The Philosopher Pistol

Desperate Times Presents:

The Philosopher Pistol (Part !)

There doesn't see to be any artillery sir?
But there Must be artillery!
How can we fight a Goddamn Bloody War without Goddamn Bloody artillery?!

The general was fuming at this point and i was glad to get out of the room before the winds of politics swept in a foul thunderstorm. I left with my charge, ahead of the supply boy and with my pistol in hand. I thought this quite amusing. I'm not one to carry my pistol in my hand, but my experience in the General's office; being handed my first real assignment on my own, had my heart pumping. Perhaps I pulled my sidearm out of it's holster, who knows how or why these things happen. I promptly re-holstered my weapon and set off on my journey.

I slept for a night on the beach - i took in the smell of the sand, the sound of the water lapping against the earth, like matter smacking against time. I thought about time slowly falling away in to a deep well hole in New England; only to be retrieved by a man who once sold his daughter to a Street Performer for September 1968. Time couldn't be easily caught, or held on to for that matter. And after the Street Performer intercepted time, it quickly got away from him. Never to be caught again.

I walked a desert road for a time. I felt like a man on a mission, but what mission, I did not know. I held my gun up above me as I walked. The reflection of the Sun against my pistol warmed my soul the way the company of another human being never could. I guess it was my manner. My way. I'd never been one for company. Strangers sure. But I'd never kept company well and I wasn't about to start now. That's why i left. To get away from everyone; To find out - after all my awful misdeeds and sins, he trail of tears and broken lives I've left behind me; who I really am.

So I walk along the trodden trail - the only trail a man who's low can know.
I sing my song to no avail, for on my path, if I choose to sing it's for no one
I choose to sing to no one.

Send me a mountain to climb to the top and jump off and explode and then fly in to hell and do battle with satan - and crucify Christ - let them whip me and rape me and burn me and hate me.

Next Time on Desperate times Presents - PART 2

Delusional Prose

Something's missing here. I'm not sure what exactly. But something's missing.

There's a bit of an emptiness inside, a nothing that's starting to take it's toll on me. Maybe I need a change of locale. Or better yet, i'd love to have that procedure Jim Carrey goes through in Eternal Sunshine that erases memories that cause him anguish... That'd be nice - selective memory deletion. If I didn't dwell so much, I'd be a much more productive person - happier too. But ya know; there's something in my brain that's just triggered to dwell on loss - mull it over untill it's been fully mulled. My brain doesn't stop there though - even after the loss has been fully mulled - this old brain keeps mulling and dwelling over the loss. It's like grinding axel against pavement. The tire's burned away and I'm just grinding it out, trying not to notice the insanely bumpy ride.

I try and block out the bumps and skids and horrific screeching noise in my ears, but it won't go away on it's own. Left with nothing but myself, I remain dissatisfied. What's so wrong with loving external stimuli. What's so wrong with loving something more than you love yourself? I don't know. So I mull this over for a while and come to the conclussion that whatever conclussion I come to; I'll still be stuck with the loss, not feeling any better about it.

Conclusion: Ignorance is bliss?

Shall I continue to ignore the loss? Shall I pretend it doesn't exist, like you do with the proverbial woman who 'done you wrong?'

Can ignorance lead to enlightenment? If I block something out for so long, supress the emotions that these evil thoughts stir up, tell myself over and over again that the problem doesn't exist, will I eventually convince myself it's true? The problem... the loss will always be there, but if I tell myself it doesn't exist enough times, perhaps, in my head, that will make it so. Perhaps delusion is the key to salvation. After all, one man's delusion could most certainly be another man's truth.

So, I'll continue my search for inner truth, with a few delusions along the way. For the moment, I'll delude myself in to thinking that everything is gonna be alright.

Guest Poet: Kristyn Brown

Desperate Times Guest Artist Series Volume II: Kristyn Brown
Today on Desperate Times, we feature one the soon to be most well known philosophers on the planet, Miss Kristyn Brown. Currently studying in Belgium to get her Masters degree in Philosophy, she has been gracious enough to share some of her current work with us.


