Excerpts from:
THE SECRET TOME
of The Oracle
of The Unseen Hand
of The Marketplace
MEL C. THOMPSON
(The Premier Victim
Of Post-Suburban
Traumatic Stress Disorder)
CHAPTER THREE
The Disease Appears To Be Spreading
Copyright © 2008 Mel C. Thompson
The following are limited selections from Chapter Three
Contact the author for free PDFs and/or free chapbooks of full text.
Excerpt # 26:
Notes from The Road Less Traveled Makes No Difference At All
The operating system formerly known as
The Scriptures has been discontinued.
Persons still believing Capitalism will
Solve almost every problem are advised
To contact The State Health Department
Where a new and functioning reality
Can be pharmaceutically constructed
For them and affected family members.
The hard drive traditionally called God
Has been rebranded. Direct all primitive
Requests for a happier existence to Your
Fantasy Server Dot Com. Note: Your
Delusions are currently an optional feature.
Continuing in them does not automatically
Disqualify you for future employment.
Blind Faith has been recategorized by
Congressional legislation as a disability.
You are thus protected by the Americans
With Disabilities Act. The operating system
Formerly known as The World I Grew Up In
Is no longer supported. Contact your nearest
Buddhist for an explanation of the Law
Of Impermanence. Only two programs
Are available at retail outlets. 1. Meaningless
Lifelong enslavement. 2. A life of crime
Followed by degrading death. Note: For other
Options, see our Billionaires-Only brochure.
Pleasant Hill, 11-12-2007.
Excerpt # 28:
Notes from The Bad Faith Schemers of Poverty
Don’t call me a class warrior armed to the teeth.
Think of me as a passive-aggressive class competitor.
The victory of ideas is not nearly as tantalizing
As the idea of victory for victory’s sake and mine.
I’m backing down to the minimum payments
On those ever-more-colorful credit and debit cards
That fill up my mailbox like offerings to tutelary
Deities. Long may those fiscal guardians of fantasy
Crowd the hulking cargo space of my oh-so-necessary
Chevy Suburban with the overblown tires and tinted
Windows to screen out the ogling of my legions
Of fans who live and die for a glimpse of my aura.
I am planning an acceptance speech which will read
A bit more like a worldwide parole agreement, terms
All dictated by me and yes-men who worship me.
Deep, deep, down . . . I’m really a very humble person
With modest needs. These rows of medals are only
To give the public some kind of diversion while purges
Sweep through the back country. God love the farmers.
First we will break them, then we will annex them,
Then at last we will guide them into advertising agencies.
I’m supposed to be an earthy dude. How to pull it all off
Without looking too shrill? That’s the thing, a soft, deep,
Authentic-sounding voice with a reassuring manner.
My handlers have thrown out my philosophy books,
For my own good, they say. I thought I was the boss?
I could fire them, but where would I turn for intimacy?
Pleasant Hill, 12-27-2007.
Excerpt # 30:
Notes from Freelance Sculptor
This lump of crumbling clay is my muddy heap
Of career theories built on pretzeline physics.
This Universe flies apart faster than the speed
Of light itself. And my delusions are produced
Even faster than that. I outpace truth in strides
Rivaling even Vishnu’s steps through time itself.
There are states of loserhood so profound
That to even mention them is the ultimate
Sin leading to the final social ostracism which
Is the cornerstone of that bridge-jumping
Madness which churns within even the most
Sane men and women like the intricate gears
Of a Swiss watchmaker gone delusional.
Springs within springs, cogs within cogs,
All perform in concert to erect this sculpture
Of machinery and imagery and thought
Experiments arising and evaporating inside
A cafe within a cafe in an alley off an alley
In a labyrinthine Austrian village where
Worlds of philosophy-theology are born
And die in small smoke-filled circles of
Mathematicians who cannot ever harbor
Any notion of transcendent meaning beyond
The very next rolling of Daniel Higgs’s next
Cigarette. And, in truth, perhaps the only
Honor I have remaining is that I smoked
Several of them with him one savage winter.
Pleasant Hill, 1-11-2007.
Excerpt # 31:
Notes from The Fashion Model Hallucination
A UFO hovers over our entertainment industry.
Shamans emerge to heal the financial rifts
Clouding futures which were never real.
The scars on my face were recontextualized
And turned into fairy-white guardian angels
Now accessible to every blonde trust fund baby.
I approach the runways of fashion models
On crutches, barking proclamations in my
High, nasal whine. Pimps get doctorates
In ancient history and suddenly reveal
Some secret activation code for sale by
Elite channelers at online auction sites.
Random healers comb the megamalls
In search of lonely souls to cure. Hands
Are laid on me across from a video game
Store glorifying commerce cults of death.
You’ll not hear a peep of protest from me.
