Excerpts from “Smiley-Man Chronicles”, by Jeff Harris © 2005, Jeff Harris available as ebook on Kindle (Amazon), Sony, ibooks (itunes), bookbaby.com, iuniverse.com, and as print-on-demand paper back on iuniverse.com

   “Rather than be thrown for a loop, he threw loops for a living, and he hung out with the kings of the unreal world, and he made a beautiful living, he was exactly right for that kind of kidding….”  ---from “He Threw Loops for a Living”, by Lefty Jones Band, Factory Tape #3

-1-

When I was a little boy, I went out to find the secret knowledge; at least, I thought that was my job description.  If I acquired the knowledge, I was to tell no one.  I divined certain methods for discovering it:  one was to walk in a straight diagonal from my house as far as possible without getting hit by a car or falling into a lake.  Also I was to fall in love with many little girls, and kiss them. This was another way straight into the secret knowledge.  And, of course, kissing was not for telling.  

All the poets of the hidden mystery are quietly trying to tell what they know.  All of our parents were trying to tell us all along, or so we thought.  Some of us decided our parents knew nothing.  Our poor parents--they were hiding just nothing.  This was the first grown-up thought that you could get into your little head.  This was a hard thought to have in yonder head.  Once that thought gets in there, you start dying.  Before that, you are out of time, quite literally.  There is no time.  That is the glory time in being a kid. 

One day, as I was on my bike searching for the hidden mystery, I experienced the whole world turning and rotating about other heavenly bodies. And one of these heavenly bodies was Susan Mauer, and the whole galaxy was expanding about Susan Mauer’s body. 

She said to me, “Michael, come and kiss me up in the tree.”  We got married inside of that kiss, for real.  Actual miracles occur everyday.  This is part of the kissing history of the clocky-turnings of the hidden mystery. 

I grew up in a rough neighborhood--at least it was rough on the edges--and the edges were always moving center.  I learned early that if you just looked at somebody the wrong way, that could make them want to kill you.  That old saying about how “if looks could kill” is really only true in reverse.   Much of the secret knowledge is obtained by reversing the common thought either a full l80 degrees, or just tweaking it 45 or 90 or whatever degrees you need.   Nothing is known for sure.

Apropos of this is that some people (and I am one of them) can stare at somebody--even at the back of their head when they are walking far ahead up the street--and make them turn around. They can feel that stare.  And it even works through glass!  This sounds like an ad for a new cleaning product, but it’s true.  I can stare at somebody through the glass window of a store, even if they are facing the other way, and make them turn around.  This is testimony to the vibrational nature of the universe.  This is part of the secret knowledge that is still secret though everybody knows it, so I guess this is a bit of the paradoxical hidden mystery that exists in the world of being blind--or blindom as I like to call it.      

The world of blindom is the black-hole of luck.  It’s like when your lucky ring disappears. It doesn’t just get lost; it actually de-constructs.  It rolls off your finger, rolls along the ground and then quite literally disappears--matter destroyed (despite Newton’s first law of physics).  Other aspects of The Chronicles will testify to the destruction of other physical as well as moral laws, because even if folks really need that government check, we sure as hell are gonna make it hard for them to get it.  It’s not really Old Testament (do unto them the same kinda thing that got done unto you); it’s more like leaky New Testament with a kind of Old Testament eye-for-an-eye meanness to it. 

Now I know that you’re probably wondering about now where this is all heading.   Is it heading into your bedroom window and then directly into your body?  You’re wondering if this could be heading toward a happy ending or a tragic beginning.  You’re wondering if this will be boring, plotless, sexless, rambling and if it will squander you’re money.  That is, will it be expensive, both spiritually and financially.  You see when I was a child, that same guy kept showing up all the time.  That guy who chased you off the stoop for playing step-ball at your building, that guy who thought you were always making a little too much noise for him.  Then that same guy turns out to be one of your relatives, a third cousin, who the hell knows.  Maybe he wanted to pull your pants down, who the hell knows. Maybe he wanted to kiss your little person.  Maybe you don’t even have a little person, who the hell knows!

You see, in the old days it was well known that through the cracks in the heads of crazy people, some of the secret knowledge comes through, and that these people, be they just fools, are our fools, and we are suppose to take care of them and listen to them and learn from them and respect them.  Come hell or high water.  The American Indians knew this, and the medicine men made big medicine out of it.  But the white man made big business and disintegrated the free range, because the White insists that everything be owned by somebody--even the beach, even the oceans, even the very thoughts in your head.  This is innately an irreverent and anti-religious concept. No wonder they got to go to church so much.  Just swivel this concept around about 49 degrees and you’ll see what I mean.  Where did compassion go?  The world is starving for compassion.  But now THEY are running everything.  And of course THEY think that what the world needs are just real good problem solvers, net-workers, and businessmen, and good technology people, and then, therefore, there’s nothing that these little suckers can’t solve. If we only knew what the problems were!  Hold off on the answers. What we need are some creative minds to elucidate the problems.

