Desperately Seeking Susan of Pied Cow
She was big, that Guap, and behind the wheel of cloud and car, complete and oeuvred, she made a book. You knew it was coming when the eruptions blasted out, which is when we began to ask, Wat Vas Dat Vat that drew da crowd on walks, gathering from streets while the sun blasted hot and amnesias crowd trails walked?
How about breaking open a case of Oops and finding out? Don’t forego the lit myths, the Myth Ooks that are Oops. Any morning hundreds of us gathered for the smoke. But there were no sirens because there was no fire. There smoke, if we pinch the 33rd right down the backside of this pulchritude, was as much from the street writers who double the hemispheres as from the chimney. Quaking in the East while the other groups flood in the west, good gossips let us draw near the yellow tape around her arms
What else can you say or do when they steal the ORME right out of your whimsy freezer at night and truck it off to a million sleeps? No ancient quarry or cavern mouth can plumb the Pop and Guapa mind that beat the prowlers off. If it’s hard to make that out, know only that we can never get enough. If Susan is a nation ruled by giants, a world, and there are four stories, who rules the giants? Gigga deal. The papers revealed how Susan that morning was missing from the freeze and how the Step Dame called police and let him in. The freezer was eight by ten. “They took your meat?” he said. “Yes sir, my Susan’s gone.” Wash the rods and cones from your eyes and shut the symbolic window walls the tales go through.
Sue Lund Und Print. But hey, who wouldn’t want a moo cow coming in their yard? One with all the trim. Éclair Sue was That Great Cow, like doughnuts filled with cream. Myth, what have I done but find you out?
Police in the fairy zone try not to know where they are. Dave raised his suspicions to yellow in this burglary turned murder. Multiple case names and persons. The Dame of Guapa Pop the original. Her husband, GrimmPop, Turk Musselman, was missing.
A third, Guapa Susan ended up having the fairy tale named for her. Oh lolly lolly. Fairy Tale reports come without explanation. Clearings of this primordial forest south are solidly in the camp where a rash of Pop interacting with a commentary-process that continually modifies, updates, and syncretizes a fusion of heterogeneous stories and layered discourse seeking the appearance of unity. Each text is a ventriloquist through which it and other texts speak. - new ones stand alongside the old—but do not replace former readings from the consequences of some rash action (Encyclopedia of Rash OOps).
Detective Lighthouse Dave is Snow White and Goldilocks combined, like the innocent that Dickens warned belonged to hobgoblins or bears. You will hear more of bears. Dave is called Lighthouse for his height and Goldilocks from the rays of light reflecting from his long gold hair, like a surfer down to the shoulders. Snow White tasted this porridge and fell asleep. Falling asleep means taken with the tale.
So Mom, Pop and GoldiPop are the three bears. Goldilocks is Lighthouse Dave Cash, the detective who answered the bell. The three Pops in this case are also called OOks, or OOps, both the patronym of Musselman, and their nicknames, Oops, PoPs, and OOks. Goldipop is different from Goldilocks, being Susan in the larger tale, and also SueLit, the cow whose milk to dream will excel. Turk Musselman Pop, the New York publisher of Atlantic Books, is a further aspect of the gadabout Stoatsdale line who weighed 800 pounds. Momma Pop or Dame Schultz is the original Guap that the billboard industry sought to lure the reader to devour the tale.
Three beds, three chairs, three bowls, three Oops
discover in one turn eating, sitting and lying down. The first was wrong, the
second was wrong, and the third was the exact same technique that made Banquo
“safe.” Hugo Bettelheim’s
post-Oedipal ego fantasies and Freud’s pre-Oedipal schooler disrupting order
fly across the universe. Submitted to the doctoral Oxford committee on the
respect of private property, these concepts passed developmental psychology,
biology, economics and engineering on their way into the astronomers dream of
the Goldilocks Zone that’s just right. Look for a New Zealand planet orbiting
the sun at just the right distance for liquid water to run on its surface.
That Magnum Oopum means master
work in French, and its plural is chefs-d’œuvre, as hors d’œuvre baffled the minds of
the generations of Noah.
We hide these events in fairy tales so as not to disturb our Tea Mouse in its forgetting, which to Piedbald civilization is normal.
