Books, Cults, Fables, Hindu, Holographic Universe, Humor, Krishna Das, Mystic, New Age, Short Stories, short-short, Young Adult

Lord Krishna’s Mouth


There is a story told of Lord Krishna. When he was a toddler at Brindavan, he liked to steal butter and cream. He was roundly scorned for this, and his mother told him he should take care never to do it again.

So, the next time the little Lord set about playing at the homes of his young friends, instead of making off with the butter, he grabbed a baby fistful of mud, ramming it into his mouth. His young friends, seeing what the baby had done, were offended, and went to tell his mother, Yashoda.

When he returned home, Lord Krishna’s mother said to him, “You awful, unthinking child! I will teach you never to put filthy mud into your mouth again!”

And she started to enact his punishment. Perhaps she was going to make him suck on a sour lemon, or even a cake of soap. We are not told. Whatever the case, though, when Lord Krishna opened his mouth, his mother was treated to an astounding sight:

She saw hills and valleys, trees and fields, rushing rivers, and vast craggy peaks. She saw mountainous rises and shallow dips, the twinkling, starlit array of diamonds in the black, vaulted firmament of heaven. She saw the planets, each with its own life, and the suns burning brightly in wonder, and the forgotten depths of the ocean floors, and even the raging waters of other worlds.

She, indeed, beheld the universe in the suckling infant’s mouth.

Lord Krishna’s mother fell to weeping, as she realized that Vishnu had come to earth in the form of her son.

(We imagine that, after that, he was treated to all the butter and cream he liked.)

Purchase the “Bhagavad Gita: Large Print Edition” at AMAZON:


A comic.


Art, Books, Conspiracies, Cults, Experimental, Fortean, Mystic, New Age, Short Stories, short-short, Spiritism, Weird, Young Adult

Aliester Crowley’s Prank

Alien Abduction, Ancient Astronauts, Antonin Artaud, Art, automatism, Books, Conspiracies, Contactees, Cults, Dreams and Nightmares, Experimental, Famous Serial Killers, Fiction, Fortean, Ghosts, Hardboiled, Hauntings, Holographic Universe, Humor, Interviews, Links, Murder, Music, Mystic, New Age, Noise, Occult Music, Poims, Rants, Spiritism, Spoken Word, surreal, Uncategorized, Weird

New Interview! Undressing Underground Podcast w/ Rob M.

Keeping it real, homies.

(Probably my most candid, honest interview to date.)

Special thanks to Laura and especially Rob M. from Undressing Underground Podcast.

Undressing Underground Episode 6: Tom Baker

Art, automatism, Books, Conspiracies, Contactees, Cults, Dreams and Nightmares, Experimental, Fiction, Fortean, Hardboiled, Mystic, Poims, Rants, Short Stories, short-short, Spiritism, Spoken Word, surreal, UFOs, Uncategorized, Weird, Young Adult

A Sprig of Grapes

So here I am sitting in church.

“Wait, didn’t you say you had a dream about God last night?”

Someone to my left asks me this. In point of fact, I had a dream I died. Went through the whole tunnel of light thing. A space-alien voice, like a prerecorded robot female telephone operator says, “And I started moving faster and faster.” And right away, I make that God has everyone on a string, like the Krishnas believe, and when he pulls up…that’s death.

But I don’t tell the guy any of this.

In front of the church, on either side of the altar, the pastor and some other rube is sitting, and I make I should get up out of the pew, and so I go up to them and the pastor smiles at me, great, awesome gape of a grin…
“Hey, don’t you remember your instructions?”

He smiles. Secretly, I hate and fear the man, as his withering contempt is somehow frightening to me. But, it looks like his church has fallen on hard times. The decor is the same, but this business with two tables set up for communion…I don’t understand.

He hands me a sprig of grapes. I suppose this is the untrammeled body of Christ. Or maybe, like the ancient hymn, He is trampling out the vintage.

(“In the lilies of the valley, Christ was born across the sea, with a splendor in his bosom that transfigured you and me…”

I wake up with this in my head. Something about these lyrics…

“As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free…”

Our God is marching on. )

I look at them, rather nonplussed. He is sitting in what looks like a lawn chair. It’s all very casual. This is communion?

