Kelly the physical therapist the past decade remarks on mv stiffness of carriage, lately got worse about it, bothering me to use my Medicare and see an MD in order to begin this process of acquiring this hormone stuff, special anti-inflamatory. I dislike going out to do business with strangers for anything, disrupts my routine, meditations. I had figured I would run upon a chiropractor friend somewhere sometime, but should find a large batch of acid meantime again, in my purposes, longevity. Acid would be a less effort, get up a chunk of money and seek the right younger generation, and maybe I know where to go at Port Aransas, but it is still an effort. I did tell Kelly I needed the acid and he snorted. Somewhere back I lost a lot of patience, and too Kelly is an old acid head.

Kelly - who has the most credibility within the Olives - and I the least - monetarily in today's world within the Olives I am the failure and took SSI, thanks Richard - so what they all know Bill does not lie - why ever should he, after all - Bill is but a tad mad or suspect - Kelly went and told Lyla to find an MD for Bill, I guess is how it went. He did not mean simply a chiropractor, yet Lyla called up this local office and got me an appointment. Thus, nothing else for it, I had to go down and see an Aransas Pass chiropractor, Dr. Gregg Godfrey. Two Gs in Gregg, irregular.

This is a young transplanted yankee, wife is an airline hostess and Dr. Godfrey has been in his practice and in this locale only six years. The first day he had me exrayed and my exrays alarmed me. My pelvis is crooked so one leg hangs longer and my neck slants the wrong way and all my spine is out of whack. He asked what trauma had my neck suffered. I said I was not altogether sure but maybe this fight (re. EMERYVILLE) "aout ten years ago." Being that about that point, pullups got harder, and then two more years the neck took cramps and lost flexibility to the right, I have always wondered. I learned how to work with it - 30 neck bridges a morning, no more, no less, keeps pain away. Dr. Godfrey said it looked a little older than ten years ago and as I thought about it overnight I saw indeed that fight was longer than that ago, was impressed. According to deduction - torn knee of jeans - I had slipped off the curb, wherein lucky Bu got the right hand on my corner of jaw, and the one that split my ear lobe, and I could not well remember this particular fight. I recall, I did not feel like continuing the affair, but philosophically had to so got on top of him. Dr. Godfrey said I am in the top ten percent of damaged patients he gets, but that, unlike many of these, who are irreparable, I can be fixed somewhat, because of my musculature. The musculature can hold it together when he gets it back together. For this, he has a four month plan. Saying my working out has saved me, I could pass for forty. Ah, forty-five, I said.

Dr. Godfrey says my progress is surprisingly rapid. Mebbe so. I have waited a journey to recovery, whether Bu could have done all that in two licks, set my neck bone curving backward instead of forward. But chiropractic is a little too logical for the more regular MDs. It is vision of brain commanding spine commanding body, commanding health, sanity. But before I go to him I take four aspirin and do my workout, so am loose. We got progress, so why speak of it to him yet. I am getting to know him somewhat, and his philosophy uses no drugs and the first session he requested I put off my working out, for a week. I did then, one week.

Bob Parlocha does the all night jazz show for NPR of Chicago, which the Corpus Christi NPR is now using. Couple weeks somewhere back I was dozing in a middle of a night he ran a Kerouac excerpt, a thing hosts of jazz shows do sometimes. Bob Parlocha is a talker, in some context he brought up Lord Buckley, a funny man popular in Kerouac's time. Then Parlocha said something about we cannot get good satire anymore because "reality is too bizarre." I awoke fully. He said since around 1980 reality is too bizarre for satire. YMy man! That date I called the CC NPR to get a mailing address for this fine fellow and next day drank my three Guinness Stouts or three Negra Modelos and did him an apistle of greeting.

In DORIS #20, Cindy (my favorite living writer) pitches for EMERGANCY #4, MONSTERS, by this Ammi. Cindy's printing a passage off the first page got me interested. I ordered EMERGANCY #4 for me and Madrea. When it came on in I had to get out of the middle of ANNA KARENINA and read it twice.

Cindy had said: This zine is half novel, and the kind that makes me happy about literature, our people, documentation. Also it made me say "great, she wrote the novel, now I don't have to" like she beat me to it somehow even though our stories are completely different. This is good. Get it. Ammi, P0 Box 72023 NO, La 70172. $2.

After my second read I call it a novel. It is 64 pages but Ammi gets her experience into one novel. I have not read anything for some years that is this strong and complete. No, I am not done with ANNA KARENINA before Xmas,which is slow for me now.

