New Jack is Dead

[rowens]

I know nobody gives much of a shit about this.


But.


I live in a hole. I rarely use any kind of media. I get drunk and come on here.
That's it. I spend most of my time in a tent or in the woods since the disease broke out.

I just found out tonight that one of my role models, one of my heroes growing up is, guess what, dead.


It's the first thing that came as surprise to me in years.

[TranquillityBase]

I read a bit about New Jack.

The first time I lost a hero was when I found out Richard Brautigan had killed himself.  I was 30 at the time.

I've missed your presence on this forum.  It's good to hear from you again.

TqB

[rowens]

I know Richard Brautigan from my Outlaw Bible of American Poetry. A book written for bums, priced outside of a bum's price range. At least at the time of first publication.

The death of a hero is more vicarious than pornography.
I also found out that Zoe Parker is dead. In my lonely, pained, drunken moments, I had such intimate experiences with Zoe Parker.
The mind experiences everything as physical reality. People with anxiety or depression need to know this. It saves a lot of trouble. Regrets, bad memories, they affect you physically each time you remember them. It's claimed that being rejected by someone you love causes the same physical pain to the brain as it does when you're being physically beaten.
This is true. However, I was trained as a professional wrestler between the ages of 17 and 20. I came to enjoy being wrapped in barbed wire and piledrived through mirrors. And magic, and tantra, and Romantic poetry, they all have the same effect. Romantic poetry is not all about romantic love, as another post on here declared. Romantic poetry is something else. I say I'm a pre-Romantic Romantic, because being a Romantic assumes that there is anything else to be. It's a declaration of rebellion against spiritual and nonspirtual realities.

I declare there is nothing else to be.
I'm only Romantic in the sense that so many people in this world don't seem to see things the way I do.
I maintain the "I". That's what makes me Romantic.

[TranquillityBase]

I think, if we're talking about the same comment, they said romantic poetry is a young man's game, unless you're an old man, lusting after younger women.  But I guess the implication is the same.

Thanks for this:

Ro
"Romantic poetry is not all about romantic love, as another post on here declared. Romantic poetry is something else. I say I'm a pre-Romantic Romantic, because being a Romantic assumes that there is anything else to be. It's a declaration of rebellion against spiritual and nonspirtual realities."

And thanks for tip about the Outlaw Bible.

Have you written about your wrestling, poems I mean, or anything?  Seems like something people would want to read.  If you care about that, which you may not.

[rowens]

I have notebooks full of writing.

This computer I'm using won't let me use the Wordpad or whatever.

It says I have to pay for it.

The things I wrote in the Wordpads on this computer before Expiration of the free trial, I can't access.

But, so what?

I haven't written much lately. I haven't seen any of my friends since Saint Patrick's Day of last year. I took advantage of the solitude to perform some of those lengthy magical rituals people talk about.

You're supposed to refrain from alcohol and sex while doing these things. But that's just cautionary, I can perform rituals in my sleep now. And I can crack jokes on the demons with my Wand and Cup overflowing, that is, beatoff and drink and it all just as natural as I can in my dreams.

What was we talking about? Oh,
WRESTLING

[TranquillityBase]

Right, poems about wrestling like



I came to enjoy 
being wrapped in barbed wire
and piledriven through mirrors....

[rowens]

I don't have interest in writing poems. When I was wrestling, I lived wrestling. I lived books and writers, and wrote hundreds of stories and poems and essays. I focus on something, I do it. I stopped wrestling because my coordination skills went to shit. I can't drive. Apparently something is wrong with me. Well, I use all to my advantage. I absorb everything, and use it. Wrestling, I was able to believe it was real and know it was an act. When I dream, I know I'm dreaming and think it's real. No contradiction. I've said I live my life like a Marx Brothers movie. I do. All is play. My only weakness is a beautiful woman. With a certain woman, I forget again and again that all is play.

[TranquillityBase]

"I've said I live my life like a Marx Brothers movie."  A worthy endeavor. Which brother are you?  I'm guessing Chico.

