Archive for the 'Animal Matters' Category
An Actual Really Truly Live “Good Friday” Would Mean A Naked Stoned Hippie Woman Sirened Jesus Onto A Plane, Bound For The Great Ride Open, Flying Him Forever And Away From The CrossPublished April 17, 2014 Animal Matters , Capital Crime , Eros , Eternal Recurrence , First Peoples , Into The Light , Israel/Palestine , Johnny Law , La Musica , Oddbins , Outer Limits , Sunday Services , Variations In B-Flat , What's Good Leave a Comment
‘Cause otherwise, he’s going to have to go through this.
He is so much better off. With the naked stoned hippie woman. In the great ride open.
Maundy Thursday is the Christian feast, or holy day, falling on the Thursday before Easter. It commemorates the Maundy and Last Supper of Jesus . . . Most scholars agree that the English word Maundy in that name for the day is derived through Middle English and Old French mandé, from the Latin mandatum, the first word of the phrase “Mandatum novum do vobis ut diligatis invicem sicut dilexi vos.” (“A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another.”)
I won’t leave the attic
and with apologies to Apollinaire I can smoke
while working. I’m doing it
I’m going to it. The jerks are working
empty handed and then they pick up
twigs. Now they want to smoke me
out, but I’m too bat-like!
too happy with my stash and rock and
roll. Unlike the souffle below
who intends to burst. Deep breath, funny air.
Last year there were a lot of daffodils, but not a lot of iris.
I have no idea why this is. Because no one is talking.
When you are a red and transparent bearded dragon, and you are really relaxed, sleeping at night, up there on your sticks, you just let your front legs totally hang down.
I now have three wicker rocking chairs, and two wicker non-rockers.
I am The Wicker Man.
When you are zebra finches, you are real easy about what is “daylight.”
If somebody turns a light on where you are, you come out of your nest and start klacking around, as if it is the dawn.
Humans should not take advantage of this. They can muck up their own sleep schedules, but they should not discombobulate these Klacks.
For there is only one thing, for sure, that no deer, anywhere, will not eat, and that is cement.
Squirrels get a bad reputation among humans because most humans only observe squirrels on the road. Where they zig and zag back and forth in front of incoming automobiles.
This leads humans to believe that squirrels are brainless. But they are not.
A lot of Bad Animals want to eat squirrels. Squirrels cannot outrun many of these Bad Animals. But they can confuse and frustrate the fuck out of them, by zigging and zagging, zigging and zagging. Through this, they can often get away.
When humans started inflicting automobiles upon the planet, about 100 years or so ago, squirrels, quite rightly, regarded these automobiles as a Danger. Evolution had taught them that the way to evade Danger—if there was no tree immediately at hand—is to zig and zag.
That doesn’t often work with automobiles.
But you can’t blame the squirrels.
Evolution sometimes takes a long time to catch up. For instance, the reason why many—and soon most—Americans, they are as fat as blimps, is because humans evolved to savor most the taste of fruit and meat. Which, these days, means candy bars and McDonalds hamburgers. Affordable to almost anybody.
For 100,000 years, fruit and meat were most often in short supply. No longer.
And so Americans, till evolution catches up, will weigh more than many planets.
Some creatures, in re automobiles, have it even worse than squirrels.
Take the wolverine. Evolution had taught the wolverine that, no matter what it was, even if it was a grizzly bear, the best thing to do was to stand and fight.
And so, when the automobile was unleashed upon the land, the wolverine would stand in the road, and say to the automobile: “C’mon.”
This is why, today, there are no wolverines, where there are automobiles.
Squirrels, when not afflicted by automobiles, are actually pretty disciplined and direct.
They have also, over the last two years, buried about 700,000 peanuts around this yard.
For, if someone were to dig up this place, a century or two along the line, they would no doubt conclude: “this property, without doubt, was a peanut plantation.”