Cindy, Ammi, Leigh Vega, are much in common, while talented writers. Distinctly individual they live the "punk" lifestyle. They and friends are moving around, in no respect for authority. Female, they are eating and sleeping with their people in situations that are frequently threatening. In a vision of love and humor and courage they survive.

Oil's the thing

Most U.S. citizens wish to have Iraq's oil.
All politicians speak of the coming assault on Iraq as having to do with weaponry.
Are we ripe for some leader who does not have this disconnect?

Bill Blackolive
(Aransas Pass)

The Corpus Christi Caller Times surprised me by printing the above, early December. And turn of 2003 has the Korean matter and U.S. TV multi barking setting the U.S. public a tad apprehensive of the unknown....We need that oil because we use it but are we really the least popular nation on Earth? Where is our God?

My kid and her mother got on in here for Xmas by bus. Lyla and Bonnie paid it. Lyla's children all managed Xmas here this time but Madrea was the sole grandchild of the three grandchildren. Cynthia, beerholic chainsaw sculptor genius crafts lady who survived brain surgery a few years back and ran me out of there with the local police re. LL, was the sanest I have known her. I brought her a sixer of quality beer every day and we were proud of our product. Isn't it great, I said. We're a couple of maladjusted people but we have this fine young lady. Cynthia agreed. It is nice watching Madrea and her mom smoke their pot together. Kelly provided the pot luckily, as they would not bring any on the bus in psychotic times. There is plenty room in this house to do all this now. Just go through my room upstairs out onto deck over car port. Since a good three decades back B.E. had taken to smoking pot with us, and could even get freaky but deny marijuana had any effect on him, and then his emphesemia got him badly, he quit any pot, would partake of cigarettes only when a cigarette smoking guest visited, it was assumed much of his worsening mental and physical condition was alcohol, and I, and Cynthia, are categorised alcoholic too.

The government crack thing hit and the media lumped all illicit drugs. B.E. forbade any pot smoking in his house or else he could said he "lose all I have ever worked for."

We smoke upon the deck in order to not disturb Lyla unnecessarily, and also we drank our brew. Madrea does not care for beer but she will have a bit of wine sometimes, holds it well too. The hippies in the U.S. of A. lost. But not my kid and her mom and me. Yay, LSD forever.

At this time the bus stop in Aransas Pass is this nearby convenience store. When I took them there for their departure Cynthia had been tanking on beer pretty good for the long boring ride. She is a lager person but run out of lager she downed a couple of my Guinnesses before I got them to this bus stop. They had a lot of luggage and I was getting out the luggage and Cynthia went into the store to pee. The Muslim clerk detected alcohol, said she was too drunk to ride the bus, and he was calling officials, or something like this which Cynthia came out and reported, to Madrea then me, they were telling me this. Bullshit, I said, seeing the luggage ready to truck over the the bus, the bus pulling in now. We got the luggage to bus and themselves boarded without further idiot incidence. Two days later they called telling me how there had been a change of wheel on the highway that threw off the schedule considerable. They were just in, calling me, but they were home.

Sasquatch may be as "intelligent" as we are. Naturally I have somewhat followed this. That there is at least one species of human on Earth besides homosapien.

The Dear Reader should recollect Mike Olive's amazing retorts to fact in LAST LAUGH, for example the U.S. A-bombing of Japan facts, for example the headless chicken who walked and congregated among the other chickens. Couple days before Mike returned to Boulder this time, where he identifies as scientific scholar/mountain climber, he left his pulp fiction reading to look in on a Discovery Channel program I was watching, on Sasquatch. A valid program this time, no sensationalism, showing the two Sasquatch videos, the 1967 classic, now one from 1997. The critter is long armed but wonderfully bipedal. Mike had come on in and sat down because he overheard these four scientists/specialists with their hi-tech. In contrast with this running Sasquatch, the program flashed some gorillas bouncing in their foilage.

Mike Olive: These Big Feet just never look like apes.

Bill: Goddamnit, Mike. Sasquatch is bipedal! It is human!
Chimpanzies are bipedal.
They are not!
Chimpanzies can stand up and walk around pretty good. That is bipedal.
Mike! My god! What is your stock in this? Chimpanzies are not bipedal! Goddamn! What's wrong with you! Please be quiet! I am trying to listen to this!

