Newsletter of the LA Underground Art Scene
In his epistemological, epic comic epistaxis [nosebleed],
Woton, The Great Khan of the Double Bubble Concatination
suffered cremation at the hands of his phenomenological
inferiors, because they were extraordinarily jealous of his
epistolary epi-tomes and trenchant epilogues.  No
equiponderant or equilibristic political equation could
extradite him from his flamboyant dilemma,  and he suffered
the fate that all Eratosthenine radicals regard as erroneous
establishmentarian evanescence, by simply vanishing from
sight [i.e. he went up in smoke].  So begins the extraordinary
tale of the Sorcerer of Symbolustic Soup-history, by the little
known oraculambent libertine and semi divine raconteur,
Petronius Balonicus Turnizious von Gizzard, the word
wizard of Leggomyleggo Landia  (said to lie somewhat south
of Van Nuys).  
Anyone who is not familiar with this exquisite tale is excused from further participation in this reading assignment .  Now, as
you know, the Great Khan was pretty far gone with respect to those chronological details the world often assumes are relevant
to one’s mentally helpless frame of mind.  In fact, to be as kind as I can be, he was almost toothless and generally perceived as
a certified lunatic among the bon ton bunnies of caboodle bought society.  Aside from the broken down shack where he
consumed his nightly bottle of wine, he had little to show for the miraculous glow inside his head, which he took considerable
pains to conceal in order not to reveal what he really knew about ‘stuff.’  Yes, he was gruff, gritty, and not always very pretty
to look at; wizened everywhere but in the belly, he was as tightly drawn as a tick, rather barky at times, and given to fits and
bouts of stronger booze when he wanted to take a well deserved snooze.  He had no particular claim to fame as far as anyone
knew, just this old bum who traipsed around town in his broken down trousers and poncho, an old straw hat stuck lopsided on
his head at a rakish angle, while he sucked the salt off sunflower seeds or munched on sour grass stems.  Frankly, he looked a
lot like walking weeds he was so indifferent to the climate when he laid down to rest.  Any place, any style, was pretty much
his domicile, in the park or on the grass, just as long as he didn’t have to suffer sass from anyone…But secretly, what nobody
ever suspected was he was about as rich as any human being could ever be, if you don’t count mere money.  You see, The
Great Khan was the sole owner of an old battered carpet, not a big thing at all; just an old rug covered with a warm brown egg
design clustered around and around a brightly colored rectangular box like lap in the center.  It was long enough to lie down on
stretched out, if you wanted to take a nap, and the Great Khan often used it thus because he could sleep just about anywhere
without much trouble or fuss, if you know what I mean.  Like the Great Khan, this carpet wasn’t much to look at either, but
looks, as you should know, can be very, very deceiving.  You see, this carpet—well—I guess I shouldn’t just give it all away,
so let me continue in another way to say what I mean.  Each egg contained a lingual tongue as any one can see, and tongues
were chained around a box concatinaciously.  Around, around the sacred brown the tongues were said to say, the sound, the
sound, perfection found so symbolustically.  Oh it was swell if you could tell, if you could hear the sea, the mighty state, the
total weight of human history.  Unless your ear was not as clear as his was known to be.  What master of the inner ear was
Khan endowed with wealth, as all alone his wits were shown geometries of health.  How magical, how tragical, how infinitely
rare, a rug that whispered holy words so delicately fair.  Whole octaves, sounds, and syllables rayed sunbeams in the mind, and
dazzling with a clarity no one expects to find.  Lei majesty, so fabulous, exquisite to the ear, a rain of voice, each word a
choice, embodied now my dear.  What needed Khan the worthless spawn of televised conceit, or what was heard from out the
turd of radios replete?  While all around a grimy sound now slithered down the street.  Cacophonous with raucousness, hot
piss on spattered stones, could never hope to even cope with rare transcendent tones.  Thus, with a smile his wayward style
did Khan decline to dress, this humble bed his wealth instead wrapped in its rare caress…                      
Oracle Eggs of Symbolust
If a Carpet Could Sing, Would You Listen?  Part VI                                   by Eucalyptus Ike