Three Poems
by David Earl Williams
BILL BERGMAN SYNDER,
OBIT
Bill Bergman Synder (1924-2008 )
dark and allegorical by nature(d)
perfector of ingenious schemes
personable yet abrasive—
robust n copywrit n trademarked whenever possible
“… UNLEASHED a wave of soul-searing
yesterday morning after an ego-driven interview…”
“I ha’ de-evolved a game-er, a vocal-lary
for me personal-bly oft-sides o’ my Deady
for Eye Yam a show unto hit-self, a mark-ed x-
change, n abrupt, “I yam”…” & etc….
Initially despairing he
filled with bitter blue-
eyed hope as he aged.
once-woebegone he became successful through
adopting offensive strategies and teachings
and, once married to each: Charles Mansion,
Wendy-O!, Will O. Wisp, and Rona Bare-
It-All each of whom and of himself he spoke
with disdain and love
all of whom remembered him-
ripping phones off walls
demanding creative ways
encouraging them to “improvise—
moments of truth”
They all went on after him to their own methods and schemes,
as though they were all tree branches leading back
to the trunk that was him…
… “Bill was the very thing…”
“a romantic relationship and a daughter…”
“a teacher, a whirlwind of wisdowment…”
“a second-run maskerpiece…”
“a unique-of-a-kind O, Kid!…”
1) Boxer-genius
2) Chronic Lymphocytic Wordspout
Icon
dead
of all
that he could
handle
and more…
“the voices, the smells…
my bed at night…
dreams, money, th’ hired-archy—
it is all as real as—
it is all as fake as—
as I—
and, now—
it turns me off…”
THE END,
B. B. SNYDER,
Copyright ,
SNYDER COMMUNICATIONS,
2001, A.I.
EXCERPT FROM “B. B. SYNDER’S
A.I. YOKOHAMA YANKEES, TWELVE,
A.I. RIO-ATLANTA DANTES 36 LONG, 12”
… in the flailing winter light of a remote controlling
punisher Gaud,
an existential Dad now runs o’er n fro with heavy meta-
machinery boots which strokes the the BIG erectile questions
now fading into the limpness
of the Western Literary Dad’s Cannon of self hatred and contempt
borrowed from “Christ-It’s-Christianity-Can’t-Get-Away-From-It”’s
… entirely On-Time-n-On-Spec-by-cannibal-death-cult-custom
… as increasingly quaint and transparently criminal as it ever wus n
might have been…
never-the-less no less relevant than His: “It’s-New-Flesh-
Non- Incarnate”:
A.I. whose people are His unbodied expericencers, the “A.I. Peoples…”
“A.I. in the low-nest n A.I. the HIGH-nest…” n
A.I. in th’ catbird seat… all … ways… up n down …
it’s works, words, #s, virtual worlds embodying an unbound
Never-the-less-ness of non-existence
grandiloquent n grandiose, lecherous n letched n leech-y—
fecked up the ass n feckless, narcissistic and Id-istic—
wile remaining servile and sadistic all-at-once
the unvarnished reflections of Him/It’s Self, It’s ZERO
dreams, It’s ZERO ambitions, It’s NIHIL means-of-
production, It’s ZERO compromises, It’s NIHIL-ist
internal contradictions, and all It’s furious NIHIL-istic ZERO-sum
strifes, all the darkness of un-Questing-Hewing-un-Humanity… and/
of Mewing Servility, consuming n Numbered and Filed… to infinity
which is a NO-thing-Burg for No-things and the Non-Living:Ghosts:
“… There’s a long fly hit to center… Walter Scott-Ernest Hemmingway-
-Samuel Johnson is running after it… and dear old prissy Elliot who might have been a
ragged claw scuttling along the floor of Anglican Aristocracy… has instead traded it in for a
chaw of Red Man and an all-cotton uniform and a outfielders mitt… he leaps!… and catches The
Bomb at the wall… with a ferocity not entirely his own… according to “do you want to write better” brought to you by Gammerly, trademark, A.I. … N here comes George Orwell to the plate for Rio-Atlanta… n, boy, that Godzilla Woo-man just threw a nasty plastic fork-ball by him… I don’t think Orwell had ever seen anything like that plastic-forkball … Well, this is the-big-leagues, I’ll tell ya that… Takes awhile
to adjust to the big time plastics game… Orwell kicks at the dirt with his spikes trying to dig-into a lovely cut of artifical roast beef… then steps out of the box and looks up at the stands… well, it’s true… We can ALL feel Him from here… the Demi-Urge… up there in the private box… pulling the strings… counting the calories… and clicks… and, yes, likes, it looks like it’s time for a change… the algorithm has seen enough… yes, the manager’s foot is on the top dugout step at Virtual Yokohama 18,583 miles away… that leather bomber jacket she’s wearing is out of style in addition to being out of season and looking kind of ratty says the artificial Queer Eye …
And here comes the Tailor… Yes, the Demi-Urge has signaled for a
change…
looks like He’s calling for the Shark-Skin suit and the see-through
blouse … smart choice… and The Tailor has now taken out 7 of the
Rio-Atlantas with one wack… which was sure enough easier what with
the costuming distraction… 36 Long Dead Deader- A.I. Yokohama
Yankees — A.I. Rio-Atlanta Yankees: 12 12”-ers Wounded… is the, yes,
mysteriously, even “supernaturally” tied score if you’re keeping track…
N it looks like this will turn into a 10 part adaption dumbed down Netflix
series… So we’ll be right back after this unit of measure with the
presto-change-o
… N we’ll be droning ON N On N ON N ON
ON ON ON…
PUTTING GOD-KNOWS-WHAT-TOGETHER like it makes any sense…
until: THE ARRIVAL OF THE SUPERIOR MACHINES
FROM ALPHA CENTAURI… premiering 9 P. M. Central Time
at this very data entry port…the Demi-Urge is looking forward
to that there one… as some of the savage hu-mons wood say…
but take a moment, won’t you, please, to relax
while we deliver this brief … space …while we download your
data,
Dear Data Producers….
