The Communist History of Lawn Ownership

A landowner taking pride in their manicured lawn has origins tied to Marxist communism, these property owners hired peasants as landscapers, typical duties like hedge trimming, lawn clipping and planting flowers occupied their day. But it was another task which prompted Marx to take notice and begin his philosophical analysis of labor, the collecting of twigs. Instead of discarding them as trash, like instructed, workers took them home and used them as kindling to heat their shanty. Once the landowners caught wind of this activity they began removing the peasant’s fingers and arms, replaced them  with gardening tools to remind them of their purpose in life. 

Marx was strolling about on a sunny fall day when he witnessed a man organizing leaves into piles using a rake fastened to  a stub where his forearm should be. Befuddled, he approached the man and stammering his words asked what happened to his arm.  

“Mr. Rothschild took it from me…said he needed it to feed his hounds, ‘Something delicious.’ As he put it.”

 Marx was gobsmacked. He felt faint and stumbled a few steps, caught his balance on a fence, bordering the Rotschild’s estate. “This…I have no words…no words…”

After he regained full awareness, set off for home where he filled his inkwell to the brim, dipped his quill in it and began writing what became known as the Communist Manifesto. 

White Suburban Man grunts as he plants his hands at his sides for leverage, lifts off the couch and waddles to his living room window. He leans forward, his beer gut presses against the glass, preventing his facial features from doing the same. He surveys his lawn, salutes it and watches while a neighbor walking their dog pauses to allow the animal to piss on the lawn. He attempts to open the window to shout them off, but he’s too late. The animal is finished and down the block, away from earshot.

Boxed-in-Being

Warehouses stockpile sentience and colonize government sponsored land, as stayed discussions on methods of survival illicit standardized conformity compared to a slouch, missing teeth, conversations with the wall and bursts of frustration accumulating in violent acts, adding to the calamity of housed consciousness in competition for bread. 

Stale glucose crumbs litter the ground and espouse crescendo crunches as weighted steps demolish their tiny frames. Bunk-beds pressed to walls dawning yellow wallpaper, complimented by a hole made from a child’s crooked fingernail, who discovered a tear in the print and pinched the jagged edge, tugged at it like they were turning the page of their Bible looking for answers. 

Reruns of Keeping Up With The Kardashians played on the television, in their playroom. Sentient-B lifted a plastic stegosaurus and marched it along the windowpane, gale struck the glass and shifted it within the frame, echoing  spastic clicks from the window, setting the ambiance for the dinosaur’s controlled stroll. Sentient-B paused and stared at the screen, studied plump lips, glossed in pink, shimmering under a mix of camera flashes and the L.A. sun. She imitated the pucker, held the pose, turned her head and caught her reflection in the pulsating window glass, shrugged and continued with her adventure, sans her companion’s extinction.

stories from yesterday

Permanent Capital I 

Is debt.

Earthworms 

As brass hooks

Get it?

Brass hooks

As earthworms

In the

Dirt.

Trash-can has a name 

Structured phonically 

By what’s inside.

Broken glass bottles share 

The mirror’s aspirations.

First 

Among

Equals, is the impression

Of others. Counterpart to 

Permanence, designed to 

Expire 

After permanence disappears.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Poet sat at his desk, dipped feathers in inkwells brimming with censorship, decorated lined paper in fettered language. His chair screeched as he pushed backwards off his desk, stood and strolled to his bedroom window and held the paper against the glass. Sunlight cascaded shadows over his bland face and as that space failed, trailed beams on the empty walls behind him.  ……………………………..

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Gibberish is phonics yearning to be made into words. 

Empty graves resemble censor-bars, flashlights stayed like Abrham’s hand hold shadows accountable 

To the shapes 

They’re mocking. Gravedigger’s talk to the dead, contest these conversations are meaningful, if only to berate the procedure of debates among the living.

Dissection of a memory, bordered off like it was reel to reel. 

If a hello went there

She 

Would’ve been more 

Interested, 

If 

I wasn’t there 

To begin 

Why

Does it end?

……………………………………………………………………………………………….

Remembering is the argument for semantics.

 

Dante’s Guided Inferno Tours. ONLY $10.99!!!

