Road Puppet Night Core

Forty years blind, dreaming core, where Life is.

Dreaming core, where Life is.

Now but now but now (But now… but now… but now… ) what puppets crouch behind the wheel of this old rig, splintery buttocks propped on books?  Whose twig fingers
jumped our demo-critical republic while we dreamed of hot wire and ignition (where Life is)?

Forget history littered with strings, runes, tablets, funny faces, symbols, letters, hieroglyphs pretending to know sound and sensibility in real time, myth and meaning in mute construction. Numbers, really, when dismantled, to the nit-grit, dis-covered and dis-clothed down to the base mint.

This is the digital age (true there are digits under the hood: one zero on off blip blink mumble “Melancholy Baby,” baby, and I’ll toss you a figure-head coin) but what we see and hear is what we know and will recall. We’re virtually Now, on every flat screen large and small — and in 3D, no less!

We’re on our way to real, regardless of however many invisible bits and bytes rage in mute assembly under the hood.

Never regret those Rip Van Winkle years back of the van, her nectar rain rush – still, but still: this mirthless joy-ride toward that cliff ahead (ahead, see it? Ahead?) seems punishment extreme for merry decades happy, singing (guzzling gaso-nico-techno-lean:  kill these killing habits  let it go:  crawl crawl core infinity of dream)

Stop this hearse, or I will scream!

Some critics have called Yizhak Maplebury “a poet of no small importance.” Others have called him “a small poet of no importance.” Little is known about Maplebury as he exists beyond the page. Unproven rumors have abounded that he was (and perhaps still is) a notorious gang-land/CIA hit-man, code-named, “The Egghead,” whose method of dispensing “justice” (for those who pay – him – unto those who most egregiously fail to pay the ones who pay -- him) inspired fear in the hearts of even the most jaded power-brokers on the world information/money market. The notorious NYC mobster, Boss Parcheesi, for instance, was mysteriously abducted from the locked vault he'd had himself sealed into, only to be found, what remained of him at any rate, in a New Orleans tobacco store, in a tin of what an unsuspecting, quite obviously horrified, customer had assumed, upon purchase, was a can of vacuum-packed, safety-sealed, fine Virginia pipe-tobacco. Again, these allegations are unproven. Anyway, what does it matter what Maplebury did – or does – to earn his “living?” We modern readers are not concerned with the life of the artist, but the value of the work... Read other articles by Yitzhak.