“An insightfully provocative drama that 
freshly addresses all the major human conundrums;
an unforgettable evening of theatre,” 
is what the advertisement promised;
”A tediously pretentious rehashing of 
long discredited sophomoric, mental caterwauling;
a complete waste of time,” 
countered a revered reviewer, 
and one man who somehow 
ended up on planet Earth mused; 
“No doubt I am in for an interesting time, 
to be in a place where,
criticism passes for intelligence,”
a comment which,
while contextually comprehensible,
is a bit excessive 
once one recognizes the true quality of those 
human activities not directly connected to
food, sex, or getting in out of the cold.

To a man with the always-open, 
cold blooded, impartial view of a fish I,
the constructional facts of this planet are plain:
there is the hard reality of what you find already here,
stuff just laying around 
on, and in the ground;
stuff to eat, stuff to drink, 
stuff to heat and forge into other more useful stuff.
Then there is another kind of, 
non-laying-around reality,
which was not already here before humans appeared;
stuff that now exists only because 
men’s minds made the stuff up:
plays, sciences, symphonies, religions, philosophies, 
and stories of all stripes,
all the stuff that humans use to fill up the times between 
eating, fucking and sleeping;
stuff that can be quite entertaining, 
but stuff whose history, 
ordinary minds ignore.

A man with that non standard longing 
permits his thinking to do so 
at his own severe expense,
in that he will waste his energy attempting to blow away smoke dreams of windmills,
and correct the voices that speak for made-up stuff.

Dirt is real -- all ideas are made up,
even ideas that ideas afterward proclaim to be 
of supreme significance;
(such as ideas purporting to pinpoint man’s origin,
and to describe reality after his death).

The intrinsic and ignored power of ideas 
is in the fact that 
once they have made up a new notion
they can immediately ignore the fact that 
they just made it up, 
and instantly start to treat the new, made-up idea 
as though it is as naturally real and solid as 
any rock a man might find laying around 
on the ground.

You can do it if you wanna --
you’re supposed to do it --
as a human being you’re entitled to do it;
you can  --   Do It If You Wanna!
--  but if you DO  --
you’re gonna find yourself living partially,
(if not largely), in a life filled with explanations,
but with no comprehension. 

If you go out knowingly to play ball in the rain
don’t play the idiot and later pretend to be astonished 
at the mud on your shoes.

You play with the sleeping --  you sleep;
kick around ideas with idiots, and 
idiot ideas kick you around;
critique hack dramatists,
find yourself the archivist for all of history’s tabloids.

All criticism is criticism of stuff that 
man’s mind has made up, (the second reality);
no one criticizes REAL reality, (dirt being dirty,
water being wet);
only idiots seriously playing idiots' games
debate the finer points of the rules --
--  there are no rules other than the ones that 
men’s minds are forever making up 
as the game goes along.

If you want to criticize something worthwhile,
criticize yourself for being moronic enough 
to pay any attention to the criticism of you 
expressed by the neural squatters in your head.
That criticism is intended for 
humanity in general; 
man is supposed to feel, accept, 
and act on it collectively so as to move things along en masse
with the degree to which each individual 
labors there under 
being left, apparently to
the chance degree of idiocy and susceptibility OF each individual.

If one of your second reality pleasures is,
conspiracy theories,
consider one, worthwhile:
that life conspires to make man --  collectively
participate in his own evolution via always thinking about things 
not as they ARE, but as they COULD be.
Thoughts that picture physical reality through the lens
of his mental one.
Witnessed by his ever increasing longevity, 
and health, 
who can, with this present arrangement, 
find overall fault,
but the secret few,
(who secretly refuse to be “pushed around” by this 
collective progress),
they see warts aplenty,
although it normally takes a life time,
(or several, if you are so cheap that you have made yourself pretend to believe in multiple ones),
for a man to get a grip on the real name for such blemishes, 
(which is):
”Mirror, mirror --  Ah, blessed reflection --
wherefore art thy proper sting?!”
and that burgeoning cellular voice in the brains of the few shouts back: “Why I’m right cheer!”  and - 
Bing A Bam! --
first thing you know, one part of your head has 
woke up!
wiped its eyes!
blowed its nose,
and is, by gawd, climbing the hell outta bed --
leaving behind, under the covers,
all the endless dramas destined for 
the broadways of the mind,
along with all of the sniveling carpers that are the 
shills for human consciousness as played out above
the cellular level.

Even as you mess around in the collective station of
man’s second reality, 
if you listen to instinct as opposed to vocal thought,
you hear cellular reality 
which is always announcing --  your train.
 

                         All aboard!  --   ya’ll.
 

                                 JAN