And ho hum, another one of a kind dialogue between Mike and Bill. My brother is a crazy man. Here is this guy who wili be so helpful, to do anything physical, if with reckless judgement, enthusiastically, maniacally, inspired. A popular fellow indeed. Saying he is an experienced wrapper, had worked in a glass ware factory or some damn thing, he packed and mailed B.E.'s old .22 repeater rifle, never used, Xmas gift from the ashes to Cynthia and Madrea. So what his weird war with any wider cosmic dimension. Yeh, before this evening he went on back to his pulp fiction, he uttered strange stuff, such that he could fake dermal ridges. As in fingerprints, of these footprints - besides fakes, the fakes do not count - which are many and go for miles nobody has time to keep following.

So very interesting to me, these dermal ridges, of a biped's foot, are not of human as we know human nor ape as we know ape, and my brother tried to repeat two stories of his he had forgotten I have heard, one the sherpa he met on some trip somewhere in this country, and this sherpa says he has seen what are called Yeti footprints but he himself has seen no Yeti, and Mike's other story is some friend expert who says there is nothing about Big Foot in any of the Indian legends. Goddamnit, Mike, I have already heard this! Hell, other sherpas have seen Yetis! And I don't care! Goddamnit, Mike, Sasquatch is an Indian name! All these programs refer to Indian legend but you never watch these programs! Your friend is a fool and you are a fool for believeing him! Mike Olive headed onward about some scientist in California taking a shit and seeing this Big Foot and how come he Mike Olive who has spent so much time in these mountains never sees any Big Foot. Goddamnit, Mike, don't take it so personally! If I was a Big Foot I sure as hell would not want to be seen by any homosapiens, idiots who want to shoot one to bring it in! Hell, these critters are smart! They can smell very good! Bill, said scholarly Mike, you are one of these peopie from the other side of the argument, who say the Big Feet only come out at night. Ah, shit, Mike! What's wrong with you! God!

The 1997 video is taken by picnickers some hundreds of yards from this figure loping smoothly along, yet seemingly hunched over, till it gets a bit taller on reaching trees and getting from sight. Later, a human athlete is had to cover the same path, and he is not smooth. I cannot guess, why in all this technology the Sasquatch runner is not brought in close, on the Discovery Channel.

I cannot remember was it a year ago or two years ago, Bix had had a rough draft of SERGEANT FELIX and returned it and I having lost the SERGEANT FELIX manuscript did this new draft. I sent it to Jackson Jones at TexasGang.Com, and he put it online. I forget how I lost the supposed final draft of SERGEANT FELIX, and there was a sequel, THE RETURN OF SERGEANT FELIX, but I think I had sent carbons to my first ex, Charmaine Black-Olive, poetess. She is the lady with me on the cover of the 1978 edition of 2000 copies of TEXAS GANG, and she took to prosac and quit communicating, or for a decade or so. My latest take on SERGEANT FELIX got longer, took on a twist of THE RETURN OF SERGEANT FELIX, its ending, our scuffle when he had stolen a tarp of mine, and other digression too went into this draft. Last night I looked at this latest of the story, I could not remember having written anything so messy. Looped, too much alcohol at my Brownrat den in Port Aransas. Only have drunk letters to old friends, or women I obsessed upon, been so looped, I am a circular writer but SERGEANT FELIX had got unclear. Back in Port Aransas when I did it, I had lent it to an old friend, a journalist, and when he returned it, he said he had not cared for it very much, too disorganised for him. But he is a journalist, and had never been able to get into TALES FROM THE TEXAS GANG, which is great, and, when two decades later he heard some TG on tape he was surprised and dug it, and consequently I disregarded his critique of SERGEANT FELIX. I got around to looking at SERGEANT FELIX last night to see what my friend was maybe critical of. Whoo, what a mess.

Oh well, thought I. I went on to reading in these later parts of ANNA KARENINA, which has become slow for me. Dozing, listening to Bob Parlocha's jazz selections, I began to decide to do another draft of SERGEANT FELIX inside this present LL, so what such length and etc. Then, thought I in sleepy realm, why not follow up the clearer SF with a couple pages of WILD BILL IN BERKELEY IN THE SIXTIES, in order to show how I wrote better in later sixties than looped at Port Aransas in the later nineties - the sixties excerpt would be not edited, real. Sure, as last LL I had appreciation about the New York stuff where I had taken a break from the Berkeley insane true love, (ah, disturbed, this young woman friend was disturbed) I would toss in this street fight and stuff in NY.

And, no. This is not what LAST LAUGH is about. LAST LAUGH is ongoing essay of today. Old work has to take care on its own.

