From the laboratory of Contemplative Radio and with the kind assistance of the Lunaazul Foundation we are ifteen minutes of the Empire of Dr. bienkepresenting for you this evening fifteen minutes of the Empire of Dr. Bienke being a hypernovel experiment gone blooey like the Zeppelin I'm gonna work in somehow or other and a big, big book as big as Texas where I got borned and full of empty poisoned space. Someday I imagine a Warholian place where we all get fifteen minutes and we download our fame into a cd, or a ft, or an xy and we walk around with copies of our fame that others might instantly know us. We grok each others publicity. We all be pop stars. With beastly numbers on our foreheads or on perhaps a patch of ass tastefully exposed to provide a platform of signage and the numbers then we can use to look up our rankings in the Market of Existentiality Gazette On Line, see how we faring. "I got some very low numbers last night and it got me concerned." Yes the Laboratory for Contemplative Radio bringing you another loopy fifteen minutes of the Empire of Dr. bienke where we endeavor to wring the directionality out of broadcasting by echoing silly metaphors until they are as meaningless as William James' nekkid words. Featuring ukulele playing and tulip seed the thing about tulip seed being that whatever you gonna get when you plant tulip seed it ain't gonna be tulips except maybe in your head. Bossa Nova and Magical Realism are two strains of tulip seed we note fare best in the bleakish environments of Police States, which God knows Texxas is one, and so I have certainly considered working in the tradition of Bossa Nova Magical Realism because I do understand the Squares gotta be brought along slowly, but damn, I be bringing Squares along slowly and there shows up those West Houston Boys. Bossa Nova Magical Realism don't seem to have any voodoo effect on West Houston Boys, keeping them way, away from me, and so ultimately Bossa Nova Magical Realism ain't gonna work out as an artistic paradigm for the particular strain of tulip seed which is me, and so I posit Cowboy Surrealism as an alternative. Cowboy surrealism leans to incoherence like you was telling a story but you were more messed up than even William Faulkner because I really don't think there can be much reason to proofread all this junk littering cyberspace: they've been proofreading the Bible for years and with what effect? Either it's full of mistakes, or nobody's paying attention.
In the Cowboy Surrealist tract, the Empire of Dr. Bienke, Andy Devine and all the little doggies that were in the movie The Bells of San Angelo, directed or written by Sloane Nibley, who I made chief enginneer of Radio Xex, Andy and the doggies have contracted the brain eating disease from the zombies in the Night of the Living Dead, and they hang around the Sherriff's office all sleepy afternoon munching on brains. Andy has his chair pushed back against the wall and his boots crossed upon the desk and look, Delia, all the dogs are being very Polite, POLITE, the dogs are being very polite and they're sitting quietly and waiting for the chunks of brain that Andy throws to them. It's as if injesting brains had a tranquilizing effect on Andy's dogs. Koo comes in and he's carrying a bucket of new brains and so we surmise he must be a zombie too or else he's made some kind of brain delivery deal. "We got some very low numbers last night," Koo says, and the dog who can talk says: "Do you think it's the weather?"
"I think it's gotta be the weather that makes everything so hopeless. Spring freezes makes the brain crop sorta wispy." Spring freezes make the brain crop sorta wispy. The Empire of Dr. Bienke is gonna be a nonsense rapological treatment for the shrinkage of the swelling of West Houston Boys and their weird Godly Empiricism.
2:35:24 PM 
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