It was one more burglary in Phoenix. The first report of the home was that it had been scorched by fire, but the crusted limestone of chimneys was guano. Zoning had boarded up the building and citizens had boarded up the entrances and exits of the canal ditches to prevent burglars. But five gallon buckets of motor oil were stored under the citrus.
Wat Vas Dat. To give it to you straight the Ooks drew more people than a mystery tale. They were an economic engine. I haven’t even told you about the other two. If that seems superfluous you must know that the streets of Pied Cow run all the way to the landfills south, and there, from pulperias along the Salt to the squatter camps at the Chuff street towers, writers burnish its ground. Tall tales along the trails please attend. Shakespeare quotes are tacked on poles and hacked into ley lines as far out as the Old Dutch Zone. Right down the center, divides the swath. Everything south after one street in the Dutch is where these broadsides run their GPS.
Lots of names apply to Guapa Sue. She is that Fairy Myth of tales that litter desks. Microfiche is not the only language known to man, but it has a literature of its own. A list will be appended at the end. Famous among the Bowling Sagas and vintage rolls of Chinese pictograms curled with paste-on water stains, Guapa Sue was a real girl who drove an Olds as red as a tomato. When the pedal smoke began they called it a volcano. This tomato-volcano translated to photocopies graffiti around. Sue in short was everywhere.
In this dream where tales go up the poles and walls with hints of Dutchtown painters found in old pamphlets, untouched DeGrazias and Lon Megargee foundering in the thrifts with unapproved Catlin, Bodmer and wester cases more, Blue Riders more than real,
Her porch was a train crossing therein. Out of her mouth diesels rumbled by night. “Room, room,” the yard man rang the caboose. The caboose man called the brakeman, the brakeman called her home. In spite of all the goat yakking, the mice endured. There were exceptions in the dormer. One wall sagged in the corner of the globe. Doors widened on reinforced foundations, her chair was a two-story bed. Half of her slept above the ground, half below. So in order to report the story dude, Susan was the big Cahune. Go fig the cause to consume. I hope it clears the tale. These singers burgeoned reality, the last story of the purple plain.
She lived like you and me, go fig! They wanted a mouse to speak, and dogs with human hands and feet to greet. Me mean no deflense me. Be down when you get a toot. She was a “daught” byproduct, Sue-LIT! The thing is a song. You can have it without music, but it must be sung: So,
Modifig.
FigaMint
Deseminate
defenestrate
debellate
ohhhh.
Cow Velvet A Planetary Cow
I hope you will remember my Rhinegold Und the smoke that poured from Dame’s new ginger barn. We never tire saying that when she and her daughter lived by the canal there were exceptional belches of sound. In the main though they were quiet cows who lived long and loved their chickens.
But these ebooks are no long read. Reading or eating good Cow Lit, whereever on your plate broadsides are nailed to the eat. Where are the clerihews? Did you drink your milk poem? Where is the plate? All these will come out.
Say what you want, Great Druze and Choric Hanzel conducted cows to the barn. They got carried away. This was the menu of cow.
That’s Sue to you, dear ectopods.
How now that cow? Chook this cure my friend with milk.
Gretyl, and Pretzel are co-locaticities. They chant:
If a piece of the bone and the world would be won
In a saga of Ice Age by Ham.
The agents of cow, who tend the borders of Lit, came to that party late that night and rocked. This was a huge loss to little dogs who inhabited other mediums. They lost their pools but on the other hand, to recompense Pop, the cow got fat. A little warning came from goats, whose language some of us speak. If this offends we apologize. You can say anything if you apologize.
To comprehend what giants eat, I mean the cows, this mess, it's in books. That’s where the pop-tart pup-rank goat talk gets a monthly brew.
Mirror, mirror on the wall
Who’s the best pote of all?
Be listening.
This true story of the planetary cow, of Dame Cow and Susan Cow come over and sat on the berm turns out to have many names, like Guapo, Guapa, Damer, Turk, Sue and Lit and worse, like mythogemes of ocean eggs, of if you like, buckets fueled for atomic spree.