When, in truth, there were just a fair number of squirrels, and jays, to whom I fed peanuts. Because they liked them so. And because I liked them, so.
A while there some time back, a penguin attempted to assassinate my daughter.
My daughter the well-known award-winning deviant.
The penguin assumed the form of a coffee mug, and then rudely hurled my daughter to the floor. The penguin committed great violence to her hand. It could have been terminal. But fortunately a kindly doctor immediately washed over my daughter great waves of opiates. So she felt no penguin pain.
Heretofore, my daughter had believed penguins to be benign—yea, verily, even Goodly, even Godly—beings.
This: my fault. For I had failed to advise my daughter, as a Good and Proper father should, that penguins are in fact a veritable Fount of Evil.
There is a Reason why penguins live only in the Antarctic.
This is because, long ago, the other animals, minerals, and vegetables of the planet, exiled the penguins there. Because of the penguins’ Great Evil. That—the Great Evil—is also why the animals, minerals, and vegetables, they ripped the wings off the penguins. And replaced them with flaccid flippers. So the penguins would not be able to lift off the continent of Antarctica, and thereby invade, befoul, plague, the rest of the planet.
That penguins are Foul Beyond Measure is not generally appreciated . . . until they suddenly run utterly wild, and commit bedeviled acts like attempting to transport my daughter to a hospital, morgue, or asylum.
Few humans have been able to penetrate the seemingly pathetic, waddling, flightless, nimrodness of the penguin, to regard the great seething evil that truly roils inside them.
In fact, the “human” who has best understood the penguin, is not a human at all. “He” is instead an alien from space, here on this planet as an anthropologist. Documenting, for those Out There, the numberless weirdities of this planet.
In one of his very first films, Fata Morgana, “he,” this alien, traveling on this planet under the rubric Werner Herzog, devoted the first five minutes or so of his feature to endless looping shots of an airplane struggling to rise from an airstrip to ascend above the Sahara desert. He kept looping this footage, until even a human could understand that air travel, at this time, on this planet, is stone-mad.
Some 36 years later, in Encounters At The End Of The World, Herzog traveled to the very bottom of the world, in order to prove absolutely that penguins are, likewise, stone-mad.
In the clip below, Herzog nakedly exposes a penguin who has so flipped his lid he is determined to extinguish his being. Like Sylvia Plath. Or Ernest Hemingway.
This is sad.
But it also sad when penguins hurl my daughter to the floor. Or drown Jim Morrison in the bathtub.
One of the doomed Morrison’s last songs, it was “Riders On The Storm.”
In truth, the song was originally envisioned as “Penguins On The Storm.” But after the penguins drowned Morrison in that bathtub in Paris, they intimidated the remaining band members into changing the song’s title, and many of the lyrics.
Hints of the original tune, they do survive. In, for instance, these lines:
there’s a killer on the road
his brain is squirmin’ like a toad
For anyone who has ever had a daughter whom a penguin suddenly and unaccountably hurled to the floor, these lines will ring true of the Great Evil that dwells within the flabby flightless breasts of these Antarctic—yea, verily—Satanic creatures.
The penguins must be stopped. No longer may they be permitted to run utterly amok, drowning lizard kings in the bath, sprawling my daughter to the floor.
That is why tonight I ordered from Amazon the oil paints.
For I intend, in oil, to freeze the free-range insanity of the utter nutter penguin fleeing into the freeze, depicted there in the Herzog film.
This painting, once completed, it will spread among the people like scabies, like swine flu, like chunder chunked from the grunting heaving pig-lips of Runt Limprod.
And once they have viewed this painting, all the People, they will Know, that the penguins, they are a Menace.
And therefore, the people, once Apprised, never shall they allow the penguins to hurl my daughter to the floor again.
But. The penguins. Somehow they Know. For I just went out on the back porch—braving the storm—to have a smoke.
Here, it is raining. Here, it is hailing. Here, it is snowing. Here, out back, is a sheet of ice.
