The serving episode of Chroma Pop reveals The Skräuss’ church-life and his at studio.
Episode 1 of my revamped vlog once known as Skräuss Speaks, You Listen. Now, the Skräuss invites you to join him in the world of awesome.
Skräuss Speaks, You Listen episode of love lost and occult forces uniting. Is this the final episode of the centenarious output of my art-vlog? We’re mutating, Cavedweller. We’re altering or demeanour and throwing in some audience engagement!
I make videos like this, soon to be like something else. I’m rebranding. I’m the mean time enjoy this art within art.
A new Episode of a new thing with no name that is actually an old thing revised
Some guys have really fat necks. Below is a fat neck, though not the fattest neck that I’ve seen. How the human body decides to store unsightly fat is a mystery to me.
I have the unfortunate advantage of a hyper thin frame and flesh. This means that my neck is the width of the proverbial pencil. When I call a guy pencil-neck I have three fingers pointing back at me, and together they equal the width of my neck. I’m what they call, “skinny.” You think that’s good? You think that’s some kind of super power? I have a news flash: It ain’t. It’s the opposite; a super-disempower. I tried to get a job as a mover and the guy behind the desk eyed me and said, “Him? He ain’t got nothing!”
People love to ridicule me, tell me how skinny I am. My own mother, every time she sees me tells me how I’m losing weight. I walk into a room and everyone suddenly feels self conscious of their neck fat, arm jiggles, and Milwaukee goiters (hypertrophied bellies resulting from beer over-consumption). It’s my fault so they insist on using the worst term for my body as if I love it: skinny.
Skinny means, no power, no strength, no girls. It’s a curse, I tell you!
Last summer a middle school girl yelled out the bus window, “I wish I was as skinny as you!”
Women want my body.
Do I need to say anything else? Wait…yes I do. After a quick glance at the above sentence I see that it gives the wrong impression. Women want to live inside my body, wear it like a coat, a bizarre and macabre furless coat. They do NOT want to own it as a toy. They do not want to touch it, pet it, or embrace it. I once had a promiscuous knock-out refuse to date me because I was too thin. “I would feel like less of a woman,” she told me, meaning: too fat. So she walked away and immediately shacked up with a short pudgy character with a micro-penis.
It’s so true, I’m crying.
You don’t understand what this narrow body of mine means. It means that when the stool his the fan and all tech fails and we’re reduced to 19th century farming because grocery stores have stopped working; I will be dead. I will die of starvation long before any of us get or acts together enough to produce did again. And as I lay dying, my body aggressivity devouring itself, I will do so in ill-fitting shirts and high-water pants.
Now that I’m walking through the foyer of middle age I’m loosing the thin body that has held me back for so long; I’m getting fat, but there’s no hope in this. Unfortunately, I’m not getting fat anywhere good: pecks, thighs, biceps, Milwaukee goiter. No, I’m getting fat over (under) my perineum, if you want to know the gory details, and you didn’t, but now do. I can feel my urethra falling asleep when I sit in hard chairs. I shift over, tilting onto one or the other buttock to alleviate pressure. It’s an unnatural way to sit. “Hey, wake up buddy, keep the lines flowing!” I have to give it a pep talk.
Fat neck. I’m relieved that at least I don’t have one of those. Though if I did I could probably get shirts that fit. Made in America!
When they fired me I quit. I waved my middle finger in their eye and I said “Thanks work-job that I hated. I’ll take it from here, and I did. Now I’m self employed, have a manager, am painting regularly, producing work, and getting acting gigs. Sounds great, doesn’t it? All I had to do was say, “Never again, Consensus “Reality!” Reading “Valis” immediately following “Cosmic Trigger” may have influenced my decision. Or maybe I just couldn’t take the boredom and condescension anymore. Or maybe whenever I asked for help, people asked me,”Want do you want to do?” What I wanted to do was not have a job.
I want to never be strapped to someone else’s timetable of busywork. I want to travel, fill in my debts, write, make videos and things (like my giant cardboard Millennium Falcon, made of recycled materials;
or the comics that I keep starting and then procrastinating). I want to perform, make people laugh, and speak extemporaneously before large groups of people. I want to explore the cosmos as a, don’t snigger, as a psychonaut,
like Doctor Strange or King Mob. I want to make T.V.-art like a talkshow, like a space show, like shows with puppets. I have a script in the procrastination file about a special gorrilla suit and a hotel. I have an idea for a Doctor Who fan film. I want to do these creative endeavours.
I then look at the people that I have gone to for help and ideas of what I should apply for and say, “Nothing. I don’t want to do anything.” I have no idea what avenue to step down that will lead my feet to the paved visions of magic and creativity. “I like people…” I offer tentatively.