My grandfather is leaning over the table on the right. I walk up behind him, and he hands over a clear plastic Dixie cup spilling over with wafers. The Body of Christ? I think to myself, disgustedly.

“Don’t you remember your instructions?” His question kept reverberating inside my skull. I had dreamed, the night before, that God had everyone on an invisible cord, like the silver cord spiritualists claim connects the astral body and the physical body to keep them from separating on the earth plane. And when we die? He simply pulls the cord, like pulling the plug.

We go up, up, up…through the tunnel of light. “Faster and faster,” claimed the cyborg-like voice.

Faster and faster.

But, I couldn’t, at any rate, remember whatever it was my instructions were supposed to be.

And I was separated from God.

And maybe we explode like a burning flame, flicker out like a dying star. And maybe we are trampled like the vintage, like the grapes of wrath…

And maybe, and maybe, and maybe so…

automatism, Books, Cults, Fortean, Ghosts, Hauntings, Mystic, New Age, Sightings, Spiritism, Weird

Richard Zenor (Psychic Medium)


Psychic medium and subject of obscure book “Telephone Between Worlds,” which was presented to me, one night, when something told me to go downstairs at my building and look for a special present. Upon seeing this photo, I realized I had had a vision of this face before. The “Walt Disney Man” I had called him then.

Alien Abduction, Ancient Astronauts, Books, Conspiracies, Contactees, Cults, Dreams and Nightmares, Experimental, Fiction, Fortean, Humor, Monsters, Short Stories, short-short, surreal, UFOs, Ultraterrestrials, Weird, Young Adult

The Red Jape

The Red Jape

The Jape owns a pawn shop in Florence. He has a head a little like a rutabaga; skin is a cheesy, yellow color that seems to glow in the dark.

He wears a perpetually embarrassed look on his face, as if he is sorry for interrupting you in the middle of a heavy conversation, as if he is embarrassed to be acknowledged. His thick hair is parted in the middle, coiffed into two heavy buns, like a thick Red Sea parted to allow the Children of Israel to pass across his hairline.

But it is his eyes, rimmed with red, rouge-like circles (some people actually assume he’s wearing makeup. He’s not wearing makeup.) are his most striking feature, along with the mouth, which is also red-stained, as if he has been drinking a punch drink with red food coloring.

This is because, little by little, he drains the blood from his prospective employees. He does this in such imperceptible ways, in such microscopic amounts, that no one notices him even doing it. He sidles up close to the victim, sucking in wind, wheezing and coughing and sucking up those microscopic droplets of blood, quite like a vampire. Or quite like a gigantic human leech, take your pick.

Soon, the unsuspecting victim of the Red Jape begins to feel increasingly tired; listless. He begins to pale, takes on an anemic sheen. He sweats profusely, but is always cold.

He may begin to have vivid dreams of being battened upon by unseen phantoms, monsters from the Id. In time, he is a shaking, broken wretch, too tired to lift even his arms above the pawnshop counters to exchange currency for goods.

His or her vision will, most likely, begin to blur. In time, death is inevitable, and, in the case of the Jape, is a foregone conclusion, as he has never lost a victim (an unsuspecting victim) yet.

But even the Red Jape fears the Space Beetle.
It was because of actual space beetles that Doctor Sparta and his assistants were rocketing through the dimensional wormhole, past the place where flickering stars burnt out like beetling little match heads against the velvet blackness.

The Digichronofluxometer was heaving ghastly colors and strange, stereophonic pulses around the room, but Sassa was prepared for anything.

“It’s your first time out, isn’t it?” asked Foofur, the friendly (if somewhat overly curious) young budgerigar. Sitting on his perch, taking in the sights from the view screen, he seemed curiously untroubled by the undeniable paradox they were stumbling into.

“Well, it’s not that I’m fearful, precisely, or that I don’t want to be here. I wouldn’t shirk this particular duty for all the world. I mean, after the beetles overran the city, and we realized the only way to fight them was go a hundred thousand years into the future–”

“Not quite,” said Dr. Sparta, coming onto the bridge. “No, in point of fact, we simply alternated between several possible futures. Choosing one path, we succumbed to the interstellar beetle invasion–beastly critters thatt they are, with their clever, hateful little Zanti Misfit faces.”