Nephew Geoffrey is interested in his family's old histories, I should lend him my surviving cdpy of WILD BILL IN BERKELEY IN THE SIXTIES. I had another copy of it but Bix's puppy chewed it up in the seventies somewhere. It is Charmaine's favorite of my stuff, she had my sole copy before sending it back to me in the nineties, before she got on prosac and quit our correspondence. Ahh, histories.

What other American writer has all this. Legend in my own time. An insane romantic, a no bullshit street fighter. And, U.S. publishers got lobotomized. Disconnect. Kind of like nobody asking pro-lifers so called, don't these innocent aborted fetuses simply head on to Heaven?

Hey, Dear Reader! Cindy Ovenrack, Leigh Vega, Ammi Keller, emotive prose talent, all have it! But look here, unchanged, from BERKELEY, Bill in New York! LAST LAUGH today, in as this chapter is too slow and we are talking about Bill. Give me another Negra Modelo. When I run off from disturbed Wanda. Poor girl, damn, I cannot do everything. I wonder what she is like in her later fifties. Word in 1980 was she weighed 280 lbs. Five feet five but big bones, I dunno. Hell, I wanted to breed. Yes, she would have had to get a job. And cross all her black family for a hippie. Shit. Such is life. Then came Cudilus, the black beauty, sophisticated by nature, maybe she is reading because I have been dreaming of her. But more I dream now of the last one, the Schizoid Beloved. She is reading is it. They quit menstruation and I am the youngest man on Earth, perhaps. It is not my fault.

For a day or two Lenny and I had harmony. Soon though he was irritable with me and giving me daily sermons and showing poor respect for things I did or believed, same as in the old days. He had to be older and keeping a sort of noise advantage around the small apartment. He could get very dramatic giving his sermons. The sermons were the like a drunken Irish priest might lay out for his wayward teenage nephew. Lenny was Catholic, but he didn't like the Puerto Ricans. He didn't like the Negroes either. He did not mind if I did, he didn't mind when years ago I brought a Negro friend over for supper one evening. I wouldn't call him a true racist. Many sorts of people he did not like, he used names like "niggerbeatnic," "the spics," every other male was faggot or queen, actual women were simply bitches. He was not unhappy, it was his sport to sneer and snicker, and not arriving at any other edge with me he kept the noise edge. He let me have one sermon in the morning and sometimes one for the evening, days I wasn't working. The sermons didn't bother me, I went about doing my things, typing or lifting his barbell, or eating something, and there he would sit or pace and rap the American sort of thing, if you leave out homosexuality, and due his flair for drama he was good, better than L.B.J., whom he thought was the best president we ever had. There Was a Christmas eve a few years ago we were looking at a priest on TV go through a stylish oration of the occasion, I wasn't that impressed and after it was done Lenny stood and gave it to me all over again, even touching his nose in the fashion of that priest for emphasis.

