THE ULTIMTE CULT
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THE ULTIMTE CULT

BOOGER MEDLEY by Negro Myles "I am a crazed Wolf.“ A man sat on a toilet. His name was Sponge McWilliams, but that is beside the point. The point is--he had nothing to read. The man simply sat and stared at the floor, while he strained his bowels and grunted. Soon the man became so starved for reading matter that he began reading the labels on the items within reach. The deoderant spray, several medications, a very old bottle of talcum powder....on each and every one of these, the man read all the ingredients. As he did so he tried to imagine how the ingredients had become the things that were in the bottles. Were there little factories, peopled by industrious Japanese workmen, who dipped their fingers into each of the ingredients, until finally--at the end, the product emerged? Or was it done by a more modern method? The man on the toilet thought this, but as he did, he realized that what he was really doing was avoiding something. A thought that flashed across the beam of his mind. Suddenly he saw it. He saw his innards, miles and miles of long brown bowels and other organs, and he realized as he sat, that these were his ingredients. He was made up of such ingredients, lots of long oily membranes and red and orange things were inside him. The man's ingredients were very delicate and could --if punctured by a knife, cause the end of his life. Think of it! If one of the man's own ingredients decided to malfunction, or was ruptured or injured, the man sitting on the toilet would be no more. He would cease to be a man searching for reading matter, and would be--like great King Elvis--a ridiculous thing sprawled with his fat white buttox hanging out, on the bathroom floor. Then again, perhaps it was good he did not have reading matter. As in the case of Great Elvis, the reading matter he had, entitled "The Gospel of the Aquarian Jesus" had caused the poor dead King to suffer humiliation in all of the tabloids for months. Better the King had been reading a copy of Hustler or Velvet than the Aquarian Gospel of Jesus, some folks would say. Ah, but what did it matter, Elvis was dead....and the man, Sponge McWilliams, sat on the toilet, grunting and groaning for a bowel movement, with images of his shiny entrails dancing in his head. This was how it all started. hard drive One week earlier, Sponge had sat in the doctor's office at a local hospital. He had had a severe pain in the neck, which had now travelled to the extremeties of his outer arm. So he had called the doctor. Just as he had expected, the nurse on the phone gave him a hard time. "You can't simply come in here," she chirped snottily. "You have to have an appointment!" "But I'm in pain!" Sponge protested. "I need to see a doctor now!" After a bit more fencing around, the snotty nurse made an appointment to see another doctor, someone named Levitt. Of course, both Sponge and the nurse knew that she could have given him the appointment immediately, without all the fuss and muss. But the nurse, like many others of her ilk--bank tellers, postal clerks and whatnot, had to have her moment of exercising power, of feeling their oats. And why not, after all? All day long, you went about being pushed and shoved and bullied and humiliated by other people, and so when it came your turn, why not do a little bullying yourself? It seemed quite reasonable. In the doctor's office, Sponge refused the reading material that lay about, choosing instead to watch the TV, which was mounted up in corner of the room. It was a game show of some sort, which featured a group of people clapping and jumping up and down like chimpanzees every time they won a round. Sponge did not recognize the game show host, though he looked like someone who Sponge remembered had been on TV before. Then, Sponge recognized the man! Sure, it was Bernie Thaxton, who, when Sponge was a mere teenager, hosted a later afternoon show called Dancin' On Air. The show, a ripoff of Dick Clark's American Bandstand featured the usual group of hormonally imbalanced teenagers dancing to the latest hits. It was a stupid show, but Sponge watched it daily. Soon, as he did with all things, Sponge had thrust himself into the show so that he began to know, rather intimately, each of the participants. There was Lillian, a willowy brunette with fat sexy teeth and nipples that poked through the thin T-shirt. Lillian knew how to work the camera! She poked and mewed, pouting and thrusting her pelvis and breasts right at the camera, who ate up every move! Oh, she was something, this one. Then there was Velvet, a huge breasted girl who could have been white or Negro. Velvet was not a good dancer, but her breasts were so huge and succulent that she could get by on them for a few more years before they began to droop. For some reason, Sponge knew that Velvet came from a poor family. Her father was a drunkard and her mother, who worked in some kind of a spool factory were never home, so Velvet, who normally slept on a couch in the living room, would go in and sleep on their bed. This was simply a fact which Sponge knew. He often knew such things. He didn't know how he'd come to know them, but he just did. Then there was the blonde, little Holly. She was pretty