Mice and humans, and so on, will, for a long time to come, bury their head willingly on the bristling puddings fixed with certain Death. Do so, in fact, with idiotic smiles on their faces; or, better yet, eyes absent as strip-mined prairies, herded through a cattle-chute universe where people are born, shoved through a minimal and useless amount of formal education - - which, coincidentally, shapes our world before we even have a chance to understand the concept of shape. Does that seem Serious and Just and Equal and Fair? Further, many file into some cubicle within a cubicle and predict what the dollar is going to do, make money fondling others money as though it were some dog-earred affair, and all in all, end up “maturing” and, armed with an arsenal thick with ignorance, boredom and fear, take themselves far too seriously. Just like that mouse, who takes his eating seriously, so does Western moral dogma teach us to ever so faithfully lick the steel plate of God and The Dollar until the inevitable WHACK! And la-dee-dah, we’ll all be travelling at one hundred and eighty-six thousand miles per second - - all be riding shotgun, so to speak, with the sunbeams. Yes, and, I assume, we are all English-reading hypocrites who, until something better comes along, are very much mortal. That’s three things that ever single human who reads this has in common, as far as I know, with myself. You might say we share a common understanding through Unwritten and Universal composition. Karl Marx, considered one of the founders of the socialist movement, thinks kind of the same thing. But rather than take up endless amounts of paper, which he did do eventually, he gave the whole idea in one whopper word: “Weltanschauung.” In a sentence, Marx might describe ‘Weltanschauung’ as a cultural awareness where the “interest-bond nature of ideas” was responsible for an “Ideological super-structure.” Agaghk, and yoikes, even, big, big words abound for the humble likes of my finger tickling keyboard! Suffice to say, you might liken an Ideological super-structure, in part, to the beliefs of public urination. There are no signs about the city reading something like: NO URINATION 8 AM TO 5 PM We just don’t need them. Most people do not stand on the street corners and relieve themselves. It’s not that you couldn’t necessarily, and I know by witness that millions of humans, dare I say hundreds of millions of people throughout contemporary history have, at one time or another, pissed on a street corner. But that’s not the point. This is a system of hypocrisy, remember? The point is the reason that the people are losing their bladders on endless curbsides all over the planet is boredom and fear. They are bored with the place they are at and pissing on something is one way to insult, at least where males are concerned. Ironically enough, as well the second half of the point is that they do it instinctively to stake their territory. So, in case the need arises, they can climb to the top of some pathetic dung heap and cry out in all uselessness: I AM KING OF THE JUNGLE!!!! Fear of Death. Perpetuation of the physical self through the release of bodily fluids to the Earth; or, concrete as it were. Anyway, a REAL King O’ The Jungle proper would kill any poacher or perspective boy scout looking to move in on his corner, eyeing the phallic crosswalk and looking to change the scent, to create a new king. Animals are far more vehement about their stake of the Earth. Humans need to take trees from the forests or metals from the earth and build fences, this giving them the facade-belief that they “own” this certain speck, this tawdry flake in the universe, but in all reality, or unreality, or Subject or Object, they’ve been taken by the biggest Con game of them all: belief in the pursuit of Life on board Demigod Dollar express. Yep, lots and lots of shell and no peas underneath. ’Tis to laugh, laugh, laugh. And if you can’t laugh, laugh, laugh at the fact that the Human populous is groveling like a pan-nosed algea sucker to the dockside of the U-fucking-nited States of American Dollar. Sucking the green-phantom toes of icons, kneeling before the cyclops as though it had more to say, weighed more on the state of the union, if you will, than did the pyramid beneath it. One, a phantasmagoric monolith, the other an architectural near-impossibility. Our Dollar is based on that omniscient, gray-haired cyclops that sits high about the strata of Mankind on a throne built by men possessed by martians, so to speak. Sits and watches an idea a unbelievable as a conscious omniscient, all-powerful, American God such as himself (note the gender), buy and sell and eat away the souls of all who play the changeless game. And is you can’t laugh, laugh, laugh at that, then you should have stopped reading thirty-nine paragraphs ago. My, my, look how far we’ve come! Wouldn’t it seem that we’re a bit extended over the abyss - - a sort of mental ballroom blitz where color and form and ethyr and texture all blend together, so much so you sometimes lose sight of the floor - - estranged malcontents with ivy league ties and blue blazers and sideburns above the ear and green quadrangles, then blue parallelograms, then crimson dodecagons, goldenrod triangles to boot, then robin’s egg sphere - - caught up in a bowl of existential Lucky Charms - - we fold the lights up, put them back into order, and the waves of people drop off, sinking into the gray-matter ballroom. Comin’ Around. A calm cream and here we are, safe with sack still in hand, though You really couldn’t tell at one point. I’m telling you what’s in my sack-kind-of-bag that is ever the changeling. It’s changed drastically, in fact, over the course of the last few paragraphs. It’s not even the same thing. It has new color, shape, feel and conclusion. It is now a whole new whole - - the nth movement in an infinite opus audible only through the cacophonic ears of the destined beyond. And this is what my show and tell is all about: NOTHING. NOTHING AT ALL. For the more of something we put into whatever is in this insignificant flake of oxygen in the universe, the more it costs to mass produce and merchandise. And why waste the effort when most humans will settle for the taste, feel and appearance of an object rather than the object proper. Isn’t that the way the racquetball bounces? We need to be able to laugh at the fact religion creates a blind faith placing the after world far higher than the peak of Mt. Everest. We need to be able to laugh at the fact that we place the Dollar, like a pillow of goose down and ermine, ‘neath the butt of the fore-mentioned deity. We need to be able to laugh at the fact that most of us, behind that thick, thick persona mask, are comically insane, hilariously whacked out of our skulls, so much so we need to create a polemic “good” and “evil” to justify those moments when the raving jackal inside busts its chains and runs for the light of the camera, desperately attempting a break for the outside world, for a world free of paranoid persecutions and medieval social mores. Simply enough, the sack within the sack will continue to change drastically, regardless of any fertive assault we may attempt, Nature and the Universe will never, never take the stinking machine-made bit from a rabid breed of mammal who was, a long, long time ago handed the first and last joke played on humankind: a brain so large that most of the room goes unused. A thinking predator with more of a knack for conception than understanding through moderation. They like their cars big in Texas. And if you cannot find it in your mind’s soul to crack a wry grin at our juvenile attempts to take this society and our one and only world-home seriously, then your mom shoulda never let you read this. Dance with me, everyone, while we move through the sunbeams of the ages.
In the dim-lit corridors of creativity, where shadows dance with echoes of forgotten dreams, Kevin M. Cowan weaves his tapestry of words, melodies, and code. His prose whispers secrets of the human condition, each sentence a brushstroke on the canvas of time. As a musician, he crafts haunting symphonies that linger like the scent of rain on asphalt, resonating in the soul's deepest chambers. In the realm of technology, he conjures digital realms where the past and future collide, a modern alchemist transmuting silicon into stories. Together, his works form a mosaic of noir reflections, a testament to the beauty found in the interplay of light and shadow.
Kevin M. Cowan is a writer, technologist, and artist whose work spans novels, AI development, drumming, and filmmaking. From his fiction roots in Nebraska to experimental media projects and cutting-edge AI, Kevin blends storytelling, sound, and code into one creative continuum. Explore his world — one story, rhythm, and idea at a time.
Music. Video. Visuals arts. All composed or curated by Kevin.
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