I got no better about Wanda. I was writing her friend Leslie constantly trying to find out about her. I got a job in a zipper factory to get bus money, wondering to leave New York. Lenny cooked me wonderful meals while I worked, whether he was hungry or not, whether we got along or not, usually we did not particularly, he preferred it that way. Fuck Wanda, he said. That's what I want to do, I said. He never respected my romances. I had the idea of getting set up with a job and place, Wanda had told me before the last quarrel she would probably come to New York if I did such, for she did need to travel, but I was very restless and bored lifting boxes in the zipper factory at minimum wage, had no trade, was never used to working, always had trouble regulating myself to eight hour schedules, saw nothing good coming from what I was doing except to get a little bus money together because I never did like to hitch hike. I had worked about two days, I had the address of Wanda's sister and it was on a Friday evening I got the number and called the L.A. address, only got hold of her sleepy brother-in-law, who told me Wanda was out. Lenny came in and didn't seem to mind the long distance call. I had not heard from Mike Mann and went outto take a subway to the Village. A couple of blocks from the apartment I saw two Negroes leaning on a mail box, wearing the do-rags they used to flatten their hair in those days. I had thought they might give me trouble, which in a bad mood I wanted. I had on tight jeans and they thought I was too prissy. I might have been. The larger said something, I had crossed the street at the corner before I was sure, I looked back, he said whatever he said again. I saw a cop close by, gestured to the cop, walked back to them. You walk like a sissie, said the big spade. Maybe you'd liketo go some place with me so we can see who's a sissie, said Bill Olive, or to that effect. He amiably agreed. We walked down to a darker area. The amiable spade was interested why I was so willing to get it on, asked me if I knew judo or something. Naa, said I. Just a little of this and that, a little wrestling, a little boxing, just this and that. The other one suggested we go have a beer and forget it. I just want to see what this cat gets, said the big friendly fellow. Rather friendly myself, I told the smaller one to stay out of it, just let it be between me and his friend. We turned down the dark end of the block, and too soon for me who am fair at avoiding police he wanted to begin it. I agreed, put my glasses on top of a parked car, told the other one not to bother my glasses now. I was ready, asked him if he was. Yeah, I'm ready, he said, and I stepped and just pulled a left hook going across his mouth because he was saying wait, wait, my watch, my watch, let me take off my watch. He ran and handed his watch to his partner. We got ready again. He had some reach on me and I leaped around it with the same left hook and scored. He didn't get set and went down with about the second left hook. He came right back up and I drove him onto the parked car beating his body, he started to gouge, but he didn't really want to bring it into that, I had hold his throat, turned him loose with a push, following and feinted the left hook and slammed a right in his ribs probably a harder blow than I've ever hit anyone, knocked him stumbling to his knees by a left and right to his head, had felt from the clinch there was no starch left in him but he was just tough, and locking his head and ripping maybe three along his eyebrows I was already tired of hitting him1 and turned him loose. A woman from an upstairs window was hollering about the police. Some people in the light of a newstand on the corner were too curious and the guy's partner was yelling at them, they're just playing, go on! I didn't quit, I didn't quit, insisted the big friendly fellow. Well, I quit, I said, I'm tired of fighting. My hands and arms were tired, I could feel, from being nervous and unused to the work of lifting zipper boxes all day. I needs a cigarette, that's what I needs, he said, face somewhat messed up, swollen eyes, mouth, and his friend lit him a cigarette and he put his arm around me for support and we walked back to where we had met, declaring it was nothing racial. He's pretty good with his hands alright, they agreed. You beat me in a challenge, he acknowledged, and I never carry grudges. He was worn but still loud and jolly, said he was high as a kite. Oh, you've been drinking, then you're not at your best, I said, and abruptly went into too much monologue on myself, and how I was worried about my Negro girlfriend in Watts, and I regret this, said things down on the people in Watts for starting all that trouble, knowing no better then, and I could see this did not settle well with the two. We agreed to have a beer sometime, I thought I might be running into them, but told them I had to move on, had to go catch someone in the Village, and jabbering about myself I went on. I went to the subway, noticing I was not so excited over the fight as times before I have been. My face was scratched but the guy never got in more than a glancing head lick, maybe on pills.

I asked around for Mike Mann in the Village and after going to several places where he hung I found him in a little coffee house where a girl sang amature jazz. And Bill Olive walks through the door, Mike said sitting to himself at a table. Hello, Mike, how're you doing?

We went to another quieter coffee house to talk. I bought us some twentifive cent coffee. Mike was on his way. The last thing I heard about Mike, from my Texas friend Danny who once met him and knew people who know him, was that after a big shot of meth he no longer speaks. He is supposedly all rhythm now, can play guitar and all the time swings his body to the rhythm, but has quit talking. Methodrine jams up your body rhythm so that you will be forced to move and it seems the mind is broken first. But who knows, maybe someday he will put it back together and say something. People have lost chunks of their brain - done alright. Intelligence seems to be in the body cells anyway. This last time I Saw Mike he was more silly than I had seen him, here I had not seen him for three years and he would not cease talking to me in a British accent. We sat at this large table where a group of young Village bohemians, much the company female, had nothing better to do than discuss what is the meaning of love. I spoke to Mike beside me that I coulds say more on the matter than any of these people could and he said, yes, you probably could. He was not stoned at the time. He always had believed in me. For all my egocentricity. I see you still lift weights, Bill Olive, he said. Yeah, and I still win street fights, I just had a fight on the way up here, but except for that part I'm less sure of myself than I ever have been. Well, it's about time. Well, I don't know, I just need to get settled some where. You wouldn't know where I could find an apartment, would you? No, I'm out of a place to stay myself. This disappointed me, with his guitar genius, and it was a genius, with a little work, talent was all there, I had expected he would be number one in the Village by then. He told me he had hung up the guitar. Three years ago he claimed to be number three in the Village, and none of the older hips in Central Islip could dispute it. His last word to me, via Danny, was tell Bill Olive I am homosexual now. At first that was a small shock, but my answer, which Danny never got up to deliver, was, tell Mike Mann Bill Olive is an Indian fighter now. Here we sat and I could not get him off the British accent. I told him about my new true love and my idea of getting established so I could get her up there and let her meet the right people to sing jazz. I had thought Mike could be some help to me on it. But he no longer even had a guitar. Not long, couple of months later, Linda Connely from Texas went up to New York briefly, came back, told me in Texas he was playing again, but was using a lot of methodrine. The next thing I heard was he does not talk, not even in a British accent. He's all rhythm now.