I pray nightly for the Miracle Hooker
Medicine Buddha. We want our orgasms
Sanctioned across the borders of death
And life. The Law of Attraction weaves
Its way into every greedy heart and declares:
“You always win! You always win!”
Real scientists know that some tests fail.
What were the final results of your
Experiments? Could you really stop
A battleship with your pinky finger?
Pleasant Hill, 1-25-2008.
Excerpt # 32:
Notes from Hollywood Songwriter
May a billion bad songwriters strum their irritating
Guitars at once and fill the Cosmos with OM. Life
Is just quadrillions of overtones, each person, each
Living and dead thing, a single string theory unto
Itself which blends with my really bad career choices
And your pathetic New Age schemes to save face.
May we all attain the precision of an eternity filled
With piano tuners all on acid and all asserting they
are infallible. The organ pipes too are filled
From below and above with incalculable harmonics
That only Marcus the bass player understands
If the jazz band is high on weed and the club
Is full of hot chicks without professional ambitions.
May I state, parenthetically, that none of us has
Any business trying to reproduce. It’s best if
The family line stops here. Actually, it might
Have been better if the family line stopped long
Ago. But gentlemen do not quibble. For
The Weird was God and The Weird was with
God and The Weird became God, and I was
Convinced all of the Universe was only a gray
Background with white intersecting lines before
Those folks at UCI put me on Thorazine which
made me more rational. Thorazine and beer,
To be exact. Thorazine and beer and mushrooms.
Somehow we all get our Bachelors Degrees.
We are all The Lord’s graduate students now.
Pleasant Hill, 2-6-2008.
Excerpt # 33:
Notes from Touring Japanese Rock Band Pianist
It’s only an eleven-hour flight, or one hour on cocaine,
Time-adjusted perceptually, to the whirling throngs
Of Tokyo’s streets where a cramped bunk bed waited.
The plan was that I was to bang out chords on a Fender
Rhodes to non-discerning audiences who could not
Understand the lyrics, but who would dance and shout
Till four in the morning. I was to drop out of college
And later be nearly homeless for the sake of trans-
Continental ineptitude. No, no, no! Better to reject
Almost every offer from every quarter. Almost
Everything ever proposed is a bad idea. Narcissism
And Hermitism, in retrospect, may have been
Just what the doctor ordered, were the doctor himself
Not utterly whacked out on barbiturates and morphine,
Were the doctor not supporting a wife, a mistress
And that mistresses kids and the pets of those children
And even the litters of the litters they had six years
Ago. We are a long, long way from home, my friends.
And the poems themselves? I cannot vouch for any
From a critical, ethical or rational point of view. But
I parenthetically add that it’s a safer gun to play with,
A safer narcotic to inject, and, oh My Great, Great God,
Let us not forget how economical it is. I say trash
Your guitar and your amplifiers and your recording
Equipment while there is still time to be a sustainable
Loser. If there is absolutely no hope whatsoever, at
Least glide through it all dancing on the tips of feathers.
Pleasant Hill, 2-16-2008.
Excerpt # 34:
Notes from Freelance Ministerial Counselor
The Saudi morality police are managing my checkbook.
You will find no credit card bills detailing pornography
Purchases, nor moneys forwarded to upscale restaurants
In any effort to win any love based on fornication.
I arrived at my holy state involuntarily, after expulsion
From the sinful world of happy and successful people.
The immorality police seem to take second billing
Everywhere east of Palestine. But they hang back,
Taking defeats magnanimously. You can loose a lot
Of battles when you know your victory’s inevitable.
The merchants of smut and heresy sit like Communist
Central planners, smilingly waiting for history to roll
Ever so slowly over all of their opponents. The Levitra
And the antidepressants are supposed to bring back
The so-called “desire for life.” I’m chemically resistant
To anything that seeks to send madness to some dark
Corner to brood in loneliness and defeat. This anthem
Hails every crackpot poet slinking down Grant Street
Looking for a free hit of dope, or a free glass of wine
At any number of art openings, which are only
Outnumbered by art closings. Oh, Great Graveyard,
How thy lovers sing to thee in the ghostly moonlight
Of Robespierre. We will replace their authoritarianism
With our authoritarianism. I have strayed off topic.
I’m trying to say that I used to be a preacher. Steinbeck
Said, “Once a preacher, always a preacher.” Please
Forgive my intoxicated little ex-Pentacostal homily.
Pleasant Hill, 2-20-2008.
Excerpt # 35:
Notes from Nursing Home Activities Coordinator
Let’s sing a little song to, as Hugo says, “decay, death,
Ruin and sorrow.” The melody is composed of notes
From the abandoned sheet music of our conscience.
I’ve got a photo in my designer wallet: The front door
Of a Medi-Cal nursing home, my bright yellow Hummer
Parked out front. I rumble over to my Vedic astrologer.
