T      H       HE
       T      H       HE
       T      H       HEEEEEEEE

E             X   X P      PE               I     O     O D    D D     D
EEEEEE      X    PPPPPEEEEEE      I    O       OD     DD      D    I
E             X   X P        E               I     O     O D    D D     D

     C    IIIIIII       SS  TTTTTTT
  C    C     I        S    S      T
 C            I        S            T
C             I           S         T
 C     C     I      S     S       T
  CCC    IIIIIII   SSS         T

You're observing the electronic Experioddicist #4, 1.95. If you'd like to
participate send experimental text, or reviews of same to , or
P.O.Box 3112, Florence, AL 35630. The idea is to present the most
expressively divergent work, exploring the unknown expanses of imagination,
human or otherwise. Hope you'll enjoy this month's offerings. The print
version of the Experioddicist (different text from the e-version) is
available for $1 from the above address. This month featuring the work of
Harry Polkinhorn.
"The Period of Disunity"

Banditry -
these ranks-landless -
& distressed

Inward upon himself.
Pessimistic & escapist.

But in so far as it prompted
a consciousness of literature
as a personal & indivi-
dual expression of feeling,
it was important.
from ganesh (prompt)

...tar pit
spoke with his index
finger not his penis

syntax: proxy memory
as eclipse;

ganesh, prompt (*.*) belated
         pulverizing in the vernacular
fatass corpse peristent feeding of
maggot discourse, reappearing in guadalupe

diablo. krsna in the ink breeds worms
for the blackened neck. cow. fish. wolves.

a gander on the horizon, the apocalypse plays
out its own demise.
tinsel and bone         "a fussing of bells"

yntaxtly em to menu dyne. meat rose singerprints fght mission. essentialitis
thole yoar rete. formyl platen. ortho sial.
indra tulip intro. thenar fly melt aloe rumble. toes write islam trmnal. Aten
Erato Ate ma. sacred stones on trees 
argent. add ore din thin apteral opacity.

button lei bee cauls. thecal hierophanies ben crus bey. show forth sones.
sing itch nose. longer minaret lore vegan table.
butte sac red dew. holly other pensive station. suction lids alto ossia. otto
grot intake etui. ill ilk hair rete air stones. hate
vile sap lamps land sand mmmals live and sitar maybe.

days the sun shovel helmet. said affix sea sumption gilt tellurium ghat
chain. theme lost Riffi cult lea vet. aching is the
leave. spring food doff guard games tea on nose. re cess mage date ions.
attotesla pion ilia. eye soar hymn ink mice 
mouth among gelt hose evert daze thinbgs. and hematoma fire like light. and
ice bets calm that wish eye was forethought 
held farm afar. piousness mace.

mmar owe sew sex ramps hone. ion son. sewer gins. your sung flour breasts
urned heir fasces tooth delight. seme seed
tan. centipoise ale lie rem. race newsreel cattle like the flowering moon eye
stalks. call lower roar orbs east. candlepower
gigacycle. cult important pectivecism. lank bed ire calked albedo ides youth
koan anarch of trumps.

intact attar entail bent mouth. ogham row diction em. ramus pension magnet.
thin weed stars rune ring djinn. me n ature
bi ire shin toil minute. attic elf dynamic. upaya ptempo thecal sky. shollow
water viscus city. otiose answer menn t o ns
ration. said mage safe ouch sea sump.

My palm across your oily hair you my shoes 
considered, like a cat or two, creeping
toward your ankles: on that table's week of
eating's ash behind us I felt so lonely
never friended or the sheets you wore, unless
glossy ham your air of "mooning dithers", like
your new hat, actually speaking, or that cable
leaking out your: time I left so "holy clever"
bending through the streets. Ah you spurned
my dripping vestment then but now?

Buttress ryebread eyeball towel
fishin' for batch

thinking back to the returning to the roadkill gourmet w/his webbed feet &
ponderous mass
scouring through the backroads & highways outside tinytown i am reminded once
about the hegemony of time & how we could forcast the weather coinciding
to the tone of henry the drunk his exploding nose of how no amount of
could ever sponge away the spectacle of kreskin's ancient ex-wife myrtle
on her stoop half-naked & warbling dylan to her giant poodles & scratching
the guitar
alll the children w/in earshot justifiably feared for their lives it was more
than a thunderstrom & far more difficult to fathom
to this day I can't listen to "maggie's farm" w/out culling forth an image
of a ukranian death camp midwinter i sometimes wake in an icy sweat expecting