I also got around to ordering the two other zines Cindy recommends in DORIS #20. URBAN WILD, about folks growing food in city environments, and MINE, a series of women telling their abortion experiences. How it is, not casual, but emotional.

Lately there is all this of the abortion politics again. I hate politics. I am an anarchist.

But I say, in the present nation, the Republican idiots tend to be angrier and nastier and more political, some how, than are the Democrat idiots. Being that politics bore the anarchist, the Republican columnists are frequently too boring to read. George Will is always too boring to read, nothing but political, so no credibility. Molly Ivins, now, a Democrat, but she gets tough on anyone, Clinton or any of the idiots, and she is no idiot, has humor, is a nice person. George Will is her opposite, used to have his lunch money taken away from him.

In bizarro times, the abortion thing is another disconnect. Where Congress got up and pled allegiance under God, the abortion matter, in Christianity, is out-of-touch.

Christianity: The innocent child goes to Heaven.

Hell, Dear Reader, I would not care to get born unwanted and maybe not get enough food and become criminal and cruel and go to Hell. Would you? Goddamn, I wouldn't even want my old mom to give up her career and not get me enough food, high protein. I better never be here not getting enough high protein. In my own case.

redroachpress a
THE DIE P.O. Box 764, College Park, MD 20740
U.L.A. member Joe Smith of Red Roach Press has intrigued me with a review of Authur Koestler's THE GHOST IN THE MACHINE, published in 1966. Smith keeps searching for the bottom of our situation and in his second edition of THE DIE, that costs but $1, he reviews books from Koestler, Eric Kahler, Paul Goodman, Noam Chomsky, Fernand Braudel, Marc Etkind.

Koestler is saying homosapien is innately insane. To use brave Joe Smith's quoting from Koestler's book: -
The neurophysiological eyidence indicates...a dissonance between the reactions of the neocortex (the part of the brain we inherit from lower mammels which functions on an animalistic level in humans) and the limbic system (the late-developing part of the brain that is the apparatus for intelligent behavior in humans), Instead of functioning as integral parts in hierarchic order, they lead to a kind of agonised coexistence. To revert to an earlier metaphor: the rider has never gained complete control of the horse and exerts its whims in the most objectionable ways.

Without my getting official permission from brave Joe Smith to be quoting Smith himself, it should be enough for now that he tells of Koestler's advocating drugs to aid our species, not "some kind of world- wide-acid-drop," but, more like "prosac."

Koestler: -
...the psychopharmacologist cannot add to the faculties of the brain, but he can, at best, eliminate obstructions and blockages, which impede their proper use. He cannot aggrandize us - but he can; within limits, normalize us...

The Dear Reader ought to read Smith's review, if not Authur Koestler's THE GHOST IN THE MACHINE. I should find Koestler's book somewhere, as Smith's review of it keeps taking hold on my thought. I can bring the subject up to the sanest people I know, Kelly Olive, Steve Vaughn, and they smile, and nod....

In my own case, I have known my brain is oddly structured. I would enjoy seeing it examined. Knowing not the chicken nor egg comes first but that we are.

I am thought crazy, because my personality is not repressed. I am unconflicted, not schizoid. The out of touch civilization had me wondering were I human, but I got past that one. Psychedelics helped much.

For a male in patriarchy to not be able to get money is inducive to psychosis. How, for example, white guys tottering in the U.S. can not sympathize with black guys. Most of my own madness was before SSI, I am realising. The horror, to get out of bed and go do dumb shit for wages, is terrific, but to have no schizoprenia, where one cannot even twist one's self, minus mayhem, is inducive to psychosis, etc.

Those who rape or molest can be shot so they may soon have rebirth. Otherwise nobody needs any law from man. Law from man only keeps men from coming clean. Nobody needs this shit.