Sassa had no idea what a “Zanti Misfit” was, but her partner, Laella, knew right away that it was from an old television program.

“The Digichronofluxometer of course did the hard work for us, but the trick was shifting the dimensional spheres until we came to a future we could safely occupy-a future in which the space beetles were vanquished by the aid of the, well, whatever the hell this thing is–”

It, in point of fact, looked like a giant flyswatter. But the inventor had assured them it emitted a sonic frequency that caused the space beetles to explode into dripping, gooey fragments.

“It’s foolproof. Works every time. Blow ’em away quicker than the wind from a duck’s ass.”

(The man HAD looked like an inventor. Or a mad man. His hair had been wispy and white and standing up on end, and his eyes were squinty little slits hidden behind huge Coke bottle frames. He had been wearing a white lab coat, bow tie, wingtips. He had smelled, faintly, like licorice and sweat.)

And, of course, the streets of that mirrored reality (just one of an infinite number arrayed in the multiverse) had been absolutely rotten with the bodies of the nefarious little beetles, whose chief delight, before being sonically reduced to gloopy pie filling, had been to pounce upon unsuspecting strangers and devour them down to the bone.

“We have an infinite key in here in the Digi. It can shift frequency fields, move with poise and grace through the kaleidoscopic variants on the ETERNAL NOW, and deliver us safely–”

“Not so fast, Doc. There is ONE THING you’re forgetting. Laella’s vision of the paradox.” This was Angelus, the big, pudding-faced Whatsit that looked about half-formed, or maybe like dough that is not entirely done becoming bread.

And Dr. Sparta looked curiously troubled, all of a sudden. He bit his lip, nervously.

“Could simply have been a fever dream. Look, the only place we can come out of this particular wormhole, reenter our own space-time continuum with any degree of safety is the Hindu Temple of Swayzee. Already, Mackleberry is waiting to greet us. He’s our liaison with the government.”

“Of course,” offered Sassa, “Laella sometimes gets it wrong. Maybe she was just having a fever dream.”

Laella rolled her eyes, said, “Yeah, honey, I just ate too much Mexican last night. Gave me the psychic farts.”

“Coulda been.”

Laella paused, smirked, leaned forward and said, “No. my love. I saw it clearly. I saw you, me, Dr. Sparta, Angelus and Mackleberry coming down the steps of the temple, out the archway. And then, we…we met ourselves–”

“Ha! See! Classic paradox! It–it cannot be.”

That was Angelus again. Dr. Sparta said, “You’re a natural-born pessimist, aren’t you? Oh dear, I’m afraid such people tend not to live long, fruitful lives.”

Angelus had nothing to say to that.

The Digichronofluxometer suddenly began to vibrate, sputter, hiss, ping, bing, boil and pop, and then a pre-recorded voice came on and said, “Alert! Alert! We are approaching space-time portal. Please extinguish all cigarettes, cigars, pipes or hookahs–”

Sassa said, “But none of us smoke!”

The machine continued.

“Please fasten your seat belts. Please keep feet and arms out of aisles and entryways. Please remain calm. In the event that there is a malfunction, you will all die. I, of course, am simply a computer, and, thus, cannot die. Someone will find the wreckage of me, and, realizing the valuable nature of my endless capacity to store information, will put me online again in some other ship, in some distant future in which all of you, even the eminent Doctor Sparta, will have long been forgotten. As for you biological entities, you may wish to pray to your respective deities. Or, in the event you are an atheist, meditate upon the value of whatever works and deeds you accomplished in the short span of your otherwise mediocre existences–”

“Oh will you please just shut up!” cried Doctor Sparta, stamping his foot and balling his fist like a little child. The rest of them did, indeed, buckle in. The turbulance was become extraordinary, the shifting, prismatic lights of the time tunnel and the beeping and gleeping of their on-board computers conspired to give them a sensory feast of shifting sound and color.