1. How not to cry:

Think only of what you’ve got

Not what is missing

Feel the way you are

Sitting in a coffee shop

Don’t think the word alone

That would be thinking what you’ve not got



Don’t want to talk

Or be satisfied with talking to yourself

You are a great conversationalist anyway

Lucky you, you are now having a great conversation

At least



Think about the sun or the clouds

Or the stool or the hanging photos of Brooklyn Bridge

Or the flashing game machine in the corner

Or the Bruce Springsteen’s voice, the fuzzy speaker in the corner

The racked yellow and blue patio chairs



Think of all the things around you

Make sure they stay in sight

Make sure it is a stool you are sitting on;

How is that game played; When did he write this song;

Who was on the bridge that day; What is he doing right now; Is he warm;

Is he tuffling under the sheets; Is the sailboat wind chime catching the sun

No, no! too far!



Don’t let the stool disappear!



Write a poem

Nothing is ending

You’re just waiting



03/20/09



2. Dear God: Response Requested



Dear God,

[10:00:08 AM] Kristyn Brown says: Please excuse the following blasphemy (I will assume you have because I am not yet aware of any smiting).



I was in Paradise today.

I was supposed to be in Paradise today.

It seemed to be very much like this is what Paradise was to be, or once was.



But was I?

Surely, you would know.



All the bounties, all the riches, radiant flowers with the lofting smells of heaven

Sun- the gavitational, succumbing,

Closing my eyes simply to turn to it

What was that feeling today... of closed eyes, only a thin beating shield between that sun and my mind?

I tried to think it today, but I could not find the words.



Anyway, back to this Paradise thing.

It seemed like,

for all the ancient reasons, for all the scraped paintings and pictures handed down by pallets and brushes;

For all descriptions of release and redemption, for all the forgottenness, the unhistorical, the never has there been of the grinding of everyday axewheels;

The, Oh, how I love the God, the Sun, the Paradise which is all I know!

That, in Paradise, I was.



But something today, even while it was happening something seemed strangely unParadisely; seemed missing.

Not a note from the bird’s harmonious oaths and odes ricocheting off of one another;

Not the perfect hovering of the shallowest pool water upon its depths;

Not a tile missing from the lusciously captured sahara sand smoothed over into perfect squares beneath my feet;

Not any dimming of the Sun because the clouds swept graciously around it like ladies of the court around their queen, careful not to cross the boundary from picturesque to annoyance.



And now the Sun has set and my thoughts, my heart, my feelings recount the day.

This paradise today seems missing something, missing a lime like the Sangria standing vigilant beside me.

And now that the people have gone inside, hiding from the soft chill that runs along behind the Sun, a pigeon sweeps down and rests beside the pool, wetting his beak.

Now, these misbegotten doves, dirty as they are, bathe in the golden fountains and gilded pools.



Was it Paradise I saw today?

Or is this Paradise now?

Surely, you would know.



Love,

Kristyn



[10:30:29 AM] Kristyn Brown says: ps. Sorry for the cigarette ashes I left on the hard, disinterested sahara tiles.



07/04/09



3. I Place the Cards



I place the cards in order

Smoking a cigarette

And the flag ship of my mind sails off

somewhere far beyond this oak table

threes on fours on fives

and queens on kings

kings on aces

I start making a phone call

But would rather not hear the endless ringing

That I know will not stop, there will be no other end

So I put the phone down on the table, still ringing, but not in my ears

And I place the cards

Twos on threes on fours

And fives on sixes

Next Week - audio files!!!!

Desperate Times

Desperate Times Hobo Prose

DESPERATE TIMES
Everything he says, he lies, things he says he lies, He says them just to lie

Won’t let me look him in the eye, look him in the eye, try, he closes off his eyes

His friends are all around, friends they do surround, His friends they all came down

To comfort, say goodbye, a comforting goodbye, never know when he will try again

Cause now they don’t know when, we’ll see you again, won’t see you again

Then his girl comes in, fingers to his chin, then he starts to grin

He needs comfort he needs love, not people up above, not those people up above

But Every word he speaks his false, words he speaks as false, words he speaks are false

He stopped telling time cuase he couldn’t lie, cause he used to lie about telling time

He stopped telling lies, couldn’t find the time, time to tell the tangible lies

Now he’s in desperate times, he’s in desperate times, he’s in desperate times –

Now he's Gotta find a lie, tangible little lie so he can get by -----

He’s been killed off by his peers, with scissorhanded shears, causes him no tears.

He’s shed so many tears, enough to last for years, what else to you really need to know.

Don’t believe he’s fine, Don’t believe his lies, when he says he fine.

He’ll cut you in your sleep, rest of us will weep and we’ll all be here much longer than we’d planned.