Dante shot an echo, detailed a composition of natural noise to compare against the cold air and sulfur stench, perfuming his surroundings. But without a standard from which to build experienced recognition his brain abandoned memories and in its place deciphered from what he’d read off the internet to mesh the details and give the place a name. “I’m in Hell.” He said. 

Mortal Coil is a water slide, flecks of water, spill off the edge and pattern the air in loose drops considered as one but deserving of individual names. 

Bankruptcy: to give abandonment and reabsorption to the womb. 

Credit: agreed upon standard for reality. 

Interest: placing two mirrors on opposite ends of the room, insisting the reflection stops somewhere.

Inflation: to count the grains of sand composing the Praia do Cassino. 

Dante searched his pockets for a source of light and discovered a packet of matches. He ignited a match and in the orange glow discovered more darkness. He shivered. “I thought Hell was hot?” He questioned.

Enlightenment Doesn’t Come Cheap. You Have to Sell Your Soul

Enlightenment personifies hallucinations and after acclaim solidifies the Guru’s presentation as a label to be duplicated. Outset of empathy, inserts voyeuristic tendencies like watching the opening credits of a sitcom and each character poses mid-action, breaks the fourth-wall and flashes their pearly whites directly at the audience. Pupils widen, optic nerves communicate to synaptic triggers, declared to bipeds stimulated at the notion of, “YOU TOO CAN BE FAMOUS!” 

Counterfeiting this process addresses its importance, for if these motions were unworthy they would assume taboo allegiance…

Ted stripped his trailer of its copper pipes and sold them to pay his lot fees. Exploiting his capitalistic spirit, he decided to turn copper refurbishment into a day job and set out to retrieve discarded pennies littering gutters, left alone in the snow, or dropped with dust as pockets turn inside out to expose the stitching and holes from whence loose change escapes.  He was at the park when he discovered a penny abandoned near the fountain. 

“Must’ve missed the water.” He whispered. “Nothing like a missed wish to brighten your day.” He bent over to pick it up. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” A young voice called out. 

Ted erected his spine, turned around, a boy met his gaze. 

“What’d you say?” He asked.

“I said I wouldn’t do that.”

“And why not?”

“Bad luck takin’ someone’s wish like that.” 

“This ain’t no wish. It missed the water…means it doesn’t count.”

“The person who threw it…wanted it to be a wish…doesn’t mean it ain’t one.”

“Get outta here kid. What do you know about wishes anyway?”

Ted stooped and grabbed the penny, pocketed it. The boy ran off to play catch with his friends, at the other end of the park. In the distance he saw an electronic billboard displaying an advertisement for Coca Cola. It was hemorrhaging red and for a split second he confused it for the red of the sunset. 

b.l.e.a.c.h.

Symptoms of skull bleaching are conflicted when back-dropped against snow, acid-washed-denim, tooth-caps, generic paper towels and the pinch of light leaning through a door cracked open separating the well lit dining room and the windowless position of cellars, as above, so below. But the handcuff glints and holds its glare in the computer screen (cleaned with bleach towelettes) framing the results of search engine destinations. 

Preferences for bleach arranged to include:

Where bottles might be stored. Often it’s below the sink, behind locked doors. Laundry room is another option but not a favored selection due to the quick available suicide such access grants to the blessed to be depressed. 

White is the ambivalent canvass bleach grants to scar fragments. 

Compromises abound…

But if the human reaction 

Takes forever to explain 

The reasoning behind

Its blood stain…

Remove it from pockets 

And discard it like lint. Knowing the difference and understanding the implications of bottle structure is the trick to voila reveal when bleach is drained from its container forever. 

History of A$H

A smile is borrowed if ash lands on a person’s cheek and they wince in correspondence as wrinkles flick gray sprinkles to the accepting air. But if wincing fails “borrowed” rejects its description and takes on the moniker of stolen. These gestures are formatted like a chess-board to include outcomes when A happens B does too and so forth. 

Devoting ash to another responding expression: pollen is swept off a dandelion by a normal gale, down wind a brush fire entices its gluttonous aspirations, consumes foliage like it was a starving prisoner, freed from their captors and fed filet mignon as a first meal “on the outside.” Ash takes to the wind, spins in cyclone patterns, inspires cigarettes to finally announce their betrayal to fire. 

