Money Orchard

 

There are only 14 minutes til 9:30

God’s on the job I’m feeling

Down like a mob looking

Down.  On a Clear day October 23

The heart’s tiny from the 22nd floor. 

Our copse leaves candy blue sky pieces.

The TV next the window’s parallel

To skyscrapers and sky and centered

By a bald man in a nice tie and expensive smile. 

Hands rap the desk it’s

Seguey.  Three minutes, three

Monitors: wards experiencing UTP delays #3 (31830332220s):

Normal;  Emails multiply like interest in my inbox,

Normal; SPZ7 +8.90  23 stocks, two major indices

Waiting beneath the screens

Big Tick BioTech: fingers are a disease of the hand

Ahh, Big ticket biotech!  The gambler’s hand – the old

Question:

What do you do with em? 

           those mind-like hands

           those schizophrenic fingers?

Fold em in? 

Or quicken em at play!?   

            These fucking stocks,

                     what are they?

Presience & science?  A roll

          (fist closed on the rosary) of golden dice?

Big ticket: deserving of the name? 

Or more importantly:

Deserving

           of a slice of your retirement?

Ok check out CELG, DNDN, and DNA, and tell me

Their volatility ain’t crazier than mackeral in May (late May).

Shit yes it’s like fishing:

There’s a big one down there somewhere:

Hands of God: the sperm whale’s fingerprints;

          giant squids and sunfish,

          maybe still some Megaldon in Argentinian/Australian deeps.

Cryptozoology

          & biotechnology

Rhyme –

          and in more ways than one;

For, many have spotted fins

Of some impossible leviathan.

But as for legendary monsters: kraken, Jörmundgandur,

Aspidochelone, even Tiamat herself: A great Sea Google?

         who can say

         oh who can say for sure?

 

Celgene, CP; Dendreon Corp; Genentech,

The sector’s leaders 

         a’leadin like punchdrunk archdukes in an army made of anarchists,

         “from bird-dogs to bar-hounds” as they say.

Look at Biogen Idec Inc, BIIB.  Or,

For a more biblical, conservative approach, Gilead Sciences,

GILD – there’s a name that at least looks kinda a little sane at least (ignore the splits). 

         though not sure if I’d say a hill of testimony or a mound of witness.

But for every Gilead, there’s

          brace yourself

If you’re not weak of heart look at the chart of CRA

From ‘99-’01:

         that was Craig Venter’s babe - mapping human DNA

But ambition got the best of them:betting

Upon the human genome foreclosed more than a few homes

(Oh if only they’d the aid of my brave trading poems!)

And caused more than four or five divorces

(Though good riddance to those would-be kids!).

Bids?

You’re feeling lucky?  Fine.  The bottom line:

A lottery ticket is a tax on stupidity

         and a biotech stock is like a tax on lottery’s modality.

Or, if you don’t get my meaning, try this:

         a biotech stock may tax your health,

         but then DNDN could discover something that will let you live forever

         and make you a millionaire simultaneously — and believe me

         you’ll need that money in eternity!

 

Ok, Investors, stay away,

No matter how much you think you know your stuff

          or know your stuff

Avoid these stocks.

They’re the realm of the day-trader’s mists and mazes.

But if you absolutely must,

In GILD we kinda trust? 

And for some reason DNDN. 

          call it a hunch.

AltEn

 

Go long solar or so long golden remote controller!

So long bragging to your girlfriend (or your boyfriend I suppose) about betting on the sun

Bet on water!  Bet on fire!  Bet on wind!  But when it comes to earth, I’m worried,

It’s a new age, anti-corporeal: no more coal or oil in your portfolio I mean

Short term sure, CLA will hit 150 in our day I’d wager, hey -but who needs Newton’s physics anymore!

I’m talking photons, currents, wings-sans-bodies, spirits

Straight from big (cop) god in outerspace!

Let your stocks inflate by insufflation, let your wallet and your appetite inflate!  Get high

On height itself, get higher, then, than gravity – I’m talking bout way more than getting by!

I’m talking LDK, FSLR.  I’m talking ENS, ENER.  CSIQ, OTTR!  Like so long Quatar!

The middle east, the middle earth, the greedy centosphere, so long! And say hello to the whole solar system! 

Bet on

UFOs!

Remember, energy’s the essence so sprint on your best feet to the quintessence: I speak the truth and come in peace: so: Bet on solar!