to see her hovering there above my bed working henry's abstracted nose like a
of seltzer water w/the carcass of an unskinned whitetail draped across the
gas grill
in my room it's been commandeered by the gourmet in his pristine chef's cap
the delictae attributes of roadkill it reoccurs to me why sleeping seems such
a chore
however i can't help but treturn i can't help thinking back it's like those
coming to me from fixed points beyond the timeline i'm helpless b/4 them this
& the primacy of want i pull a tall drink from henry's nose i slap myrtle on
her asses
the gourmet he has a beatific smile firmly stapled to his face he's waiting
on me in
a lime green ford in front of an incandescent velvet cortez his right arm
caught in the fox
trap of a film loop & repeatedly motioning me w/a spatula caked w/fur & fuse
into a fist
     The feline puts its spear into the scream of the night. A scream. The
definite stink. Dark air. Jumpy black shit. Brad can live. Tom can go eat his
own poisonous vomit (did I spell piosonous right?)x I got so much poise, I
eat trees! Cora is dead. Prey for her killer. Pray that his or her soul
disintegrates before the exact instant before the wonderful entity is aware
his or her own seminal and axiomic emeritus jump....god crushes the head
before the head takes shape. I want all football teams to win. I know all
football teams sleep on the top scream. Erin. Eat the nice fly. OIY!!!!!! 
                                                             Sept. 12, 1994

I lived on stale buttermilk knuckles for three weeks when I got kicked out
of my apartment.  But the worst thing was the rats that came around after
lights out at the restaurant.  I never got bit but I got so tired that
during the day working I saw pink people and everyone had a sort of
green-blue glow on their face's skin in just the right light.  I never want
that to happen again and I live in this cabin so it won't.  I walk to work
at the mill and kill what I eat with my bare hands.  I eat a lot of bugs
and worms and catch rabbits and birds.  Last week I got a possum!  Damn are
they hard to kill!  Damn thing almost bit me and I finally about mashed the
shit out of him and the trap with a big rock.  Fattest sucker I ever ate.
Felt good for a week.

ya know what I really like is finding out whats going to happen.  Steven
king isn't much of a writer as far as I'm concerned.  The Stand was ok and
the idea was great, "Christine" was very poorly written unless it was
intended to sound like through the eyes of a retard but again the idea was
great and I think a ok movie was made from it.  The Stand now I realize has
a chance of coming true.  I know that sounds crazy because ultimate
confrontations of good vs evil are the stuff of fantasy, right?  There's no
magic.  People can't just melt each other.  There's no devil.

Ya evver heerd of AI?  And VR?  And the network so people can all talk even
separated around the world?  And the "Singularity"?  The unknowable state
resulting from the ever faster change of communication, manufacturing,
social interactions, genetics, nanotechnology, direct human neural
connections to computers...  This state may be the great leap some dream of
and involve nonmaterial being or at least being supported by a great
generic processor inhabited by my and your neural patterns... no bodies
necessary.  And given the range of peoples it could be Heaven or Hell.  If
the FBICIANSA takes it over or if the wholly roamin' inquisition takes it
over or the Nixon Plumbing and Reelection company takes it over or if the
'christian' moral majority takes it over.  I don't want anyone to take it
over.  I want it to evolve as a new organism from our inputs.  Every voice
in the choir.  I don't know where it's going or what it's gonna do but I
don't want it run by anyone.  Especially not those clipper chip-wielding,
censorious, anal retentive, couldn't tell art if it walked up and
buttfucked them, assholes who are now in charge.

We are the raw material for a god.  It could be Shaitan maybe?  Unbeknownst
to me it may be that only a 'good' god can exist.  However, why take a
chance.  Stand up and be counted now and at every time the assholes try to
twist this little local mother to their preverted ways.  I vote for Al
Ackerman as President.  Writ in in extremis.  John Bennett as Vice
President.  Bob Grumman as NEA President.  White Boy as US Secretary of De
Fence and MALOK as envoy to the UN.  We'll use the unique talents of Lori
Steinburg as Secretary of Health Education and Welfare and chemical
dependency.  Once we have that as a foundation, the rest will fall into
place more or less automagically.  Oh, yes!  We need Don Webb as Secretary
of Magic.

I'll be secretary of Chemistry.

