A Theory of Universal Proportions

A THEORY PUT FORTH
If we are indeed inhabitants of a world, spinning around a star at the edge of the Milky Way galaxy which according to the Big Bang theory is expanding out into the expanse of forever… I have yet to hear or read any theories postulating the possibility that our Big Bang may be but one of an infinite number, much like the grains of sand upon the beach, spinning around a super core of somethingness, igniting and exploding at regular or irregular intervals. Perhaps one day our frozen galaxies will begin to collide with frozen galaxies arriving from our Big Bang neighbors billions and billions of light years distant from every which direction that we cannot yet see. As we once thought that everything revolved around our little blue planet including the sun and we were the only thinking entities… I feel that we certainly have had the arrogance of singularity in our beliefs of the cosmos and as we have begun to discover other planets outside of our solar system then why not more than one Big Bang? After all, infinity is one mighty big place!

5:53 PM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

The Legend of Near Blind Willie McTavish
Category: Writing and Poetry

near blind willie

NEAR BLIND "SLIDIN’ LEFTY" WILLIE McTAVISH

One day on the 14th of October, 1899, somewhere was born Willie McTavish. They say his mother, one Willameina DeFoe, was a hobo, dressing like a man, riding the rails. They also say that she was implicated in a string of serial killings of her fellow hobos but this report proved to be unfounded.
They settled in Kansas City, Missouri during the early 1910s on the corner of Twelfth Street and Vine when Willie was about nine. This was when his eyesight began to dwindle. Glasses it was. And thick ones at that. He liked collecting bugs. Bugs of all kinds. He’d catch them and drive a pin through them which held them to the cooling board, complete with a neatly written expose of the species. He derived great pleasure escaping into the world provided by the microscope his uncle Ted said he bought from East High School. His mother worried about Willie she did.
He picked up a guitar at the age of eleven from the owner of Krebs Rx, a man named Walter Krebs. Willie used his bike to make deliveries for extra money. But Walter Krebs was a man who would gladly give away a worthless guitar than pay the boy with cash. A lot of people traded possessions for food in those days and the guitar fit in this category. Money was tight when there wasn’t any.
Willie hit the road early, school wasn’t for him. His mother had gone bad and although he couldn’t see his hearing was just fine. He could hardly see two feet in front of him by now. If you got close enough he’d know who you were, but he couldn’t see the blackboard so off he went at fourteen. He borrowed his entire college fund of twelve dollars from the Mason jar and bought a bus ticket to Atlanta.
It’s said that then having run plum out of funds, he followed in his mothers footsteps and hopped trains from near to far. Eating fried worms out of rusty tin cans and drinking muddy water from a hollow bowl. All the while playing that guitar he nicknamed Talulah. From time to time he crossed paths with other pickers, more the further he meandered into the south, picking up licks from the likes of Little Slim Joe Joseph, Slidin’ Pansie Packernacky, Whiteboy Jeff Peabody, and Keemo Barker, who blew a harp like a train runnin’ a man down. Here Willie began accompanying some of these gentlemen to the local clubs and taverns. He learned volumes about life on these excursions. If the owners let them play they might make enough thrown money to get a hot meal and a bottle. The show was worth it from memories of the time. Bigman Charles Ahearn could make that guitar of his wail ’til the tears fell, some say, and another round went round, on the house.
In one of the towns the barhoppers told a tale, a tale of a place where a man could come to the crossroads, and for a price life would be apple pie a la mode from then on out. They had had enough spirits and decided this crossroads place sounded like a plan. The three of them, Willie, Slidin’ Pansie and another friend, Stutterin’ Stan Dixon proceeded out of town, left on Lakehurst Drive, one and a half miles take a right and go ’til you see the Johnson and Brown crossroad. They waited and jumped at every owl hoot or dog bark until Slidin’ Pansie and Stuttering Stan could take it no more. Stuttering Stan swore in the four hour police report that he had seen a vision of the bad place where the sky ain’t blue and you fry forever. He stayed in the drunk tank for two solid years. Willie stayed alone and wrote three classic songs as he sat watching the heavens revolve around him. No one lives to tell the tale of what happened that night. He did come back totally discombobulated and took to playing in the left hand position however. Rare if ever.
Willie soon began to pass most of his contemporaries with his talents. It was spring when a man from an independent New Yorkian recording company was traversing the territory and asked Willie after hearing him play if he wanted to lay down some tracks, and no, he didn’t want to lay down on no tracks! He’d seen what happens when the train comes.
So that’s why there are no recordings in existence of Near Blind Willie. No one knows what happened to him. He may have taken a job in the Edsel factory in the fifties, or died as a prisoner of war at the nuking of Hiroshima. He may have written his song, ’The Disappearance of Pierre Depardou’ from an actual meeting in Spain. Rumors persist of his exploits, and four photos. Some still live who knew him, interviews have been given and books written.
Now if you should see an antique old black man wandering aimlessly with a resonator strapped over his shoulder and a small glass sliding bottle sticking out of his vest pocket you might want to ask him to play a tune. He might just give a bar or two of "If Sad am Blue"! You never can tell...
The End