And here, now, waddling, across that sheet, and in numbers limitless, come, determined, the penguins.
were you ever driving at 3 in the morning down some 2 lane road in upstate new york & it was raining & the only thing you can get on the radio is some station out of memphis or someplace which comes in perfectly clear & plays great music like life is but a dream du wop du wop & you just turn it up & say to yourself “what the fuck, what the fuck?” well that’s how i feel walking to the post office.
and under the boughs unbowed
all clothed in snowy shroud
she had no heart so hardened
all under the boughs unbowed
Miep, you say:
Blueness, did you hear about that poor man who got shot down in the hills by the ABQ police? My other friends and I were all very upset. There are people trying to arrest the ABQ police department now. It’s horrible. Firing squads dressed up in police suits.
Blueness, he was just up there camping in the hills, because it got to be too much for him. And our delightful asshole culture sent a bunch of dudes up there after him with a trained attack dog and assault rifles.
And they murdered him after they escalated the situation. After he agreed to surrender.
He was just camping.
Fucking shot him down. He turned away. I’ve had friends who were that upset. They fucking shot him down. He could have been a good friend of mine from earlier back in my life. They fucking shot him down. “Firing Squad Dressed Up In Police Costumes.”
Who knows who that man was? He could have been a lover, a painter, an artist. He could have been our best friend.
Fucking shot him down.
I love how you hew to non-violence, Blueness. That’s a tough road to travel.
And I say: how can I not hew to non-violence?
If I do not, then someday, in spirit, or in flesh, I will be up there, down there, just like them, them ABQ law-jockeys, knuckles drug all the way into the ground, fucking shooting someone down, because s/he did, basically, not sufficiently walk, like me, talk, like me.
and i will hang my head
hang my head
And I cannot do that, because, all those other all and everys, they’re me.
I know this. Whenever I ever encounter any other being on this, or any other, planet—animal, mineral, vegetable—I know that being is me.
How can people not see this?
How can people hurt and kill themselves?
Beats me. Beats us all. All us all.
I have arisen not from the dead. But from the living. And I am not a voice crying in the wilderness. For there is no winter here. No dark. No despair. The lights are going on in my house. For there is no darkness anywhere. I have all my lights on. And it is my own face, I see in the blazing windows of all the houses on earth.
Once upon an all and every, we were all of one undifferentiated consciousness, spanning all of space and time. Anything we wanted to be, any place we could be, we would be. All and every one of us. And always together.
Somewhere along the line, it was determined—probably by somebody like Satan—that such shit was, well, boring.
It was all happy and wrapped and loving and snug and snuggly and all, but, like, where was the great wide open?
What might it be like if one could shed the other 400 trillion beings clinging to the brain-pan, and live a life just as a one?
It’ll be, like, fun.
And so, they—we—did that.
And, from that, is where we, here on earth, get terms like “shrieking,” “ululating,” “rending their garments,” “biting through their tongues,” “scraping the shit off their skin with pot-shards,” “screaming till their lips bleed,” “blowing their brains out,” and other pleasantries.
I mean: think: why is the first thing a baby born into this world, do do, is cry?
Because that baby being, having moved from the collective consciousness, to the trapped caged lonely consciousness of singular, feels that hollowness and estrangement and alienation and radio silence, and then realizes: oh shit. I wanna go back.
All life. Of every human being. On this planet. Is about wanting to go back. To the undifferentiated cloud. To the great wide open.
All of everything every human has ever been about, here, is about that.
“Love,” always and every acknowledged in every culture as some sort of misty grail, is so acknowledged because it is the closest the scraped-off individualized human loonily marooned on this planet can get, to what it was, all and always. where they came from, where all were suffused in one, all were in touch, all were one.
Miep: the download, to this planet, from the collective to the individual: in this there are variables.
