Experience the Cheap Thrill of Tibet

Holy shit. It's coming out of the mountains now. Within three months, six at the latest, it'll hit the streets. Crank for the walking dead. Hypodermic heaven. Jubilation for the junkies. The purest tarbaby to come down the pike in ages. Marinated in genuine lama blood, bathed in the dharma itself, there is no question in Chuckie Chi's mind that this is the punctuation, the final period in The Tibetan Book of the Dead.

Oh hey, genocide by any other name has more than the obvious profit motive behind it. Trump cards on a higher level than your normal everygrab greedhead can register in the big book of spiritual materialism being sold to the rubes these days. This is more than just the end of revolutionary romanticism in the face of overwhelming odds, but, as Aka says, the genesis of a new guerilla ontology. Slash-Slash. All is image, baby. Smile when you quit, then detach.

Chuckie talks like this. When he talks at all. He once went ten years, from 1990 to 2000, without saying a single word to another human being. Bliss, he calls it. Pure, unadulterated bliss, not having to cut through bullshit or bow down to the Great God Shmucko guarding the gates for the egos polluting the marketplace on the other side of the world. He did just fine without any help until Trader Jake showed up and pitched him a way to get back into the game without having to play on the road. That was when trouble started. Reality, baby, coming across his adopted mountains like the Chinks, marching in to rub mantras into the dirt as they plant the high meadows with the brightly colored scent of death masquerading, my dears, as floral beauty: Oh heavenly bitch, we offer thee an opiated garden for the slaves to dream in. Think that's cool? Hey, the spirit is dying! It's gone. Buried for good in the sweet dreams of some other existence.

Religion is the opium of the masses, and opium is the religion of the exceptions, but the rule is the same for both.

* * *

Wilson and Chuckie knew each other in a past life, Chuckie says, and Wilson won't argue with that. Maybe they did and maybe they didn't, but there's no disputing the fact they have unfinished business with each other. They both knew that the moment Fisk introduced them at Jake's joint in Kathmandu. Chuckie is certain he and Wilson are bros of the blood, that they rode with that asshole Custer into the jaws of death at Little Bighorn, and they weren't even on his side that time. "Outcasts, mercenaries, point men going along for the ride, 'cause a gig is a gig is a gig, and don't think you don't bleed for that lack of commitment," Chuckie says. "It's all the same color whether you buy it or not, but the pain level is different. That one didn't even hurt; it was so good to see "The Boss" (as General George called himself) get what he had comin', you could die feelin' satisfied. If you came back the next time as worm bait, it hardly mattered." Which is why, somewhere back in time, fear got stranded without a ticket.

They are warriors without a country to defend. Wilson, Chuckie, Fisk and Trader Jake too, though no doubt Jake's allegiance is to the bottom line, no matter what that is in any given situation. Once upon a time, as the history of their history goes, Chuckie and Fisk did a Rambro trip together in Nam. Civilized years later in New York, Wilson and Fisk's mutual rejection of their salesman fathers' buy-sell-buy addiction turned them into Neurobros of the same financial dysfunction. So when Wilson got the opportunity to make the film of his dreams, he yanked bro Fisk out of the jaws of his own sweet addiction to Baby Louise Walker's legendary snapping pussy, under the guise of needing an intro to his old warbro, Chuckie.  Now Chuckie is talking about connections. Talking up a storm to make up for all those years he didn't talk at all. The boy's a regular West Texas twister stompin' the shit out of Wichita Falls just to watch it rebuild itself in its own image. "Watch the words," Chuckie says, his face baleful like that poster of Che Guevera that used to hang on all those dormitory walls back in the sixties. "That's what I used to do. Watch the words fly away like small birds gliding up into the mountains."

       Despite only one good eye, Trader Jake is nobody's cyclops. "Progress is our byword.  Or our bypass," he laughs.  "Either way, dependin' on what the market demands, we got it, boys.  If they want it, we got it!  We're gonna get richer than the worse Milo Minderbinder that ever sleazed up the planet, and then we're gonna piss it away. We're gonna give it away, we're gonna make it worth somethin' its never been worth before.  It won't be to die for this time around.  We got bigger fish to fry."

       They're in the opiated ozone now.  Literally on the lip ready to turn the cosmic trick, ready to lift the Philosopher's Stone or get a psychic hernia trying.  Which is when they get an invite, along with the rest of the itinerant Americans in Nepal, to come down to the Queen's birthday party, at the Embassy in Kathmandu. 

