What Happened With the Trees

We are an excess of bees.
We live within an electrified giant bee
skeleton.
Let’s call it a bee containment system.

We are vital little beats.
We are grating brats behaving bee-like should you
choose to vibrate on our wings’ wavelength.
So it’s a stinging system of some things
collected on holiday trying to sing.

What, you ask, is the difference?
What? You didn’t ask? I've been trashing
a wonderful path and you dare to fail
to ask what makes me different?

Research is the key. Read my new book on music and sound
and how they seem so similar. How many seeming coincidences
like entering one ear or the other.

But science has taught us to learn from me. Proximity to me
affects the body. As many have felt, the bees are living in interesting
super positions. The times they are a bunch of bees. Those are the times
I live for. To me, science is a fruit basket I’d like to eat right now.
As new as a newborn baby bee, that’s how my breakthroughs come.

And this is how they are reported to you.

Brand new technology built in the seventies
allows us to probe deeper into our own wells
of seemingly depthless beauty. The mysteries of our minds
and how they find me, our bodies with me
as the sole exception, and the surroundings the same
color as my hair this week.

Many musicians in the scientific community are coming
from places like Prague and the Hague and Montpelier National
Gleaning Preserve with fascinating research. Research I cannot help
but fail to process in any way but my own singular, signature
reinterpretation. Which is why I’m so filled with challenging ideas
and personal accounts and experiences of a bee.



I am not a bee. That was another test. Studying science and math
has given me ample grounds to talk until your entrée needs reheating.
There are, of course, many other disciplines but I’m not into that.
In order to make sure that what I am looking at is keeping me in a position
to be looked at, I need to make seemingly scientifically relevant sounds.

Given the most air up my tailpipe I always fly to Paris first. The bees
cannot keep up. To date I’ve humiliated over several dozen heartbroken
hombres with tiny bee sized penises. All of this information is available.
You can order it from my serious company. Try the serious web site, it’s free.

But I am also searching for some future
partners with whom I can part paths and relegate
to the ranks of the fallen
at the base of the hive.

Please forward any further inquiries to someone with an idea.

That we are bees is obvious. That we are being observed is obvious.
What we are when unobserved is tiny little rock stars.
We fling ourselves about as if we were innovative new technologies
from the seventies. Unlike you we continue to evolve. Soon we will be a nation
of indestructible, toxin emitting flying machines with disproportionate power.

The power to size ratio will cause you to lose your hypotheses on the spot.

In the bee controlled future. This is where all hope lies. We look stupid
and fly toward the busiest intersection where a crew is armed
with that forty foot shooting hornet spray. This is where they make
their fatal error. With all of their math and science and sound and vibration
and prerecorded backing vocals and introspective singer-songwriter coffee house
rock star rehashes, we are not hornets! Neither are we wasps!

We will grappling hook you to a place where science and spirituality
and the microwave pop hook all converge to have artistic intercourse.
Soon you will do our bidding in the world. Soon you will cease to call
it a nest. You already have the hive mind. Prepare to have hive being.

It seems to me that we are approaching
the tracks upon which a train is speeding.
If correct it will be my first time doing it
with a train.

What could one consider a third phase
after simplex one and two have passed
into the realm of cliché? A song about
science and medicine. Let me expiate.

The first phase could have been; take this pill
it kills the bees in your dreams. Back in your childhood
you must’ve been raped by some bikers. That’s the usual
criteria for becoming one of the cool kids.

Nothing you take will make me well.
Nothing I say will make you whole.
Nothing, therefore, is worth the taking.
Here, take this, it will make you well.

The second phase, which I believe
involves being taken up in a craft
and anally raped by alien bikers
we could be in now. It is beginning to reveal itself.

That means our mind may have a more significant role
in thinking up things than we ever thought possible
or catchy before. In our lives we see many things
and step on as many as we can but you cannot step on everything.

It’s inherent in our healing processes, the killing
of anything in the path between ourselves and what?
That, then, is the fundamental question. The answer is
the third phase: our minds as bee breeding ovens.