now, but Sponge could see that in a few years, she'd start to fade. Soon, perhaps even in her twenties, she'd be another one of the faceless women prowling the malls of the city. Her only beauty now was in her youth, and that youth was going fast! Holly, who danced a slightly awkward dance, somehow seemed to know this. She looked sad, Sponge thought. And of course, there was lovely Michelle...sponge's favorite. Michelle was simply the best dancer Sponge had ever seen. She was a pro, this gal! She had all the moves down. Every guy on the show wanted to dance with Michelle, and she knew it too. Oh, she was something! Sponge remembered all this, all with the recognition of old Bernie Thaxton, who'd over the past ten years grown fatter, especially in the face. Boy, it was something what ten years could do to a person, Sponge thought and he wondered what all the Dancin' On Air regulars of old looked like now. But Sponge's thoughts were interrupted by a nurse who called out his name. He followed her into the waiting room, where she took his temperature and blood pressure. Then she left him alone. Sponge quickly looked about for something to steal, knowing of course, that there would be nothing good in the office. The people who ran the hospital, he was sure, knew that patients were in the habit of stealing items out of the offices, so they removed anything good, leaving only boring things like thermometers, or plastic Q-tips. Sponge stuffed a couple of the thermometers (not the rectal kind) into his shirt pocket, just for good measure. He never felt quite satisfied, unless he could take something home with him. Shortly, a small man with hairy arms entered the office. "Good afternoon," the man said. "I'm Dr. Levitt." Without looking at Sponge, Levitt began to make notes in Sponge's chart. Then he had Sponge do a series of movements with his arms, while he poked and prodded at Sponge's neck. "Let's send you down to X-ray, Levitt had said, "then you come back and see me." He had never yet looked Sponge in the face. Sponge took the elevator down the basement where the X-ray lab was supposed to be. He couldn't find it and wandered the halls of the hospital. Actually, this was kind of enjoyable to Sponge. One thing of note about Sponge McWilliams was that he felt most comfortable when he was "lost." It gave him a sense of escape, of adventure, out of the ordinariness of his everyday life, a life in which everything seemed to be but a repetition of something that had happened before. Sponge had, for a long time, felt dislocated in this life. He walked through it, but often felt no connection with anything around him. So when a new thing arose, like getting lost in a hospital basement, Sponge soaked the opportunity for everything he could get out of it. Opportunities to get lost were all too rare in this humdrum life. Finally, Sponge found the X-Ray lab. Normally buzzing like a beehive- the place was oddly empty. In fact, Sponge realized, much to his dismay, the entire hospital seemed empty. Walking through the empty basement halls, Sponge had fantasized that he was in a bombed out building after the war. His footsteps echoed in the empty yellow hospital halls. Just think how many things he could steal, stop and look at and research, if there were no people around to bother him! Sponge sat down on a couch and an old blonde woman and a Mexican lady appeared behind the counter. The Mex lady gave Sponge the feeling that she had been crying, or something. The other lady seemed to pay no mind. "OK, go down the hall, take off your shirt and get into one of the dressing gowns," the blonde lady said, kind of nasty-like. Sponge went down the hall and undressed, then fumbled with the dressing gown which you had to put on like a backwards smock. In the next dressing room someone was fumbling with a dressing gown too, and Sponge had the urge to peek, but he did not, fearing that it might be an old woman. Nothing worse than seeing a naked old woman, thought Sponge, who had once spent an entire summer on a nudist colony in the South of France. There, the human body in all its various shapes and sizes had been exposed to Sponge for an entire three months. After the initial sexiness had worn off--Spnge decided that naked humans were about the saddest things he'd ever seen in his whole life. Oh, they looked so damn silly. Somehow without clothes on, all the airs that people normally put on were exposed as sham. Heck, no wonder Adam and Eve had put on fig leaves! They knew that they were nothing but weak, silly looking bipeds. Think of the the way the world would be if everybody were naked, Spnge thought. Imagine trying to go throught a day when everybody merely looked....silly. Then Sponge thought two things. He thought, "My armpits stink." And a moment later, "I am a crazed wolf." That is what he thought. I swear to you. PART 11 WHY WAS HE ALIVE? This was the question he asked himself at 48 or 47, looking like his father, fat titted and grey in the mirror. What was the sequence of events. All the Christ books were now in the garage....all God told him was one thing and one th ing only, two things actually. Write, you lazy fucker. Write....and you'll find out. Or maybe you won't. The crazy guy still lived across the street but his mother, Tit Woman was