#14 The Confessor of Littlefield

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This installment of the Confessor of Littlefield includes flash fiction sequences, satire and poetry. The story of Bill Dinklfpuss is separating itself in Adam’s mind toward its own absolution. Adam’s own story is becoming more of a back story as he absorbs Bill and his journals. The flash satire sequences contained in many of these installments are meant to be breaks from Adam and his story which I include as part of the whole. The whole is a bag of marbles, a loose bundle of wood being dropped and picked up with each installment.


The global government of Roman Clunk has announced it has granted ownership of the sun to Sludskump Corp., whose board of directors includes the 12 wealthiest people on earth. President Clunk has long admired the warmth brought by the sun and is certain that Sludskump Corp. will run the sun far more efficiently than the government has. Senator Pissmule has introduced emergency legislation to do away with daylight savings time so that it stops interfering with the free will of the market to settle like the little ball in the roulette wheel, the value of the sun.

Senator Oxcorker will be introducing legislation to do away with time, which has recently been purchased from the government of Roman Clunk by a subsidiary of Roman Clunk Enterprises. Mini futures contracts will begin trading on Monday. Everyone will have a gain or loss of time. But no worries, citizens. You should not experience anything. The time will only be fractions of seconds in duration. We have applied a stop gap in advances and declines to insure that the free market acts sensibly. All citizens are still responsible for using their own time and must declare so on their tax returns even if their employer shorts time and uses a passive income tax carry forward thing to make everyone work extra hours. Anyone not assuming responsibility for their own time will be penalized an as yet to be determined amount amount of time, which will ultimately be ruled an original tax by the Supreme Court. Man is born in a state of original tax. There is a team of think tank specialists and marketing psychologists coordinating efforts to determine the best language to sculpt this colossal pile of crap into a morality thing for a bumpkin to nibble on.


The voice says the author is trying to unravel his own issues through the characters he or she creates. It must be true. All voices are mine, cycling from the recesses with noisy machines whirring. I read ticker tape, Morse code, Navaho, but I am still a motor comprehending itself. The physicality of being provides the impetus and the grist to explore and explain to self while each to himself fears the other’s cunning. I don’t want your goddamn time, Calvin Dyme, but you want mine; in my shop, in my house, at my table and in my bed. Not to exclaim pretty Jesus is dead but that he lives by Roman administrator rules. He is commanding and demanding, always with ornery eyes and a declension of views, and an old disgust for ordinary self.


From the notebooks of Bill Dinklpfuss

You don’t speak for the goddamn We, Calvin; you don’t speak for me, Trenton (Bill’s Calvinist farmer employer) Not you, study hall teacher demoted by the school system for one too many complaints about approaching boys in the bathroom to preach Christ. All I know is that all the world has cried to itself because of godly men like you. You call yourself men of the earth but you are imaginary minutemen with your psyches locked into slogan. You seek justice and protection against straw men, presuming with ill will, depravity with righteous indignation. You are born to be so worst than dust that only to dust could you hope to return. It is you who impose rule for show because it is the right thing to do.

Of John:Hapflik:

Day and time is for sale. I see others assuming depravity in others on the sidewalks, in their cars, in the stores. Their stares beat each other into into a more significant existence. I have seen the enemy and he is too awesome to behold. I will submit in advance and hope he or she or it spares me. The origin of masochism is spiritual, manifested as organized religion, with men writing as laws the deep structures in everyone’s mind. Everyone knows it is to their advantage to get along; beatitudes are universal. Taboos are universals written in local language. Jesus never walked in Littlefield or any other tiny town around the Great Lakes. If you wanna talk about the great deception, Calvin Dyme it isn’t just the Catholic church that dares interpose itself between the human and any would-be outside creator or manipulator. In Littlefield, there is a hypocritical, judging, cowardly puritanism that claims to be the voice of God, active in and manipulating politics and law enforcement. You wanna talk to me about the christian God, motherfucker? I have had all of him that I can stand and I just want him to leave me the fuck alone! The great beast is puritan politics that excludes, denigrates, chastises, demands because it judges all as depraved. As for you, Calvin Dyme, you see this bag I wear on my side, guy? You think that’s the price I paid for your christian God; paid for YOU, for YOUR freedom? Don’t come around here anymore. Ya’all make me sick.

(The last paragraph is taken from a passage in a notebook of Bill Dinklpfuss. The Dymes visited the garage for repairs over the years. Bill writes about them quite a bit They seem the very sort of Jonathan Edwards types who try to convict you of depravity so they can offer a hope out of it.)