She says I need to “give myself permission” to enjoy
Everything I can get my greedy little paws on. Hard
Cash induces her to channel the spirits to say exactly
What I want them to say. I want them to say I can
Ignore all the dirty corners and hidden secrets that
Form the building blocks of my hand-over-fist profits.
The old scriptures were solidly suited to all my hatreds,
But they forgot to purge all those icky parts about
Sacrifice and sharing and all that boring stuff that’s
No fun at all when you’re busy bribing your trophy
Wife, or trophy husband, or trophy hooker or gigolo.
We’ve redefined our comfy estates: They are now
Evidence of a healing self-love. Healing self-love
Includes total wealth in a guiltless bubble of constant
Validation of my absolutely vapid and insane hoarding.
My mantle has a painting of my current Jesus concept:
Gone is that depressing torn-open-heart thing and all
Those creepy thorns and ugly bad-karma imagery.
Buddha is recast as an Abundance Preacher. Tall
Hedges hide the windows of the rooms we’ll occupy
When our families decide we’ve gone “too negative.”
Pleasant Hill, 2-28-2007.
Excerpt # 36:
Notes from Nursing Home Saint
I am tap-dancing over a decade full of funerals.
My job is all about life, life, life. My ministry
Extends beyond the world of the dead and soon
Will embrace those awaiting conception. I am
Pro-Pre-Life, demanding that each egg and sperm
Have its shot at the dart-board of copulation.
My prophets demand maximum opportunities
For sexual encounters for all human beings of
Reproductive maturity. Failing to have sex
Is to knowingly forbid a potential fertilization.
All hail the incubation chamber, that inverse
Of the asylum, the hospice, the death bed,
My credit rating, your mounting debt,
The haunting specter of useless intellectuals
Counting solely on inheritance to save them.
Have you noticed how excellently the rats
Of Paris get along without health insurance?
There is only one impeccable social program,
And we’re all enrolled. Indeed, these tombs
Are the final “No Child Left Behind Act”
That our senators could not perfect. Gospel
Songs erupt from my internet pop-up ads.
Romance and religion are all about fundraising.
I like prayer because it’s a cost-effective hobby.
I sell the intangible and shun mortality’s
Babbling whispers. My ear’s to the ground,
Listening to worms do their market forecasts.
Pleasant Hill, 3-3-2008.
Excerpt # 37:
Notes from Illegal Real Estate Salesman
We’ve got your limousine van to Victorville
Loaded down with high-performance audio,
Tinted windows and a caterer serving sturgeon
Slices on boutique water crackers. The servants
Are okay with your sexism if you tip generously.
The man in the reflective sunglasses with the
Dictator’s mustache is feeling munificent.
He surfs real estate booms on statistical waves
That break at the virtual beaches of shell
Corporations. Such are the designer drugs
We call financial instruments. Today’s desert
Is tomorrow’s speculative oasis. You’ve got
To know your wills, trusts, estates, taxes
And who may or may not be plotting
To steal your house out from under you
And the future off the top of your blue sky.
Any fair proposal will be rejected on principle.
We search for supplicants, not equal partners.
Trends will move exactly as fast as it takes
To ensure you can never master them. If you
Just read about it in the papers, we knew it
Half a decade ago. Any move you make
Is guaranteed to be outdated. If you have to
Study it, you are lost before you begin.
I’m feverishly writing the acceptance letters
For offers that will come to me five years
From now. I eat the future for breakfast.
Pleasant Hill, 3-20-2008.
Excerpt # 38:
Notes from Legal Aid Society Publicist
We’re sailing through the desert in this limo-van.
The promised land is a world of tinted windows.
The car stereo is channelling Dwight Eisenhower.
We’re in a thirty-year time warp, lost between
Nineteen Fifty Seven and Nineteen Eighty Seven.
We’re too jaded now for black-and-white porno.
Our Megachurch is joining forces with Wal Mart.
When God fails, you need a billion feet of cubic
Space to retool. We’re horny with self-confidence.
We’re looking for a way to package innocence
Without side-effects. Our scientists found out
Woodstock doesn’t really work without capital.
I gave peace a chance, but me and my girl can’t
Can’t get off unless the bed costs five thousand
Dollars. The phrase, “top floor of the Marriot,”
Soaks our shorts. I think God loves prosperity.
Does this Protestant work ethic rock, or what?
Me and my lady are camped outside of Nike.
She turns to me with a Darth Vader voice:
And says , “Luke! I am your father! Search
Your heart! You know it to be true! Join me,
And together we will rule The Galaxy!” We
Don’t know any folk songs or union hymns.
My father was a Unitarian who died young.
History repeats itself selectively. Darwin
Trumps Marx in any game of blackjack.
I chose Steve Wynn’s over Saint Peter’s.
Pleasant Hill, 3-21-2008.