I’m here to help you – lend me your ears (not ears of corn, I’m bearish ethanol). 

I’m here to help you – lend me your ears.  The charts are evidence

I’m talking long term solar, so go long.  Forget your president,

 . . . and take me to your Broker! 

Or so long!

How you make it rich

the dumbest girl in the vaccine made a play on the stock

The stock was chopped to tiny shares she said we all should share

The stock was bottomless, no top, but faceless clocks and noiseless toys are rare

So she cared for the core on just a dare on not even a double dare – what kind of girl

Does things on the first dare?  Poor babe. 

The core was made of metal

But came out of the air:

Her friends said meteor, oh no she knew it was a bird , a lucky bird

“There’s no such thing as luck, just lucky

Money” so the bird like currency, it’s running wings liquidity – or did

Its wings sing through and in liquidity,

A’bringing birds to roost?

This bird, medium that flies worldwide a store of blood, disease,

Seeds, languages — all those and other things to boot: nobody knows what money is. 

She felt the bird’s heart with her mouth.  She felt its width and weight.

It stung her tongue but did not singe it — like  licking a 9-V battery, in kindergarten, kids -

Its ticker too a V included, V as in vaccine,

Vagina, wings on birds drawn near the sun, in kindgergarten, kids. 

This girl inside the vaccine was’t mute.  She was dumb as in stupid,

She was cute.  So cute a lover loved her then, just as she made the play,

Though perforce from afar as through windows on safari or

Way way across the dark dark dark dark bar:

In this world

There’s no getting far. 

Not away from love,  this kind a kind of love like early nights.  Was this bird an early owl? 

It’s silent flight, the stock pervading every maket: hope and dreams a’riding high?

Her love was in the money, in the beak and gullet:

Tiny maw gaped chriping wide for squirming worms? 

She had some worms, she pulled them out the sky?  But birds live in the sky! 

But need to eat from earth,

The earthiest of earth: the worms, the deep down dig, the life breath and intestines: yup, the guts,

Give the sky the guts of earth, give stocks the kiss of caring lips. 

Invest in harvest markets, sell dumb on uptick months, and crunch your metal heart in diamond fists.

That’s how you make it rich, kids, that’s how you make it rich. 

The real class system is a heirarchy of transmission

Culture is that in which stories incubate, grow, live out their story lives.   There’s no other kind of culture.  Psychically, socially  — our lives are an environment, no more “alive” than atmosphere or noosphere.  What live in truth, in the way we believe ourselves to live, are the beings that act and breath in us — not what we call gods, but what we call stories.  To understand it, is like reimagining ecosystems as beings.   I can’t totally explain it yet. These things they live forever, in many cycles, while we deplete and replenish our flesh, language, and media.  There are those in whom great stories culminate — in great seizures of fame, crime, birth. . . .  Those people are the most “nutritious” made of the softest most fertile stuff, to receive the spirit, and keep it feeding.  Most of us are rank clay: home to the same story of birth, hardship, vanity, and death.

You

You’re too modest to get famous, not to mention it’s already passe.  You are modern in your way, not theirs. You are real.   And really, celebrity is so turn-of-the century it makes you embarrassed.  You want to look away in shame when you see newspapers with today’s date gauchely print the paparazzi’s epigone art, as though such things were still cutting-edge.  It makes it hard for you to even read the newspaper: you hurriedly flip through the pages, sometimes tearing them, trying not to focus on the print until you get to the weather report.  You care about the weather; it is around you, it is yours – not theirs.  Later, you will relax and enjoy the companionship of your friends and family.  You will talk about matters that touch you.  Personal matters, some serious, some light, for you are neither dour nor flippant. You will not repeat the chatter of the masses, you will not indulge in that big false consciousness, the news.  You discuss things known to you, and much is known to you:  your experience is deep, made rich with your sensitivity, your powers of observation, your empathy.  Yes, you regret how others chatter and devour themselves, repeating one another’s repetitions in a mania for information, in the passion of the hub.  It saddens you, their desperate desire to resemble money itself, or simulate a market: a medium or place of exchange.  But you are unique.  You love many people too much to dwell on these vague, abstract non-people: the masses.  This is not to say you’re a misanthrope, quite the contrary!  You are filled with love, and willing to make new friends, and you are always open to new experience.  But, you understand your mortality and your limits, and you know you can only truly maintain so many friendships, and harbor so much of life within you: you don’t wish to transgress god-given boundaries for any mere tallies or collections: you know how deceptive such ”values” are.  Your values are based not on numbers, but on sentiments, and you have a genius for sentiment.  That is to say, you allow yourself to feel, and you understand your feelings – it’s no big deal, to you.  You are content and humble.  More is not always better, you are wise to that.  You are wise, but you do not boast your sagacity, nor do you think it especially virtuous; the fact that wisdom is so rarely found, does not make yours precious to you, for your inner economy is much different from the outer economy dictated by supplies and demands.  If there were more people like you, the world would be a much better place.