8:55 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Art Print Inquiries

Hello everyone,

I have received many inquiries as to the availability of prints of my drawings through myspace messaging. It may be a bit late for Christmas gifting, but "The Sidewalk Cafe", "Castle Coombe (part I)" and "Castle Coombe (part II)" are immediately available as offset litho prints in signed and numbered editions of 285 with approx. 135 of each remaining.

Most of my drawings are also being offered as Giclee prints in signed and numbered editions of 313 each.

Full ordering information can be found at the following website: www.brothersjoern.com

Thank you all for your interest and keep me in mind for next year!

Dennis

11:08 PM - 1 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

The Trojan Rocket
Category: Writing and Poetry

THE TROJAN ROCKET

For three hundred and sixty years the wizard Prrymm d'Proper had been experimenting. Mixing potions of gasses and essential elements in an attempt to attain the elusive discipline of lighter than air flight. An urgency prompted the re-invention of science due to the fact that three hundred and sixty-two years ago his friend the venerable wizard Arturaugst, from the Land of the Ten Thousand Lakes, had inadvertently stumbled across the box. Pandora's box that is. And it was up to Prrymm as the head egghead to procure a solution for its removal from this world.

Finally one day he found his tin can ashen tray sitting under the skull candle next to his bookstand. Inside were the remnants of matches that had refused to ignite, covered with the wax that had dripped into the can. After some explicit words he tossed the can into the fireplace and went to the kitchen to find a fresh one. As he returned to his study he heard a loud HISSSSSS! His study filled with smoke tainted by the unmistakable odor of sulphur. By golly the fireplace was a shambles as he witnessed the can elevate up the chimney with the greatest of ease. Clasping his hands together in joy and wonder he yelled "Eureka!" He walked outside to retrieve the projectile but it was far gone. He summoned the servants and the search began. Two long weeks later the cook, by the name of Cantinfloss Volzzstad, found the object lodged in an oaken tree four miles into the neighboring county. Prrymm continued to experiment, knowing now the formula. Of course the final project was to propel a human and the vile box into the void. A recyclable barffaroni can just would not do.

Many years passed as they worked tirelessly to construct a vessel capable of intersolarsysmic flight. All gathered matches and wax. From near and far and farther. Matches don't grow on trees you know. Or wax. Only from ears and candles. And people needed their candles. Nine hundred and ninety-nine billion, nine hundred and ninety-nine million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine matches and nearly a ton of wax. Precisely to Prrymms' calculations.

On the thirteenth day of the seventh month of the three hundred and eightieth year there it stood. A brilliant testament to the ingenuity of the evolved mind. Twenty-five feet tall, made of the finest wooden planks of genorpsa, newly invented metals and the latest of technological advances. Now to find a fool foolish enough to sit atop it as it ascended into the heavens. From a farm in the deserts to the east came he. A hundred came in hopes of being thus made famous for all time. Two Buck Tim passed more than half of the tests, far surpassing his rivals. Prrymm had found his man.

"What's in the box you might ask?" spoke Prrymm as he handed it over. "Well, Two Buck, it contains all of the negativity of evil, the foul smell of idiocy, the dreams of despots and dictators, hate, crime, lust, avarice, greed, gluttony, racism, war... collected here, never under the fear of death to be opened! Your mission, should you decide to accept it, is to take this THING into the outer spaces and lose it from us who might be swayed by its' very nature!"

"But won't it then make everywhere but here foul and evil, leaving but us to fend for our very own goodness for its' own sake?!" asked Two Buck.

"Only if it's opened!" was the reply. "We certainly don't want the government to get their hands on it do we?!"

"Yea, verily and a bottle of bread!" said Two Buck as he entered the vehicle and roared into history.