dead. Would anybody read this stuff after He was dead? Did it matter? How did it all tie up? Yet somehow it did. He knew it after reading Sherwood Anderson. How many years difference really? Between 1910 and 1990....a few years. Jesus, only a few years left! Other people had been alive, had kids, had careers, and he'd been in the room. It was insane. He was keeping the room and the neighborhood alive...safe for when the Pierces came back. But the PIereces were gone...Jeff, dead and Jerry a cripple in the parking lot. Karen Benton now wrinkled and she no longer loved him. She buried him....she told him that with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. And now...ten y ears since he'd fucked ...and it seemed he'd never fuck again, just like when he was in high school. Only this time it was age that got him. Now matter how hard you tried, you couldn't make the damn thing stop! So where was IT? Other puzzling factors came to mind: The fucking of the Great Knee Woman. Right after dad's death. Dad's death in the spaceship hospital....being in command, command of language. A weird side-trip to Las Vegas. Barb talks--then her quick and cruel death. H ow could they all be dead--all the seder participants? They had been alive and eating, and he was just a cute kid--slightly drunk and over the fence to Maryanne Jones. Maryanne still lived there. Kaufman, or at least one of them lived there. The wave of cancer and death rose high, perched, ready to fall again, any minute. In the world--thousands were dying. How could people walk around and havae lives with all the death around them. It was all to deny this death. A guy on death row, now grey, saying, I'm sorry. Trying to die like a man. Death is embarassing, humiliating. The little, useless graspings at life. The neighborhood looked old, crummy. People today looked crummy, not smooth like Elvis days. No, they were the Axl Rose. They were cheap. They didin't know where they got it from. The walk, again, down Hollywood Blvd. He tried to drink it all in, the people, inhale them into h is body. Ah, the lure of the magic shop. Whoopee Cushon...the same drawing, the lady..."poop, poop" coming out of her butt. Memories of Cleveland. Had Cleveland lost it's magic. And the whole new element of desire for Niggers....to drink them in, their h eavy colors and b flat voices, ringing in church. Their bright red clothes and shoes and purses and the pretty little girls. Memories of Louisiiana, Gatemouth, Kershaw, little old Bob Wills peole, and thew brown dust dirt of the Baksersefield, steel guitar bouncer bus, going cross country, fuckihg strange girls, getting amps blowed up, Cajuns, sweet hairy armed country lasses, fucking them, and now remembering them, inhalihng of cocaine, the bad guitar....what was he trying to absorb? Where're you Mama Rita? Why the interest in the death row, jail people? Michael Perry. The Satan girl murdeerer? Would he save her? Did he love her? Where did peole dissappear to? Was it any different in jail? Could you keep your thoughts to yourself. The best thing in the world--to walk alone, to bleed into people, to get inside their bodies, to soak them up. This, now this...was true fucking. And my God, what about all the Christ stuff. It's...goodbye Jesus, into the bathroom with ya! White bread flaky Christians, just another country western steel guitar fling? But the blues was back! The Blues was back! In the room--dirty ugly pornography. It lurked int he deep corner. The little scrawny poorn man was dead, gone, his black t-shirt and angry little foul mouthed dusty face ground into the floor by the boys from the IRS. Hurrah for you boys! That shit is demonic! Do demons really lurk? Is it true or i sn't it? Is Jesus real? Is this the questioni. Surely, God is real. He just spoke to him this morning thru guilt and yesterday twice on the radio. Get off your ass boy! Get in shape. Humiliated, arrested....and of course, the ever present BROWN SPOT. The shit on the underwear. The message--you can't wipe your own ass, boy. You never could! Why was he the guy who couldn't dance, who was uncoordinated, who didin't get picked for sports. Why was he the outsider. The eyelash picker, who couldn't live without mommy! Mommy mommy mommy mommy! Oh, when your'e gone, who'll protect me from the big bad world, the niggers who shit on your rug, the ocps that beat you, the poeple who pretend they care bout you but really don't, the guy who'll pu ll the lever on the gas chamber, the cops who kick your ankles.....the smarty pantses. Nobody, that's who. And wehre was this god? Was he with you on death row? Yeah, tell that to Harriss!!!! People were evil and man was evil. The rest was entertainment. Palm springs, still the call of the desert, the dry, the white sand, the blue water, the old men in pink pants, polite, eating eggs in the sun. Maybe play gitar in a country band out in Indio. Hang around the police station, the courthosue. Get you a nice girlfriend who works as a secretary. Go to ribs and chinese, Poke around in the dark neighborhoods at night, blending in with he plants, the sprinklers, hop over walls, look thru windows at people inside watching tv. Taht's the life, Jim! What were the questions? Where was the blues guitar? Why did Elvis have to get wrecked like that? Did he have