What we have right now where Congress went marching to pledge allegiance under God is small Hell. Martin Luther King Jr. in one famed speech said the United States is the largest purveyor of violence on Earth. The U.S. celebrating his birthday in 2003 pretended he never said anything like this. A few days ago, Mandela said something similiar. I did not myself get his exact words, but understand him, this force, who went from prison to president in his country. Meanwhile in the U.S. both gangs of idiots, Democrats, Republicans, pretended Mandela is senile. But the Europeans know what Mandela said. When the astronauts died this time it was a break for the shaken U.S. citizenry . They wept and spoke of their heroes.

In a calmer frame I went on and read SERGEANT FELIX again the other night and concluded it is not such a mess. Two or three paragraphs ought to be smoother.

Our states of mind and memories cannot be still. Nothing is still, yes nothing. We do need report writers. See ULA list. Humans want at minimum some clutch at reality. Ah, nothing only be still. Dig it.

I am so slowly heading to complete ANNA KARENINA. Suddenly it be more interesting for me in my state. But I encountered DOWN BY THE RIVER by Charles Bowden, copyright 2002, Simon and Schuster. Am about mid book. Maybe Charles Bowden is my favorite living writer. Dear Reader, go to a library or or someway get this now. It is about Mexico and the U.S. and illicit drugs, that brace our economies but are taking us somewhere crazier than coked out W.'s Mideast grabbing.

Notice that guy's loose skin of his throat. He may be doing this working out, this running of miles his media says he is doing. But he uses substances to hold him up. He is younger than I am. Of course I am a mutant but this guy looks like shit.

Something wonderful about Bowden's DOWN BY THE RIVER is his sketching of "doublespeak," "denial," "schizoprenia," what word can we find for official lurch to mangle reality in the minds of peasants, citizens.

It was one thing for Rome or Great Britian to extend, but today the empire must control the globe, and yet, tne United States of A. does not have militarily the manpower. Nukes can't do it, nukes would physically sicken the globe.

I watch Washington Journal in C-SPAN nearly every morning. There is in the U.S. a sensational, creative ignorance. Dear Reader, do you know any Vietnam vet who got spat on? Here is chicken bone myth. Anybody who says he got spat on is likely seperated from self. Sad John Walker Lindh is imprisoned for hippies protesting the Vietnam War, but truth is most citizens were still wanting their country to win when the Viet Cong won. Hippie~protests had nothing to do with the U.S. getting beat in Vietnam.

Underground Literary A11iance

The U.L.A. News #4



We're still going through growing pains....
MEMBERSHIP. I'm often asked, "How does one become a ULA member?" By being an undergrounder/zeenster or becoming one. By helping us in whatever way, whether aiding our petitions or protests, talking us up to people, or simply writing positive letters to us or about us. By joining our cause and taking our side.
INVESTMENTS. As artists we each make decisions about how we spend our money and our time. Think of your choices as like picking a stock to buy. One looks for fundamentals, a good trackrecord, talent in the organization, and the likelihood that stock will go places. How well does the ULA fit those requirements?

Remember that the ULA offers, if it achieves nationwide prominence (which is in reach), the prospect for that most valued of properties: artistic freedom; the ability to create art and to have that art matter and have it make an impact on society.

Is the ULA a good choice on which to spend your time or even your money? Or are there better opportunities open for artistic renown, influence, success?

We've created a platform for writers and other creative people. Weld like more ULAers to make use of that platform. THE ULA PLAY. Tom Hendricks compared my "CHristmas party" zeen novel to a stage play, and asked if I've written any. Yes, I have--a play called the ULA, which is being performed to the nation. There are roles yet to be filled; personalities wanted who are willing to step into the spotlight. (We also have room for stagehands who prefer to remain behind the scenes.)
STATUS. One's role in the ULA is defined and has always been defined by the amount of work and investment one puts into it. The ULA is an open organization. One joins by working for it. Once in, anyone can to a large extent define their position within it, within the framework of the "play." Our needs are many; we need writers, organizers, marketers, spokespersons; more noisemakers and more ULA publications. One has to believe in our D-I-Y ideas. The work comes in spreading the word--in every possible outlet--about those ideas. (The IDEA of creating an independent literature; a renewed culture.) In many ways the ULA, for the ambitious person, remains there for the taking. The days of cajoling people should be over. We're seeking self-starters.
When our movement achieves national prominence, those at the forefront will gain most credit, which is only right. PROMOTIONS. Several ULAers are being bumped-up in status. This is done as a reward but also as incentive. They're being given roles. It1s hoped they'll define those roles, building on them, impressing their creativity upon them in ways that benefit our underground movement. In time we'll promote other ULA supporting members in similar fashion.
-Tom Hendricks: Associate Director for Cultural Affairs. Coordinating campaigns to renew all the arts; engaging the culture-at-large.
-Chris Zappone: New York City Bureau Chief. Our point man with writers and media in that city, disseminating the ULA name.
-Yul Tolbert: Art Editor. Working with the SLUSH PILE editor; enlisting the work of other artists; designing flyers for SLUSH PILE and for other ULA activities.
-Will Ratblood: Ombudsman. Disarming ULA enemies; strengthening bonds with potential allies. This isn't a new position, but it's hoped he'll bring more focus to it.

