Total Sum of Less than Zero
That was fucked.
“Whatcha gonna do?”
I wouldn’t’ve let the jagoff get away with that shit, that’s for sure.
“Hoz, it was a dream.”
First off, the jagoff was from Boston. … Boston. Then the guy belit—
“See! Boston? Why would I ever dream of someone from Boston? Where does that shit come from? … I had no control. It was a dream.”
[Weird dream. … Sinclearly was with a large group of revelers at a rock show. The scene was good and raunchy. He knew a few of the folks he was with, some of our pushing-50 Motorhead-loving peeps, but others he did not know. As the show was going on he became more and more comfortable toking and joking around these strangers as it became quickly apparent to him that they were friends with the folks we know, maybe they were their coworkers, or maybe they were from their other orbits of friendships. … It was an outside venue; it was a pleasant night out. Even legal exhales materialized in the night air, but the crowd’s gyratory state took the chill out of the collective mind’s atmosphere. Chalice was even sweating a bit. … Damn, the music was good: jangly, rocking; the kind of boogying that brings you back to those nights when whiskey leaked from the flask down the crack of your ass and you couldn’t stop shaking it up out on the floor – the crowd never dancing for a fight, but never sweating over one coming neither. … The show ended, everyone was feeling zoned, right on. The group Chalice was a part of made it out of the venue and everyone began looking for cabs to grab (they were obviously in the city, the skyline visible), until one of his long-time friend’s friend surprised them all by pointing out the large helicopter he had lined up to fly everyone in the group to the after-show party on the other side of town, where the band they just saw was going to do a little private, acoustic thing, and there’d be more booze, more partying. I knew all of this because you just know these things in your dreams, right? … So Chalice climbs into the helicopter with everyone else. There was a bunch of them, so it got real crammed in there. Chalice was buzzing pretty good. Everyone got all sort of intertwined with one another before the helicopter lifted off. In the air, Chalice began feeling self-conscious. Our long-time Motorhead-loving friends were now hanging around people doing really cool things and making really big money at it. There was talk of working on movie sets, of being at Playboy Magazine, of advertising, of greenrooms on Broadway. It seemed like most of the strangers in the helicopter were in some artistic endeavor – sound designers, assistant directors, screenplay writers, editors, etc. And then there was old basemented, cubicle-dwelling, wannabe poet, self-publishing paranoid schizophrenic—old Chalice Sinclearly me. … So there’s this conversation going on and Sinclearly’s really feeling down on himself, and he glances up – he was on the helicopter’s floor – and this sleaze-ball looking dude – handsome, donning a few days stubble over his sculpted cheek bones; just very Mediterranean in appearance; every wife’s wet dream, really – total sleazeball—so this dude looks Sinclearly square in the eyes, and as a natural contributing and facilitating statement to the discussion at hand, says right at him, “I’m looking at the total sum of less than zero right here in front of my eyes.” … Ugh. And that fucking disgusting New England accent. … And cut.]
You should have dropped him.
“Easy, Hoz. I was like a pretzel in there, all tied up like I was on that floor. I couldn’t have thrown a punch if I wanted. … Anyhoo, let’s change the subject before you really say something we all regret about a large and historic region of American Culture.”
I know why you were dreaming of Boston.
“Pray tell, Mr. Know It All.”
You got revolution on the mind. … They might all now be Southie-wannabes cruisin’ The Hub for a wicked rippah, but it was the epicenter of our Revolution – our only all-out kill-the-rulers revolution. … Boy, you got some revolution on that there mind. Getting all heated up and politicized these days. … Seems like just yesterday when you looked upon blatantly political art as disgusting, as not being art at all but rather mere commentary. I know you don’t like the thought of being political in your work, but Chalice, listen man, it’s only natural that we’d start giving a shit about the greater world at this point in time: today; this hour of the Great Test of American Testes, when the world is becoming more and more unreal, unread, de-truthed, and so in turn our basemented cause is becoming a less and less meaningful, pertinent rebellion. Being political isn’t going to turn you into an academic-bound per-usual-Lefty. … I wouldn’t think. … I’d think it’d make you a man – a caring and thoughtful participant in the human race. It’s you climbing out of me; you getting my head unwrapped from around us. … A good thing. An American thing.
[The work by Chalice that is here under discussion:
A Perspective from Chicago
You can stone-out, go into pillow-mode and seep into concept
As each brick’s craftily laid – encircling as, too, amounting – as one’s,
An artist’s, memories schism into imagination and keep on discording
On until acidly mastered in the mortared lines and angles of a nooks
And crannies paranoia: A crazed mood of reclusive-longing patience
Wherein sound mind-wanting wails transmute inward to the cinema
That is the underfold of auditory effects essaying the outside reality
Amidst lyrics lapped with the madcap connects of an insider’s view:
“Mother did it need to be so high?”
Or, like that one wall:
You could have movie-starred with a monkey, then emerged beyond
Your witch hunter days into an era nationalized by amateurs icing machines
In a heated miracle on ice, wherein you’d scare non-Christians into un-blind-
Folding what’s ours; and confounding Putin’s mentors, this era, too, saw other
Non-Christians reclaim guerilla warfare as Freedom’s warfare (as our own
Muzzle-bearing Patriots did for our birth, but none since); despite your hostility
To the revolutionary imagination, you still – in an era still without the emoti-
Con – could preserve enough of some socio-moral core to word into history:
“Tear down this wall!”
But your wall:
You in your all-about-me belief use the anti-tremendous vocabulary
Of a playlot’s jagoff (the punk who we in our struggling Progressive decorum
Must unfortunately permit to breach us: the type of brat every parent, not just
His or her own, needs to smack down), Twatterly believing that in ratings
Lies a God-given entitlement to come between the legion on which we make
Our stand and the high-blue expanse of Hope’s great encompassing vision,
Like as if, jagoff, you can cut our imagination’s sighting of the Wicked Witch
On her floor sweeping ride, a middle finger raised, spelling us under her script:
~Begun on January 25, 2017. Let go of on April 25, 2017.]
“Whoa, whoa, whoa there, Mr. Rabble Rouser. … Let’s not get too carried away with pride or sentimentality here. And please, don’t you ever go trying to coax me up and out into conciliation from the maddening reservation of this basement. Ever. … Zap ‘em with your sirens, man! Zap ‘em with your sirens!* … All we should really be concentrating on today is stepping the fuck away from our Gizmobation, and figuring out where my next buzz is coming from.”
* American Photojournalist (Dennis Hopper) welcoming the boat in Apocalypse Now.