Much of what you write is poetry, it just doesn't look like poetry, and the reader has to endure a lot of non-poetry to find it.  Too bad readers, most of them, are too lazy to look at what's right in front of them.  I am not one of those readers.  It's probably my only skill, and a useless one.  But enough about me.

Do you have a favorite Marx Brothers movie?  Mine is Cocoanuts.  

I don't expect a straight answer.  A straight answer would be inappropriate in a Marx Brothers movie.

[rowens]

I like the song in Cocoanuts.

Marx Brothers, cartoons, jokes, sight gags, dangerous stunts, and utter lack of inhibitions due to month long lost weekends. And solitude has the ideas and thought patterns of others fade, so I come equipped with my own ideas about things, cobbled out of my own dreams, and remnants of useless memories.

I try not to read books. I don't watch tv but when I'm coming down, and I want confirmation that others are ridiculous as me.

[rowens]

To prove tjat, I mean, that I like the song in The Coconauts :? I mean, :

---

Go to the original video. 2012.
I'm not making it up.

---

This is my old art-sart site.

To prove it's me ; I'll put another thing,  a poem I 've posted before,
and that most won't rememver, rememver, that sou  ..  . . . remember , who don't remember.
but Todd, Todd might remember. He's the only one still around
might want to stick the fingre at me for reiterating ]par, I mean past achievements. I wanted to put glory or glories , but i hit thw erong button.

---

New Jack is dead. You look him up on YouTube. His matches are censored musically. ECW didn't have the rights to his music. So If you watch a New Jack match on YouTube, you get a weak ass thing.


I am going to see if I can find an real a thimg, I mean. REAL

---

I failed.

They didn't have the rights to use that Music.

So it's all been banned.


New Jack died in Greensboro, NC, a few miles from here.


He's dead.

So somebody made a tribute video.


Why would sensitive poets want to watch a video about a professional wrestler?

I'll tell you. New Jack lost eyesight in one eye, ruined his health, died in his fifties.


And I posted videos of me.

I don't have videos of me being New Jack. But I have recordings of me being Hart Crane. 









Sounds like Romantic poetry to me.

---

If you don't see how my poetry and New Jack's wrestling has anything to do with each other



Get a diploma!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

---

If you hadn't asked me about Cocoanuts in this thread, none of this would make sense.

But since you did:

Well. here

[TranquillityBase]

Thanks Rowens.  Best 10 minutes I've spent today.

I watched an interview with New Jack done in January 2021 after I watched your videos.  I'm inspired.

I took notes.

[rowens]

New Jack wanted wresting/wrestling, both work grammarly,  to be real as possible. I want poetry to be real as possible.

He lived an hour away from me. Do you think there's something in the water, the air?
I

well,


here's something I channelled from my ownself today when I was given a ride by someone who wanted to endear/importune me with a dear old doctrine of a current news situation:
I said,
there is no government,
sound familiar?,
there is no nation,
racism and antiracism is the same,
God and no God is the same,
knowledge and ignorance is the same,
there is no news,
there is no race,
there is no family,
there is no science,
there is only improvisation.
Conscientious improvisation.

I say these type things all the time. People say, this guy is . . . then they lose interest. And I repeat, shamelessly:
There is no government,
there is no nation,
racism and antiracism is the same,
God and no God is the same,
knowledge and ignorance is the same,
there is no race,
there is no family,
there is no science,
there is only improvisation.

Conscientious improvisation.

---

Conscience.
Beyond, always beyond.
Conscience above all.

---

New Jack was kind of an asshole.
And so am I.
KInd of.
SO i'M always looking for assholes,
an asshole, that's my kinds

---

When I was 17 years old, my wrestling role models were Jerome Young and Scott Levy. I hated them. I thought they were fuckin assholes. So I idolized them. This was the '90s. I had long hair and torn jeans and a suicidal smile. My valet was a 13 year old who chainsmoked and fucked all the the highschool football players regularly, and came to my wrestling events in '97-'98 in short skirts and torn pantyhose with fake blood at the thighs and stood at my corner of the ring, and made the crowd fuckin hate us weekends.