       Wilson doesn't feel much like going, but since Fisk has come all the way from New York to soak up the karmic ambience, Wilson has to agree with Chuckie that they can just float in and float out, with nobody being the wiser.  Since he started playing the game again, Chuckie has become a regular party-hard, craving the edge, wanting to dance on the point of the sword like he used to dance down the sidelines for the Cowboys until he dropped three hits of Owsley blue one Super Sunday and waltzed out of the NFL, his knees still connected to his jock.

       Watching Chuckie zigzag through the bizarre mix of hard-core regulars, what’s left of the dysfunctional leftover royalty, fragged government workers, and bewildered tourists milling around the bar, it's obvious that somewhere down the line he's going to have to choose whether or not to throw himself into the flame of the moment or disappear forever into the false impression of someone else's clouded mind. A trick he learned up in the mountains from his teacher, Aka. His guide and buddy, good old reliable Aka.

       No master (with a capital M) to bow down to, Aka claims nothing other than the ability to disappear into his perceiver's memory bank until the right time comes to make a withdrawal. What you see ain't what you get. But this isn't magic, folks, it's lack of focus in the eye of the beholder.  They only see what they want to see, they only hear what they want to hear when they come to Aka. They want what they want and they want it now! Anything else is always a surprise to them, even if it makes a U-turn on their face.

       Not intending to withhold trade secrets here, but there are certain things a body has to know if it's going to be able to cross over the holy mountains. Aka's been bringing more out, which for some reason reminds Wilson of an old Hollywood story he heard once: It seems this writer--he believes it was him, though he was definitely a different creature at the time--he'd just turned in a script to this producer, and the producer read it and said, "You know, this is great shit, Wilson. Now I know why they call you Hack."

       "They don't call me Hack.  It's my given name.  I was named after--"

       "I don't care who you were named after, baby, I really love this script, but it needs more action, more sex, more violence, more blood, and if you can, cut it a little, it's too long.  Know what I mean?"  Of course he knew what the schmuck meant; he wanted the standard Bimbowood magic, he wanted more less. Which is exactly what Aka, Chuckie, Wilson, and Fisk have been giving them in Tibet-- a whole lot more less.

       Not that the g-men wandering around the party understood that concept, but they did know that someone was bringing the lamas over the mountains, right through the Chinese base of operations, and they couldn't figure out how it was being done.

       Chuckie for some reason decides to tell them, though before he incriminates himself he points out it's only a theory he has.  The bastard's drunk, high as a kite on his ego now.  Wilson is watching him talk to one of our guys.  But let's amend that.  When Wilson says our he doesn't mean his and Chuckie and Fisk and Jake's guys.  He's not even sure he means yours.  Probably not, though that's how the g-man would describe himself.  The guy's an American, works for the government, an Agency geek cloaked in ole boy protocol.  Call him an "advisor."  For the last hour he's been telling Chuckie about Chuckie, Wilson, Fisk and Aka, though he doesn't know it's them bringing the lamas across the holy mountain with a whole goddamn Chink brigade on their asses.  Wilson remembers his face through the binoculars.  He was there with the Chinks as they destroyed the ganja fields and replaced them with poppies.  Technically, advising them.  Just like Nicaragua, San Salvador, Nam, and it goes on and on and on in the name of complicity, Mr. Jones.  

       How did they escape? this good ole boy wonders now.  He doesn't understand how they got up the mountain. They were cornered against an ice cliff that went two hundred yards straight up to heaven as the angels fly, but no way, no fucking way human beings, women and children, much less the old ones, are going to make it up and out, right!

       "Don't I know you from somewhere?" Wilson says to the Agency guy.

       From somewhere deep in the recesses of time, Aka's voice comes back to Wilson at the wall of the ice cliff.  "Trapped. They see us as trapped, with no way out, so we are trapped with no way out for them.  For us, we are not here, we are out of here.  We walk through them, walk among them, talk among them, even play and eat among them, but we are not them, and one day, one day soon we will take it to them, then take it away from them."

       The Agency guy points his finger at Wilson.  "I know you!"

       For a moment he freezes, his eyes start to scan the room for the closest exit.

       "Boston, '68? You were at Harvard," he insists with pride in his memory.

       "B.U.," Wilson smiles with relief.