I have more significant things to say and sing and a more
important role in the healing of those around me than I care
to act upon at this juncture. Our eco-system is broken and you
can tell it I said so. It’s us against the bees.

Historically speaking, many breakthroughs in science began with a 'hunch.' A small
distortion of the human. History shows us that one bee can devote a lifetime to reading bullshit while another goes searching for queens and what might have begun simply
as a yet to be answered question will have now transformed itself into a race car.

History has it's own process of evaluating what was fast, and what was faster.
In the dawn of the bee age none of that is relevant, and whatever that song was
about was equally not.

Much information has been lost at the airport, bus station and taxi stand. But the bee he
carries his own baggage and travels as a self contained mode of conveyance.

Through our continuing use of the word cycle we expect to see increasing numbers
of biker rape survivors regress. All part of our plan of annihilation of a culture
that celebrates itself by raising it’s voice and slashing at wired devices.

We bees will see them all wiped out or forced to assimilate, but that's about
as likely as your mother being from space. Another subject we enjoy ignoring.

For the time being we can only say, the truth is a warped vinyl collectible
with minor water damage sold strictly as is.

I come from another time. I communicate, via my grasp of science, in a way
that you can only dream of, proving the validity of my 'hunches' and their benefits
package, which I keep telling them, telepathically, is generous. Which of the warriors
that spoke to me in that tourist attraction were telling me what is 'true'? And which
were coming to a general consensus about the way I was sitting?

Applying our current model airplane as one more 'scientific method’, I throw things
until one flies. Then I crawl back into my nutshell and think up more things to mean.

Is that the ripcord which can be tested?
Hypnosis may give us the answer I seek.
Parthenogenesis, the fucking of one being
by another which happens by natural selection
to be the same being on the same Harley is merely
one more method of testing the length of the producer’s
discography.

In my previous thesis my research
and testing were called something
different to make sure there would be
no confusion when the new product hit the street.

Now here we are, another year, another new hypothesis
and more research and testing, though this time we’ll rename them
Disney’s Information Channel and Mushroom Lenny. And so on until
I can afford a bigger condo.

New events: report to the queen. The hunchbacks are making their information
smaller and giving it every available tempo in order to subvert our revolution.
Most of them look ‘challenged’. I was at one’s confirmation and the guys with the cycles were there. The pattern of one continues.

We 'stand and sting the higher apples on the shoulders of giant sunflowers' and as we build our empire our understanding of the world that will be ours and our lack of concern for ourselves as individuals will ensure our ultimate victory over the darkness and the hackneyed but mildly ‘clever’ lyric.

Let us ask the age-old questions; who are we? We are bees. What are we? We are bees.
In what way are we connected to ourselves and the world around us? We are mother fucking bees. To take this one step further, what responsibility do we have toward each other
and toward stinging to death all electrified barroom raconteurs to save ourselves
the headache?

We are living proof: the 'New Renaissance' due the bee is largely
based on the amount of misinformation you can pretend to like to dance to.
Available and exchanged within the closed circuses and tent revivals that serve
a mean martini. This is how they practice. This is why our dominance is assured
on a global scale. They have the mirrors but never bother.

As I look into this mirror, of course, I am finding myself basking more and more
in the thought that you are even now reading this and only I have the key
to the locations of the Easter eggs. The answers to your questions.

There is so much to celebrate here, more than just a lifetime
of made up research. I am anticipating enjoying this process
of discovering myself and interpersonal communication
with me for many years to come. The rewards can only be measured

in the hours sold, the notes flayed and the bees destroyed en masse. I killed
a bee today. Today was a good day. Tomorrow I will kill more. Tomorrow will be
even better. Where I come from – Prague, the Hague, Paris, the brothels
of Norton and Triumph, we call that hardcore science.

So much of our lives have to do with my music and the sound that emanates
from me. Everything it seems can be connected to me, is influenced by me, and
is part of the answer to the question; what makes me more human? Everything
it seems can be connected to or comes from the vibration in my humbucker.