But it was all rather scarifying.

In the temple, a few shifting frequency vibrations away, Mackleberry sat, cross-legged on the floor, intoning in Sanskrit. He was dressed in traditional Indian garb, and would have looked just fine if he were actually female. As it was, he regretted that he had forgotten to shave his moustache.

Also, he knew that men were whispering foul things about “the ugliest woman they had ever seen.” But, it was time for Deep Cover, if for no other reason than to foil the possibly nefarious activities of The Beetle.

Outside, in a bright, whirling flash of lightning and heavy rumbles of thunder, Dr. Sparta and his assistants emerged into a paper-thin facsimile of their proper dimension.

“But, you must realize that, owing to the great advancement in the Willbe Wuz motor computer, we can plaster this mirror reality image over our own and ta-dah! Instantly gratifying and totally beetle-free future for all involved!”

Sassa and Laella weren’t sure. But they shrugged, tossed their heads from side to side and, with big, doughy Angelus following behind, went up the walkway past the blinking lights of fast food restaurants and dirty bookstalls, and, following close at the heels of Dr. Sparta, made their way to the temple, wherein they expected to meet themselves as themselves exiting at the exact same time.

“But how can this be? How can this be? Only if we managed to travel backwards through time to the point of departure and arrive back BEFORE our point of departure. But, it makes so little sense? Have we somehow split ourselves. like a granny apple, along some invisible, central area where one mirrored reality flows into another? Can one be cut off from the rest, so that the model is less refractory and more prismatic?”

And on and on Dr. Sparta went, talking to himself, so that Laella (who was always a bit weary of people) continued to roll her eyes and heave gusty sighs. The doctor, for his part, was bent over like some sort of eccentric bloodhound, sniffing at the frigid air for an answer.
Makleberry shifted uneasily on his haunches, but continued, for all that, to intone in Sanskrit. Beyond, the priests were busy performing ablutions on an image of the god. He suddenly felt the air grow very heavy, and intense.
Outside, through the low windows, the group could spy Mackleberry moving.

“He looks rather fetching dressed as a woman, doesn’t he?” remarked Sassa thoughtfully. Laella answered, “Yes, but I do wish he would have remembered to shave the moustache.”

Inside, in a whirling burst of lightning and strange, humming, pulsating lights, the voyagers came together in this present reality plane, sending shrieking priests running from the holiest of holies. They calmly marched outside, to the waiting round mouths and bulging eyes of shocked worshipers, who followed them out the door in a muttering, gesticulating mass, wondering if they were avatars of some heavenly realm.

Outside, coming up the stairs, our voyagers sensed something heavy and malignant in the air, as birds squawked and died on telephone wires, perched high above the city scaffolding, and as a thick mist seemed to encircle them.

(As I’m sure the cautious reader must now be thoroughly confused, let me categorically state that the phenomenon known as “bilocation” to spiritualists, in so much as that the entity effected appears to exist in two different locations simultaneously, a sheer impossibility, is NOT what is being suggested here.)

At the bottom of the temple stairs, encircled by the thick fog of distant memory, Dr. Sparta and our intrepid crew climb slowly up. Ahead, they see nothing.

At the top of the temple stairs, Dr. Sparta and his intrepid crew, seeing nothing below (and only astonished onlookers behind) begin to laugh and descend, noticing, for the first time the curiously thick mist surrounding them.

But they are satisfied in that they aren’t apparently, going to be meeting themselves in some jumble of the space-time continuum suggestive of a temporal paradox, and thereby unleashing some theoretical quandry, the likes of which, Dr. Sparta would be agonizing over for some time to come (assuming, under the circumstances, he still HAD some time to come).

Whether or not the anti-space beetle super weapon was ever installed on top of the tallest building in the city, and set about its task of exterminating the invading brutes, is purely a matter of conjecture. In another shifting, alternate reality sphere, it was indeed installed, and in still yet another, it was installed, but had the reverse effect of actually attracting all manner of insect and vermin toward it, so that it quickly began to be very heavy (not to mention markedly, alarmingly grotesque) and toppled over on the sidewalk, forty stories below.