© 2007 Dennis K. Joern

1:34 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Last of the Sunshine Days
Category: Writing and Poetry

Last of the Sunshine Days

"Here I stand, in the glenn where once grew the Giant Grand Green Growing Genorpsa Grove, a field of stumps now well on its way to petrification, surrounded still it is with the junk of the fellers who felled them, the saw machines, dragging chains and bark scrapers. Gathering rust and flaking into a memory. Many things were made from the bodies of these giants. Cities and homes, great sea going vessels, matches and toothpicks. Aye, but could I use a toothpick right about now! Lunch has lodged itself betwixt my ivories and bothers me greatly! Greatness be upon the nature of things as I see upon the hill and along the creek Weeping Atlas Cedars have gained ground, and taken root to live again! Amongst them I see creatures eating of the fruit and pooping seeds, to begin the cycle anew. I stand both a criminal and gardener, keeping diligent watch about me for the law, for I they seek.
T'was only five days past that I visited the Gleebstadt Museum of oddities in Owslow where resides the screaming head of one Jaan Fleabson amongst many other strange but true wonders. There I chanced upon down in the deepest darkest vaults the vile containing what was rumored to be the sole remaining handful of seeds, the seeds of the Giant Grand Green Growing Genorpsa, hidden from sight for these thousands of years, being marked with permanent ink. As luck would have it the museum patron showing meabout needed then to use the facilities leaving me alone with the greatest treasure this side of the known world. Without thinking clearly half of the seeds found their way into my tunic, and I found them not until returning to the hotel where I slept. Tossing and turning throughout the night I slept little, drifting in and out of dreams. Dreams of reforesting the only glenn known to have harbored the gentle beasts. The knock upon my door prompted me to exit via the window, up over the rooftops of Owslow. Believing in dreams I now find myself here after a journey of many days eluding the sheriff and his henchmen sleeping in dumpsters and ditches keeping my precious cargo safe next to my swiftly beating heart...
Here I stand, my garden spade in hand, looking out over the land. If they find me now I care not for I have done planted the last of my twenty-seven seeds and I shall never be made to disclose their locations. At this time next year it is my prayer that these ancient remnants of another age will poke their heads from out of the ground and begin the legacy for which they were destined. To once again reach for the stars and be the grandest gift of all. This I say, me myself and I, Johnnie Genorpsaseed!"

© Dennis K. Joern

5:59 PM - 0 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Beneath the Portrait of Great Uncle Nigel
Category: Writing and Poetry

Beneath the Portrait of Great Uncle Nigel (The Sky is Cryin')

Beneath the Portrait of Great Uncle Nigel,
The man with the Quaker Oats Phone,
Buried beneath this cold marble floor,
In this place that he called his home.

I stand beneath the Portrait of Nigel,
A man who had such a plan,
He stood in the smokeroom and smoked of his stuff,
And cut off his head 'neath the fan.

Standing beneath Great Uncle Nigel,
The Punk with dilusional visions,
A radical sot who changed all the world,
When he'd rather have gone off a' fishin'.

Under the Portrait, the Portrait of Nigel,
The world renowned masterpiece,
Painted in colors, so many colors,
To make up a most tasteful feast.

I stand upon the bones of poor Nigel,
Under the floor, beneath me and you,
A man with a dream of social revision,
A sad thing he developed the flu.

Over this floor, which holds Uncle Nigel,
Who embraced both fortune and fame,
I stand knowing that I never met him,
But I got his home and his name.

Beneath this Portrait, this Portrait of Nigel,
I hope your soul's doing fine,
I don't want no weird old ghost,
In this house, one toke o'er the line.

Beneath the Portrait of Dear Uncle Nigel,
The man 'pon I stand, the man of the hour,
I look at his world,
From his Ivory Tower.

I dream of thee, 'neath Uncle Nigel,
For the story did end much too late,
Uncle Nigel, you were loved so,
But this was it, your sad fate.