       "Right-right," he remembers, even though Wilson doesn't. "You interviewed Mel Lyman on The Hill." 

       "Like Robin Williams said, ‘Anybody who remembers the sixties wasn't there.’  You’re confusing me with somebody else."

       Trader Jake, dressed in the finery of a Calcutta pimp, intrudes then, and slaps the g-man on the back. "Bobby Benton, you child molestin' motherfucker, you!"

       "Hello, Jake. How's tricks?" Benton asks. "Fucking any chickens lately?"

       "Gave up that proclivity when they started pumpin' 'em full of steroids, Bob.   Nothin' but goats now.  I remember you really used to have a thing for goats up in Cambodia, or am I confusin' that with sheep?"  They both laugh, though it's obvious neither of them find the shtick funny. They're two adversaries who've spent the last thirty years butting heads, sometimes on the same team, sometimes at distinct odds with each other, but no matter which side they were on, they've never been bros.

       "Do you know Hack Wilson?" Benton asks Jake with one-upmanship, then points his finger at him again to record his memory points. "The famous screenwriter."

       "That's a contradiction in terms," Jake snaps back without missing a beat.  "There's no such thing as a famous screenwriter.  Name three."

       "Dudley Nichols, Julius J. Epstein and Richard Brooks," Benton counters.

       "Has your mother heard of them?  If your mother hasn't heard of them, they're not famous," the Trader shoots back.

       "I'll tell you what's famous, Mr. Wilson was named after the man who holds the Major League record for most RBIs in one season.  Is that famous?"

       "No way!" the Trader grins.  "That would make every Babe and Lou who ever got named after the famous, famous."  

       "Ok, but Mr. Wilson wrote Pig Meat," Benton gloats. 

       "Holding the RBI record is like kissing your sister. Nobody except trivia freaks remember that anyway," the Trader keeps goading the g-man.

       "186 RBIs is nothing to sneeze at, Jake."

       "He had 196!"

       "No way!" Benton snarls, looking over at Wilson for support.

       "196," Wilson shrugs.

       Without even acknowledging he's wrong, Benton keeps plowing ahead.  "And then Mr. Wilson wrote Pig Meat's Revenge.  And after that he wrote and directed The Revenge of Pig Meat's Revenge. Wouldn't you say that qualifies as famous?" Trumpets go off in the background. "What are you doing in Nepal, Mr. Wilson?"

       Wilson decided to go for it.  "I came here to make a movie. As you might have heard, it was me they picked to carry Cimino’s Gate."

       "No, I'm afraid not," he lies.  "What's it about?"

       "It's not about anything now.  We waited so long to get the proper authorization to get into Tibet that the studio pulled the plug on us."

       "Oh yes, I do believe I heard something about that."

       "And I've got people doing locations there who don't seem to be able to get out.  Why is that?"

       "With all the trouble in the Mideast," Benton says. "It’s hard to know whether it’ll be Pakistan, Afghanistan, India, Iraq, Palestine or Israel that blows first. It’s a tough time."

       "Obviously," Wilson agrees. "We were told there would be no problem, now twelve weeks later there's no movie and there's no money and I'm unable to get in and round up my people.  Why is that?"  he asks with the sincerity of an acolyte.

       The trumpets go off again!  This time Wilson looks up, looks out over Benton's shoulder, and sees her walking into the room.  Beautiful beyond his most perverse imagination, if she were ten years older or he was ten years younger he'd drop down on his knees and ask her to marry him on the spot.  Of course, Chuckie's on her like a horsefly on a big, fat moonpie. 

       Benton turns and looks over his shoulder in the direction of Wilson's gaze. "American college girls," he shrugs, dismissing them without emotion, then turns back to Wilson and says, "Why don't you come into my office here at the Embassy next week and we'll see if we can address your problem, Hack?  I'm sure two old Boston boys can find a creative solution."

       "I'm going back to New York tomorrow.  I'm going to try to start my life over, since the illusion of the one I had in Hollywood has obviously come to an end."  

       Without waiting for a response, Benton turns back to Jake as Wilson's eyes are drawn across the floor to the muse, spinning magnificently in epic dance.

       "So what brings you to Casablanca, Jake?" Benton's voice intrudes again.  "Trouble?"

       "Very funny, man, but I'm out."

       "You were supposed to say 'The waters.'"

       "But I'm not playing that script anymore, Bob, I'm out.  I always told you I'd get out, and I'm out for real, man."