Granted, what ash is most famous for is inspiring language to liberate itself through speech. Humans of yore were wrestling beside a smoke pit (for the sake of labels we’ll call them Ooga and Booga). Ooga had Booga in a headlock and using leverage, leaned forward and pinned him to the ground. He grabbed a nearby rock and with the pointy end beat Booga’s head in until it was unrecognizable as a human skull. Ooga, feeling victorious, stood spread-eagle over the corpse, held his hands to the sky and shrieked. He stepped away, looked back to the mangled body, observed from his peripherals bloody footprints leading from the corpse, but the red of the blood meshed with the gray and black of the ash, his footprints were shaded and countered, appearing as if they were rising off the ground. He declared it a masterpiece and signaled to his cohorts by grunting, what would be considered to-day the spoken word, to come and observe the beautiful art he, accidentally, created. 

Ash has a long history of enticement, envy and aesthetics. Few reactions are able to share in the spoils, but those that do, humans included too…are grateful, but also fearful. For once it’s all burned away who’ll be left to smile and appreciate the masterpiece? 

Poetry: a NON-Verbal Translation

Poetry in the mead-hall after feasting was Beowulf accompanied by familiar pop melodies which to-day are repeated via transmission through the electromagnetic spectrum. The progression from verbal throat swells, held to Anglo-Saxon interpretation, assessed in real-time was void of phenomenal proclamation. Philosophers of yore instead deemed this the Word of God (or Gods), held to high esteem, a mighty marketing strategy, for these were philosophers employed by royalty, who (royalty) insisted they were in such a position by the grace of God (or Gods) and thus those they employed were translating trumpets bleating from Heaven’s pit band. (to interject, the Jester was deemed a volunteer, never an employee. This distinction is important for a volunteer of god is nigh a reject, whereas an employee is sought out and awarded remuneration (money signifying the measurement of a person’s worth)).

The Ontological Confirmation Found From a Google Search

Weather app predicted rain by 9 am, desiring confirmation in reality, window screen distorted droplets by highlighting their translucent frames through crisscrosses composed of black speckles which directed vision to study the puddles of rain water amassed along blacktop, facilitating ripples appearing like jazz rhythms and inviting the rationalization of rain-fall as the cause. 

Self doubt:

(Google search:

Ways

To   be    happy) 

Answers pursued by text, believing description is found within language, but where translations fail is picking the best response to relieve the discretion, as deemed appropriate by the researcher. Expressions of which only proceed through algorithms, designed for mass marketing, insisting the synapses is a fault of ontology. 

(Google search:

Ways

To accomplish your goals)

Stood near the window, slow approach and glass framed aspects of what was searched online. 

A human approach. 

It MUST be found

Using the methods we’ve created. 

Ripples in puddles are the same in the Mississippi. 

But ask a person to define water

And no-one shall answer the same. 

The History of Humor (Kafkaesque)

Chimps laugh, a response humans align to general pleasure IE the mass production of jokes to entertain the pain away, but to align the History of Humor and designate it to present clause, “we’re in the endgame now” to paraphrase. Jokes inside a view-master a lever sans mouse clicks and scrolling through MEMEs resplendent with enough low-level subtly Kafka would be envious. The American style of joke delivery as partial to escapism, no wonder internet culture is dominating the scene. Devices like cell phones and other small screen equipment are meant to infiltrate consciousness, implant itself inside synapses and exist as hair trigger responses like they were police trained at the academy as shoot to kill. Cat plays a piano and the impression is Richard Pryor chained to a wall, fed amphetamines to be kept awake while reciting his best material on constant loop. WE DEMAND ENTERTAINMENT AND WE WANT IT NOW! What an answered prayer for the humor industry, no longer tasked with paying out huge sums of money to the jester. For if someone becomes internet famous, they’re usually Jane or John Doe and their millions, if they’re lucky, come after the fact. That’s only if they market themselves correctly. In the days of Andy Warhol’s proclamation (15 minutes of fame, babe) we’re all privy to collectivist scrutiny, it’s like farting in school and the entire class hears and laughs, only now the class is the global population and the fart is recorded, placed on standby to be showcased at the audience’s leisure.