The good old days.

[TranquillityBase]

My best friend for 40 years was a conspiracist.  I met him at age 22.  We couldn't have been more different.  He was probably an asshole to most people.  He started me out on JFK's assassination and Ouspensky and Gurdieff and it went on from there.  Drumpf destroyed our friendship and then he killed himself.

Anyway, learned a lot from him, like I'm learning from you.  


"When I was 17 years old, my wrestling role models were Jerome Young and Scott Levy. I hated them. I thought they were fuckin assholes. So I idolized them. This was the '90s. I had long hair and torn jeans and a suicidal smile. My valet was a 13 year old who chainsmoked and fucked all the the highschool football players regularly, and came to my wrestling events in '97-'98 in short skirts and torn pantyhose with fake blood at the thighs and stood at my corner of the ring, and made the crowd fuckin hate us weekends."


I still think you need to put this stuff into poetry.  Or maybe you already have, I'll have to look.

[rowens]

I already have.

---

The first thing I learned from Gurdjieff was how to discipline myself under bullshit circumstances. Literally shit. I've learned a lot from when and where and in what circumstance, and what color and shape and feeling-tone I and those around me bowel movement.

[rowens]

This site claims to be international, it always seems to be silent in the middle of most nights. My nights.

I am talking. You're children have no say in the matter, this late.

Huh?


There are two married women who have, since last year, offfffffferred their sexual services to me. Earlier, I sent them both a message, telling them I was ready to take them up on their offer, considering that they keep it a secret between me and them; I Forwarded to both of them, using a stranger's phone.

I remembered their numbers, you see.

Neither of them have replied.


Some people find it hard to follow the narrative structure of my poems. Some people say that I write lyric poems, and there is no narrative. They're right; but they miss the point.

All of my poems lie between the films of David Lynch and the books of Lemony Snicket.

There is a secret in this video that unveils a huge aspect of my poetry.

---

The internet went out.

---

But I've been studying. And I found out how to go back in time, and retrieve my lost message.

---

The internet went out again.


But, this time, I copied what I wrote before I said it 







"See above.

I was going to write this:

Why when the internet goes out, does it go to a screen that says: You're Not Connected (I don't know if it's uppercase like that, it just seems that it is), instead of staying on the screen you are on so you don't lose what you wrote?

Since what I wrote above is gone, I'm just going to post this video anyway without any context."

[busker]

When it's night for you, it's day for me. But I work during the day. And of late, I have been working weekends.
Building financial models for transactions. Fascinating stuff. A single keystroke error could wipe out billions. I suspect it happens all the time and no one knows

[rowens]

busker, I want you to take two weeks off. Say: For Personal reasons. Do fifty pushups and fifty situps at tenAM and the same at 6AM. Watch Season !, I mean Season 1 and 2 of Doom Patrol, and every variation of Aqua Teen Hunger Force. Have every form of sex you're invited to have. No comment.


The Virgin Birth doesnt mean being Born from A Virgin, it means being born free of the conditioning of the family/social-cultural unit. Free of karma.
OK, Ego=conditioning/recordings; Karma=the directional patterns of the Nervous System; Samsara=the same old ignorant shit people keep doing.
Nirvana=Blowing all that out like ONE CANDLE OF THINGS, including Nirvana itself



Okay, if religion is real, you are all bodhisattvas and have only to help others, Conscientiously. Because some peop;, I mean, people need to help theyselfs.


I call Virgin Birth = First Light.

And I transigured (I spelled that wrong, I know, .... [the red ziggly line ...] The Hermetic Order of the Golden DAwn tO the Public Chaos of the Summer Dawn.            Who is Summer Dawn?  Well, Daphne. The girl I wrote that poem about.




Evil no longer exists. The Beast666, oh T. A. T. Y., oh, yawn.

Summer Dawn is a young woman I wrote poetry about.

I'm sure you've read my poems about the golden ball beyond the sun.

And, the Useless Path of Vital Living. I'm a cult leader without a cult. A majority of one.