NEW MEMBER CANDIDATES. Joining the ULA is a privilege. Contrary to popular belief, we don't a11ow in just anybody. It's hoped those who join have a strong commitment to our cause, and are steeped in ULA history and philosophy. Five names are under current consideration. Suggestions for others are welcome.

LITERARY GUERRILLAS. Zeensters represent the cultural Resistance in this country at a time when true culture is disappearing. I find it interesting that the Resistance in France during World War II was centered around newspapers that were like our current zeens. Julian Jackson: "However modest its appearance, a newspaper projected a future: numbering a sheet 'one' suggested that others would follow. The term 'newspaper' is too grandiose for the first artisanal efforts. The first issue of Liberte was three pages long; there were only seven copies of the first number of Liberation-Nord."

Distribution was primitive, the papers left on trains and in post offices. Networks were built between these dissenters. A movement was created.

This is exactly what is happening in zeendom. At the forefront of this activity, the vanguard of zeen activism, is the ULA.

NEEDED: NOT HOBBYISTS, BUT FANATICS. We're creating not a religious movement, nor a political movement, but a cultural movement. It won't happen without a lot of effort. What's the payoff? Making history is part of it.
OUR STRATEGY is to spread our message through every possible venue and outlet. We're radicals. We aim not for slight modifications in the status quo, nor for marginal success in a safe niche, nor to be co-opted and brought into the acceptable crowd. We plan to turn culture on its head-- our goal is complete renewal. It's an ambitious program. We accept no small payoffs, no pats on the head, no achievement of modest but meaningless gains, and make no apologies for this. We seek not to open the door slightly for ourselves but to tear the door off its hinges, to let the air of the outside world into the closed monasteries, stuffy salons, and dusty museums of the aristocrats who control the direction of culture in this nation. The strength of our message of artistic independence is irresistible and will ensure our success.

U.L.A. News
King Wenclas, Editor
P.O.Box 42077
Philadelphia, Pa. 19101

Dear Bill,

Here in Richmond, Va., Kinkos with my old favorite friend Sascha who I haven't really gotten to spend time with in 8 years. He's on tour doing workshops about mental illness - getting punky/anarchist communities to talk more openly about what goes on with us and what we need to do to be more supportive. He's been locked up a few times and let down by a lot of people. But check this out: he knows Leigh Vega. Says all her stories are 100% true. And that she quit grad school and went back to Russia to work at a home for street kids.

It's 6 a.m. and we've been here since midnight and I'm about to drop from tiredness. Got some of a comic written but it's hard to work with this terrible music and bright lights.

I'm on my way up to Philadelphia to meet this pen pal who is a photo-journalist to see if I want to travel with him some day. He's going to Palestine in April. I've gotten some kind of travel bug. I'm going to Guatamala for a couple weeks with my friend Mollie in the end of February. Kind of nervous.

Have you ever seen these comics by Fly? They're really good - especially the one just out "Total Disaster" P.O.Box 1318 Cooper Stn NYC 10276. Stuff about being in NY & the craziness of the forced patriotism & all. If you haven't ordered the other things I reviewed in #20, I wouldn't bother. I don't think you'd like them as much.

Take care,


Leigh Vega is alive! Well, I hope so. If her story is true, it beats fiction. DOWN BY THE RIVER is not fiction. Hope Cindy is OK in Guatamala.

These days I am fearful of going anywhere south of the river, without my personal armed gang. I have strange eyes and other armed men react to me. Re. LL.

It has been a long LL CLXII write. Typewriter busted but I located one. Trying to think and I heard off television this of firstly hitting olden Bagdad with 800 cruise missiles in a 48 hrs. I questioned these numbers. This morning I see a Molly Ivens column and she quotes this. Duh.

Fuck the news and it is too early for jazz. Hey, I dig this group, GARBAGE. Madrea sent this tape. What a female talented crazy sings. Mercy.

Is not King Wenclas a great man. Brings up the French underground of the war. Yes. ULA forever. We are warriors.