Gonbeen Man

Gonbeen Man

Sitting in the back yard feeding leftover noodles and goat’s milk cheese to my dog (consider feta and watermelon, my currently favorite gorge; make sure you get both in your mouth at the same time), eyeing the hammock, thinking about putting new strings on my guitar, trying to write something. Summertime, and So much to do.

Two motorcycles sit by, waiting to be worked on. One needs a fair amount of attention, the other very little. Wander over and start one. every so often, just to hear the sound, smell the juice. My tools are scattered and I can’t find the paint. Dog barks at the mailman and I wander back to the tripewriter.

If I put the strings on the guitar I’ll wind up playing it for at least an ijour and I may not find the typewriter until tomorrow. Might as well stay with it.

My cousin Harvey calls to ask do I know how opossums fuck? It seems he’s got a ten dollar bet with a guy he works with who says that they conceive through the nose. Actually, the plural of opossum should be opossa, and I never fucked one anyway.

In 1938 the State of Wyoming produced one-third of a pound of dry, edible beans for every man, woman and child in the nation.

That’s 50,000,000 pounds of beans, friends.

How many days have I spent like this? A curly black dog wanders by,\ looking as if he knows what he’s about. My dog moves towards him and he runs off. I eat cherries, kind of soft and small, heavy tasting, and spit the pits onto the grass.

I wish the typewriter had metal keys so they’d heat up in the sun and burn my fingers as I type. You’re beginning to fade, reader. Wilson stalks a Blue Jay. Big red and white striped ball. Kick it to the dog, chase it with him, and he’s too full to do much and I get bored so easily.

Went on a picnic with Francois, who thinks he knows what evil is: a flying ant, a caboose. Why do I feel so old? Evil is live spelled backwards, and not much on my mind. What kind of duck has a yellow belly? Do you have any idea what time it is? I always thought that with good prose, you’d feel the time of day.

So. Summer and good smells, and just going inside to eat and sleep. Not too much to say and plenty of little' things to do. I don’t know.

Listen, I do have something to tell you about. It’s called The Quarterly Journal of St. John’s Bread Wednesday Messenger and Paranoid Flash Illuminator, and it just came in the mail from 73 Market St., Venice, California 90921 (home of the 12 Famous Buddha Minds School). I don’t know how to describe it, I don’t know who puts it out (they call themselves the 7 Mighty Anvils), I don’t know how much it costs, if anything, but it’s truly outrageous.

If nothing else, I can thank the Wednesday Messenger for introducing me to the great mystic, Saint Fuck, variously described as “a professional student, shooting for a third degree burn” and some other stuff. His Mantra is “St. Fuck come for us.” There is some very heavy theology involved here: “If God is Garbage, then our salvation is salvage.” Tra la la, as they say, there’s quite a bit going on here. More, perhaps, than reaches the senses.

The whole thing is sort of like a lysergicized Mad Magazine, replete with multileveled word play and helpful hints. I don’t know if it’s sold anywhere (“if we are successful in materializing as a new element,”advise the Seven Mighty Anvils, “watch for us on your periodic tables”), but if you wrote to them at the above address, they might /send you some of their madness. All Power to the Lunatic Fringe, as they say.

It has been suggested by some that I advise you all that loose lips sink ships. This I do herewith.

Maintain.

Deday LaRene