       Benton laughs derisively. "I find that hard to believe."

       "Just because you're too much of a junkie to get off the circuit doesn't mean I am.  I bought a joint," Jake says.  "Good Karma."

       "That's your dump!"

       "It was either that or "Mom's Home Cookin'."  You've got to start somewhere," Jake shrugs, as Chuckie whirls across the floor, holding the jailbait in his arms.

       "I'm in the process of openin' up the top three floors. When we finish redecoratin' it you won't recognize it," Jake beams proudly as Wilson moves across the floor out of earshot to get a better look at the dream girl.  

       She can't be more than twenty, a face out of a different century, ringlets of light brown hair falling down her perfect shoulders, then swinging across the cleavage of her full breasts.  According to the Buddha the perfect age difference between a man and a woman is seventeen years, so this doesn't exactly cut it, and Wilson's been down this bumpy-bump road before, and sworn--how many times has he sworn--never--don't never say never--get involved, unless of course the sweet young thing has turned that nasty corner of thirty and gone through (what astrologers call) her Saturn return.

       "You like my friend?" a high-pitched voice asks.  Wilson looks down at the grinning sparrow standing next to him. "My name is Lala," she says, offering him her small hand. "Would you like to fuck me?  Or would you rather make a play for Anastasia?"

       For some reason he laughs.

       "She'll break your heart."

       "She'll bust your balls," another voice from behind him says.  This one from a raven-haired giraffe.  "I'm Ginger," she says.  "I like older men.  Shorter men.  All men."

       "She's 6'4," Lala sings, pointing out the obvious.

       "And she's 5'4," Ginger snaps back, looking down at her friend.

       "What are you girls up to?" Wilson asks.  "Or should I say down to?" 

       "We're anthropologists," Lala offers.  "We're collecting penises."

       "I like big penises.  Short penises.  All penises," Ginger cracks.  "Are you a dinosaur?"

       "I'm a relic of sorts, if that's what you mean."

       Grinning from ear to ear, the Trader and Fisk slide into the picture. "Don't believe a word he says, girls," the Trader oozes. "He's a famous Hollywood filmmaker, he wrote and directed The Revenge of Pig Meat's Revenge."

       The little one looks likes she's going to puke, then stares the Trader straight in the eye, and with an elitist sneer, hisses, "I believe I'll pass on that rare opportunity for degradation. We're looking for something a little kinkier, if you know what I mean."  Then, looking first the Trader, and then Fisk, up and down like slabs of beef, asks,  "By the way, how big are your things?" 

       "I can't speak for Fisk here," the Trader smirks, "but right now mine feels like a pussy.  But a humongous pussy, a pussy so big it makes the Grand Canyon feel claustrophobic.  You girls virgins?" he smiles.

       "Dancing virgins! We were with the road company of Cats until the show closed in Munich," Lala lies, just as Chuckie and the dream girl waltz over to join them. 

       "What a coincidence, I just happen to be looking for a few good dancing virgins! Aren't I, Hack? Waitresses, hatcheck girls, hostesses who have something to offer the customers other than the beach-blanket blowjobs you normally get in this part of the world."  

       Chuckie, the cat in the hat who swallowed the fish in the bowl who ate the worm in the hole who took what didn't belong to him and dared Wilson to take it back, licked his chops.  "Yo!"

       "Yo yourself."

       "This is Anastasia. Anastasia, these three slime dogs are the infamous Trader Jake Stein, the notorious Hack Wilson, and Jumpin' Jackie-boy Fisk.  Once upon a time Jackie and I were in the bad war together.  Jake's about to turn his dump into the hottest club they've ever seen on The Dharma Trail, and ole Hack here used to be a real writer before he sold out to Hollywood."

       "You will make me a star?" Anastasia asks Wilson, leaning into him as she locks into his eyes.  One look and Wilson knew she was already a star, if there ever was a star twinkling with that great Goddess potential. From somewhere deep inside he felt like she could have been his daughter, could've been his wife, could've been his mother, this twenty year old muse, but instead she, Lala and Ginger did their virgin act for Jake, and immediately were signed on as the club's own Good Karma girls.  

       Hollywood was only the most obvious demon that could destroy what she had, but she didn't know that, and he didn't want to teach her, but that didn't stop him from giving her his card.  It wasn't exactly the script Wilson had in mind for the night, but in the long run it promised to do more for the plot than the obvious one-night stand in the mountains would have.  