Who better to talk to than to somebody who’s been all over the map, who actually WANTS help, plus who has an ego as big as a whale.

Or as Kevin Donnelly once said, “fuck it, I’m sick of all these fuckheads, they can just go and kiss my ass,… like two people, that’s it, that’s what we’re meant for, ultimately, that’s it, you know, ‘cause--check it out--we’re here, right? Well, they can just kiss my ass, ‘cause I’m sick of kissing ass, ‘cause tomorrow, man, I’ll be in fucking Mexico, ‘cause that’s what Mexico is made for, man.  Like we’re here, right? And Mexico, well, it’s over there, right? And that’s what we’re suppose to do, go there.  It’s over there, right? And that’s what we’re suppose to do, go there--to Mexico--that’s what Mexico’s for, right?

            Because they can all go fuck me, you know.  Like look, I’m suppose to meet someone there, right? Well they can go and fuck themselves, see.  These things are the plane.  I’m the only one in this bar who knows about that plane.  It costs five million dollars.

            Like it’s like this, I’m sick of it.  Like, look:  fuck it, so, they fuck, fuck it, you know, and fuck, so they fuck you and before you fucking know the fuck, they’ve fucked you to the fucking point that the fucking point of the whole fucking thing is like if you were going to go and fuck something, well, the fucking point of the whole fucking thing is fucked to begin with in the first place, you know what the fuck I’m saying? 

            Because look, I don’t fucking give a shit anymore, I really don’t, I’ve fucking had it, so many girls, that’s what it comes down to.  After it’s all over, there’s only you and those memories, and those beautiful girls you should of married, and it all comes down to one girl, that girl you’ve got to find, because, look, I’m older, you know what I’m talking to, and you don’t want to be coming home alone.

            When my papers here--the planes--when they fall over behind the bar, well, I know I’m losing control.  But look, I’m looking at them, they’re looking at me, and fuck it, just we have an appointment, and I say, well, kiss my fucking ass is all, it’s a shame is all, but two taps, I don’t know, I’m suppose to meet you, I’m suppose to kiss your fucking ass, and I say, well fuck it, because before you fucking know it, I’m in la Mexico.

            It’s like this, I’m suppose to meet them, I’m suppose to tap them on the shoes, I’m just supposed to hand the hose to them--well, they can go kiss my fucking ass!  I’m suppose to meet them for ham and eggs, anything, lend them some paste, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t even translate, they can go kiss my fucking ass! 

            We meet, we say hello, I order a buttered roll, doesn’t matter, fuck them! I don’t know, it’s sort of funny, I know it, I’m funny, I know, you’re laughing, I know, I come in, there’s laughter, it’s funny, maybe my wife’ll walk in here…”

He-Who-Causes-Trouble was coming up to the country.  He-Who-Cracks-His-Own-Self-Up was already up there.  The later was floatin’ in the boat waitin’ for the former.  The former had a friend who he had just married called Little Sail.  The two of them were a couple of human beings. 

             The birds were talking all day, and so was the sun.  The new dragon flies down the lake were wild colors this year.  Each year they were new colors.  At night the lightning bugs were like floating stars, everywhere.  Most were the on-off-space-on-off variety.  Except for one.  He was three quick on-offs, long space.  He was an original.  Sent down from God to wake all of us up down here by the lake. 

     He was like that trigger fish that lived in the Baltimore Aquarium back in the early Nineties.  The Baltimore Aquarium has a huge room all lined with one enormous tank.  The fish swim all around the circumference of that room.  They all swam the same way—hundreds, thousands of them…except for one:  that trigger fish. 

             She had no name.  She wasn’t even famous.  All of them swam the same way except for her.  She swam in the opposite direction all along until she met up with the throngs of others, which she would swim through, they making room for her to slip through.  

            He-Who-Cracks-His-Own-Self-Up thought about her a lot.  Maybe her name was Lulu.  If that fish got reincarnated as a human bein’, he would marry her.  He-Who-Cracks-His-Own-Self-Up was in fact waitin’ for his Lulu to come back.

            He-Who-Cracks-His-Own-Self-Up had decided to become more friendly.  Little Sail had told him of that necessity.   She said that he could learn that from He-Who-Causes-Trouble, but he learned it from her instead.

             Dragon Flies are brave bugs.  They like to show off, and they like to have sex with each other right on your body.  They like to form fly-away trains.  They are some of God’s happiest bugs.  Ants aren’t happy.  They work too hard.  But dragon-flies like to hang out.  You don’t see them rushing round for no reason.  This is why the White man called the Indian lazy. 

             Indians saw no reason to work for no reason.  The accumulation of the most money and wealth was no reason.  There was nothing more pathetic to an Indian than a great big fat White man dying with a big, fat bank account full of money with no-one to leave it to but a bunch of spoiled white brats that he had brought into this world.  This is something that He-Who-Cracks-His-Own-Self-Up just naturally knew.  Nobody taught him that.  It was as clear to him as day.