Contemplation falls in its unmaking. The alphabet of milk makes words, like At the Eat More Market the buzzard can’t fly. Buzzard Markets cannot survive without the you know what, but what don’t you know when you know you wish you didn’t? We make adjustments in this figmentum about which we speak. Even if we knew what we were talking about, the role of heavenly and incompressible powers compressed and furnished from our investigations, did it not make us amazed? Like did you know the gas stations in that land are made out of vegetables, that they pump carrot gas? Think it whimsy if you will, this invisible mountain and plain where pied cows range, and river down deep to counterplate all fictions real. That of course proves them true. Whole invisibility is just not therefore unknown.
Anyway, poetry and murder will out. Will is will to boot and will in overplus and even better, fill it full of wills to cross the water. Copycats in England, still Stillstellung implicit, bring huge vats of shredded crumbs aged for days, which huge vats in other words store the COW in an exact remembrance of puppoet vision. O sublimity, audacity of cellulose dried, the closer it gets, the more it is away.
Frere Friedrich got it right. The neighborhoods south of McDowell are eating Susan tonight. This is no joke. Would you like a nice moo cow coming in the yard? With all the trimmings? Susan was as big as a cow and that likened her.
My quest for Susan led through these fields that confound the bovolatrous. When imagination failed its alchemy and raw material was raw and absurd we took these explorations. Devotion to a cow seems foolish to confessors torn from the roots that clutch, the plight of sensitive men. Shall we dream of equal love for men, women, flower and cow, symbolic breasts the world abroad? There’s only one thing to do. Forget those bones rushing through the awful universe standing unknown standing naked as the fire goes through. More suitable times might make a novel of with rain drops falling into the sea.
But I leave this primitive plumbing for you spiritual creatures who see something beyond. Marie Antoinette with her milk pails tunes. It Pied Cow we met Susan who ate pumpkins to so much success. Susan among the dances. Susan upon the berm, Susan’s face more than dimples, fore the timeless, symbolic breast of great ages. Look reverent you triple life-sized interstates in Mack truck boyos. Here I am with a cow and this grass. What better to enjoy lucidity. Susan a creature of wood cow Crete. Whether in Cambridge or Iceland or dead, the cow will always be there.
Disclaimer
Symbol is greater than fact. One minute up, next minute down, the disconnect awakes at the end. I fell off a hay wagon, fifteen feet down in the dark and landed on my face at the age of ten. The Hay Wain, by Hieronymus Bosch, that hangs in Madrid, is an allegory of this constituted as symbols bundled on a wagon to the effect. That fall is the only explanation I can give for this text, but then except maybe I was pushed. I spent the rest of that night being prevented from falling asleep.
Ogres appear in the bourgeois heads contentedly and never fail to provide Ur myth, legend and tale found everywhere to undergird the peasant mind. These gingerbread houses and magic animals enforce empire better than literary texts.
Snow White, SueLit obsesses the step enabled by the absent King. Two women battle in a fem-Oedipal form over the body of the world. Step Dame hates SueQ for so much self-absorption, narcissi not yet fallen into sex where myth actually appears. Would that fairy tales were true or happened as they ought. Then Turk would have provided more than halfling talk. A substitute liver of a wild boar might do for Sue to give to Dame instead of falling prey to cookery and preserves. Patrician aesthetic hedge rows running wild, Dames' artlessness killed SueQ, that opus fairest of them all.
These spinnstubes of the Pied Cow moor do not exclude Hawthorne. Mything Mt. Shasta the kunstmarchen handspun concealed speech and old wives tales were invented to distract children sacrificed to the minotaur. You didn’t know? These dimensions we cannot see. To prepare for that future fate devises the fando of spinning woolen thread to account the time, not time of present past and future between, but time finger swindles hid as one property. These decrees can never really be pinned down.
As quilt makers swatch and story tellers reprise, educators of the child in coffee houses spin the plot to replicate fabric and thread as if they were muttering to themselves before and after like little dogs.
Here on a page and then branch off, texts are not fixed. A shortcut presumes a pause there, always on familiar ground. To say the tale is never told the same conceives SueLit. All this, we would repeat to imagine the peasant world, 35 Red Ridings, 90 Tom Thumbs of social mystical allegories spun the way Blue Beard eats a succession of brides and hangs six on the wall. In those days they lacked a freezer. The moral of the stories of cannabinolizing is zpsychologists devouring formless appearance.
SueLit was not meant for children at all but for adults who cannot stomach looking at themselves and their imperiled minds. Cinderella, Red Riding Hood, SueQ there is no single text but a whole array of persecuted heroines that project upon the innocent a universe that never existed.