There are, like, the fucking rawboned mutant ruined Bill Gates 666 Windows downloads, which result in monsters like those ABQ cops, who feel no kin to anyone, ‘cept maybe pit bulls, and so slaver to kill, conquer, subdue, smile, smirk.
Whereas people like you and I, we are more suffused with something like the Eden-promise of Apple, when it was still but the gentle dream in Steve Wozniak’s soul, there in the puttering Palo Alto garage, long before the grasping money-souled Steve Jobs seized hold of it, and transformed it into Product.
It’s all going to be okay, Miep. Because we really are all one soul, and one being. And this all is just a temporary experiment, one disastrously launched upon because, up there in “heaven,” we got bored.
That’s what all this all is all about.
In getting there, some of us incarnate as dumbshit pit bulls, like the ABQ cops. And some incarnate as people who, like you, pet tarantulas, and feel so much you can barely stand to wake each day.
We all, eventually, one by one, decided up there, that this was a good idea.
We have to trust that it really is.
I believe it is.
I believe we will all go again into the great wide open. And without bodies. Which is the way that we came here. But we will go back out with individual “minds.” Within the collective ones.
And I believe that, when we at last swirl really away, a la Childhood’s End, we will retroactively bring with us all incarnated corporeal beings ever sentenced to this planet.
Which is what, fumbling, people like Jesus and Buddha were trying to get to.
And now you know. Why, really, I no longer post on the cross of Daily Kos.
As neither do you.
you can take
all the tea in china
put it in a big brown bag for me
sail it right around
all the seven oceans
drop it straight into the deep blue sea
Until today, I believed absolutely that a nun invented barbed wire.
Then I was informed, by the intertubes, that this was just some shit made up by James Joyce, in Ulysses.
That was a nice nun there, really sweet face. Wimple suited her small head. Sister? Sister? I am sure she was crossed in love by her eyes. Very hard to bargain with that sort of a woman. I disturbed her at her devotions that morning. But glad to communicate with the outside world. Our great day, she said. Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Sweet name too: caramel. She knew I, I think she knew by the way of she. If she had married she would have changed. I suppose they really were short of money. Fried everything in the best butter all the same. No lard for them. My heart’s broke eating dripping. They like buttering themselves in and out. Molly tasting it, her veil up. Sister? Pat Claffey, the pawnbroker’s daughter. It was a nun they say invented barbed wire.
According to the intertubes, barbed wire was actually invented by some farmer in Illinois named Joe.
Sorry. I’m not buying it.
For the intertubes is an ever-roiling snakes’-nest of lies.
Anybody can post any nonsense, balderdash, barking-mad insanity to the thing.
I know. I’ve done it myself.
For just one instance, the intertubes would have me believe that when Lindsay Lohan was sentenced to community service in a morgue, it was a tip-off that she is an MK-ULTRA-like sex/drug slave embroiled in Call to Chaos rites by a Freemasonic conspiracy involving US intelligence agents who also controlled Marilyn Monroe and directed “Manchurian Candidate” assassin Sirhan Sirhan.
Then there’s this sadsack over to the left. He is the guy who invented the typewriter. He later disowned the machine, refusing to use it, or even recommend it. He was a newspaper publisher who was an indefatigable advocate of the abolition of the death penalty. This was in the mid-1850s. Clearly, ahead of his time. His typewriter had ivory keys, and ebony keys, like a piano. He lived in Wisconsin, land of cheese. He, in the course of things, sucked in TB, and eventually died of it, some nine years later. He was 71 at the time, which was pretty old for somebody dying in 1890. He may have soured on the typewriter because to test it he kept shipping it to a crazed maniac who delighted in destroying it. The maniac would ship it back in pieces. The maniac kind of like that ape in the old TV commercials who used to jump up and down on the luggage. The eschewer-of-his-own-invention sadsack was the doyen of QWERTY. And though he turned his back on it, QWERTY controls Anglo scribblers to this day.
I understand that in this universe there recently concluded an “Olympics.”
A “Winter Olympics.”