If he could have it his way – guess she woulda stayed, guess she would stayed, guess she woulda stayed

But He misses her today, yeah misses her today – days the day she left without saying goodbye

Les Philosophes by Helen Parson

Desperate Times Guest Artist Series Volume I: Helen Parson
Thanks to the wonder of the interweb, I ran into an old friend the other day. An old friend in the sense, that I knew her "when" or "back in the day." Not old friend in the sense that she's an octogenarian. Helen saved my life. Yes, it's true. In addition to saving lives, she's an artist extraordinaire. A student and teacher of the suzuki method of instruction; Helen not only teaches guitar, she writes and plays in her Seattle based band Princess Seismograph aaaaand she draws amazing comics - which are on display here for you, the people to peruse. They are brilliantly drawn and full of absurdly wordlys and Helen's staple whimsical chrimsical charm. A new comic each day for the next week folks... I promise!

Here for your comic reading and viewing pleasure: Les Philosophes






Next up: Group Spontaneous Prose with Jared, Dave and Ben

Desperate Times Goes Global

The chart above shows how many languages our little site here is viewed in. As you can see from the pie chart, Desperate Times has indeed gone global. The page is now being viewed (by a very small percentage of you) in Chinese and German. I wonder if the fresh prose is translated accurately, and if it conveys the same meaning. Either way, you are welcome to read, listen, view and comment in any language. We here at Desperate Times thank you for making us the site we are today. We hope for future growth. In fact, it's my goal to have the fresh prose poetry being read in every continent and dozens of countries across the globe by the end of the year. So tell your friends, professors, classmates, brothers, sisters, savants, hobos, jews, gentiles, wasps, asps, elephants... anybody who has access to a computer.

More to come soon,

Next up:

Featured Artist Series Volume 1: Helen Parson

...till then...

Thanks for reading

-Jared

2/24/09 - Lonesome Hobo's Poetry

From the stolen diary of a Lonesome Hobo lying in Washington Square Park

I am a Lonesome Hobo who threw away his wealth
I squandered love on someone else, forgot about myself

I am the tightrope walker, just before he falls
I looked for my love in the crowd and noticed she was gone

I clothe myself in garbage, material and fake
The tattered shreds reflect my heart, scared in disarray

I cast you in my movie, you said you loved the script
You changed the lines without me knowing, boy do I feel jipped

Today I shoot the camera, I hide behind the lens
I wish that could do or say that which would make amends

Meet me in the park sometime, beneath our fav'rite tree
The place you swore undying love and gave your heart to me

I would sing you a folk song, about life that never ends
But I'd rather share my heart with you, than remain as simply friends.

I'm told I must stop rhyming, that my lines are played and cheap
The most beautiful, profundities, in my mind I'll keep

Lead Pipe Baby (an election day story)

Desperate Time Prose: Volume IV

I was riding on my pony, spied some natives up ahead
I dismounted good old Betsy, we hid in the river bed
Took out my Smith and Wesson, taking aim I cocked my gun
But there’s something bout a head-shot, really lacks a certain fun

Within my sight I saw three cattle thieves, natives they were not
I could shoot ‘em now or kill ‘em close with a weapon I have got
Cause they’re ain’t no finer way to make a cattle thiever dead
Than with a swiftly sick sadistic, Lead Pipe to the head



Oh,
My Lead Pipe Baby, She’s colder than steel
When I hold her in my arms she makes my skin congeal
Whenever we go out, she makes her presence known (she screams)
Homicidal realtor, find a new cerebral home for me

I climbed aboard Old Betsy, my trusted noble steed
To pick a better spot to hide and place for her to feed,
Cookin’ up an ambush, silence covering my sight
I saw those bastards set up camp and pass out drunk goodnight


I thought I'd - Get em close so they could smell my baby cold as ice
The only - Swift sadistic girl I know who goes for human sacrifice
I walked along the tree-line, slow and steady, pipe in hand
Their slumber upped my pace my lead-pipe slaughter so began

My Lead pipe baby sends me for a whirl
She's my moral compass yeah now all I need's the girl
My Lead pipe baby Raised high above my head
She glistens in the moonlight 'fore she knocks the bastards dead

Oh,
My Lead Pipe Baby, She’s colder than steel
When I hold her in my arms she makes my skin congeal
Whenever we go out, she makes her presence known (she screams)
Homicidal realtor, find a new cerebral home for me