When unconscious material is permitted to wake is harm reduced or activated? The portents, read parents, think the child must be diverted from what troubles them the most, but it is the parents who repress and bury in tales their unrealized hopes, dreams of which children are the surrogates. Adults are the ones who want the pleasant image so much they seek its opposite. Not rational, that’s why we love a good meliorist. We don't want to get these things out of children's minds but out of our own.
Uncontrolled craving, devouring the gingerbread, ready to eat anybody out of house and home., purged of oral fixation Aschenputtel, Drizella, Cinderella, SueQ devoured by wolf world shift so they have little historical value except that the meaning of contact between and among strangers and peoples entails such eating and consuming of cultures in conflict. Who's been sleeping in my bed, who's been eating my house, you untamed id! So this may be a myth of European and native contact or worse the fear of the astronaut of the alien, to amp up a scale and consider tales a histo-gory of anti social beings one culture requires to conquer another and become itself, adopt its values and myths.
The ancient struggle against alienation and discord confronted with the new eats being eaten by cannibal giants combines the most brutal possibilities of the human and natural orders. Inculcate fear, war, not peace. Winter cannibalism where the victor swallows not just the heart of the vanquished but the liver and lung, the whole spirit breath of a people, kiwakae going about in the woods to eat others’ myths is a counter myth of folkways that eat themselves, consume their atmosphere, the lung, smoke, pissants who drink their seas, chew on their own shoulders when all else is gone, the signature of social and spiritual degeneration, social, cultural rejection common to all continents and worlds whose own nature prevents it from recognizing the solitary mutinous nature plainly murderous, which we may take as metaphoric cannibalism, whether famine or ritual, which the Dame is in this baleful urgency, no distinction in food, corruption by commerce and greed, eats her own to survive, down to the last granule. A kind of over trapping of the beaver in epidemic right down to the lips and shoulder is the tale, the witigo which we are in a position to call Susanopathy, post contact realities of a plastic myth age frozen in ice, after all they could always make more.
People who store motor oil in five gallon buckets under the lemon trees where gangs of pomegranates propagate, metamorph negatively like Cannibal giants pretending to be kin until killing and eating people with that age old cannibal perfidy. People become cannibals because they hardened their hearts toward their kin pictures the native and the alien, the European giant and the Algonquin Glosknap. Cannibal forces of conflict and resolution exist for a scholar after the conflict is resolved. Viewed by the European with all good intent, logic and distance the conflict is not resolved and the viewer as the native is the child on the human level and the world in the war of the natural vs. the digital in the social. The conflict is global, though the giants and cannibals are the same. English treachery and European morality dislocated by the occasional good English altruist skewed the native just enough to ensure total extinction . So Weymouth kidnapped five Wabanakis back to England. Kidnapping and technology were the two salient seductions of the native and the alien. Flying saucer abductions anybody? Does it make you think at all?
The theology of acceptance of the other, like Jesuit
astronomers urge for acceptance of the races from space miss entirely the
horror of evil they encounter. Myth and folklore document this adaptability,
this naïveté in the cultural evidence of stories and poems.
Myth says one thing history another, but when they are one and the same we have
apocalypse.
I love this kind of talk, that "myth is central to the study of cultural encounter precisely because it provides the template shaping people's ongoing production of identity" (Morrison quoting Baker, Mapping Otherness, 120). Common shared public values provide identity. But Contact makes for decentering when people question these values. However it came, Algonquian values from the conflict of summer and winter, relatives vs. strangers, center vs. periphery, women in camp vs. men hunting in the forest, try to make a whole thought of their one world, which itself is a human misnomer. It is impossible for humans to solve their contradiction even if some myth or religion they practice says it does. Positive against negative, the hero Gluskap against cannibal giants of windigo, Kiwakwe, chenoo, seeks a solution of good and evil, but there is none.
The positive sharing power of Gluskap vs the negative antisocial giants of greed is supposed to transform the world, meaning absorb and redeem evil, for the evil is made human in other tribal members. Gluskap learns to be good one struggle at a time until he releases the captive animals and forbears revenge. It’s a perfect little tale of society within itself when confronted with the outside. Only the Hopi view survives, http://www.colorado.edu/ReligiousStud... implacable war with the other.
