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Sunday, December 6, 2015


by -blessed holy socks, the non-perishable-zealot:

For a verrry looong time, a whole-lot-more-so since our accident when my reflections weren't only on this lifelong demise, I always, always, ALWAYS thot about writing for Heaven, about Heaven, what Heaven will be like, what we can do in Heaven for the length and breadth of eternity: O! the places to go!! the things to see in eternity!! the 99.99% of passionate warmth, to be supported on the highwire of bulbous wonderfull, ya know, just being God's gumshoe with my funny fedora? But, now, with Blogger, whoa. I can have both 'au bout de son latin' altruism with my majestic dysfunction! RRReach'n for da stars, doll!! And, sure enough, sure as rope has two-ends, ending in the Great Beyond, I know without a doubt most human beings from this primordial-soup-past shall wonder, 'Besides worship, whatever shall I do in Heaven for centillions of eons and eons???' Not to worry, son, sayeth God. Exactly why I created love making. Yippee! You cannot have one without the other, though you can have 'agape' ... yet, I don't choose that alone. Rather, I prefer to construct our vested, intrinsic interest by being 'greedily' obedient in Heaven, as we'll reinforce our 'donor wholes', soda speek, in ways which'll blow-thy-mind, blow-thy-fuses, only for us to explore in our exploded, sunny wombs, as numerous and elusive as Divine Wisdom. Read John 21:25 So, this is MY story on the eternity of nekk'n and love'n...

TouchDown in the EndZone!! Climbing down the ladder outta my seaworthy yacht I sailed across the ocean of time, I saw my kick-ass, Cannondale parked near a gnarly, old Cottonwood, purrr'n like a young cheetah, checking my map, too, and the odometer which was in the trillionths of places. Gotta take my time; gotta lotta eternity. I saw my sleeek, space craft, too, not tooo far away through some gorgeous, White Pines and lofty Redbuds, as I pedaled furiously in-and-out of weird rox and formations, up-and-down low hills, like a 'roller-coaster' arch beckoning me with some great undertones, wanting me to climb-and-reach, wanting... longing... patiently... When I was pedalin across 10X the size of Jupiter, young females attackin me! with NerfGuns on horseback; apparently, they wanted me to stop for sumtin, somewhere. And they were oh-so-gorgeous: some taller, some shorter, some more gorgeouser; God's sooo good, and patient, counting my fingers and toes. Far beyond exciting: the X and Y chromosome
 merged into one after I'm done. It was like that through mosta my experience through single trak, forest, scrub desert, 65-degree-hills and down 70-degrees, beyond thrillinNgorgeous, beyond shockNawe, beyond solidNstunning, I conquered'm all. Then, as I took a drink several hundred miles away from the TD, on a high bluff withe wind softly blowing my delicious lox (had that, too, from God who's Jewish descent), I faintly smelled smoke which wafted mellowdramatic, professional, girlish, and the most perfect pitch (yes, sir, anything's possible if you go where I go). I smiled among the Ansel Adams trees; I breathed in the wonderFULL, smelled-like-after-a-rain fragrance. I congratulated the Most Holy Trinity. Just what I've always wanted, to serve them, to honor them, to touch the Indelibility. Must take a shower. I smelled my armpits. Not too bad. I wasn't necessarily big physically, ain't nobody to fight here - not in this scenario, the first level where you're just settling in; but, yet, mama mia. I thanked Her profusely. In MY fantasy, in MY eternity, in MY reality, the doves are always a girlies withe qualities I hoped for: just to be around them, I was truly like Pavlov's dogs in their expertise.

