I have established the new location for the Pyramid Campus in Old Town close to Highway 880 on the Field of Mars. The building meets my expectations, exceeds them actually, and I am in perfect happiness with regard to our relationship. That the San Francisco locals should complain of my decision to enforce commutation upon them is the end of the stick which is said to be mierdo and which they will of course be obliged to eat should they wish to continue with the company. I am myself of the hope that they will not and I shall be spared of their grease and mirrors. They are of the persuasion which sees itself as pure of heart and in order to remain so must refuse all contingency. They do not know the cost of love. Love is … well, it is not timely to speak of it now.
Yet I must stay this. The building aroused in me (upon sight heh heh) prairie fires of such sweet moment, blazing serpents bursting forth from etiolation and reinventing rock and roll. Very good. Very good so far. Yet what is paramount here is the actual tumescence attendant upon first beholding this structure, its beige flesh, rough to the touch at first but softening when rubbed vigorously so that one might actually PUNCH THROUGH to the gooey center of Eucharist which we all withhold, even though it is a shared Universal, your inside and mine. It is no stranger to all but a Light at the Center. It is light in the form of chocolate, caramel sometimes, quite yummy, or even fruit essences suspended in a kind of spreadable plam. It is so much more than one could ask of the experience, which is normally a face off or unmasking followed by a merger of fluids in which a re-individuation is effected … Oh this psychobabble! I'm talking like one of them now. For years I've endured it. I've listened in on my Intelligence Scanner.
"Baron de Robert means to hurt. To obtain vengeance."
"It is a bitter substitute for Redemption through Human love."
"Well, maybe if we offered him an experience of the flesh. Janet, for example. She moonlights that way. I've seen men who've been with her. They become clouds and rain and fall upon pastel landscapes. Our own de Robert could swoon into such a condition of being and thereby give us no more shit. He's backed up is the problem."
"Constipated, you mean."
"No, no. His mother enforced enemas. He has a great dread of irregularity. He always turns and looks behind him and counts when he is at toitee. He takes notes, like the great Tolstoy, and had he a wife he would read them to her by the light of a presswood fire."
"He means well."
"He means nothing. He is incomprehensible to himself and others. He is a psychoneurotic personality who does not know where his cock is at."
Etc. These creatures are all of course psychologists. Who isn't?
I am not, that's who.
Yet if they could know such as I have experienced as the moon rose. Standing there alone in the parking lot. Closing in, attending upon the urgencies of structure, for indeed form here is function within the purview of mathematical light, which makes of what would appear to be the fantasy of architects and civil engineers mere fiddlesticks rising into functional bric-a-brac for a workers' paradise or at least a respectable taqueria … Love in Extension. Yes! Were they to know, they would see that I am a good shepherd who must lead them back to themselves … and like that same simple tool I will ENTER FIRST. Hate it that you've got to settle for sloppy seconds here, kids, but, well, the Baron always has dibs. Thus I now claim dibs. Have. Several times. The building is dressed with the occasions of my nuptials with her, made flesh with my own flesh, and always at this sacred hour when Mother rises. She watches, in fact. She always liked to watch. She beheld my first liaison with the Sacred Cow, Pauline, with the Buick's exhaust, and many other things. Hence the building is anointed, abishaken, and partaking of brightest me.
* * *
"Saw the man humpin the building. Saw him doin that. He was dis humpin the building. Him a weird man. Firs he come over wants a pizza. Orders wine. Ask what the house wine is, I says Almaden he says that's piss, I says well piss off then. Gimme the wine and the fuck is that which up you will shut he says, so what the fuck's that mean? I shove over a tall one and he turns away in noble silence. Watch the building. Watch the building, weird boy. Takes maybe couple three slugs of vino while he waits for his pie, watch that building, watch that building. Pays for pie and goes over sits on top of his ugly old car with his legs all pretzelled up like a WOG, carefully eats the pie, dropping each wedge in his mouth from pincers held aloft and shredding and swallowing like he's a goddamned tree trimmer. Completing this, he hurls the carton away, watches it sail over the traffic, the wind catching it up and taking it away to the Dark Lands. Commences to meditate. Then he runs on over to his building and starts in humping away, rubbing himself off against it over and over. There is flood, famine and war. Welcome to the Twenty-First, kiddo."
* * *
I therefore say of the building, Consider the building. It represents the lineaments of satisfied desire. It is desire in frozen remembrance, stone kisses, cum facing in glazed layers which have already begun to bloom. From a distance the building is often mistaken for an approaching fog bank therefore, and one would beg withdrawal. Yet there is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. You must love her. You must abase yourself before her. Think of it, my children. Row upon row of columns; towers, battlements and battened hatches, streets of loose change, the prattle of hawkers and dope dealing siren songs; minstrel brats bawding up climbing vines to their girls locked in towers. O, take me with you, Sinbad, for I am a mendacious juggler. The sunwind sands our faces slick as marble and we are stuck in a gloom of history. Our empty eyes open upon ruin and we crumble. A trumpet weeps in the distance. The fog comes. It is coming. How beautiful art Thou!
END
