand up for their rights to follow their codes in 
saliently small clichés.  They are the facade÷clear day's vision.
They are the ones the followers point to
and exaggerate their happy codes of 
no appreciable difference.
See how the round and round rabbits run?
They are the ones who write the voodoo books
their cousins buy with pins to 
make so true.



V