© Dennis K. Joern

5:57 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Dragon Attack
Category: Writing and Poetry

Dragon Attack

It was a different day than the day before. The three moons, Izmu¨r, Samsun, and Basma had aligned for the first time in rote history and the populace were gathered around the fountain at the castle square in dire fear. The forgotten prophecies had fortold of such a day as this. Forgotten that is until the book was found under the pile of used kitchen utensils at Karla Klinkers yard sale at Quagmyre Bay. Little did she know what she had unleashed upon the world. Knowledge. The man in the gabardine suit had become so taken at finding the volume that he gave her enough to pay the months rent. She had to tell him it was too much but there were many young mouths to feed and he looked not to be put out.
"A small price to pay for the salvation of mankind." was all he said, impressed with her honesty.
Many years passed and many miles did this book travel. People came from all the corners of the globe to witness the wisdoms written upon the deckled pages.
This day a man came. Wan Maiianguy. Dressed in the colors of the rainbow and symbols unknown embroidered on every bit of clothing. A crown of gold atop his head a sign of his regal birth. He had heard from a wandering sailor of the book and forthwith took to the sea. The prophecies of his ancestors told of such a book being found in just such a way and he wasn't about to miss the excitement.
Wan had dreamed of dragons. Lots of them. His visions fortold that on this day of the lunar conjunction they would come. And here it was. In this strange land filled with words and things he did not understand. All of his dreams fell far short of the reality about to befall him and the ravagers of the world.
The swarm appeared from the east. Then from the west. North. South. At first it looked like a scene from Capistrano. Wan had tried to warn them. When they couldn't understand his words he drew hieroglyphs in the sand. When that didn't work he acted out the scenario. Laughed at him they did.
"Crazy ferrener!" was what they called him.
Wan retrieved the book from its glass case and retreated to the sea from whence he came and donned his fireproof suit. For the dragons were coming and they hadn't had fresh cooked people since only the gods know when.

© Dennis K. Joern

5:56 PM - 0 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Unfinished Symphony #1
Category: Writing and Poetry

Unfinished Symphony #1

It was a solumn windless night in August when Filbert first noticed that Ned, his pal of some twenty odd years had gained no sense of intellect in all the time he had known him. Why, wasn't it just yesterday that he noticed the icicles which had obviously been growing on the eaves for weeks. His hand frozen beneath at least four days accumulation. "You should go inside," said Filbert, but no, Ned was waiting for the daffodils to bloom. Filbert cooked Ned some dinner, which he ate rather sloppily with his free hand, the right one that he was unaccustomed to using, being a southpaw. And that hand would sadly be frozen to the porch until spring. A long, long winter would pass, much like three years ago when Neds arm was eventually encased from his hand clear up to his shoulder. He complained constantly that the remote control device was in his hand at the initial encroachment of ice, occuring while he slept stupidly with the window open. Filbert was resigned to using manual control for five months that year, much to his sadness and disappointment.

It was always funny at Christmas time, Filbert having to do all the work while Ned, the spastic knave and fool sat frozen. Filbert wrote the cards and put the tree on the porch next to Ned, lights flashing in their glory off of Neds icicle. Ned enjoyed Christmas. Little groups of people always came to stand in front of his porch singing, waiving little cups in front of them. It must be money for the bus, the one he could hear on calm nights three blocks away over on Monroe street. He guessed this having seen the coins hopping gleefully as they sang. The last time he had been to the bus stop was twenty-six years past when he had taken his blushing bride Fanny Fargonuggen to the 7:45 headed for downtown, a trip from which she never returned. She lives now in Barcelona with a bullfighter named Pedro. Christmas songs always reminded Ned of dear Fanny. Ned always dropped an extra twenty-five cent piece in each cup, which exasperated poor Ned, for each and every time he did they'd go away, a phenomenon he had no explanation for. Filbert always stayed inside speaking to Ned through the front window, except on occasions like Christmas and Neds January birthday when he would bundle up and spend the entire day outside with poor frozen Ned. Ned was grateful to Filbert but thought much less of his pedigreed lasagna, the ingredients of which were never fully disclosed. "Not really a Christmas menu item, though it is better than waiting for snow rabbits to be hopping close," thought Ned.

One year they stayed up all night hoping to catch old Saint Nick. But by the time the sleigh and reindeer landed on the roof, Ned and Filbert had polished off a sizable bottle of Brandy. Santa descended down the chimney and saw the spectacle. But being a good ole boy from Syracuse he tucked the boys in, ate some cookies, drank some milk, and proceeded next door to repeat the experience.


