The Synthezoid Hero 


The Mind Stone


The Scarlet Witch and Vision share a deeper connection that than most. 

Scarlet’s supernatural powers were given to her as an enhancement from the Mind Stone, something invisible to the human eye except shamans and 

THE touched.

Make championship games in village

Emergency contact: whoever's there
Mall art malt balls


which HYDRA used to her advantage 
 conducting nefarious scientific experiments 

on vision Mary’s  now dead brother and the  childhood memories barricaded  inside a tinder box by stove where angry   

Berkowitz 

Schemed and lied about  cons lotion 



The same stone, embedded in The Vision’s forehead, helped bring the synthezoid hero to life.



This is chaos I heard my synapses say 

Vision is Targeted

This gem is also a key piece of the Infinity Gauntlet, which galactic death-dealer Thanos will need if he is going to gain power over all space and time. Securing it means the end of Vision … and she knows it.

Here, the winds pick up 

And the back of your neck 

resides 

in the chill 

moving east

across 

canyons 

the beauty 

faintly

passing 

I fall in love 

each time 

the same notes

a falling over 

and then 

into 



How upon us

To reflect 

No regrets

The Piano waits

As the horn

lilts away 
Just out of reach 

Your ships

leaving harbor 

The Masters of War had Ventriloquists

It wasn’t even winter yet, as autumn held her ground. Weaker men were torn asunder as angels prevailed where blind men feared to speak. You could not fess up nor deny, those wild werewolf times 

Where wolvens roamed the crest like crazy heathcliff

Heather of Moorland Farms befriended the mysterious Maxine. Who wore clogs. A cord skirt. Long straight hair like Marcia Brady but a sway like West Side Story.
The colors of the continent were committed to a shell of their former shelves – the Russian tea cozy. Sore spot of etiquette.

I wasn’t proud when I said my family was like Prince of tides just alarmed 

“Those who hammer their guns into plowshares will plow for those who do not.” Thomas Jefferson, President of the United States, Founder of the University of Virginia, the one slave owner of the group who was unanimously asked to write the preamble for the Constitution, known as the Declaration of Independence.
Now You may ask how could a slave owner write such beautiful words as we the people

In order to form a more perfect union 

ESTABLISH JUSTICE

INSURE DOMESTIC TRANQUILITY

PROVIDE FOR THE COMMON DEFENCE 

PROMOTE GENERAL WELFARE 

AND 

SECURE 

THE BLESSINGS OF

LIBERTY TO OURSELVES

and our Posterity…


Our children

The seventh generation

The future

Certainly no one wants to witness nuclear fallout. Not from a bunker not from an underground silo, middleman earth safe house for world leaders and cryogenic windbags. I’d rather we be taken out by that thing on the other side of the sun than the flash we’ve all dreaded since watching the day after  on a school night in 1983.

Today in history 

I wake up thinking I miss those days as the now-wild parrots make their flight across the Pasadena sky.

Then, with faint tv news in background, I think of the news those good old days held and how just like me, my parents went through the day with a great deal of anxiety.

Now, to survive and thrive, those are the hard things. The easy thing is to not make others suffer for your feelings. To try to force some change in perspective to adjust the out of wack world, if that change is in your own head. You can think one thing that will not make this headache from the head injury of last night (more dangerous after near fatal beating in February) go away but could help with that breakthrough of getting through the day and somehow not just floundering.
1972. The news. Not so good. Depending on the fate, the date and the late breaking story.

Wildfires 

I looked up to see the fires burning coming down the hill facing my father seated at his bay window looking out over the life he built, a life he gave his children, the future of our children, an American Dream bought of Italian immigrants to carrying the great Italian grapes to the fertile fecund Northern California. 
Ironic iconic RUSSIAN River valley, expanding into Napa with his French brother in arms Jean-luc purveyor of the finest Boudreaux and Michelangelo the Pinot Grigio man – all  had fought alongside hemingways kind against Franco’s fascist rollover planned  as comeuppance for the empires and their colonies. 

 

 Once they’d killed ghandi in prison, beat Biko to death, sequestered the master and the margarita, they turned to the inominable agenda of squelched free speech and disarming the right of patriots like Nathan hale or Paul revere so that no one can defend that right to free speech when the military declares martial law, fema initiates operation mass grave keeps only soldiers and those with bank accounts as need be only should the entity called government and its partner in crime corporate greed, Rothschild illuminati infiltrating your DNA to sell off to the bad aliens aka fallen angels they now say wiped out the Neanderthals who told,us in those rock walls underground k. France 

Look up the French resistance 


Don’t forget to read the lover and there’s Racine 

Watch Truffaut Jules and Jim and Godard weekend 

Read now Thomas Jefferson and Lafayette were friends 


Read a tale of two cities by dickens 

Take up knitting 

Listen to kind of blue, in a silent way and miles-Coltrane collaboration s 
See you next week 

Ps hunter s Thompson essays due Tuesday morning 8 am PST

FEAR AND LOATHING UPDATED 

YOUR PROFESSOR 

GURU OF UNSCRIPTED ZEITGEIST 

A place amidst the noise

I am reminded of how I used to write when the click pen I have chosen has trouble flowing and after two short sentences I go looking for the backlit keyboard like Pavlov’s dog salivating over the bell signaling auto-correct of the brain. 
You see, I straddle the timeframe between pen and paper (curiously, “pop em” from google algorithms, but not my brain) and backspace keyboard. I am both the white out generation (eschewing the subpar Tandy corporation’s first “word  processer” for an electric brother typewriter – the irony still holds). 


And so I think (or the voice refuting translation bouncing from coast to coast in the linguistic vortex of my cranium and cortex) I just want to write. 




***


[A little backstory]

I began writing at an early age, possibly 11 or 12, writing in a serious way. 

To me, that meant cathartic if obtuse expression of deep pain and confusing, conflicted emotions for what was happening to me and who I was told I was.
Writing is a way through that-being adopted, having dissociative disorder, reliving trauma and actual repeated abise, continuing thru a treasure trove of toxic workplace Who’sWho of Assholes into a wasteland of small-minded, back handed hacks across the industry – of highly paid hacks.

Dark tower 

Cho Ch ok Kay oh

Sick of the nomadic privilege

The hours turning into days 

of wasted time 

Who wants their legacy to be invisibility? What then was the point of suffering then?