Do not compassionately stay your hand against the
enemy. Execute him. Every effort Gluskap made to transform the world was to
bring the natural, the animal into harmony and kinship with the people who
sought to survive the drought by taking to the water as fish or the forest as
game: "my relative of a strange race, my spouse's parents" (123). A
genocide by myth, used to treating animals as kin they extended this courtesy
to the English. To utterly oppose the English would betray their religion and
its constructive myth of the world. Read for yourself (124) the catalog of
cannibal giant English. Giants were vicious, envious, selfish, refused to share,
pretended to be kin-- in order to eat you. In the paramount order of kinship
people could become cannibals but could cannibals be people? Gluskap said yes.
Since humans became cannibals when they hardened their hearts, cannibals could
be human if softened in healing. This dialectic annihilated them.
In their grasping Europeans were considered to be like cannibal giants. How the
Wabanaki were corrupted by commercial contact with Weymouth and kidnapped is
the cautionary tale of abduction, black science and the present. For you can
have a new kidney and new genes if you will just board ship. When the Wabanaki
subsequently eliminated the Popham colony the internal pressures triggered by
this weakened them substantially (128).
Cultural contact produced wave on wave of epidemics, liquor,
factionalism and division, the cannibal virus so to speak. In post contact
history Gluskap's teaching became more urgent. Europeans were identified with
sinful Adam, rebaptized, etc. We have a lot more post contact history coming.
Pied Cow is all about contact effects with the primitive which contact destroyed, and then destroyed itself. Restorations of the Golden Age is a metaphor of discovery more than discovery itself, how inflated rhetoric of poets made the new into the old, into impossible topographies of gold, into woman continents and lovemaking, into the act of love as a love voyage, into other world destinations, Bermuda into Hades, Virginia into heaven and the new man.
Myths of the gold tree, the gold man, heaven and hell, beauty and love preoccupied by the filter of metaphor made the new as the old. Such very playful but serious tomes preoccupied the best minds of empire even while they built it and commercialism while establishing it. So while ship captains were probing the coasts off Penobscot and kidnapping Wabanaki back to the King, poets at home were laughing and chortling about being all you can be of the new 400 year moon shot of their discovery.
OOps
Dutch Schultz
If you’re one of those trolls with shopping carts for large bags set out for the blue barrel, or with pickups covered with plastic tarps to bring in the buried life, then hello from our street writer who reports to sales for urban arrowheads and Blanco glass. A scavenge of the noun and verb, he is a Voth among the Hopi gathering tales.
Serendipity played a trick on Dutch Off the cuff gave him 600 bucks for an entire station wagon load of used art catalogues. Then he found the Three OOps stuffed among the auction bulletins of Modern Chinese Paintings. El Ephod had written it, a character that prowls up and down McDowell a windy night. They call it the 33rd parallel who found the OOps. Father, mother, and sister/brother sound so much like fiction they are real. Dave Cash, the Lighthouse detective, worked the case.
I give it to you straight. OOps can’t spell too well. They are Ooks on the walls of McDowell, but the tale so gladifies we explore it ourselves. Ephod saw what first went down, which needs an edict to believe. You will get it. Goldilocks was the baby working nights in a bowler renting balls and shoes. When she came home her car blew such clouds of that streets away crowds gathered to see the fire. Vulkan! They cried, and then began to adore.
Southy McDowell we don’t have much to do. Riot over her car burnished graffiti artists and street writer tales. You’ll need shorthand to write. TVs had broke. Neighbor dudes had their own reports. Goldilocks was sprayed on buildings like DeKooning who all built cages around their copper pipes. Car alarms went off at night. One neighbor set up two surveillance cameras to watch.
This is the way the OOps got made into bears, but we need a Goldilocks. Lighthouse Dave’s hair spread out like solar dawn. He was Goldilocks. I’d say it was confused. Blame El Ephod. All Sky Harbor detectives have made up names. Dave’s called Lighthouse because not only has he an aurora but he’s tall.
Hoods appreciate an OOps so we call her by her name, Guapa Sue. She had the front seat of her car removed so she could drive from the back. Long pedals on the gas and brake let her push them up and down. It was like driving into the midst to a can of soup opened from the brim. Tomato soup, matched her red car, top down, arms waving to adore.