                       *          *          *

POV

       According to Aka, we're all heroes and we're all cowards at different points in time.  You can't be one without the other.  Everybody you meet will at some critical point rise to the occasion, but at other critical points in the action completely sell out.  You can't tell which, and neither can Wilson, even about himself unfortunately.  He'd like to tell you he's a hero, that all his days of eating shit are behind him, but the most he can guarantee when he gets back to Hollywood is that he won't mind doing it again, as long as he can order the wine. 

       Until it happens, though, until the deal goes down no one will be able to tell who's on whose side.  As they say, You can't tell the players without a scorecard.  To carry that line even further, since the advent of free agency, the concept of loyalty on either side of the fence has been replaced totally by What's-in-it-for-me-babylogic.  Buyers and sellers often reverse their positions on a dime, as the pendulum swings off its trajectory.  These are bizarre times we live in. The woods are full of infomaniacs.  Information, which was once thought to be our salvation, has turned into the enemy, trashing even the most nubile minds at the most critical moments in the history of history. 

       In short, we're lost in the program, trying to find the key to unlock the door to a knowledge that will provide us with, as Aka calls it, the crazy wisdom to get out of the shit storm we've rained down on ourselves, and make the transformation to the next level of consciousness. Where or what that will be no one who isn't totally full of shit can say right now, though it's safe to say technology, for all practical intents and purposes, has completely trashed ideology.  And until we see where the former is leading us it's safe to assume the latter has turned belly-up, just satisfied it's got a ticket in line to suck hind tit. In spite of this void, Wilson, speaking belatedly for that infamous generation that was going to save the world, admits as he leaves Kathmandu, he's already done more than his share of taking dives, but he can no longer lie belly down and roll over in the clover, because if there ever was a time for cleansing, purification, and proper action, it's now.  

       What took him so long to reach this place? you might ask. A lot of individual reasons, no doubt.  Suffice it to say, he'd call it a past life contract.  Or maybe as Trader Jake says, an acid flashback from Altamont.  But it's hard to speak for Wilson on this level, so as his head drops back on the seat rest, as the plane rises over the holy mountains, we'll let his dream tell us "what really happened."

               *                    *                    *

FLASHBACK

       Cold wind on the high plain.  You can smell it a hundred miles away.  Whether it's rain or snow or death waiting over the next hill. We've been riding hard ten days now, Chuckie and me, but not a soul out here. The silence coming down from the ridge is deafening, almost like an avalanche we got buried under on the Iditarod Trail three years back, looking for fool's gold.

       Chuckie's mad, totally mad out of his mind waiting for something to happen, but he doesn't care what. "Fuck The Boss" is his motto.  "Let the bastard have what he deserves!"  I don't think I've ever met a totally honorable man, and Chuckie is no exception, though Lord knows he has his qualities. Motherfucker can ride for one thing, rip the fangs out of a wolverine with his bare hands, and thread the eye of a needledick at fifty yards, yet there is this thing inside Chuckie, this desire to bring the house down without taking responsibility for anybody else who might be inside it.  Though I have no excuse other than the desire to see what's over the next hill, I never should have let the silver-tongued devil talk me into riding for Custer.

       A week earlier, sitting across the poker table from Aces & Eights, I should have known vanity, vanity, all is Custer.  For him there is no defeat.  He cannot accept defeat.  No such thing as an inside straight flush telling the fop to fuck off.

       He has to stand, lecture, strut like a peacock across the room, his long silk dressing gown flowing behind his golden tresses like a trail of fairy dust. "The Boss is beautiful," Custer sings, "because he is good and noble and true to the truth.  You cannot hold back progress, these savages have to get serious!  We are coming with our Iron Horse, we are coming with our utensils and our God, and we will not be denied."

       "You're shy two thou, you slut," Trader Jake says.  "Put up or shut up."

       "Custer's credit is good!" he squeals.

       "Georgie-boy, have you ever been butt-fucked by a buffalo?"  The Trader eyes him coldly. "You owe me two thousand big ones, sweetheart.  Don't tell me what you're going to do for me when you become President, tell me how you're going to balance the books before I turn White Buffalo loose on your ass."

       "You wouldn't dare!" Custer rises up indignantly.

       "Wouldn't I?  Chink!" he yells.  "Send down White Buffalo!"

