#102: You Can't Check Out Life With A Library Card (Intellectualism)

You Can Go From Fran To Zooie,
To Thrones On Both Sides Of King Louis,
Learn To Shop, And Cook Chop Suey . . .
It's All There In The Tomes.
But As You Search Idea's Fooey,
Looking For Direction's Buoy,
You Might Get Lost With Mister Dewey . . .
Deep In The Catacombs.

For the first time since our ride began,
the Buggy tried to veer,
up and down, and back and forth,
demanding us to steer.

We tried our best to meet our minds,
but it had been a while
since our imaginations helped
direct the Buggy's style.

So we tightened up our seat belts, and
held on the best we could . . .
as another mass of trees and goop
banged up against the hood.

Limbs and leaves, and pulp of trees,
the parts of any wood . . .
all mixed with quarts of inky juice,
and spanked that Buggy, good!

We brushed the tree-tops, or we thought,
crashing through some nests,
and picked up feathers, quills and blood
with all that other mess.

Finally, all the bouncing stopped,
and everything got still.
The door popped open, dripping with
some inky juice and quill.

"Well, how was that, my Buddy-Ro?
Dare we set our feet
out upon this strange terrain
to see what we should meet?"

Our bravery was not my Q . . .
our habit to explore
had driven us from comfy seats
so many times before.

We watched the Buggy's landing dust
settle down and clear
while flotsam that we'd ridden through
more slowly disappeared.

I guess I'd call us both in awe
to watch the fog dissolve
and then reveal a library done
in browns and grays and mauve.

Shelves of books and papers stretched
as far as we could see,
and held all manner of printed word,
much more than A to Z.

From science to farthest fiction, and
everything in between,
the authors names were printed gold,
Aabnox to Zzuzterene.

Agee, Darwin, Kant and Freud . . .
Einstein, Huxley, and Bohr . . .
then Jo discovered a book with names
we'd never heard before.

On one of countless tables it sat,
opened to "Publisher:
Copyright by the Sfingald Press
of planet, Zowmanure."

And printed so we could read it clear,
the author, Tu Veedill,
credited some other books we saw,
with names much stranger still:

Kleptank, Sveenod, and Zizmanick . . .
Teetblytz and Bittlenurtz . . .
"Could these books come," Jo-Mima mused,
"from another universe . . .?"

No sooner had Jo volunteered
his inquiry out loud,
than I realized how right he was,
as we still watched the cloud . . .

of distant, foggy dust fade to
unclothe an endless room,
with shelf after shelf coming to light,
out of receding gloom.

"Jo, I think you've hit it . . .
you've rung discovery's bell,
but they aren't just from everywhere,
but every when as well.

I'm looking at this copyright,
trying to figure out
how a book not written yet
already lies about."

The foggy dust kept rolling back,
clearing our further view.
I noticed the endless tables held
an open book or two.

But the queerest thing was the Buggy sat,
resting a foot beyond
a table we had not approached . . .
like whisked there by a wand.

So, Jo and I decided to walk
what looked like 50 yards
to a table with an open book
called, "Secrets Of The Bards."

I didn't say a thing when I
looked further up the hall
to bones and skulls just lying around,
and up against each wall.

Jo-Mima turned a page to see
some stanzas and a script.
Weirder and weirder the words did read
with every page he flipped:

I was walking my monkey in the woods one day.
We sat on a log -- I think it was May.
I said, "Hey Monkey, ain't you gotta way . . .?
Let's go to Hollywood.

He looked at me and winked his eye,
pissed himself and cursed the sky,
waved and blew me a kiss goodbye . . .
turned and split for good.

I learned one thing for sure that day,
when you got a monkey that likes to play,
keep all your notions tucked away
'til the deal is understood.

I was flippin' the channels a month ago
when I tuned in Eddie Skullduggery's Show,
and there was my monkey, and whad'ya know . . .
a-playin' harmonica and steel oboe,
alone in the spotlight flood.

He waved at the audience while interviewed.
Said, "Eddie, I just gotta thank some dude
who took me on walks and gave me food.
He's out there, reclused, and recliner-glued.
I don't want to, but I should.

"Hey kid," he said, facing the tube,
"you fixed my cokes with just one cube,
and left my chicken under-stewed,
my melons, musked, not honeydewed,
and that was pretty mean of you!
But I still turned out good."

I hit the "off" switch in disgust.
My monkey had turned on love and trust.
He ate my bread and left me crust,
and pretended he was his only thrust
throughout our yesterhood.

He stole my favorite poet's name.
He stole my whole supply of fame.
He took the credit, and dodged the blame
on every stage he could.

Not once did he ever thank the true,
or give the credit where it was due . . .
like: "Without fans, I'd be through." . . .
just once, I really would
have liked to hear him brood!

I looked at Jo. He was taking in.
the message of that poem.
It touched his brain, and so he said,
"This monkey . . . damn, I know 'im."

Now, Jo had always had a thing
for Master Zimmerchimp,
so I decided not to speak when he
brought up that squirrely wimp.

And Jo went on for a little while,
remembering the good old days,
when every mirror reflected our
self-righteous, hippie phase.

"Man, weren't those the times of thought?"
Jo let his memory speak.
"Ideas were there to make us great,
flying our own flag, Freak."

And the haze continued its retreat,
and we could see the next
table where the Buggy'd crept
beside a stiff, perplexed.

We approached the new corpse carefully.
It's flesh was all but gone . . .
but the hint of features made that skull
a strange phenomenon.