As I biked down the mountain on 'ruff sand, through cheese-cake-boulders, cherry trees - as HUGE as my hand were the enormous fruit, and gourmet-rated-roses, it was TOTALLY bitchin - this is total worship in my opinion: the 73.37 degree angle, the fierce wind whippin' my face, sskreeeeeem'n!! my TeDeumLaudamus!!! Justorum animae in manu Dei sunt et non tangent illos tormentum mortis!!! the precision which I had control, the avalanche of total pleasure waiting for me at the bottom, the 'tableau vivant' exhalation getting more and more understandable and loyal. I remember getting back from the enormous library on another world where I could work all quiet like, all nestled in a cozy-cubicle the size of an auditorium, writing-out what I wanted to happen to me where I spent maaany a long month in-and-out perfecting my skills which I had before, just nobody to love: boating, skiing, cycling, hiking, snowboarding, river rafting, rappelling, paragliding with our arms, and, most important, to be as one as we are ONE forever and ever - before MY touchdown where the goal is literally Heaven Above. What's my biggest turn-on? Simple. A blatant disregard for earthly policy. How kold_kadavr. Apparently, that's exactly what I was, or I wouldn't've been resurrected. As a child, I thot, I always wanted to 'hang-on' to my mom's leg ??? Not to get too much into the JungleJim of psychoanalytic behavior, that's totally continued to this day: to humble myself before'm, to kiss their precious feet which brot'm here, to give'm a backrub, to slow dance to Beethoven or Tchaikovsky or Mozart, to feed'm HUGE grapes, feed'm baklava, or those oranges you buy in a can from the supermarket, to feed'm Starbucks - always a sailing vessel waiting to take Her to the Stars, to sit withem on the cowch and wrap myself around'm to be as one, to be thoroughly zero-demensional, like a congruent algorythm, like a sequence-of-steps leading to a desired end. I swiftly cycled down the breathtaking mountain exceedingly high.

That, of course, wasn't the end, as I had to go 'round another curve in order to demand Her realism, Her secretive domicile in the everlasting morning which B9s pollinate. VOILA!! Staring at me at the end of a short row of sky-high-sycamores withe lawn exquisite, the Southern-Charm mansion, sun is bright, the groovy, weird-o birds, the warm, beautiful lake stretching farther than-I-could-see. Couldn't git no better. Waving at me! ME! I about fell over. #@!! bike. I spied TWO! beautiFULL, 'laissez-faire' innocence, middle-age-females with bobs, one with glasses, totally wearing their tanned legs, adorable freckles, gorgeous smiles, beckoning me, calling me to sit with them on a blanket for a picnic. Playboy twins? As if the mysterious puzzle had only one more piece to complete the masterpeace you couldn't find on the floor, as if this was the chasm I was searching for to fill-in the whole, this was the God I'd been gigantically. I went apoplectik in my out-of-body experience. "Eternity isn't long enough to love you, girls: what a wonderfull opportunity we have for endless volumes of procrastitationNprocreation..." Quickly, bluntly, "No, it isn't. That's why you and all who follow this blog get a few more trillion years." And so I went, trapsing down our path for ever in Heaven; gotta wanna ask about writing a Trilogy on this. We'd maybe call them 'the GooglePlex...' though have to wait, I'm kinda busy.

PS... Just ponder this, alla you girlies who think about the horizontal and you're never, ever gonna perish... till you're hit by a speeding truck and croak at seventeen; just think about what an ultra-magnificent-gift Almighty God has bestowed upon thee to givest your mortal body this lifelong demise and how mosta U.S. have squandered that existence by NOT honoring Him, by aborting, whoring, partying, cliff diving (<- believing="" i="" idols="" majic="" save="" thee="" whorizontal="" wilt="">: (cars, cash, clothes, condumbs, caprice...) if those are the objects you most put your trust in. However, that can ALL change, girly. Like me, like Isis, like your dead dawg, we're ALL mortal. God's not. God lives in Seventh-Heaven. God's immortal. So, Jesus'll Divinely Judge alla U.S. - even Isis, too - on how well we've lived, not the other way around: you cannot come to Heaven and demand why God was so mean to you or me; God gave U.S. life and we gotta deal with it. It shall be over soon. Trust me. I know. And then Jesus'll sentence US outta our own choice to a very, very lengthy time in one of two places, Purgatory being a waystation - so what if you don't believe me, I'll just meet ya thar. Blah, blah, blah. Now comes the fun part. Let's say we make it outta Purgatory, which ALL of U.S. will: an utterly fantastic option is making movies! A whole lotta movies!! You'd have eternity, so time wouldn't be a problem; I'd make a lotta kick-some-ass-ninja-fliks with me as the star and a literal, pint-size sidekick (the film crew would be left alone - they're invisible): we'd have an earth-size-planet, we'd stop in villages along the way, and we'd get in fights - we'd win 'em all, of course, and it wouldn't be our fault: some with dirty men, the barmaids would get outta the way, some with shopkeepers like the Prancing Pony. I'm dead serious as a coma, dude. Yes, I'm a total kid when it comes to fantasy - exactly the Way i gotta be to reach Seventh-Heaven. Everything's possible in the Great Beyond; just gotta Dream Big, child, and it's yours (the term 'child' is a noun I use for myself, too, because we're all children under the eyes of God - I heard when I went to Heaven at 15, God's age is much larger than pi. So, yeah, we're all children).