Thereby squashing the gigantic mound of crawling insect life that had attached itself to its sonic flypaper-like surface. And sending up a great, noxious splatter or bug grue, which completely flooded the city streets…

…even as, in a dripping alley, a bum named Sidewinder Sam was set upon by a small army of vicious little beetles with amazing, humorously human faces. They devoured him down to the bone, leaving him looking like a dripping ham steak, bleeding wet in his filthy coat.

But that is another story.

Somewhere, the Jape is sidling up next to a coughing, wheezing young man that is a real-life approximation of that old actor from the movie Little Shop of Horrors (the one with Nicholson). He may wheeze himself, or cough and sweat, and look a little nervous.

“Say kid, say…could you just come up a little closer to me? That’s right. I’m a little hard o’ hearin’ ya, know. Say, what brand of aftershave is that? It smells delicious…”

He’s dragging the word out with insinuating sleaziness, gobbling each consonant, sleazing up the syllables. The young kid knows that, lately, he’s felt increasingly tired–but he doesn’t know why.

Books, Cults, Experimental, Famous Serial Killers, Hardboiled, Monsters, Murder, Mystic, Urban Legends, Vampires, Weird

From “The Men Who Loved the Dead” (Unfinished)

“Erich Fromm divided classes of men into the necrophiliac personality and the life-loving, seeing in the necrophiliac personality the roots of war, fascism, psychopathy and destruction. The necrophiliac personality is rigid, doctrinaire, fascistic; unyielding, exemplifying the sort of architects of oblivion that dreamed up Auschwitz, wherein Mr. Fromm was interred as an inmate.

The necrophiliac personality is depersonalized from his living cohorts, is focused on the ritualism of death and funerals, goes goose-steeping off into a future where women could very well be replaced by androids. The character of Patrick Batemen, from the novel (and subsequent film) of Brett Ellis’s American Psycho, might exemplify this personality, to whom physical perfection, material objects, appearances, surface, surface, surface…is the ONLY thing that matters. Emotion is frozen in an infantile murk; there is only an aching void to fill, like an empty stomach that can never be satisfied.

I must confess to perhaps being a necrophiliac personality.

I have little idea of how to finish this little pamphlet. (Perhaps a writer should not admit that.)

Should I close with a short cultural survey of necrophiliac themes? These are endemic in gothic rock music, such as Alice Cooper, Bauhaus, The Misfits, and in the sordid and generic vampire sagas pumped out by Hollywood year after year, to massive financial returns. Why is it that we wish to romance the dead? To preserve Elvis and Marilyn in the formaldehyde jars of our conscious minds, until it is impossible to separate their paltry, commercialized pop-culture images from the moldering earth in which they lie?

I am a necrophiliac personality, perhaps; so perhaps that is why I am drawing a blank.

To make love tot he dead, to possess the object of accursed fantasy, to transgress and cross that barrier between worlds, is perhaps to engage in a holy communion with another species, to know a purity of intent unknown to mortal bones. The thing itself, the fantastical image, becomes a sacred vessel into which the love and hope of a new tomorrow can be poured. To dance and dwell, forevermore, with the object of our most heated, forbidden desire.

To know this object as OURS, and ours alone. To touch the power of the necromantic spirit, to commune with THEM, a race hideously removed, yet hideously US, whose waxen, stiffened features become a crepitating time-vessel of the past moldering into the present.

This poetry of the grave CANNOT stop; nor, perhaps, can it be plumed for grave psychological nuggets. Does a “necrophiliac personality” truly exist in any objective sense?

The vampire bends to kiss the living, to make the Living as Food. In our current pop cultural references, the vampire is a sexy, sexualized being of eternal youth and vitality,a Brad Pitt or a character from Twilight.

In olden times when death was a closer companion to the living, the vampire was portrayed as a repellent leech who, slipping in the form of mist from his unhallowed grave, roamed village and countryside battening on the living.

Often, the dead relatives were the targeted victims. One story has a man, upon awakening, confronting the foul, stinking revenant of his father, who demands plaintively that he be given ‘something to eat.'”
–From “The Men Who Loved the Dead”