       Custer shrieks like a schoolgirl as the amazon enters the room.  She must be three hundred pounds, God knows how tall she is, with a face like the inside of a barber shop.

       "Stay away from me!" Custer squeals again, this time as he runs behind the poker table.

      With speed unbelying her size, she shoots out one huge paw and grabs his long blond hair, yanks him across the table like a rag doll.  Pulling up his dressing gown, she throws him over her lap and starts spanking him.

       Like a baby, Custer crying like a baby, getting what he needs.  Five, ten, who knows how long before the tears start falling in a puddle on the dirt floor as he begs for mercy.  But no mercy for Custer; fuck him!  Which is what the buffalo-woman plans to do with the barrel of his own long rifle, right up the old A-ho.

       Suddenly out of nowhere The Trader's hand intrudes, stopping her before she can shove it home. "Do you want us to watch your humiliation, George?"

       "Is it extra?" Custer whines.

       "You bet it is, you slut.  There are no bargains in hell!"

       Custer shakes his head, and The Trader motions for us to rise.  "Come on, boys," he says, "We've got to go see a man about a horse.  Or is that a horse about a man?"

       The squaw shoves the barrel up Custer's ass.  A scream of pleasure cuts through time.  Custer starts whinnying as she pumps the gun in and out, in and out.  Sweat pours down his face, his eyes hollow, sucking up his pain like a vampire swilling blood.  George Armstrong Custer, in this one moment, embracing his ultimate terror and surrendering, surrendering, surrendering in order to face his greatest fear like a man.

       "What a geek," Chuckie laughs as we saddle up.

       The Trader swings his weight up on Old Paint and points the brush at Chuckie. "He who casts the first stone usually gets it between the eyes, Charles."

       "I know, I know, don't tell me again, man.  I got a big mouth.  One day, some day, I'm gonna shut the fuck up and not say anything for ten years, do nothin' but sit and watch the shit fly by."

       We ride then, hard ride, two or three hours into the dust. Up ahead in the future, on the other side of the river, Crazy Horse waits.

       Not patiently, though.

       Stalking back and forth across the chaparral like a shadow bouncing off the great waters, he disappears in the light, then sits down at the bargaining table and examines the guns.  "Many ponies, Jake. I give you many ponies.  Too many to count."  He stands up then and breaks the rifle over his knee.  Stares hard at The Trader across the table.  "Today is a good day to die."

       Unshaken, The Trader leans across the table between them. "But tomorrow is a better day.  This is bigger than both of us, Horse.   I trust you, babe, so I'll tell you what I'm gonna do, we'll put it on your account."

       The deal is done then.  Almost.  Almost.

       Almost done....

       Horse has some reservations.  "Like, what about, how'm I gonna tell, whether or not--"

       "'Cause I'll be there, Chief," Chuckie pipes in.  "Me and Hack'll bring the sissy to you."

       Sure we will, Chuckie!  'Cause a deal is a deal is a deal and a mouth is a mouth is a mouth.  And up in the hills, oh Jesus, they're looking down on us.  Five minutes after we report to "The Boss" the coast is clear, the biggest fuckin' audience you've ever seen charges down to see the show, but I don't believe they'll be callin' for encores.

       "Holy shit!" Chuckie says.

       "They're with us,  right?"

       "Holy shit!" Chuckie gasps.  "Make a run for it, Hack!"  He turns, rising high in the air on two wheels, and makes like a bat out of hell over the hill, back towards Custer.  "Run you stupid son of a bitch!" he hollers back over his shoulder.  "Run!"

       But I don't think I will.  Don't think I can.  Instead, take a deep breath, pull out my binoculars and look up at the hordes whooping and swooping down on me.  Up on the ridge, Horse looks down at me with absolute disdain as I lift my fist high above my head in defiant salute, and repeat slowly, "Today is a bad day to die. . . but tomorrow might be worse," then charge into the breach!









The editor and publisher of Smoke Signals and the now dormantSoHo Arts Weekly, Mike Golden has published work in such publications as Rolling Stone, The Paris Review, Exquisite Corpse,Between C&D, and The L.A. Weekly. He has just finished Been To The Mountaintop, Went Over The Edge, a novel set in Memphis during, and thirty years after, the Martin Luther King assassination.  His book on the life, work and mysterious death of Cleveland poet d.a. levy, The Buddhist Third Class Junkmail Oracle(Seven Stories Press, 1999), is currently being developed into a feature film.  He lives and works in New York.