I'm just supremely pleased I made it this far: Seventh-Heaven, nudging Ted Nudgent, and loving all as Christ loved. He may have had secretive Words with His Father in prayer, yet, Christ never showed any ubiquitous dissent. Christ was the fodder for the renaissance. I remember in the 70s when I didn't know much of anything about anything, my mom and I went to Falley's on Burlingame and, as she went off to shop, I looked at Cosmo in hopes it'd have something on that subject ...or Heavy Metal. You know they always had some futuristic, forbidding, woman-on-the-eagle-mascot as if the unverse didn't have any latrines. So as I'm paging through their latest issue, I come across a story of a dude on a business trip who's lonely for one thing. Wonder what that is. I won't go into alla the delicious details of the desirable dilemma when my savvy mom called me to exit.

So don't close your eyes anymore to the vertical, girly; dream big like no one else so you can live like no one else. Join me for an endless plethora of wealth Upstairs. And, yes, I will be in the first battalion of young men to serve you and love you in our overwhelming nonillion. Cannot beat that for time without end, girly.



x larry said...

it's certainly very... american.
so who is this dude? saw his comment a few posts below, equally bizarre, incoherent, aggressive and incoherent

Linh Dinh said...

Hi x larry,

I don't know the man. I followed the link in his comment below. There is an exuberance that I can identify with since I used to have manic episodes. In my 20's, I went through a few bouts where words spilled forth from me and I actually thought I had finally discovered myself and the true state of the world, that I was in a "house of light," and that all of my previous experiences were a terrible mistake.

It's interesting that you identify it as quintessentially American... We can certainly rave with the best of them!


x larry said...

hi linh,
yes, not to say there's not something appealing and certainly energetic about it. i think the main source is the manicness of the country itself, especially growing up on tv and the super clever put downs etc in tv and movies. then there's the wordy tradition of kerouac, miller and so many others. a lost people, i say. just listened at the community allotment to a very pleasant conversation of an english guy and a scottish older guy. this guy comes every week, but i've never said much to him. his accent is really lovely. they were discussing the many lovely places in scotland. so different to the cracked out americans.

Ian Keenan said...

xl Kerouac always offers surprises to the reader no matter how much time you've already given him, one of the best qualities in the racket imho. It seems impossible to think of him without letting the stereotypes dumped on him by the establishment intrude, they're often stuck in my head, probably even for people who knew him personally. He was a formidable practitioner of form and content.

x larry said...

hi ian,
i don't doubt it. it's been over twenty years since i read him, but loved him at the time. i think of him from time to time and sort of relate a bit to him perhaps (only in my own mind) in his being (i seem to recall) a very fresh, idealistic high school jock, and by the time he reached just below my age he was a most bitter guy--i really can relate! (not that i am a famous author, of course) but he was on firing line when he was near the end of his life, and i loved his bitter sincerity.
also, i read some of an interview with henry miller a few months ago and was reminded of his depth, seriousness, and the beauty of some of his thoughts.


About Me

Born in Vietnam in 1963, I came to the US in 1975, and have also lived in Italy, England and Germany. I'm the author of a non-fiction book, Postcards from the End of America (2017), two books of stories, Fake House (2000) and Blood and Soap (2004), six of poems, All Around What Empties Out (2003), American Tatts (2005), Borderless Bodies (2006), Jam Alerts (2007), Some Kind of Cheese Orgy (2009) and A Mere Rica (2017), and a novel, Love Like Hate (2010). I've been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2000, 2004, 2007, Great American Prose Poems from Poe to the Present, Postmodern American Poetry: a Norton Anthology (vol. 2) and Flash Fiction International: Very Short Stories From Around the World, etc. I'm also editor of Night, Again: Contemporary Fiction from Vietnam (1996) and The Deluge: New Vietnamese Poetry (2013). My writing has been translated into Italian, Spanish, French, Dutch, German, Portuguese, Japanese, Korean, Arabic, Icelandic and Finnish, and I've been invited to read in London, Cambridge, Brighton, Paris, Berlin, Leipzig, Halle, Reykjavik, Toronto, Singapore and all over the US. I've also published widely in Vietnamese.