Which is a form of repressed energy? That which leads me to the hypothesis;
if I am indeed all of The Beach Boys with walkers or on the threshold of someone
else’s dated awakening, a reference vibration should help convince the DMV
that I am a superior being. Or is it that purely by virtue of showing a vacation
snap of me meditating in a laboratory of peaced out rats I become myself
the system? What has a loop in the restroom concluded so far as my test for Tourette’s?

Welcome back to YELW-FM.
This next question comes to us
from someone who signs herself
ED S. Ed asks, “When I was asked
to meet with a gentleman who is part
of a thinking man’s kink club I thanked him
and declined. He wanted to discuss his work
in artificial musical intelligence, not something
about which I am entirely lacking in anecdotes.
So I finally put on a pair of my nicer neural nets
and gave him my secret number. The one tied
directly into the systems that are most closely
associated with explaining music you don’t yourself
understand to foreign people in terms of music
that has been proven to be entirely neutral in cases
of remissive cancer.
His question to me was this; when we ask a computer
for a date for coffee, is there a separate program to analyze
a piece of, say, pie, that we can then ask to tell us
what the next note should or would be?
Why does this music coffee barrier exist?
And why does the music not 'sound good?'
From what I understand, this type of experiment
was developed to test the ability of a chimp
to strap a computer to it’s chest and program
the perfect mood. An “off label” effect
was the ability to ‘predict the future'
by analyzing human behavior through
human-chimp dating rituals. “
Sounds like we’ve lost our connection
with Ed, but if there was a question in there
I’d rather be drowned in a Starbucks cup
than take the steps to find it. No offense Ed, and I’m sure
none taken. More specifically, who is lonely enough
to call with such soul bearing that wouldn’t also be the most
inclined to commit a crime on the airwaves?
Programs like these are not only for you
bee wannabe’s, and Ed I can smell the hunch-
back on you all the way down this land
line, but for beings developed to levels
that allow them to grasp the inevitable:
they’re dead already and still walking
partially upright. Cold in the beats of the cold
ground but still propped in place and working
with what they perceive as great success. But I was struck
by the questions; what is it that humans are doing when they
create a self-image monster, an ED S. for example, then parade
in the sun all day? Is there an experience such as music shot
through a pre-teen boy by means of electrical wiring
that can't be recreated through anything priced as art?
Official intelligence tells me that it’s time to take a bee
break. Back after this from some shifty loner
who hangs on the fringes and begs
a cult to follow her.

First, we must accept my assumptions.
Many in musicology believe that art
is a tall black dancer with a potentially
crippling back problem.

Others adhere to the theory that music
is a reflective surface, like a stone punished
by the tide, or the curve of a vulture’s beak.
Or the heads of the cultists from Madonna University.

An interesting bipolarization is created. (my ex,
for example.) In my personal experience
as a busy professional woman a musician
is better qualified to make statements than is a real person.

And in so doing I consider myself a student
of all that upon which I might expound with
a natural inclination toward my own
surgically symmetrical view.

I have felt the joys of human emotion
on several different occasions. It was my job
to interpret the feelings of others and to put them
into musical forms of which I may or may not have
any sense or for which any aptitude.

Enjoy me while you have the chance.
This has not been a remotely altruistic pursuit.
I go fishing regularly. Catch and release. Catch
and release. The repetition informs my work
and it’s kind of numbingly therapeutic.

In many small venues I have found ways
to use Music (note the upper case M, it lends
heaviness to an otherwise floaty thing
you probably couldn’t hang onto, like a cloud
just above your head. Like this one above mine.)
as my teacher did when I was underage, a type
of universal 'language' of love expressed in the tactile.

I seem to have an aptitude for it.
Along with a deep unquenchable desire
to reveal myself as a carbon cluster fraught
with inspirational mysteries. If only you saw what I see.

I like to think that when I’m in the shower
with someone I’ve just met. In a perfect world
we would all meet briefly before showering.
We would all have the ability to compose
ourselves and think before speaking.

Let me put it another way:
In a perfect world
we would all meet briefly before showering.
We would all have the ability to compose
ourselves and think before speaking.

To speak in poetry whenever we desire.
This does not seem to be the world I built
from my Dad’s used toothpicks. How did the bikers
get into this picture? How did a siphon hose
become my first line of defense? What am I defending?

Bees, we are living in perilous times. And therefore the artists
must eat the poets, poets composers and so on. Such is the nature
of nature. Such is the nature of warfare. We bees have been left
with the task of creating a world that interprets our life in the spatial
dimension of times tables. I know mine. You know yours, or you’re no
bee I want on my side. Hopefully our struggle will continue until we learn
to speak as the hunches do, directly to themselves, bypassing all others and out
the ass end straight into the erasable past. I see a day when human musicians
are rolled in flour then honey then made into something infinitely
more taste tempting. As the creators of the new ground attack
approach to people’s lives I am certain that we will prevail
in our search for that location location location, the 'oneness'
of the hive on ladies night or at happy hour or half-price martini madness.
It’s right here in the heart of all of us. My idea is this: if I feel this stinging
sensation when I pee, it’s probably nothing to worry about so ignore it
and get on about the business of making something that smells deep.
We hold certain truths to be self referent: everyone enjoys the music.
I am creating something of lasting value with my name and face all over it.
And performing it to crowds of dedicated drinkers. I assume that others
aside from the bikers will feel the same and bow to me in recognition. To some
degree my life depends on it. If the flower should fail to bend to the bee, what
of the bee and his import/export business? What would Jesus do
for honey? or Prague or Paris (fuck the Hague) or Belleville?
Some have asked; are bees even important for our survival? I would argue that
it all depends on which side of the stamen you’re on.

there are many reasons to answer a resounding 'yes' to that question.
I just don’t remember what it was. A few days ago I lost my in-car
mapping service and had to get somewhere with no help. Just me and my sense
of direction. I ended up in a parking lot surrounded by many funny
smelling ideas. I will not be touching any of them soon! But I was powerful

enough to perceive my 'space' (remember when Ideal came out with Mr. Human Sonar!)
and shove aside those who were in it, interpreting the ‘vibration’ of others through
the electrons I have more of. And the hairy magnetic particles I have to shave from
around my spectrum. A small portion of which can be perceived when I wear something
sheer and the light is behind me. By us I mean me. As sound I prefer my own.

I will also be looking into boxes and other containers for answers to where it is
I came from and how I could exist in this form. The science behind the concept
of me is an energy center you could never afford to stand in, much less
get assigned seating. The body is known to many. But I play my chakras alone.

I'm not sure that 'music that is good for us' is necessarily anyone’s
music but mine. At least nothing else that 'sounds good.’
This is what I am determined to sell through my web site.
Research and more research and the semen samples of others.

I want to look at the intersection and stop the traffic just like that!
Just by looking at it and through the force of my luminance.
I have a vintage cistern brimming with these ideas in my great room.

If you’re using the anal plug-in you won’t get that genuine foggy sound, but
with a touch of nucleic acid you might conjure a new tradition: food that is good
and sounds good and that also enhances my reputation. Flake? There are always
a frightening number of naysayers whenever a new era of music is created.

Not that they should necessarily be castrated right away. To sound good
brings a concomitant grace that allows for something resembling mercy.
But I’ve bitten off more than my share, and my share is as much as I make it.
For the pure to float and the witch to burn is scientifically proven positive.

But what are the effects of age on the body? Could we be talking about
someone who shall remain nameless not getting better but going to pot?
Her…his…music becoming bland and barely functional, sort of a 'Soilent Green'
for the ears? Possibly even slipping into a form of dementia that sparks spontaneous
outbursts like “ACK!” and causes her…him…to neglect to check the correct
spelling of ‘Soylent Green’? Could this damn buzzing at bed time be some sort of music?

Or could it be, as so many have historically found, enjoyable descent into eventual obscurity? I argue, not. Which means I don’t argue. Or does it mean my argument is that whatever we’ve long since lost in the labyrinth of my previous statement’s mirror has some deeper meaning than the weighting down of this monitor?

End times! Mysterious drought and plague have altered the food supply! My food
is becoming scare! My populations less dense. The wares of my labor less wearable
and more laborious. Am I one of those Werewolves? Of course I remain more
concerned with filling those smelly ideator’s bellies with my special brand of trail mix.
Available now from my serious professional company on my serious web site.

As bees we are staying alive. As disco Broadway hopefuls we got over it
in the eighties. No breakthroughs in science do we require for a better understanding
of the affects of nuclear waste burned to a CD and given a blurry cover.

On this one sequence of points depends our survival and that of our ecosystem:
submarines go under the water.
The Sesquicentennial already happened and we were not invited.
Creases in your jeans don’t come out just because you ask them nicely.
Noting the thing that is a product of the other thing does not make the other thing a mother. Better to live in hell than to learn new farming techniques.
Better to be a cattle prod than to be faced with inducing labor on a street with nothing but yield signs.

Better to be a dead bee and bite Walter Brennan on alternate Sundays than to serve
sonic Cosmopolitans to a vastly mentally fattening population.
We live in an era where we now have incredible access to a greater variety
of the same sounds. We merely give them different blurry covers.
Stealing works. Generally speaking many of us are free to choose
to steal from multiple categories. With this ability comes great sadness.
If we are to create our own virulent strain of anything affecting the private
areas then we must be prepared to use the power at anytime, for any unfounded reason.
Don’t argue, Harley Meat. That we can develop a greater understanding of how to dress a hunchback for Thanksgiving means we’re that much closer to being through with science.
What affects of music and sound? Not only are we, the bees, becoming more discerning, but we’re taking bowling a step further; with a better understanding of the physics, we can develop new lanes that trigger explosives and blow down the pins with zero risk of ball damage! Now that’s what I call experiencing the world without the hindrances
of recycled sound and mawkish orthodontic music.

I will be looking for my image in the sounds of nature.
Those rhythms will be found in our ecosystem, despite
what the bees are now saying to me, which I can clearly
understand at all times, not only just before bed.

Watch for my signal.
Remain calm.
Possibly use your cells to connect
to my world.

I will look to the south and break a mirror a day until I’m through.
My studies are ongoing and arduous.
Remember me in your prayers.
I will consult the ancient dead warriors and get their feedback.
My body’s ability to calm itself has nothing to do with frigidity.
I just need to focus and to heal.
I need to teach my dog a trick.
I am looking at raising studs.
A mole makes a peculiar pattern in the ground.
There may be a system in it.
I don’t understand how we work.
I will include you in my detailed explanation.

the latest research indicates that the use of the written word
research is being viewed by me as a major breakthrough.
Those technologies I mentioned? There are only two: the brain and music.
One renders input interpretable, the other produces twitches.
I will include research (research) on the vibrations in my regions
and how music affects my body when nothing else can get the damn
system – not the idea or that bundle I mail ordered – vibrating
with any of the energy I expostulated earlier as being “in a vibratory energy system”.

Just so you know exactly what I will be doing
I will be looking further to the historical use of music
in ritual as an expression of culture and most of all
in healing ceremonies involving no bikers.

For those of us who engender the best and brightest of bee-ness, the joy of music
merely lends strength and support to our resolve in the fact that the idea that music
could be indeed good for us, if not for our use of syntax, is a notion worthy of mass
destruction. Bees! Bring down the musicians! Our goal is to be here when the rain of blood
has abated!

Then, following some tricky mopping, our purpose will be to educate
and entertain by pressing the thoughts from their heads in vices.
By provoking them with small but sharpened thorns, we’ll begin to amass
our own, new, bogus research. And with some stories and personal experiences
thrown in for good measure, we will finally be as finicky as the fuckers we just tossed.

My last word before the charge: file this chapter in your mind and pass it down to your offspring. That this will have been the day when all that is possible for us was swept aside:
noodlings on music and sound and the sky-candy of an enlightened future with ample lighted parking and bulletproof in-car mapping.

Thank you for being the bees you are. Now keep reading until this swells you to a thousand times your size, whether anything’s there or blank space. And as always, thank you for stinging someone.

Rest In Peace until the laughing lizards reawaken you for the engagement.