The minimum machine is a substance.  Polymers such as cellulose or
polyethylene are intermediate in compositional certainty from small
molecules such as benzene or glucose.  Mixtures such as ionic salts can be
complex but have little long range order or information storage capability.
In polymers, DNA is an exception as are proteins.  They can have a
literally infinite range of compositions and many exist in nature but the
ones which occur naturally are parts of systems which produce these
polymers in exquisitely faithful replication.  A molecule of DNA which can
encode planets worth of information or could be random and fit for no more
than food is the basis of fucking and new babies which have capacity to
learn which are plastic far beyond the years of animals which have to
solidify early to survive.  We're building up to an eternally plastic (if
it wants to be) state in which all the dreams of mankind will seem pale.
The Merikan and Rooskie computers in "COLOSSUS" controlled the world but
won't seem sentient compared to the coming singularity.  You gotta
question.  It knew you would before you were born.  The answer was present
before It was born.  The answer is to be found by....

What can we grow if we can become in conscious control of the machinery for
building life from virus to porpoise?  I'd say as a start we can build all
imaginable re-usable parts for nanofactories, nanobots to clean our our
clots and atherosclerae.  We can remake our physical world.

What can we create in a virtual world which is unimaginably different or
identical from reality today or as a concept?  Anything we can imagine.
What will be the energy input.  The energy of a Universe physical and
spiritual.  What is the thermodynamics of VR VLife.  Stop with the vR.  We
don't know what is reality yet and we're 'real'.  Life is a mystery.

If Heaven is the capitol of the Universe why don't we know what Thought is?
and is New Jersey Hell?

So VLife will be a mystery too.  Godel's theorem of incompleteness.

slow freeze a deltoid variable among thickets of thighs 
and esophagus sighs mates with any old tell-tale 
trend-setter jingles off hook to hack us out of ourselves 
once and once again but winds of past mistaken identity 
forgets how to pick up
no back-up system as adrenaline often a daily affair as her 
lungs unconsciousl
plenteous ozone language of direct correspondence 
to modulate fear those sacs wings sprout and away 
she flies incalculably a weasel of forgotten circumstances 
never having made the first cut your nagging and 
complaints your tonnage of lipids as entered into a 
registration component analogous to clot speed so 
see if you can find out through tried means of lamentation 
a winter crow cry we stay sealed within and expecting 
an outcome since wave wh
with plastic explosives I had thrown together rip-cord 
rot-gut down the coital
of a fine butterfly net their sequins and glitter or ticker-tape 
parades edge 
emotional mud looking for signs that people passed 
through here because we hav
coordinate points out to transform their makers if you 
can attribute a will that hides itself in an opposite string, 
a carotid artery unable to finish its job off to the 
Altersheim with half-open eyes each sucking its little 
juice charge to get on through another afternoon's 
pelting raindrops while off in the distance jets slice 
through a cooked stratosphere checking windows onto a 
metaphysical central place deep inside wood or slowly 
moving fibers afloat so I gave up in order to secure her 
thinness as incidenta
your life was reduced to hokey little store front operation 
to keep it on track that ball of warmth water control to 
saturation point well out of control but her perception 
outside the series an eventless trigger in the gut farinaceous 
pastes so adjust the program upwards until a handsome 
stranger cut to net some paper-thin advantage bounces 
back up and running rari
launched each other's retro-hyperbooster units all eyes 
hanging out in the gym
old Houston Street to stabilize an aging poet's juggernaut 
a simple microsecond's exposure to build up massive 
documentation my word they broke themselves of 
that halting and injurious balalaika the Judson Church 
and whoever has enough


       "He did not feel the cowled wind now, nor fear death, nor think much
anything but the name and fall of the old family.
       And he made up his mind, if no better thought came to him between that
there, so soon as he came to Murroa Wood, he'd hand himself from one of the
oak braches with his cravat.
       The stranger stopped opposite Sir Dominick, and he cum to a

words can terrify
have you ever met anyone 
whose speech frightened you
not the content of the speech
the speech itself
something (in the Freudian sense) "uncanny"--
the foreignness in Hitchcock's films ("there has been no English lady")
Do I fear death? If so, in what form do I fear it?

visualize death

I drove over two hundred miles today
and arrived at the same point at which I started
the road to Djerassi
is no easy thing to travel
just enough markers to get you there
but no more--
a country road
there is a gate which opens
electronically--no less magic than Popeye's "open, says me"
at night
the landscape
is transfigured
by headlights
the road winds so often
that the headlights are
rarely pointed directly at 
what you need to see
darkness mostly
a little light
in which things are oddly "other"
I had the sense 
of returning to someplace
different from
I left
This ends The Experioddicist #4