I could swear that this old skeleton,
in tattered jeans and T,
was, during its life and motion, well,
a spitting look of me.

And over its shoulder, we could see
the pages that he read . . .
scrolls of life and meaning that
were fished from seas now dead.

Jo-Mima read from the facing page
of science, stars and suns,
of self-abuse, of love and rage,
and Bibles with Martians:

Ode To Onanism & Other '68 Diet-Tribes

Now it's been said,
and more than once,
that the boys are gonna be boys . . .
but now I've read
that before the cunts
they don't have too much choice.

We were all common christians,
eatin' apple pie,
a-livin' awful pious,
singin' praises to the sky . . .
you know, the Big Guy.

We were dreamin' of salvation
back in Illinois,
forgettin' all the apothegms
that tell about the boys . . .
and about their tiny toys.

We skipped the conversation
that begged the candid air.
We did not want to open our mouths
in case our foot was there . . .
and I had a big pair.

Until the day that Jacie Beanie,
big brother of my faith,
decided we should broach it . . .
we thought it might be safe . . .
to attack the hateful wraith.

"Have you ever heard of Onan?"
asked someone in the room.
"He did it in the Bible,
or so we do presume . . .
he was all alone in the early gloom."

We dutifully hit the scriptures
to find this dude, Onan,
chuckin' pride for prayerful guide,
in search of a lonely man . . .
so skillful with his hand.

Now, Bible studies have taught me much,
though more I've yet to learn,
and please don't think that any lesson
there be that I might spurn . . .
with my empty mental urn.

But I always thought it a little strange
to call on God for war,
or utter his name at free-throw lines
to insure a better score . . .
but all the more:

I really think we went too far
in our daily Bible work
studying passages to help us form
the perfect circle jerk . . .
what evils there do lurk!

And though it remained a problem
in our foundering fleecy way,
and though our prayers were wanin'
we got better every day . . .
or so the good ones say.

But, looking back at those times now
in reflection of clearer light,
I'm not sure that jackin' off
was the only thing not right . . .
we faced a stronger blight.

We turned to the fundamentals
to a-light the proper road,
not thinkin' of the intention
of he who penned the ode . . .
let alone, he who shot the load.

So it taught us another lesson,
and one we shan't forget,
that you cannot take it literally
just because it's writ . . .
at least we can't quite yet.

And back to the problem of Onan,
it's always been the same,
young boys a-pullin' down their pants,
and tryin' to make a name . . .
all lookin' for some fame.

It was just a block that tripped us up,
and so we often said,
who knows if not because of it
we all will wind up dead . . .
only the guy at Godhead.

But when the Saints are readin' that list
of all the stuff I'm liable,
and they point a finger at me
for fiddlin' with my diabol,
I'll have to stand and tell them straight . . .
"Shit man, it's in the Bible!"

Confused, with little recourse, we
moseyed on down the line,
between the endless rows of books . . .
to whatever we might find.

Each table that we came upon
greeted us much the same.
The Buggy, sitting quite near by,
was still and very tame.

The whole scene went like a story,
a web of horror, spun,
as at each table we found a new,
more studious skeleton.

And often, off against the shelves,
and scattered on the floor
the bones of others lay in dust
of flesh from centuries yore.

And every bony reader seemed
intent enough to learn,
but closer looks at all their words
left none new to discern.

"So, Bo," my traveling pal began,
"I guess it's pretty clear . . .
we've discovered a giant library,
but what's the message here?

There's words from every thinker worth
our calling by that name,
but in spite of all the points of view,
I'm shocked they're all the same."

We heard the cave-like echo of
Jo's words reverberate
for years into the distance, and
I thought that we might wait . . .

to see if it might rebound back,
and give us just a hint . . .
how many miles of shelving board,
upon these walls were spent.

"This place goes on forever, Bo,
and I don't understand
what it is we'll gather from
just books at our command.

Ideas are great, and new ones will
help us plumb new depths
of this and other caverns, 'til
there's no more learning steps.

But here we found some ardent and
earnest-like apostles,
appearing to have sought concepts
until they turned to fossils.

And even if we search our way
unto the final wall,
what learning do we really gain
from libraries, after all?"

Books upon their shelves began
to rattle, move and shake.
They danced right off and to the floor,
as if there were a quake.

And right behind the quake there came
that same old thund'rous roar . . .
like a guttered bowling ball, the Voice
rolled up the corridor.

"Ah, my boys, you make me proud.
In spite of how you fall . . .
you stumble onto truth sometimes,
and though your minds but crawl."

The rumbling echoed up and down
the rather narrow shaft
of shelves and tables which we'd trekked . . .
and then the Voice just laughed . . .

"So, what am I to do with you?
It seems the fates applaud
your every effort. I might as well
help you on your road.

Yes, these books . . . a beautiful, new
promise with each cover,
are stories of work without the sweat,
love without a lover . . .!

Gardens described without a hint
of aromatic flavor,
a recipe measured to the gram,
but not a dram to savor.

The championship that's won without
pain of loss or training . . .
the description of the thrones of kings,
without the feel of reigning.

It's all about the learning that
the living might now gain . . .
but only with his doing, can
a man hope to retain . . .

the lessons that he might reuse
as he moves further on . . .
not unlike the things you've come
to understand in poem."

We'd walked along while listening,
just kind of looking down . . .
we were alerted to the Buggy when
we heard its humming sound.

Jo-Mima looked at me and spoke,
"You know, the Voice might say
he's helped us out, before, but here . . .
we had this anyway."

I agreed with Jo, and we moved on.