Big Doe Rehab

After listening to the Big Doe Rehab a dozen times now, I have to conclude that Ghostface takes rap too seriously.  I adore good ‘ol “Face” (interesting how, the rapper who started without a face is now known as Face: absence implies presence, doesn’t it ghost!?) and I’ve loved Face for a good long time, but he’s gotten so good I’m starting not to.   

Most of the other rappers of his generation have long since cashed it in.  Smart.  They got kids now, and relatively practical automobiles, and try to get on reality shows where they can flaunt their parenting techniques – sure they show up at a recording studio from time to time, on the strength of their bling-like laurels, they do a guest verse where they stereotype themselves at their 23 year old best, shit, maybe they do a whole crap-shit album, but Ghostface keeps changing his flow up, and keeps getting better.   

He’s gotten so good, and why? so some white guy who’s 30 years old can blog about it?  Dumb dumb dumb.  He’s the one who needs a big doe rehab I’ll tell you what.     His flow’s been working to this long line (sometimes upward of a minute long) and he’s like rap’s walt whitman – except definitely definitely not gay: not even the furthest reaches and forgotten corners of his chromosones are tinged with even a single homosexual amino acid – the building blocks of homosexual life.   

But in the end Ghostface looks silly having become perhaps the greatest rapper ever: as silly as a few hundred balding heads bobbing to his percussive voice, and raising their white hairy arms in the air even though they should be getting a good night’s sleep.

(Btw, I really pulled a Royal Tannenbomb when I first listened to this one — didn’t dig it a bit — ah, the manic-depressive critic. . . .)  

Oh, and even though Ghost makes a minstrely fool of himself by rapping large-cap, no uncappable capital -the best line belongs to U-God. Something like “And such and such, Ghost plugged me with a slut/ Don’t hug me, or bug me – I’m ugly when I fuck.”  

So knowing him, next go, ghost’ll probably come back with a line that clinches expression: facier than all the putting the ace in face and the AC inside of that, keeping cool in the summer of money something.

Mon Sept 14 2006 4:35am

 Pulmonary vision is supplanted by the resolution that though it’s hard to party,

Who would you rather kill, JFK or Laura Palmer?

Even Agent Cooper wants the Torah, that November day in Dallas, impossible to solve, easy to understand.  It’s easy for the police because they look at the newspaper longer.   Coincidences conspire toward the infinite.  The author’s name: the letter D is used four times: the reader.  After hundreds of metaphors  try to become stairs and mirrors, readers from other nations build in the temple of the article.  They add their own centuries, the temple of every possible mathematical operation, bullet wounds in the body. 

 Three!, says a coroner with the confidence of a first grader whose grandmother (who thinks the child’s a genius) holds up three fingers.  No one can even agree on the temperature at the time.  He is the president, facts accrue until they fall into mysticism.  Nobody knows who killed JFK, implicating millions.    

 So that’s the nature of the impossibility of reality, that woman of regal proportions in fur, bejeweled by a grand stair and a chandelier, made up to look thirty-two, but near, is fifty-some, the fox in the light, fake.  Wait - the fox, dead, is real.

Rules of the game

Ideas are like any life-form, a cascade of code.  Cascade, mutate, cross-pollinate: pick up a fish here, lose a shark there (autotomy?): the usual prom.  The fittest filled-out sequences, when put through the machine, ilume not always large jaws and sharp teeth, but also cuddling and cooperating: like the old Quaker game, Population. 

Stories are alive statistics: winged things: some persist, some perish; the swarm’s the thing. So authors change a verb here, they reverse the birthdays of two characters there.  The beaurocrat, the mardarin; masonic, surgical.  A cataclysm can mutate a form into transcendence; two middle-class septeganarians, a chance meeting at a bar between two divorcees: then, a baby is born.  No, the baby is found in the woods.