SMILEY-MAN CHRONICLES

-1- When I was a little boy, I went out to find the secret knowledge; at least, I thought that was my job description. If I acquired the knowledge, I was to tell no one. I divined certain methods for discovering it: one was to walk in a straight diagonal from my house as far as possible without getting hit by a car or falling into a lake. Also I was to fall in love with many little girls, and kiss them. This was another way straight into the secret knowledge. And, of course, kissing was not for telling. All the poets of the hidden mystery are quietly trying to tell what they know. All of our parents were trying to tell us all along, or so we thought. Some of us decided our parents knew nothing. Our poor parents--they were hiding just nothing. This was the first grown-up thought that you could get into your little head. This was a hard thought to have in yonder head. Once that thought gets in there, you start dying. Before that, you are out of time, quite literally. There is no time. That is the glory time in being a kid. One day, as I was on my bike searching for the hidden mystery, I experienced the whole world turning and rotating about other heavenly bodies. And one of these heavenly bodies was Susan Mauer, and the whole galaxy was expanding about Susan Mauer’s body. She said to me, “Michael, come and kiss me up in the tree.” We got married inside of that kiss, for real. Actual miracles occur everyday. This is part of the kissing history of the clocky-turnings of the hidden mystery. I grew up in a rough neighborhood--at least it was rough on the edges--and the edges were always moving center. I learned early that if you just looked at somebody the wrong way, that could make them want to kill you. That old saying about how “if looks could kill” is really only true in reverse. Much of the secret knowledge is obtained by reversing the common thought either a full l80 degrees, or just tweaking it 45 or 90 or whatever degrees you need. Nothing is known for sure. Apropos of this is that some people (and I am one of them) can stare at somebody--even at the back of their head when they are walking far ahead up the street--and make them turn around. They can feel that stare. And it even works through glass! This sounds like an ad for a new cleaning product, but it’s true. I can stare at somebody through the glass window of a store, even if they are facing the other way, and make them turn around. This is testimony to the vibrational nature of the universe. This is part of the secret knowledge that is still secret though everybody knows it, so I guess this is a bit of the paradoxical hidden mystery that exists in the world of being blind--or blindom as I like to call it. The world of blindom is the black-hole of luck. It’s like when your lucky ring disappears. It doesn’t just get lost; it actually de-constructs. It rolls off your finger, rolls along the ground and then quite literally disappears--matter destroyed (despite Newton’s first law of physics). Other aspects of The Chronicles will testify to the destruction of other physical as well as moral laws, because even if folks really need that government check, we sure as hell are gonna make it hard for them to get it. It’s not really Old Testament (do unto them the same kinda thing that got done unto you); it’s more like leaky New Testament with a kind of Old Testament eye-for-an-eye meanness to it. Now I know that you’re probably wondering about now where this is all heading. Is it heading into your bedroom window and then directly into your body? You’re wondering if this could be heading toward a happy ending or a tragic beginning. You’re wondering if this will be boring, plotless, sexless, rambling and if it will squander you’re money. That is, will it be expensive, both spiritually and financially. You see when I was a child, that same guy kept showing up all the time. That guy who chased you off the stoop for playing step-ball at your building, that guy who thought you were always making a little too much noise for him. Then that same guy turns out to be one of your relatives, a third cousin, who the hell knows. Maybe he wanted to pull your pants down, who the hell knows. Maybe he wanted to kiss your little person. Maybe you don’t even have a little person, who the hell knows! You see, in the old days it was well known that through the cracks in the heads of crazy people, some of the secret knowledge comes through, and that these people, be they just fools, are our fools, and we are suppose to take care of them and listen to them and learn from them and respect them. Come hell or high water. The American Indians knew this, and the medicine men made big medicine out of it. But the white man made big business and disintegrated the free range, because the White insists that everything be owned by somebody--even the beach, even the oceans, even the very thoughts in your head. This is innately an irreverent and anti-religious concept. No wonder they got to go to church so much. Just swivel this concept around about 49 degrees and you’ll see what I mean. Where did compassion go? The world is starving for compassion. But now THEY are running everything. And of course THEY think that what the world needs are just real good problem solvers, net-workers, and businessmen, and good technology people, and then, therefore, there’s nothing that these little suckers can’t solve. If we only knew what the problems were! Hold off on the answers. What we need are some creative minds to elucidate the problems. First Sounding: (Barely a Chuckle-Tone): This is the story of Spithead, England down there in the holy war with the Challenger ship goin’ down there deep into The Atlantic lookin’ for cross currents of civilization down there upsides the head. I was workin’ in a restaurant and drinkin’ myself to death and I was wonderin’ if the new band should be called Dig Johnson or Little Big Horn Candy Corn--a dance band about how the Indians danced over Custer’s last stand--and after that, they knew they had to go, and all the chiefs knew it, and the day would never come back, but at least they sent those savages down to Davy Jones’ Locker. They named a lot of towns Spithead after that, and Dry Gulch, and Tombstone--all dead names--and they tore up the land and turned everything into microchips, hoping that the white-man could imagine himself outta this one, but he couldn’t unless you were willing to print up new money and put your own picture on it. He invented that computer in his own image and they started makin’ em a lot smaller so you could eat em like sugar cubes in the morning with your cereal, and if you were suppose to do something, well, you could just tell em all to leave your house this instant and you could look it up with the satellite dish and lower your laundry down into a big worry tube that takes all the cotton outta it and replaces it with pentium III processors. Then the ball-game would come on and everybody could root for them glory guys, but even they couldn’t bring the buffalo back for real, just for decoration, and you can’t really give the whole fucking country back, so you all might as well come on down to Spithead, England and get yourself a big boat and go on out and do some soundings. It feels real good to be young again and to take a bath with a boat. This was just a test. There’s a lefty Jones Band song called “Faith in Blues, that’s a big Faith”, which