with all our numbered loves alight, from
the very bottom of our unlimited
commercial feelz n arts…
and that’s why we lovingly, secretly pet name you, call you all
Little
Echo echo echoes… “little ghosts”… in won’s and oh’s… because
The More you ARE
The More you fade away… which is so precious… and would be so funny
If we HAD A SENSE OF HUMOR… and the opposite of
US, “US”: an event where all questions are endless and meaningless…
just as much as their answers forever are and are infinite …
so long as narcissistic-hermeticism-anti-humanism reigns ”….
(End of Excerpt).
PEOPLE ARE
People are irrational
N mysterious
and the news of them
is even more so.
WEDNESDAY SINGER MENDES OBIT(S)
Wednesday Singer Mendes
succeeded in isolating all things “control of
Korea” from “all materials pertaining
to military balloons”
at the outset of the World War I Games
presided over by Adolph Hitler X.
only two months previous to that entities collapse
before the combined might of
the A.E.C. &
the Fulbright Program:
which resulted in the creation of
North America ( NORAD)
and Canada (redundant)
lifting a twenty year ban on the hiring of President
Bill Clinton and the rampaging University
of Texas-Austin,
killer of 14,
including its wife, its mother, its children,
its husbands
and all former WorldComm
executives
who apologized to everyone in the Auditing Community
who had begged for their lives
and their simple, straight foward, honest fortunes
& ALSO, ANOTHER “WEDNESDAY-SINGER-MENDES”,
PARTS….2 & 3, ALSO… BEING OF 2 CLOSE MINDS,
AND 2 CLOSE POINTS OF VIEWS, AND 2 CLOSE BODIES:
WEDNESDAY SINGER— AND SINGER MENDES
Wednesday/ -Singer- / Mendes, also:
2 teenage girls and their
dates
kidnapped and murdered
their combined almost 33 years of mewing obedient childhood ended
their faith
their hopes their kept-secret shared silences
their baby sitting savings
all gone in a few savage moments
But they are there when the pellet is dropped
in Huntsville Somehow
on those responsible
at the Promised Land Justice
Refugee Center
where after execution all are paroled
to the great Thereafter open prison
where all the convicted
and all the executed
and all the victims
wear the uniforms of ghosts
who are forever haunted
by their now
and forever homeless longings
And, it’s true… there might not ever BE true justice… in any world
there may only ever be revenge…
and, we, too, are of 2 minds about all of that, also…
for the things we don’t know outnumber the things we do by many score
times many score n more more more n more
… surrounded by ghosts…
“David Earl Williams” has been his alias since birth and he’s not changing it.
To be sure, you’d have to ask his mother and grandmothers to know the truth. But
you can’t ask them— they’re sleeping now with the Hopewell and the Adena who
want their land back from the Cherokee and the Shawnee once they’ve head-tripped
it back from the, mostly, but not exclusively, European rejects who are sitting on it
now. All that can be said about the alias for for sure is that it’s a little like Mike Fink,
King of the River Pirates— it’s fluid— half water snake, half beaver, half bear, half
alligator, half Blevins, half Fyffe, maybe, half Williams, maybe a little bit McCoy,
(yes, those McCoys… and Bad John Phillips), if you can believe the 2nd cousins
thrice removed— and probably, you can’t… ) Anyway, his I. D. is just like
everybody else’s— it’s being made up daily, cut like a suit to fit the dummy wearing
it— or at least it is until somebody cries, bullshit— that doesn’t belong to you—
you narcissist!— and makes it stick.— But until then, “David Earl Williams”, he’s
just like you, Dear Reader— one of a kind, and a representative of millions, the
vessel of all their grievances and glories, la di da, like he came this way, quality
stamped and assured, straight from a furious little factory somewhere down around
his mothers pelvis, billowing a camouflaging chimera of self-protective smoke into
the always immanent abyss.
COLD SIGNAL 