There is no government,
there is no nation,
racism and antiracism is the same,
God and no God is the same,
knowledge and ignorance is the same,
there is no race,
there is no family,
there is no science,
there is only improvisation.

Conscientious improvisation.
     




Well, that didn't paste as per normal.

---

There is no government,
there is no nation,
racism and antiracism is the same,
God and no God is the same,
knowledge and ignorance is the same,
there is no race,
there is no family,
there is no science,
there is only improvisation.

Conscientious improvisation.


Ho Ho

there we go.

---

Some asshole wrote a poem about that

---

Now, dig this good stuff.




I mentioned First Light. And The Public Chaos of the Summer Dawn.


To provoke that into the world,


you are working alongside the, guess what,



Dawn Patrol.


To get the First Light in others;


I aint making this shit up.

---

Dawn Patrol



DAWN is coming soon,


are you AWAKE.


That's not my pitch.



"I don't have a Pitch."



__________________________




"The world is quiet here."

---

I meant 6PM.

---

I got asked to leave a restaurant earlier today due to a wedding shower.

I fell asleep a few minutes ago and had a dream where I made an elaborate and subtle joke beyond my normal woke capacity. And I forgot it.
I came on here again wanting to tell the joke, not considering that I didn't know the joke.

It's Sunday, bordering on 5AM for some of me lonely time zone.


I'm tired. I'm just going to say again. First Light: what have I to do with you?
We all, the Jesus bible was written in greek. Greek.
So
The cross.


You dig?


Christ-Consciousness: First Light : Crucified on the cross of the four greek elements: EARTH AIR WATER FIRE : crowned with SPIRIT : what I call CONSCIENCE


So to be Christ, simply strip yourself of all divisive propaganda, i. e., Virgin Birth, and take up the cross of the elements, i. e., Nature/Reality.

RENDER ON TO MONEY PEOPLE WHAT MONEY PEOPLE HOLD SACRED

---

Live on reality.
The lilies of the field.

If you're starving, and people just let you die,


SHAKE OFF THE FUCKING DUST AND DIE.
SEE HOW THE MUTHAFUCKA FEELS

---

People prefer stories to philosophical essays.


So Jesus talked nonsense.
He was wise enough, at that time, to know that the more jive he talked, the longer it would take to make a sensible cult.


BC/AD

LOck up your daughter, lock up your, wife, lock up your backdoor, run for your life

ecce homo

[TranquillityBase]

My best friend for 40 years was a conspiracist.  I met him at age 22.  We couldn't have been more different.  He was probably an asshole to most people.  He started me out on JFK's assassination and Ouspensky and Gurdieff and it went on from there.  Drumpf destroyed our friendship and then he killed himself.

This is a poem I wrote about the friend I mentioned:

We were compadres, competitors,
occasionally enemies. 
We watched each others’ romances unfold,
and fold and sometimes cross.

You came along in ’78,
I know because it was an April day 
when you taught me how to get stoned at work,
leading me to a secluded goldfish pond 
only a few yards from the  University’s Tower
and pulling out a joint,
and you hadn’t heard that Sandy Denny was dead.

We went to a play
called Your Mother Wears Combat Boots.
You showed up in an ill-fitting business suit, 
pointed to your shiny leather shoes,
and said, “Dead man’s shoes”, laughing hysterically.

You were a Bard of conspiracies,
from JFK to Bilderburg.
You owned Ben Thompson’s roulette wheel,
and lived with a former cheeleader you called “strictly TV”
who read you to sleep at night.
You owned land in Nova Scotia,
and you had an arch-enemy named Scottie.
You read Gurdjieff, Ouspensky and sent Colin Wilson
Your murderer’s name theory, and got a reply.

You got your face painted as a lizard skin
for the Fall Carnival at Armadillo World Headquarters.

In 1978, you wanted to live to be as old as possible,
and you told about an old man at a junkyard 
who lived in a tin shed 
full of junkyard porn magazines.  
and then you were silent.

I’m still working on that koan, Philip.

I’ve lived with your suicide for five years now, 
felt you looking in, but that still leaves me alone
here on Tranquillity Base.