In my universe, there has never been any such thing.
Because that’s where it began. The Olympics.
And it occurred, the Olympics, occurs, only in summer.
Because this is Greece.
And we, here in Greece, we do not have skis. Or skates. Or snowboards.
We, pretty much, don’t even have snow.
So we don’t have sports in winter. Instead, in winter, we go inside. We build wee fires. We eat warm food. And we, hot, get jiggy with it.
All the latter-day, today, Olympics events, here in my universe, they are as those that occurred 1600 years or so ago. There in Greece. And the performers, now as then, represent only themselves. And, now as then, they compete stark naked.
For the fine high sensual breeze passing across their oiled bodies, as they do disport and play.
Maybe somebody will win.
In our universe, we remember that the original Olympics were about fucking and fighting.
In your universe, you don’t much fuck. You just fight.
I understand that in your universe the “Olympics” occur every two years and they move from place to place where billions are spent on temporary crazed transitory facilities and the Olympoid mavens are always inventing new events and each team screams at each other team that there is cheating and the athletes are festooned and costumed and dragooned by peculiar artificial ephemeral constructs known as “nations” and are not individual free human beings alive on this earth but limpy-loo computers the rulers may soon someday be able to control through their teeth.
Meat nor drink nor money have I none.
I am so glad that I do not live in your universe. But instead live in mine.
Where the Olympics, once resurrected, were sited permanently in Greece. You, you in your universe, currently have a Greece with a bankruptcy problem. In my universe there is no such problem. At all. The permanently-sited Olympics: it obviated that.
In your universe, you had to have a Putin.
This might have been okay, if he had been made to skate, shirtless, across the ice. That would have been like a Dukakis tank moment.
But, alas, that did not occur.
But that’s okay. Because, here, in my universe, Putin is all so over.
And he was over more than 20 years ago. When the band Electronic released this song—there, below: “Soviet.”
Putin was done then. As he is done now.
So let it be written. So let it be done. Here, as it is, in your heaven. And earth. And everywhere else. You may need. Anyone like him. To be done.
There are no nations, no parties, no ideologies.
There are only queens. And kings.
It was a test. And there were people that passed, and there were people that didn’t pass.
When we did the show up in Portland—to give you an idea of someone who passed—some businessman, just walkin’ around on the street, came in; we charged a buck, and for a buck you got to see us make all our noise, and the Dead make all their noise, and anything else that happened.
This guy was in a suit, and he had an umbrella. He got the customary cup of stuff. And about midnight, you could see him really get ripped. Somebody who’d probably never been anything but drunk on beer. But he looked around, and he saw all these strange people, and he looked down, and the spotlight was showing down on him, and he saw his shadow.
And he stands up straight, puts that umbrella over his shoulder, and he says:
“The king walks.”
“The king turns around.”
“Now the king will dance.”
Alpha and omega, the beginning and the ending, which is, and which was, and which is to come.
On those stepping into rivers staying the same other and other waters flow.
The chemical composition of seawater, the Science Men tell us, is identical to that of human tears.
And seawater, they tell us, is from where, on this planet, all life did grow.
I believe that, in a mobius strip of time, the tears shed by us, created the oceans, from which came us.
So. Don’t hold back. Let them flow. All your tears. Like water flow.
And upon them, someday, you may sail. Sail to Caledonia.
A number of new laws—national, state, local—took effect January 1.
Many of these laws are Good. Such as the local ordinance that now permits me to deploy mammoth spike strips, both east and west, so that by the time these ludicrous motor vehicles lumber by The Manor, their tires are totally deflated, the infernally combusting sadsacks shrieking along, slowly, but on the rims, and thereby no longer posing any Menace, at all, to the squirrels.
Others of these laws are, to many people, Unknown.
Such as the Decision by the 60 Cro-Magnons of the United States Senate, back last spring when they were busy not being sane about the nation’s gun laws, to introduce and approve legislation designating American Warrior as the new national icon, and Ordering that he be depicted on both the nation’s money, and its flag.