© Dennis K. Joern

5:54 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

The School of Hard Knox
Category: Writing and Poetry

The School of Hard Knox

"There's gold in them thar hills!" said the wizard Krokus Charliehorse of Daccoata to his nurse Estella as the buckboard made its way over the hills, on their way to the Valley of Many Lamentations as they had done every year since before they cared to remember. It was uninoculation day and the children at the school were certain to be a handful. They didn't take kindly to being stabbed in the arm. Not by a shakey old man.
On the hill to the left a mile ahead sat the dreaded boys of Banjo Bob. Waiting with well oiled slingshots watching the cloud of dust from the approaching buckboard.
Before they knew it Krokus and Estella were showered with the same stones that had been fired at them for generations. Each bearing notches.
"Save the nitro!" shouted Krokus. Estella was two steps ahead of him however, and had thrown herself body and soul over the precious cargo.
"That was too close!" said Estella. "We could be blowing to kingdom come!"
The laughter from the boys faded in the distance as they obtained their objective. Skuukkum Middle School. The middle of nowhere that is. It must have been built back in the forties or fifties. The wooden floors had well worn ruts masquerading as paths.
"I'll get you! You sorry lot!" shouted Krokus back towards the boys as he unleashed a bolt of Fannyfire from his staff. The shouts from afar told of his success. Those boys won't be sitting so pretty now, he chuckled to himself.

Well, here they were. The sorry lot that stood before him. The cream of the crop. A ragtag army patiently waiting to get to the city where the memory of this place would fade.
Krokus set up shop and proceeded to jab his way through the entire student population. Uninoculation began centuries ago when the goldiebug was discovered. Sixth graders were most susceptible, so were always first, trying in vain to appear in a state of bravery. Marlin Hedgerow missed uninoculation day four years ago. The poor boy will never be the same. That is why they line up. You never know what you got 'til you get it.
"So how are you Dinsmoreson, Jonuthun. You look a bit peaked today." asked Krokus.
"It's this weird feeling in my arm I keep feeling. Mum says it will go away!" answered Jonuthun.
"Let me have a look then... oh my a goldiebug itself has moved to your elbownic region!" shouted Krokus. "I'll have it out in a jiffy!"
Then with the swiftness of a leaf on the wind Krokus pulled the beast out from the terrified youngsters armskin. Wings, claws and all.
"Looky there! A fine goldie for the bar-b-que tonight!" exhalted Krokus.
Poor Jonuthun saw what he was looking at and fainted right there in front of his dreamgirl Lindy Sue Snord and everybody.

© Dennis K. Joern

5:52 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

If Wishes were Horses
Category: Writing and Poetry

If Wishes were Horses

Melvin Bobsdad felt the concrete beneath his shoes, not a good year he thought realizing he couldn't place where or when he'd had a new pair. If he remembered correctly these he was wearing came from a dumpster somewhere in Chicago. Heck, it was starting to rain and no one would want to be caught out in this weather. He dreamed of going to a hotel or anyplace that might be open twenty-four hours. There might even be a cup of coffee out there somewhere. The morning might bring a good day and panhandling always brought a man vast rewards after a bad spell. Visions of wine bottles danced before him and maybe if enough was left over he could spring for a bite to eat. Life is easy on the road. No garbage to put up with. No nagging bosses. Although garbage could make a nice bed ocassionally. But sleeping in the rain wasn't his idea of a sane thing to do and any type of cover would be better than this misery. He could have gone back to his mansion and all, if ever, this would be the time. Living off the trash at the fast food dumpsters did have drawbacks. And only slim pickings could be found behind fine restaurants. Unless one wanted to fight his way to the leftovers. Sometimes his mind was meant to wander thus explaining the sorry state in which he now found himself. It must seem strange to be alone amongst almost six billion of ones own kind, although there would always be those within the same mold so to speak. Such travellers tend to be loners and any semblance of friendship could be seen as non-existence as shadows leave no sign of their passing. As each day presents its own calamity, rarely giving a body a chance, so onto this world are thrown delinquent mentalities, born perhaps to higher glory and never seeing the path. He thought often of the life he had, to leave it behind in his search for an inner wealth, with each day passed the dream. Becoming more like a nightmare, knowing that the experience would make him a more enlightened fellow. Not all whose path he crossed could boast of the benefits. To them a benefit was being blessed with a quarter rather than a five center. Working for a living would always be a philosophy beyond comprehension... or interest.
Finding a porch with an overhanging eve was a blessing he hadn't forseen down that alley, a fine place to rest weary bones in anticipation of the profitable morning so close at hand. The clouds seemed to disipate as the light of dawn approached. Melvin Bobsdad tossed his last cent into the well and dreamed of finer days to come.

© Dennis K. Joern

5:50 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment