Church of the Red Arrow

By Michael Houlihan

The Church of the Red Arrow is a book about everything at once. It is perfect for people with ADD or people who just get bored easily. You can flip around in it all day like the yellow pages and always wind up home. In this respect it is like the old saying that all roads lead to Mecca. It is poetry, fiction, and nonfiction with a section listing hundreds of unanswerable questions that are thought provoking and good topics of conversation.
There are also several short stories which start out linear and end up Joycian. The book covers politics, poetry, and all sorts of paradoxes. It is philosophical and sometimes just plain dumb. I think you will find it an honest read: sometimes whimsical, sometimes seriously difficult, sometimes fusing an antithesis or two often just by accident--hence the conclusion that Lady Luck has smiled on this book. Your author has written three other volumes which could or could not hook up quite nicely with this one if everything in the world were a train. Mr. Houlihan is also a member of the Lefty Jones Band (but it is not his fault). He refuses to play out or be seen in public.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781450289320

Michael Houlihan

no biography

Book preview

Church

of the

Red Arrow

Michael Houlihan

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

Church of the Red Arrow

Copyright © 2011 Michael Houlihan

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4502-8933-7 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-8932-0 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 2/8/11

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1—RUSTY POEMS

2—UNANSWERABLE QUESTIONS

3—THE BUZZARDS

4—I’LL BE BETTER IN A SECOND

5—UN-RUSTY POEMS

1—RUSTY POEMS

MR. RELIGION

Mr. Religion is here. He just walked in. Dripping with bibles, crosses, stars, Buddhas, beads, and holy trinkets from all corners of paradise. When he walked in, everybody got happy. He sported the Koran too—don’t worry. Mr. Religion prayed and davined, and prayed, and sang, and killed animals as sacrifice, and he even danced the hula, don’t ask me why. He had kosher and non-kosher food with him, vegetarian food, and no food too, only air. Mr. Religion can live on just air, just like some plants. He had a big laugh. He laughed at any kind of holy, religious question you asked him. Some people didn’t like that, but I liked it. Mr. Religion had sex with people and no sex too, and he spoke to both God and rocks. He talked to animals, and he never worried. He granted wishes and pardons, and gave out recipes. He refinanced mortgages and he gave out serious money seemingly at random. Bubbles came outta his head. He shattered paradoxes, and fused antitheses. He was a lie detector, and a big wind translator. Mr. Religion is here. Put on your woolly socks and go out and see him. So fun!

I demand to speak with someone in authority. Please, don’t hurt us. We were only doing your holy will. Some people had to die, but isn’t that always the way it is. Please, I demand a bigger refund. Everything is a different color around here. Who’s running this anyhow? I demand to speak with someone in authority.

The computers and the businessmen took over our minds. We had only a short time to restore power. We could not shift gears. Even though they called him Shifty, he could not save us. He was friends with Mr. Religion. Still he could not save us. He said, "ha, ha, see, it’s not just who you know that counts." I demand to speak with someone in authority. We have our friends. You have yours. I kill your friend; you kill mine. It is killing time down here on earth. I know that God could help us if I could just speak with someone in authority. I sailed off to the Sister Island. I booked a three-night stay. Mr. Religion was there. Me and him had sex. We blew each other’s minds.

Our ship crash-landed on Mercury. That’s the melted butter planet. That planet is kind. You can choose your own theory there or make one up. No one on the melted butter planet kills for ideas. They have whole grains and an agreement with their movers. They lost the race for attention. That will remain their little secret.

They sent a ship to land on an unchartered moon. They have got to handle everything. Like infants. They have to put everything in their mouth. They took my private parts and my private thoughts and they put them in their mouth. They tasted so fine that they did the same thing to her. But they called her bad names. She became a distant moon. They sent her off to be handled by experts. They knew nothing but secret languages. They had a thousand different ways to say nothing. They call that human nature, and curiosity. The dreamy, freedom man came and he kicked Mr. Religion right in his holy shin. Mr. Religion said, ooh, isn’t dreamy-freedom-man the angry man. He is not new- age. He does not go around always thinking yonder positive thoughts. Ooh-wee, but he is soooooo dreamy! I want him to come and suck my yonder moon. I want us to come together so hard that we fly right up into the sky like a rocket, and blast outta this human predicament. I will speak your secret language. I will apologize for what I have done, if you will let me outta this jail.

Papa Aqua came round back with a big ole’ mule, and he tied a big ole’ rope to it and he tied t’other end of it round these big ole’ bars, and he pulled the whole fucking teeth right outta the jail, and whoop, slick as butter, I slid outta yonder window, and onto the backside of Papa Aqua’s mule, and we all rode off sideways through the intellectual and physical barriers and wound up by a pretty deserted spring in the summertime with no pants on and all hearts on and all hard-ons, and all in tact we made out in the sun, and the roof flew off the mind of men and the padlock that locks the door of love flew off, and nobody was paranoid no more even if them badmen came and stole all your assorted goods, and they emptied out your yonder bank-account and your social security number was up. Holy shit! I have survived the secret language. I have moved through the bible belt and the chastity belt and the meteor belt and the fan belt, and we came so hard that they named a star after us. It’s called the big XXX star. It’s up there just past Orion’s belt and straight out til morning. The exact location of this star is classified. Ha ha, that’s a big one!

I was up at the Leaning Tower, and the whole thing was a leanin’, all the little towers that were stacked up inside that big leaning tower, they were a leaning too, and the whole thing was a leaning south, it seemed, it was heading south, at least it was wanting to lean that way. And if it coulda played the fiddle, it woulda grabbed it and danced right down highway 49, but it couldn’t. It was stuck up there a leaning in the cold and snow, up there in the country where the only thing that leans sometime is the insides of people’s brains, they lean from boredom. There’s a lot of hiding and leaning going on up there in the winter.

Josie Wales has gotta go up there and make big medicine with Ten Bears so he can save the homestead, so all that leaning is gonna have to wait for at least about twenty minutes. Josie and Ten Bears will work it out, and then leaning can re-commence. Keep the fire going, and slap iron to it: that’s the fastest way to stop the blood. Josie gave his word of death and life to Ten Bears, and Ten Bears did the same thing to him. Josie was the Gray Rider, and Ten Bears had a blue face painted on for war. The meeting went well, and then leaning recommenced.

Ten Bears said that it was sad that governments are chiefed by The Double Tongues. He wasn’t even talking about George Bush. Things have not really changed that much. I reckon so. She made Josie a watch chain from her hair, but Josie didn’t have a watch in this movie. But next couple of movies coming up, that’s when the watches come into it for real. I reckon so.

Then I was reading a really old book, and it cast light on mankind’s mischief, and one of the central concepts of it was Don’t wake up the Genie. You see, no matter how lightly the Genie sleeps, a graceful woman can always slip away to her lover. This is an Arabian nights tale told in a sweet book by Anatole France. One day Lulu woke up in my arms and said, Hey Lefty, let’s name our first kid Anatole. Never take freedom away from a woman. That’s almost as bad to do as to do to a man. That’s a lot to do about nothin’. Just don’t wake up the Genie, and you just go ahead and do whatever you want.

I like to type with all my might, all night, that’s right, with earphones on real tight, ‘til the dawn comes up real light, and I hear bells go off in my brain. Sure hope it don’t rain. Because me and my honey-lamb are going down, and we might not come up for years. Boy I like to trip the light; I’m full of undergear and opposites attract. My mama had a little sun. She chased him down the street buck naked, as he ran outta the doctor’s office. He ran and he ran and he never came back. Anytime you look at him now, quick, he’s buck-naked. He won’t keep no clothes on. Women are chasing him down the street buck-naked too! He’s got to type all night until it gets light; he will fight for the right to type all night. He used to complain every day. Now he just keeps his mouth shut and takes his clothes off and types all night. His girlfriend likes to see him nakedly typing. She bought him a waffle iron for Christmas. You can run your mouth if you want. I went out and bought one cherry.

A lot of people from other countries came to live in my country, because they said that their country was a lot better, but they couldn’t make any money there, so they had to come outta that beautiful country into this rat-race, and save up a lot of money so they could go back to their country and live like kings. This country always was a mess, I tell them. I never understood it even when I understood it, and now, forget it, you can’t understand it unless you are a machine. They’re making over Bugs Bunny to make him look like a machine, but I got no complaints. I’m gonna leave this rich country, go over there to one of them beautiful countries, and save up a lot of worthless currency, and come back here and live like a pauper on the street, maybe in a box. I’ll live with the snow and a fluffy dog-mind. Everything is good now and shallow water. Everything is summer and trying to be friendly. I’m having cherries.

Some people are just crazy, and they smell. I know these people. They have names. I know their names. One’s called Mud. He holds hands. One’s called Mimi. She dresses down. Some people see that amazing body she has hidden under there anyway. She takes those boys home with her anyway, and does them anyway. They have names. She talks to them in her sleep, after she has put the beautiful marble away for the night. Then the sleepy talk begins. What singing! I keep her with me now, in here, in my heart. She is medicine.

People is just crazy! Even them normal people, they is crazy too! Kettle & a fish, make a wish, because, man, Smelly, those folks is crazy! Well, I went to school and here’s what I figure: deliveries in the rear, that’s our motto. Way downtown we went, typing on The Red Arrow: ringing the pretty bells. Some people is crazy, but I don’t mix with that caliber of people. I gotta waffle iron.

Mr.-Bouncing-All-Over-the-Place was bouncing in place when he bounced into an idea that his father had had. His father got the idea from the man in the sky when that man in the sky was wearing a more smiley face. The man in the sky said let the people be shy, don’t exploit them or use them or throw ads in their face. Mr. Bouncing All Over walked through the clover and remedied this and gadgetfied his face. Then he was ready for them to call him Freddy and join up again with the human race. He said let’s get the rules clear: I’m only here as a limited offer, that is, right in your face. Well the people were appalled; they headed straight to the mall, in unprecedented numbers, even for here. Some looked away, said we like it that way, others said, Freddy, why don’t you just get outta here. Well Freddy went, wow, I guess I got to refine my clown, and he painted his nose and he pieced on some hair. And he wiggled his piece, and a pelican screeched, and a woman of mercy came down from despair. She said, Freddy, I’m here, straight from the air, she said Don’t worry, darlin’, Fanny is here! And from that day to this, it’s been one blissful kiss, with an occasional fight that don’t go nowhere. I used to lie, just lie all the time. I made up more things than the milkmaid made men. And the more that I lied, the freer I got, ‘til one day reality just came closing in. Reality said, I’m lonely, little man, pull up a chair in the den. If you can incorporate clean into your scheme, the children of neatness might like you again. Planning’s the key, river spanning for you and me—I’ll be your bridge, you be my buoy. Boy, I love boats! I love how they float!—Great! she says, I don’t think that you like how they sink! So this is how Mr.-Bouncing-All-Over-the-Place fell back into the sinkhole of time. It was both clean in there and muddy, dead serious and funny, and there were some little places in it that he remembered from his past.

(Man encased in giggles sighted off the forward bow. Anyone sighting that man, report back to your opthamologist for a tune-up. Whatever we see, goes. This boat has left the dock, minus its moral compass and political underpinnings, but its undergear is sound, and he’s getting an all-over tan being this long out to sea. He didn’t change his name, because a birdie out there told him not to do it. This same birdie pointed out the following tale):

There was a little Staten Island Ferry and a big Staten Island Ferry. There was a big little bastard and a little big bastard. There was a big true love and a little true love, and a bug in a rug, and the Big and Little Dipper. There was little Miss. and Big Miss. and there was, as usual, Little Big Horn Candy Corn—a pretty good song by the Lefty Jones Band on the Hobo album. That’s the one with the picture of Barry and Boo on it—Barry Cron and his dog, Boo.

One day later, the earth stood up and shook off its pants and shook its pants real hard and all the money and keys fell outta its pants, and they all floated into space and became space junk. Then the earth floated around in the solar system, and it was kinda like a friendly bum visiting our town—very light without that heavy crust of gravitational pull that is caused by money and keys. Other planets said, ooh, aren’t you a cute planet! And French planets said, oui, romance has finally hit our ball; we’ve been so lonely. Viva la vino, viva la empty pockets—I didn’t know Davy Crockett played piccolo. The Association of free people and free thinkers was started, and the free stinkers starved, because they couldn’t deal with the new state of weightlessness. It didn’t even have a name yet, and that really made them nervous. Somebody got up on a soapbox and said, Hey, we have made this whole planet up" but that wasn’t a good name. So there will be a contest, and the winner will get nothin’, and the little stars and the big stars will act like nothing happened, and happiness will reign forever. Then the man encased in giggles signed off saying…love, Little Me. Now we go around calling him that all the time—Little Me.

He wears a ribbon on top of the wound, he wears a ribbon on top of the wound, he wears a ribbon on top of the wound: everyone will come home soon, whatever is good for horses is good for men, the fact that little moves up here for long without taking yonder snooze, playing with words, and playing with knowledge, he moved up here from the city to escape the proliferation of gig-bags. When he got up here, the bottom fell outta his mind, and a trap door opened up into the fun department on the top floor. Time was on it’s tippy-toe up here. People waited and dated the birds. They had long sleeves with nice limbs under them. They made out like a bandit, like Cherokee Pete and his wife. They were up here too. Who knew? Sometime you get some place and everybody is already up there expectin’ you to show up, but you didn’t even know you were gonna show up, or that they would be there. I guess that’s what some people think about heaven, but this gypsy just thinks that’s the way it is everywhere—SO IT IS! Boing!

About the same time as this was going on, Floyd Feathers was living upstate above the arch of the firmament. While he was up there, some relatives of his had learned the art of talking backwards and had thereby swindled Floyd Feathers out of large amounts of family money. To make settlement for the fraud, Floyd Feathers requested to his relatives to give him a horse. This was back in 2005. So they bought Floyd a horse and had it delivered to him upstate above the arch of the firmament. Floyd Feathers never saw those relatives or spoke to them again.

(from Fay and Eddy ((sort of)):

But Floyd Feathers became the horniest girl in the world. I know that seems impossible, but it’s true. He was in a restaurant and somebody put down a plate next to him and he came. Someone just brushed up against his arm by accident on the street and she came right there. Every single thing in the world made him come. And her. She made him come just by looking at her. And she made him come in her body where nothing hurt. Then there was a big hard-on everywhere, and everyone saw it and laughed about it, and danced around it. It was the May Pole and every other month. Days of the week made it erupt, and appointments, and automobiles just going by. She came from just adding up numbers. Everything was ridiculous. She came and laughed all at once, and then she came all over again. This is a great big hard-on joke, she cried. And everyone applauded. Seamstresses came to sew, and serious business was going on right around that hard-on. It was like a lamp in the office. Very bright and big and all lit up. It was murky and deep and light and salty, like the Dead Sea. That’s what they started calling it: The Dead Sea. They said, hey, bubba, come over tonight and bring The Dead Sea with you.

The sun was making him horny, and the sunset got him horny, and the moon, and the trees and the birds, they all got him horny—their singing—and the band got him horny, especially the horns got him horny, and the drums—on the inside—got him horny. He found himself in the very heart of the horny universe. Everything got him horny. The air and the water hornified him. Then he met her. The sun was making her horny, and the sunset got her horny, and the moon, and the trees and the birds, they all got her horny—their singing—and the band got her horny, especially the horns got her horny, and the drums—on the inside—got her horny. She found herself in the very heart of the horny universe. Everything got her horny. The air and the water hornified her. Then she met him, and they touched. They went to sex heaven. Then they went to love heaven. Then they came to sex heaven again. Then they lived in love heaven. Now they go around hornifying the world. Everyone they meet gets horny from them. This is how our world started. This is what we talk about at the campfires, while the whole world lays sleeping.

Is talking about sex better than having sex, or is talking about sex while you’re having sex better? Or is having somebody else talking about you having sex while you’re having sex, like the announcer at the ball game, better. Like: and now here’s number 69 with a gigantic hard-on, and it’s a beautiful sight, ladies and gentlemen, and now he is entering her delightful body, and now she is coming so much, over and over, and her body is full of goose-bumps, and her breasts are darting all about the room like love-me-lemon-drops. Shakespeare is doing the narrative, and e.e. Cummings, and then Poe does it. This sex is scary. Sartre plays lonely sex. Comedians make fun of it. She dies laughing. Everyone in the audience comes. No one can stop coming. This goes on all night and all day, for four consecutive nights. Indians wear war-paint and women masturbate.

It’s never too late to orchestrate the perfect date. We are people and we can come. This is the main thing to remember. My thing is for you; your thing is for me. We have these beautiful things to give. Whatever section of the orchestra you are in, just play your heart out, child, and we will make such a beautiful sound in this world.

Within the movie there was another movie, within her kiss there was another kiss, within her hole there was another hole, and another train travelling all the way to eternity. And it was the same within her eyes, and his. Wherever they went, and wherever they wandered it was like that. And there was a deep echo in there that ran to the middle of the middle within the never-ending riddle with that bow about that fiddle, where nothing was a lie. It was the Chinese mystery hole that they had finally reached. They’d been digging it ever since they were kids at the beach heading down there to yonder China. It was cool down there, so you had to cuddle close, and kiss for hours and hours. Away, cat! Oh, I see you’ve showed up again! Didn’t I see you down there in that other book—the Smiley-Man Chronicles? I love it when you do that jumping bean! Come on children, grab a cot, grab your friend, and be a twat! Oh, honey, I love when you talk dirty like that to me! You be me, we be mysteries! (End of Fay and Eddie)

Rule 1: you have to entertain them, not call them names. Even Bob Dylan knows that. Then you have to be extremely American. This involves constantly changing, and trying on different images, and looks. You have to constantly make yourself over. And you have to learn the art of the double-speak. You have to say things like "yes, and I don’t want to appear to be thus and so or appear to be thus." And everyone in America will applaud and agree. Because there is an unwritten agreement in America that what you are really like has little or no importance compared with how you appear. This emphasis on appearance is an apriori good, more basic than the preamble of the constitution. One need not be anything in particular, as long as one is constantly appearing to be of import. You must be detached, and powerful. And you must constantly count up your money, and calculate the dollars and sense of it, even of your soul. Then you must make heroes out of millionaires, even if they are the kind of millionaire who constantly complains about money. You might not love them, but you must respect them, because they have attained the appearance of the American dream. Also you must constantly appear to be moral, and spiritually inclined, even if you are struggling with certain paradoxes vis a vis your behavior, as long as you appear to be bothered by this, you are very American. This is ultimately a very kind of schizoid type mind-set. It is detached from oneself and detached from reality (whatever your definition of that, i.e. reality has no meaning at all in a constantly relativistic and changing reality). Because appearance is more important than reality (i.e. appearance is close enough to reality, as it changes quicker and therefore is more fun. Reality changes more slowly and is therefore more boring and less fun. Both, strictly speaking, or merely two different aspects of appearance.) In summary, my good man, reality within this mind-set is completely relative. So pretence, pretending, acting, appearing are the good. Being old-fashioned, unmoving, inflexible are bad. That is the end of your sociology lesson for today.

Found poem (by my dog): Well, you told me ‘bout the war, but I gotta go back asleep. People came up here and disturbed my dream, but I gotta go back asleep. A bunch a people got confused and they got confused real deep, but I gotta grab me a cup a coffee and then I gotta go back asleep. I was honored by the dance you did, it stuck out like the sun, I went out into the smiley people, and we were having so much fun. Everything was out with the moon, and the fog and the moon were with you, but I told you, darlin’, I gotta go back asleep. I coulda slept just fine on a fine night as this. If I coulda opened up my heart and let the light out, I woulda talked about the blind truth before the sky fell. I am sorry you hadda give your body to those bums. I didn’t know nothin about them except that you gotta go back asleep. I didn’t know nothin’ about travellin’ to distant lands. I was down on a back flip upsides the brotherhood of man. I gotta go back asleep now. Sorry you came in with your crew. Sorry they forgot and you forgot and I had to live inside a sock. Sorry but I gotta go back asleep, and hang-on to the hound-dog. When I wake up, we’re gonna go for a walk. (this is a transition poem I wrote for my eyes only, but the dog found it and grabbed it and brought it up to me while I was typing and insisted I put it in here, so this is a good example of the kind of poems that dogs like— if any of you young writers are working on a poem-book for dogs. You never know. You’ve seen all those books they have in the bookstore lately? All I want to know is how do all these people get all them agents? They’ve got some sort of people-club with agents attached to them that I obviously don’t understand. This is where millions of agents are floating around telling all kinds of people how great they are for this or that reason. This is obviously an orbit that is outta my province.

After the first war, they waited for a few years before they could start the second, because there wasn’t enough money around to start it, but then they got enough, and they started it right up. They complained and bitched about it the whole time, just like all them millionaires who are constantly complaining how they don’t have enough money, i.e. their money is "all