“You keep saying that, but we’re not buying it,” one employment group said to me. That was the last brick in my face that I will ever take. I went home and just painted. I’m done trying to appease these people. I’m beginning to appease myself with the discipline of self employment, and it’s very rewarding.
A local podcast called me and offered me a paid position. A local talent agency called me and asked me to audition for a role called, “Indiana Jones Lookalike”, which is 1000% better than actually auditioning for Indiana Jones. I didn’t get the lookalike, but that’s fine, the next day I landed a role as an art professor.
And last night a knockout scientist delivered an answer to me (two days after shoaling a handful of sigils asking the question “what is my schtick?” That is: what is my message, my voice?) She told me that I should interview people because I’m good at drawing out people’s stories. Ha! Purpose! I’m still waiting to figure out the money part to begin flowing in, but I’m launching, Exponential Growth is occuring, it’s only a matter of time.
Sounds broke, don’t it? “wait a minute,” you ask, “I thought it was coming up daisies not pushing up daisies. You sound impoverished.” In response I fix you with a steely eye and stiffen my back with a bit of the Wooster vigor and I quote, “Don’t curse a day of small beginnings.” I don’t earn much, but I am eating and paying my bills. I’m still just realigning. I’m still only recalibrating, and so far the test drives look very promising, everything that I need comes to me. When I finally get the hotrod out on the highway, look out Bonnaville Salt Flats drivers, The Millennium Chromatica is blowing past you.
You should join me Cavedweller. Let me know how your own jump to hyperspace progresses.
How could I?!
How could I be a poet? What misstep wrought from indecision lead me to this pointed precipice? Poetry… the Amway of letters. Concentrated. Unsalable. Turns every friend into a hustle, “Hey, listen to this one…”
I remember the tight mouthed look of firm resolve that dropped over Susan Firer’s face when I asked her to read some of my poems. It was stern, clinical, like the surgeon in the ER facing a young mother, “We’re removing your son’s leg.” As she read, however, I watched the sigh of resignation in her eyes begin to breathe naturally. By the last line we were friends. I submitted the poem to Lungful! Magazine who gladly published it.
Jim Chapson once sat down with me in a couple student desks and went through a sheaf of my poems. I remember two of his comments, “Well…” and of the poem To Age Inappropriate Attraction he said, “If I was Poetry Chicago, I would publish this.” That was the last time that we spoke.
I suppose that this means that poetry can sometimes make friends. The ratio, however, the scale with new friends weighed in it definitely has more lift than the scale with lost friends. Amway saleshumans enjoy a similar ratio.
Some of these poems here in this volume have been published in Lungfull! Magazine; others have not. None of them have been published in Keith Gustaad’s rag, Bramblethorn Review, or whatever it was called, even though we watch professional wrestling together at the corner tavern during Poet’s Monday while the rest of the poets watch poetry. I bare no malice. I know that I am a political liability. I’m the chain-smoking-gun. I’m the pop-fly in the ointment. I vote libertarian, even though they don’t go far enough, as far as I’m concerned.
Meanwhile, a 6TH grade student of New York Schooler, Kenneth Koch said, “Poetry is emotion.” The sixth grader must be libertarian, because I must take his definition further. Poetry is also spirit. Poetry is rivalry, jokes, and prescience. Poetry is ribald-faced lies, affect, and je ne sais quoi. It’s the signal conducting the heart-beat and the electro-magnetic pulse that the heart-beat emits. Poetry is cause. Poetry is effect. It’s seen and unseen. It’s a bunch of non-sequiturs like marshmallows and cranberries strung on a tree. It’s the smile that you make in the thunderstorm when you see the gust of wind charging toward you. It’s the rosy five pointed star that Venus traces as she traverses our sky, and the chart of this passage found in the center of an apple. It’s my first observed red-headed woodpecker (at 46!) lying stiff on the sidewalk below the yoga picture window. It’s red hood radiated as Venus faded, obscured by Morning yawning and stretching her arms. Poetry is learning that Lucifer and Venus share a Heavenly body.
Poetry is the smell of a sharpened pencil. It’s the sound of a pull tab popping. It’s that time I kicked a star down the street and attracted Hermes who made me drink with him in the November drizzle. It’s the time the DPW repaved North and Prospect Avenues and laid welded bars in the asphalt, to give it the texture of paving bricks, then painted it red. Within a week cars had tread twin dark lines lengthwise through each lane. Within two years only the corners retained any memory of the color of bricks.
This is poetry.
This is Milwaukee.
I am both.
This spring look fortune new poetry anthology by Vegetarian Alcoholic Press, Return to the Gathering Place of the Waters. I have. Bunch of poems in it!