b.lissed-out

"Who’s happier? happiest?”
Nobody's asking anybody;
it's just too much to ask,
there's no cause for joy.
I really said: happiness;
joy’s unthinkable, unless
you‘re so b.lissed-out*
joy’s overwhelming you.
It can, it might, maybe has;
if so, forget I asked you..
It’s your condition,
mine's a lot less joyous;
actually, it’s quite anxious.
Isn’t that obvious? No? No!?
You really are b.lissed-out*!

(a/k/a: *B-listed-out)

(29 SEP 08, Santa Clara CA)v5

Who'll take Credit?

“Don’t turn back/around,
don’t look back/down,”
don’t take No for an ans. ”
Injunctions frighten us. We
don’t know which end's uP,
or which's upperMost. No-
body can bear the prospect
of a 2nd Great Depression,
except economists, who say
depressions are relative:
we’re already in 2 wars, a 3rd
won’t pull us out of this 1.
What if: space-aliens arrive?
Maybe they'll take credit!
(Alan Greenspan won’t.)

(29 SEP 08, Santa Clara CA)v5

Salvatore Ferragamo lasts

On a brightly sunny Norcal morning,
as we both limp thru an upscale mall,
Ivo says he tells his wealthy friends
“Don’t think about making money,
just think about…staying alive.” He’s
dead-serious, financial times are dire,
nobody knows if/when they will fail,
how far they’ll fall before hitting
bottom & where the bottom lies.
We 2 limp thru that mall each a.m.,
past Salvatore Ferragamo shoes; Ivo
got a pair for $20 at a thrift-store;
tho a bit tight, they’re dead cheap
& will last him the rest of his life,
& beyond, returned to a thrift-store.


.(26 SEP 08, Santa Clara CA)v5

Wall St. = Playground Games

Perhaps Wall St. only comes down to nothing much more than a late-development of eager childrens’ games, played on the schoolyard playground while the teachers eat lunch (while a designated teacher attends the players in the playground.)

“Buck, Buck, Buck” (originally “Bucca, Bucca, Bucca” in Latin, an ancient Roman boys’ game) in which one boy plays the donkey, while the others mount him, one after another, until he collapses under their accumulated weight. The first one to mount him then takes his place, ad repetitam, each then demonstrating sheer endurance for the sake of the boy-pack, with no special honor accruing therefrom to anyone. Think: novice/intern brokers.

“King/Queen of the Mountain” in which all the children struggle to mount the (what is perceived as) highest point in the schoolyard (snow/sand-pile, wall, fence) by running up it or climbing it. They are often broken up by the one attending teacher who mistakes the strenuous contest for a mere melee, when of course, it is actually an elimination-derby with the premise that some one child must gain the height & be (figuratively) crowned King/Queen of the 'mountain.'. For how long they remain on top is determined by the ferocity of the disgruntled contestants, who seek to (figuratively) dethrone the (temporary) King/Queen by any single-child stratagem possible.The height of the 'mountain' is largely aperceptual. Think: experienced brokers.

“I’ve got a Secret!” in which one child purports to have a secret, & others sidle up to them, one by one, to be told it, secretly. Whether the secret-teller tells the same secret to each child is unspecified. What's certain is that the secret becomes distorted by each child who hears it, who then tells it to the others, who then distort it even further, to the degree that a distant/distorted version of the original secret is the last version retold, at which point that becomes the new secret, & the game repeats. Think: analysts.

You may now adduce any other relevant schoolyard playground games - as you best remember them. – Bill Costley

Pars capitalista

The current Wall St. imbroglio ought to & does, indeed. gave everyone pause re: finance, but does it have any greater implications? What about the obsessive manipulation of arcane sources of derived value as an obsessive human intellectual trait?

My brilliant 2nd-wife (Carolin Combs, who died on 26 JAN 07) & I used to joke about the astrological derivate pars Arabica (taking a part of a part of a part), but derivates are merely an expression of the obsessive human mind going about its habit of dividing & revaluing, from which come categorical jesuitry & obvious fiscal tactical benefits.

Is that all about to dry up pronto? I rather doubt it, but it's now under a sudden spotlight with the promise of 'stricter' regulation.

The pars capitalista is being forced to justify itself to itself by itself. Of course, it can, with so much investment in it by financiers, who don't intend to voluntarily reduce their jobs to nil addendum.They must believe they are a value-adding profession to justify its spectacular salaries. Mere clerks they ain't; just ask'em! (e.g. Talk to Chuck - Schwab.)

But what happens when fractionated value implodes uncontrollably? What's left to reform/regulate? Will we ever get to reforming the micro-financial lobe of the greater human brain? Do think. I just have & so has everybody else, so why shouldn't you? You're on.

Meanwhile, your quasi-relaxing assignment is to read Mark Twain's shortish-fictions: "The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County" (1865), "The Man Who Corrupted Hadleyburg" (1899) & "The Mysterious Stranger." (1890-posthumous) Report due: ASAP.

Engineered by Cheney

The Piscean Age gasps, weepily flooding
the world w/waves of growing fiscal fear.
Hothead Sen. John McCain = Cosmo Topper
& nobody’s convinced but other old POWs
raving that “socialism has come to America”
from under their scrambled-egged USN caps.
The Aquarian Age arises calmly, as a cooly
restrained audience listens to Sen. Barak
Obama make today’s most credible case,
but if neither of them can win in November,
who the hell can? Ivo predicts they’ll either
join to form a unity government, or we’ll get
a 3rd Dubya term, engineered by Cheney.

(26 SEP 08, Santa Clara CA)v4

A little tiny black cloud

A little tiny black cloud on the horizon
appears to be heading towards Obama,
who instantly triangulates its purpose.
“’Coon’ (to white-racists) Edison’s sent it
to spook (to white-racists) me here today.
But I’m not conned or cooned or spooked.”
He bursts-out laughing & the audience does.
“Or, it’s just one little, tiny black cloud.
That’s all, one little, tiny black cloud.”
The cloud suddenly dumps all its rain
directly over Obama, but nobody else.
“Now I get it, it’s a flummox! It can’t
drown a D-coon de-conned by Con-Ed.”
The audience explodes laughing; Obama
repeats the joke & they explode again.

(25 SEP 08, Santa Clara CA)v4