[rowens]

My friend disappeared last year. At least from me. We saw each other several times a week since the '90s, until last year. He left my room one night and was never heard from again. At least by me. Though other people have seen him at stores around town. I didn't know if he died or what.

There are different feeling-tones that come with different experiences, situations. I've always been able to trick myself into utilizing even the worst of states, to make the best of everything.
Some people can't get those things working, those natural chemicals that give you contentment and interest in each moment. After a few days of heavy drinking, it takes a few hours for those worthwhile life feelings to come back. I was like that this morning. I thought then how this must be what it's like to be suicidally depressed, and if someone feels this way all the time, it would be a suicidal situation. 
But I play all kinds of tricks to start to get an aesthetic pleasure out my worst nights. I imagine I'm being experimented on by aliens, or that I'm locked in a room or another state between realities, and that it's all an Ordeal.
That's where the Romantic ego comes in handy. Another opportunity to storm Hell.

---

I found an old poem that mentions wrestling. But nothing specific.




bousingots

Many love the class clown,
The ones that rail against it all
Without rhyme or reason.

But what about the ones that push and kick
Even against the ones that love them,
Until there's none of those left at all?

Well I can tell you about the trumpet
That I saw years ago, for sale
In a pawnshop downtown.

I can try to tell you about that trumpet,
But I probably won't say much about it at all.

I went home and thought about,
Through the darkest, ordinary December,
Blowing that horn like mad.

So all, or some, of the skeletons
Would come out and dance,
And chase the spiders away
As I kept pushing on the walls.

But then I got to thinking about the spiders.
That all they do is spin webs, spread poison, and eat;
And that gives them a bad reputation
Among those that just want to play their music
And dance.

I considered what it was like to be the spider:
And I filled myself with poison,
And spun a web of myself
Until the hunger became so intense

That food was not enough to satisfy
The feelings and the thoughts,
The damnéd thoughts;
And the spider became a man.

Is that how it was with the ape?
So I started thinking about the ape.
And I saw beyond all my hunger
For spiritual things,
I was nothing but a beast,
Raging in the dark of shining things.

With no trumpet, and no heart other
Than the thing that beats,
I had nothing eternal but the eternal December.
And was jealous of pure nature's spring.

There's nothing I can do about it.
There's nothing chasing a dragon can do
But burn you with a fire that isn't there.

The spiders are there.-
The skeletons are there,
But they're only metaphors
For things I can't think of
Because they make me sick.

Some spiders have to rebuild their webs
Every time it rains;
And some insist on building in houses
Where someone lives,
Knowing good and well they won't let them build a web.

Some metaphors are skeletons
For more weighty things
That have no business being alive.
But what business have I…

To sing without talking, dance without walking;
If I could play by the rules, do you think I'd have to cheat?
Like in professional wrestling, cheating's part of the game.
And when wrestling with the angel,
Who's going to tell you it's fake…

Like a man said:
If you're gonna pursue a unicorn,
You gotta follow the trail where it leads.

I never got the trumpet, somebody else did.
I couldn't get a ride, and didn't have any money,
Even if I'd walked.

[TranquillityBase]

Thanks for pulling this back from wherever it was.  I'm going to read your old stuff one of these days, starting at the beginning and going forward.  I guess it will take many days, but I'm burning bright, at least for a few hours each morning.  Then comes the rest of the day that I have to get through until the next bright morning.

The trumpet brought back a memory.  Some kids (back when I was a kid too) from Princeton moved to Austin for one summer.  One of them lived across the street from me in another run-down rent house.  He played a saxophone in the middle of the night.  One winter night his girlfriend came shrieking out into the street, calling hiim an animal.  He followed her out, playing his sax.  One of those moments from my good old days.

There were three of these Princeton kids.  One, a woman named Theodora, worked with me at the library.  Philip and I were both after her, but she was being physically faithful to number three whose name I forget.  Physically but not spirtually faithful.  Then they all went back to New Jersey or Pennsylvania.  I got a letter from her a year or so later.  She was in a hospital getting an abortion.  I never answered her letter.