Who knows but this has value like the closeouts when the banks go down, MERA bank, Valley Bank sold Scholders so big they couldn’t fit in cars. Society’s not interested in fairy tales about itself, only about ours. Dutch Schultz did what others do, no glory to the OOps. He found the manuscript contained within a bag of old Bulk Foods, an early example of the plastic bag itself, a big red scoop in a yellow bin. It said, Scoop up the Savings. Then across the bottom it called:
WARNING THIS IS NO TOY.
From the Works of Dutch Waltz Schultz
The great religion of Susan is a belief in the blood, of flesh being wiser than the mind. Susan was pleased, whose blood flowed as milk without impediment of mind, for she had none, at least in that sense. She doesn't even me-gloat. She didn't know Dave Cash was a gentlemen on two feet. She comes out in a trance relieved to be trotting home with that jerky coy gladness. Where she is when she's in the trance nobody knows. That's Susan. We have a relation with her, perfect devotion and symbol of good mindlessness.
To show the vagaries of that place that gave him an hybrid to drive, Dave called it a boiled egg. In Seattle where he worked they ate such things in their lunch. He'd packed on stakeout. Can you see him on his roost peeling the hard shell, reaching back for a fiber bar? But before you quarrel mine egg, chicken or car, consider the whole universe a finery. It wasn't only the egg or steering wheel in front of him that took the form of a girl if we allow his fantasies to indulge. Hold the wheel to your chest, the steering wheel of love of human form, for that twenty second burst of endorphins, St. Hildegard live with luminous fire. We speak of this maternity of spheres, spirals, breasts in a moving wheel extending the mystic center. Such deliberations were a major cause of Dave coming to Phoenix and the air light sky.
He was driving down McDowell with the windows open. The thing burned hydrogen sulfide. This is the highway that runs right round the world dividing it in two parts. McDowell respects the ley lines and gateways and compasses the hundred pieces of Isis rendered in the world of our tale, for the nations south where Susan is eating tonight.
Baby shoes hung from wires in the McDowell Villalobos Village of Wolves welcome, home to trailer parks and psychic reads, auto shops, car washes, iglesias, appliances, mueblerias, wood fired eats.. There being no threats, not even calls since the night before, little men pushing ice cream carts were ringing their bells. Just this one burglary in all of Phoenix, it was the strangest event anybody could remember, a secret that ran all the up to the Biltmore as if some great pressure had been relieved.
Dave pulled into the Arco decorated to look like a tomato, another fancy of our new perfectly vegan technology. A green pepper and an onion were at the next pumps to humor Dave's egg. The outer city like the outer Cash had salvaged its motor crisis with beet gas and not the carrot of surrounding towns. Where detectives drive eggs and cars are red peppers at pumps of beet juice, you might think time warp again, but don’t doubt that this superposition one day will open the gates and we learn, even if the next moment we forget. The flip side is all shared bank accounts.
Where are the other vegetables that drive around on an average day? What about Beetle gas! I suppose you mean the celery buses and zucchini trucks of the freeway. You'd have to ask Dave about the beetle, but that's the point. The arcane name of the hidden city of Phoenix, being Dewpit, mirrors the mistranslation of Dave's name, not Cash natively, but Cacher from the French, to hide. That got shortened to Cash, which translates well in the life of a cop except for all the jokes and the chers. Where are the max-efficient peanut cars? Aye, where are they when white barred clouds touch the stubble plains with aluminum dew? He was that bored.
We have not come yet to that quandary as to why a man should ever have tried to know a cow, even a symbolical cow? Or how he should have approached her with this superficial levity in a kind of religious awe more appropriate to chemistry. But this is why an adoring company of readers must assist so solemnly in her services.
Which necessary diversions open the ball and cope the boredom. So when Dave got the call it was nothing but a relief to get out of the egg at least. This must be done in stages as any bird knows, first standing on the feet, where onlookers would see him going up and up, near seven feet from that moment when egg popped and landed him where, when it's over both will say the lights go out in a snuff and come on with a flip. Take your pick.
Anybody who regards finding Susan as not only a problem but a symbol has the solution. Take her as a point of departure and go back to what led up.. Deal less with Susan than with the road to Susan. She is a symbol by which the plight of our day is expressed and follow the road to this cow to encounter her sister cows, for many of the most distinguished have had their Susan.
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