You see, throughout many regions of this planet, there exists an iconic representation that is said to embody the essential nature and characteristics of a nation’s people.
In Britain, for example, there is John Bull—a stout, middle-aged, stuffy twit, with a Union Jack emblazoned across his ample and protruding midsection.
In France, meanwhile, there is Marianne, a comely, topless, determined lass, most often depicted leading the people against some Outrage or another.
In Bhutan, there is Druk, the dragon who speaks truth in gentle thunder.
In the United States, traditionally, there has been Uncle Sam. A tall, lanky, bewhiskered gent, with a penchant for scowling and pointing his finger at people, commonly as part of a demand that they go enlist in some wing of the death industry, so they can slog off to kill non-Americans somewhere.
But in the 1970s Uncle Sam was appropriated by the extraterrestrial anarchists of the Grateful Dead, transformed into a merry skeleton, and set about dancing and drugging and fornicating and astral-space-traveling and all sorts of other essential wonderfulness.
So, decided the Cro-Magnons of the US Senate, Uncle Sam, he is over. He has been soiled, besmirched, besmeared. He cannot be redeemed. And, moreover, the new, real, true, iconic representation, that nails, precisely, the essential nature and characteristics of the American people, these days, decreed they, is American Warrior. That is the fellow shown in the photo to the right.
He is America.
American Warrior, he is ugly, and he is obese. He has guns, and he has ammo. He has a computer, so he can howl, to all and every, on whatever might drag its knuckles through his brain, and without surcease, all of the day, and all of the night. He lives in a hole even a termite or scorpion would spurn. He is without sense. He is without taste. He is without grace. He is without shame.
He is America.
That is why he is going on the flag. The design for the new American flag, the American Warrior flag, the flag Mandated by Congress, it may be seen below.
Expect to see it shining, in the rockets’ red glare, soon, from a flagpole near you.
And the money, henceforth, it shall read: “In God—And American Warrior—We Trust.”
American Warrior patches will also, by law, be sewn on to the uniforms of all the nation’s serial killers. And American Warrior decals will be placed upon all the vehicles employed in the American death industry.
Programs shall be introduced into the nation’s schools, to encourage American children to model themselves—physically, mentally, morally, spiritually—after American Warrior. Those children who do not so model themselves—they shall be Punished.
Hundreds of thousands of Americans costumed like American Warrior shall be dispatched across the land—like a sort of escape of characters from a satanic Disneyland—and those who do not salute American Warrior, as he passes by, shall be guilty of a felony, and will serve five years in the federal prison, after which they shall be deported.
It’s a new dawn.
* in an alternative universe
for Carter Camp
My grandparents were “removed” by jackbooted thugs when the cavalry came into our village and forced us at gunpoint to leave our ancestral lands and walk to a prison in Oklahoma. They rarely talked about it but all the old folks of our nation spent the rest of their lives yearning for what they had left behind and what they had lost. In fact that yearning still lives inside me too. As a part of the cost of “manifest destiny.”
Too many Americans think the native genocide in this country is “ancient history” but my Grandmother and Grandfather were alive when our nation (Ponca) was torn from their lands and “removed” to Oklahoma. We lost a third of our people on the long march and the ensuing concentration camp. We were reduced from a thriving people of over 3,000 to around 400 by the end of the century. The final solution damn near worked. But genocide takes many things from a people besides all the lives. My nation still suffers its effects today in many uncountable ways.
The Americans shot several million rounds at me when I led my people at Wounded Knee in 1973. I shot back at them and never considered my citizenship any factor, we were fighting and both sides were trying to kill the others. Two of my soldiers were killed but no one ever objected to it because they were Americans. I was targeted in an up close assassination attempt and damn near got whacked, if I had been I doubt anyone would have said anything.
The only possible opening for a statement like this is that I detest writing.