Caleb Puckett
Beelzebub’s Motivational Radio
Caleb Puckett lives in Kansas. Some of his recent writing appears in Mad Hatters’ Review and With + Stand. Otoliths published his most recent prose collection, Market Street Exit, earlier this year.
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Beelzebub’s Motivational Radio
So much for the past ten years and countless on-air revelations I’ve given you. This is it for me, listeners, but I want to leave you with a few thoughts before I sign off. Try to keep up, would you? As I’ve said many times before, once you write down the moment, the rabbit has escaped. The record overtakes the action: it becomes the thing. As it turns out, all wisdom born from experience has no receipt. Ask a thief for the right way. Treasure the belief. Now listen closely.
I have told you for years now that my advice to take good advice will not correct the bad advice of your so-called superiors. How could it? Two fools cannot help one fool. Consider agency. We may be compelled, but we are not compulsion. A name cannot give advice. A mouth gives advice, does it not, my literal-minded listeners? Be not so beastly as the dove of convention. The anchor is always in the sea yet does not learn to swim.
Many persons take advice in the end. Life is too late then. It’s a bitter lesson, perhaps? Agreed? Then old age becomes a deformity—a divided and shriveled state. You agree like bells that need nothing but the hanging and another wind swell. Yes, you chime among clouds along now, but remember that a hanged man may swing without being able to swat the flies alighting on his face. Who has autonomy and the power of life and death then?
Know how to be daring, listeners. Defy the debilitating promise of security. You’ll find fine sport with the devil, save for the coveted white horse just outside of his realm. There’s always a white horse, people, so we consult with medicine men and cling to their novelties until young is old. Round the dubious bar graph skyline we go, huh? The angles cut. Think of it this way: in the fire of follies we expiate the straws of death. Empty the physician of his body. Your eye would rise to the height of the river.
The poor alchemist makes gold from the foolish alchemist. The anvil suffers the hammer. With arrows lie archers. What else can I say? You agree on stage that unanimity is wonderful. It is a chokehold of agreeable pretense. Blurring may be a symptom of oncoming blindness. Who has their hands around your throats? You do. Go ahead: gag life and sell the little air you have left. You mistake the public with company after all. He who buys flesh buys nothing else, friends. And a rich man never wants more woe.
Your mind is anxious about the appearance of the soul, is it not? A crying babe was once below god, according to the old proposition. Would you like to learn more? Yes? Can you wait 6-8 weeks for consummation? Who am I to give you a target, though? An ape may wear a doctor’s cape. No angler can be a hook. Do you understand? The shortest answer is always no answer. Strike many by a few measures. Arms are connected to palms. Wait for the dramatic pause. Disregard the error message.
So here we are, my friends. We extol production but are wholly unmindful of verity. The cattle’s appetite is reason alone. Ambition is a fir tree wanting feathers. Naturally, we all come to this conclusion, don’t we? Humble angels turn into “good angels” with devilish talk. A flood of wine carries flowers to the frogs. Ants seek to avenge the loss of a crumb at another’s picnic. Pride is a stickler for a good translation of Dante.
Who am I to you but a faded radio guru? I pale with your advancements. Who am I to lead you? You want change, but you only know how to shift stations. What is my livelihood to you in the face of his transcendental crystals and shaman certifications? Remember, though, that applause ultimately spurs abuse. Art’s necessary deceits are deluded by the power of honor. It’s written for all to see: ask and ye shall receive. A stone foundation holds up the castle. Leather soles hold up the soldiers. Your new king is a king by virtue of an idea. Your wishful thinking holds up his authority to motivate the masses. Ask yourself: is he as weak as the people who need him? Once upon a time, this abstraction also seemed to require you for its truth. It would be a mistake for you to confuse my silence for erasure. Think on that, dear listeners, during this important commercial break. Think of the term “break” as a synonym for “jointure.”
I have told you for years now that my advice to take good advice will not correct the bad advice of your so-called superiors. How could it? Two fools cannot help one fool. Consider agency. We may be compelled, but we are not compulsion. A name cannot give advice. A mouth gives advice, does it not, my literal-minded listeners? Be not so beastly as the dove of convention. The anchor is always in the sea yet does not learn to swim.
Many persons take advice in the end. Life is too late then. It’s a bitter lesson, perhaps? Agreed? Then old age becomes a deformity—a divided and shriveled state. You agree like bells that need nothing but the hanging and another wind swell. Yes, you chime among clouds along now, but remember that a hanged man may swing without being able to swat the flies alighting on his face. Who has autonomy and the power of life and death then?
Know how to be daring, listeners. Defy the debilitating promise of security. You’ll find fine sport with the devil, save for the coveted white horse just outside of his realm. There’s always a white horse, people, so we consult with medicine men and cling to their novelties until young is old. Round the dubious bar graph skyline we go, huh? The angles cut. Think of it this way: in the fire of follies we expiate the straws of death. Empty the physician of his body. Your eye would rise to the height of the river.
The poor alchemist makes gold from the foolish alchemist. The anvil suffers the hammer. With arrows lie archers. What else can I say? You agree on stage that unanimity is wonderful. It is a chokehold of agreeable pretense. Blurring may be a symptom of oncoming blindness. Who has their hands around your throats? You do. Go ahead: gag life and sell the little air you have left. You mistake the public with company after all. He who buys flesh buys nothing else, friends. And a rich man never wants more woe.
Your mind is anxious about the appearance of the soul, is it not? A crying babe was once below god, according to the old proposition. Would you like to learn more? Yes? Can you wait 6-8 weeks for consummation? Who am I to give you a target, though? An ape may wear a doctor’s cape. No angler can be a hook. Do you understand? The shortest answer is always no answer. Strike many by a few measures. Arms are connected to palms. Wait for the dramatic pause. Disregard the error message.
So here we are, my friends. We extol production but are wholly unmindful of verity. The cattle’s appetite is reason alone. Ambition is a fir tree wanting feathers. Naturally, we all come to this conclusion, don’t we? Humble angels turn into “good angels” with devilish talk. A flood of wine carries flowers to the frogs. Ants seek to avenge the loss of a crumb at another’s picnic. Pride is a stickler for a good translation of Dante.
Who am I to you but a faded radio guru? I pale with your advancements. Who am I to lead you? You want change, but you only know how to shift stations. What is my livelihood to you in the face of his transcendental crystals and shaman certifications? Remember, though, that applause ultimately spurs abuse. Art’s necessary deceits are deluded by the power of honor. It’s written for all to see: ask and ye shall receive. A stone foundation holds up the castle. Leather soles hold up the soldiers. Your new king is a king by virtue of an idea. Your wishful thinking holds up his authority to motivate the masses. Ask yourself: is he as weak as the people who need him? Once upon a time, this abstraction also seemed to require you for its truth. It would be a mistake for you to confuse my silence for erasure. Think on that, dear listeners, during this important commercial break. Think of the term “break” as a synonym for “jointure.”
Caleb Puckett lives in Kansas. Some of his recent writing appears in Mad Hatters’ Review and With + Stand. Otoliths published his most recent prose collection, Market Street Exit, earlier this year.
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