a choice? These were fundamental questions. CHAPTER 111 FRENCH GIRLS Whole story. First time. Sleeping in bed with the 2. the plop plop. The arrival and seduction of Anne. The rejection. The Frenoy house. The grown older Marie Pierre. Now all ladies w/kids. The Pizza Parlour. The Monique story. I manipulated her. Sent her Anne's poem to me. She went cukoo. Just after she said she loved me. What would have happened if i had gone there instead of marry Gina? My trip back/her cool recieval of me after Gina wipeout. Where are notes? What is the Monique story? What is connection w/Elvis? Monique was Elvis. Elvis married himself/his mother. Priscilla an elvis lookalike. I am dead. I can only live on paper. Like Proust. I have no life....no life to share. But I can live "the life of the mind." CHAPTER IV THE FIGHT FOR LIFE She's crazy. That's all their is to it. Call it demonized, call it crazy. No wonder dad took a powder. Now she's on the phone with the phone machine, she's mad at the painter, the bugs are here, she did my ironing, "the least you can do for me....." No wonder I have the tape loop....reject the girlfriends, the wives, I marry my mother and then reject her.....only now I AM married to her, and when she dies what will I do.......? This is my dilemma. Mel and Dorothy next door. She smokes cigarettes, Dies her hair red every Tuesday. He waters, hands shake, sits Yortzite for his cat, goes on a tour of the South, calls in radio shows, she watches TV late into the night, the light shinging next door, the sound on too loud. He takes care of her car. Her son died in plane crash. Does she dream of him? Who are these people? The neighborhood, rotting. Drug guys sit out on chairs, recling. It's the movement of history, that's all it is.....how do you stop these things in time? PUt them on paper. Bing. It's done. I wake in the old quakes, sweats. Remember the Karen Benton. The Bible, the throwing of the plate at the kid's mouth. Now her daughter is 15, 16---just right for you, you child molester! Chester the molester in jail. Where is she. What those fucks felt like! And then....nothing. Thrown out in the street like a dog. Paying for the medicine in the garage. Savor every detail! Fat Greg turned skinny, black teeth. Where is Sarah now? Cheryl White called me....Tony Gripp didin't write back. Where are the high school gals? When Mario dialed on her nipples? Scott would have been crummy. Duffy a fag. Pierces boring. Jerry, crippled now, watches his son surf. Can I recapture the French teacher, the Jeff Alkana, the one two three foour five oh baby, six seven eight nine ten go crazy! Where did the drugs, the gangs come from--spout off on this. The lack of values. This is the toll of all the freddie kruger movies....the sixties, the free love,.....oh, wait'll you see the next generation, bubba.... I'm scared of everything! I don't want to move. It only makes sense. Stay under covers. Saw Dr. Gold at Tower records. The blue notes savor me. Can I write, can I plan. OK...here's how it looks. ROTH/ In bed/ he fucks the girls, looks back on writing, on Appel, deals with the pain, the hair loss/decides to become doctor/goes back/does a dance on Appel's head/ goes crazy/ghost of his mother/goes to a grave/goes nuts/winds up in hospital/no conclusion/ OTIS/Back in the room/recalls.....french girls, the three wives, jewish, steel man, born again christian, tough guys, etc/ Present/ Mel, crazy in the streets with bb gun/nigger church/carrie.....private eye/works on phone/he is agorophobic/depression comes now and then/go into the depression in h is life/the blackouts/underlying theme: God? Or imagination? Krishnamurti/Europe?/No wisdom comes/it's a sham/you just get old/fucking Ethos/walk again down hollywood blvd/the magic of downtown/the box of letters he dragged around/THE BROWN UNDERWEAR/he was TV producer/writer/college bunk/steel guitar star/how would he reveal himself this time?/Proust died in bed/blankets on the windows/dark laughter wrote it in two months/possible use of other stories/pin man/unter der egg/youth is vanity/foolishness/old age is suffering/the crazy jews dancing on TV/they smell/dylan more wiped than Elvis/Ali humbled/ b-girls/taxi dance girls/strippers/negro church girls/waitresses/ Dr. Gold says/ You must get one of your peers/you must dance! Use Dr. Gold as foil/all the other psychiatrists/dr brewster/dr gerlach/gert harrow/edith german/ I pull hair outa of my ears! Yah. Is this the end? No, it's gonna get worse! I MARRIED ELVIS....IT'S TRUE/GIna, TRACEY OUTLINE He is in his room/he has certain (few) present activities: church, news, thinking, (boiler room), gym, He recalls things: shuttle back and forth--present: basic issues: does god exist? is he special? when do we become black and white? it was a different world outside: loud radios, kids brought up on this stuff/faxes/phone machines/versateller--all were foreign and amazed him he was ashamed--of what? which people did he want to impress--he was still functioning as if in high school--after all these years, trying to win their approval in truth--there was no reward--a bit of momentary pleasure---poof, you sink into the void he was still hungry for love--he loved himself, all the people who he had been/

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