Poem from the notebook of Bill Dinklpfuss. It is dated April 13, 1964. The poems he writes after this date are sad and self indulgent. For the next five years Bill sees little of his mother and doesn’t mention any visitors to the cabin. There are a few dozen drawings on drawing paper that he does during this time and he writes quite a bit about Emerson. He reveals a maturing spirituality after an apparent break with his mother. He knows his mother is spiritually disengaged from him and views him more from a utilitarian point of view. She lacks a motherly instinct.

Once more, you said what you thought was right.

Live for what you need to show


what matters convention

or blame

or hate

or reasons to justify?

All that’s thought is shadows

baying for attention

and love breaks

heartlessly, holding desire

longer than needs be

your self holds your production, child

and you are getting old

cut the reigns and be on your way, child

this is no longer your home





wound tight around me


all my needs

Cancer, this circle

watching me believe

begging before it

desperate, in need

probe from me,

the point of being

interrogate my suffering

tax my patience

with condemnatory condolences

repositories more like suppositories

from some Catholic or Calvinist creed

I would rather sit around

and smoke weed

than listen, or touch

or see you,

you are the cursed We


I unwind

it’s just a day

but I’m caught inside

even though it’s raining

it’s a nice day for a drive

The winter breathes diesel fuel

defecates its dust

A smoke calms the killer that fights me

as I fantasize

I’m a real life action hero

who really doesn’t need


Television web

a spark and the network comes to life

makes me think who I am supposed to be

isn’t who I am, really

I didn’t part ways from my fellow man

I never felt a need to hide from him

except, he thinks of me, more often than not

as a bit player,

a fossil of a model of deductive clay

So what is it you need today

the mind-man-mirror

is compelled to say,

not a thing

it’s just a nice day for a drive


Every time I see a face

it makes me want to hide

why does fear divide

the moments between us

I swear I could’ve met you

in a different state

on a different day

but my partings didn’t effect you

just made me want to hate


What is the sum of your deposition

the groups tell us personal things don’t matter

you are a slogan

a ghost operative for the collective

with all your seeking

you are a shadow in our mirror




Einstein admitted organized power can only be controlled by organized power. But what if the power is unorganized, overwhelming in its madness?



“Eye dialect is what you are talking about,” said Prof Cliffnut when I began talking about how colloquial spelling matches intent of the author. “It is not a judgment by the narrator but it is taken as a matter of course that when presented by an author, colloquial language signifies lack of sophistication. That may be the inference of the reader but the reader’s inference is his own albatross,” said the Professor. “The hearer notes the fluctuations of vowels and consonants and how they are expressed on the dentals, the soft palate, the larynx. He observes his lungs and throat propelling wind for the sound. There is no “supposed to sound” to pronunciation. You can ask someone why they are pronouncing it a certain way in order to understand what that person is expressing, but you cannot insist that there is one certain way to pronounce a word. In Pygmalion, the George Bernard Shaw play, professor Higgins woos others with his ability to tell within a block or two where a person lived just by the way a person spoke. If you can’t wrap your head around that I am afraid academics isn’t for you, I tell some students. ”

“Business school.”





I met a Vietnamese Buddhist scholar who was the teacher and priest at the local temple. He had lived his entire life in zen temples and was completing a graduate degree in psychology. He told me he was only a priest at the temple so he could get his Psychology degree paid for and that zen was not profound in the least. The idea was just to get the mind off things. Count breaths. Indo-European, indeed all cultures, had physicians or priests who prescribed different types of meditation and exercise using the imagination to free oneself from some anxiety or malady. It was all simply language and tricks of language to speak to the collective what the individual already knows. An elder at the temple wanted to have a ceremony for me, gave me a prayer book of Buddhist chants and a robe with a zen name. When I told the teacher he said, “you don’t have time for that. Write a book, go on a trip; whatever. You will be better off.”


I confess, I cried when I saw this. Bill had to put his beloved horse to sleep after it grew old and arthritic. The animal seems to be about the closest friend Bill Dinklpfuss ever had. Bill Dinklpfuss, thank you, wherever you are, for making me feel alive.

Hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm

Fall has come early this year

my heart still shakes from what I fear

My companion who helped me

keep my days

suddenly must go away

Mellow, you changed things

made me feel I had a home

with you’re raspy whining

whenever you’d see me

I can’t bear the approaching hour,

I stumble with you to the back of the barn

crying like a girl

I don’t want to leave you this way

I know, it hurts to stand

I’m sorry, precious

I can’t make you stay

just for me



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