             He was sitting in the boat typing this, He-Who-Cracks-His-Own-Self-Up was, when a huge Blue Heron flew very low over the boat.  He-Who-Cracks-His-Own-Self-Up could practically shake his hand.  Blue Herons like the sound of typing.  That is quite clear.  Many huge birds do.  This is one of God’s little known facts.  God keeps all the little known facts secret for as long as he can, and then let’s them dribble out very slowly over time.  This is clear as day…………………………………..

     March 8, l993

  Dear Saturday Night Live:

            How about a skit where President Clinton goes on TV to address the American people with his idea for dealing with the war in Yugoslavia?  He states that after a lot of thought by himself and the State Department, that they have decided to drop huge plane loads of human excrement and urine all over that war-torn landscape.  This is an attempt to shame the people committing atrocities.  Some people in the government think that cow manure will work, but the President insists on 100% human shit.

     The President believes that even though politicians like to consider themselves political “scientists,” there’s nothing very scientific about them, but he himself just stumbled over this idea while walking through Grand Central Station.

         Sincerely,

        Lefty Jones Band

-17-

            Now we don’t know when exactly The Royal started being serious about going to the moon. But he might have been hinting at it in some of his obscure ways, but nobody really even thought two thoughts about it, until after a while things started to progress.  All these books were showing up all over his tent, and equipment of various kinds, and he himself was always studying, like I said before.  Finally, it became apparent.  Jones was really planning on getting out, really out, and taking us all with him:  TO THE MOON.  That was his plan.  Short and sweet.   Nobody was too shocked.  We were perched on top of the fence-post of Jones’ mind, and from there, it was clear sailing!  Hell, if NASA was doing it, why couldn’t we?  So everything just continued on as usual, more or less—the show, the crowds, the side-trips back home—except for one little biddy thing:  we were going to the moon!  “Yup, we’re goin”!” Jones would say.

>>>>>This is a little poem called “Fred The Mustard-Head/Commander Blue-Cheese”  It really has nothing to do with The Chronicles except for the fact that it’s in them.  But, after all, as with most things, isn’t that the most important thing.  There will probably be a lot of these coming up, so I think I’ll indicate them with these arrows >>>> so you’ll know: rough road ahead on the smiley man train.

>>>>Fred The Mustard-Head/Commander Blue-Cheese:    I was sitting there with Fred the Mustard-Head, and he was full of mustard, when a bang was heard comin out of a pipe in the middle of Fred’s head.  The bang on the pipe reminded Fred that it was time to re-fuel.  Winter was coming on, and in these parts that could only mean one thing:  Delia Mae was gong to come for a visit.  

     Well, ‘bout mid-week, sure enough, here comes Delia Mae.  What’s she laughing about?  I sure as hell don’t know! Delia says that this whole life is quite amusing; you just got to know how to look at it, is all.  This is why Delia Mae gets the big bucks.  Even with regards to typewriters, be it tab, shift key, back-space, or bell:  these things are all up for interpretation along with all the rest of the plumbing. 

     Delia Mae is making a movie, or, better yet, Delia Mae is the movie that apparently got made sometime long ago and far away.  Fred the Mustard-head and she were on a ship-wrecked boat together in the middle of this marshy island on a wet, barren slope, in the middle of the desert, by a lake.  They all had nobody clothes on.  They were real smooth and marbley.  They had several children in succession until a parade came through their town.  This was back in 1962 way before that jet-liner crashed from that ocean peak out there on that dude ranch that was run by that man who used to be a cowboy but he retired and went into the uniformed police rescue squad and then sold stuff out on the street that apparently was stolen.  It was in all the papers back then.  Anyway, the Mustard loves to act crazy, and even if he’s not, well, nobody understands him anyhow.  He coulda got over, and shoulda, and he could have been the star of the whole chronicles, but instead, he took a nude model on a canoe trip around the world.  Delia Mae is coming from this kinda talk about nude models, at least I think she is.  God, I hope so, unless she’s faking it. 

    Anyway to make a long story short, Fred faked being a robot, and then he got language, and even more lazy, and then he came around my house to bother me again.   I get up, go to work after a long hard day, walk to the bathroom, brush my teeth, read the morning paper, watch the late show, talk to my fish:  Commander Blue-Cheese, and then shuffle off down the highway with a cane and a pack-mule.  Other people look at me real funny, but you never do.  These people can do these wonderful things; they just do them and they’re wonderful!  I just do them, and you trust me to do them.  That’s all.  That’s what I love about this job, it’s the trust and the devotion.  Commander Blue-Cheese is always telling me, kid, he calls me kid, I like you outta water or in, no matter what, you’re still good, you still got it, you’re still the one, you’re still runnin’, you’re still my kind of dill-- you’re dilly, you’re ducky, you’re willy, you’re wucky-woo, you wheely are, wonderfool!