Archive for the 'Capital Crime' Category

Then There Are No Mountains

Once upon a time, the Japanese serenely, if painfully, slit their bellies . . . if they happened to drop a dish, or gaze cross-eyed at someone Above them.

While the Chinese were untroubled, as they further refined, building upon experience of some 5000 years, the most extreme and partypainful of tortures, while meanwhile routinely confining the feet of their women into monstrously deformed gnarled clumps, smaller even than baseballs.

Then: came the white people.

The white people demanded the Chinese and the Japanese wear suits and ties, and fellate capitalism.

This, the Japanese obediently did. Then they ran completely amok, and attempted to violently ant-crawl over the entire Pacific. Americans, armed, barely beat them back; the Japanese, retrenching, then shifted to swallowing all and every through electronics.

The Chinese, introduced to capitalism, first ate each other like hyenas; then, once one tong secured a place above all others, that tong determined to continue to torture and kill anything and everything that got in its way, while meanwhile making more money than anyone.

Now, the Chinese, they are abolishing mountains.

What the fuck. The things—mountains—don’t turn a profit. So off and out with them, then.

The Chinese are ripping down mountains to make flat places where Chinese can live.

They don’t engage in any balderdash like environmental studies, they just rip the shit down.

Several Chinese, who no one will pay attention to, submitted a paper to Nature saying maybe this isn’t a good idea.

Moving mountains is a complicated and dangerous business, even when people know what they’re doing. But smoothing out the landscape tear down the mountainwithout having a game plan first? That’s a whole other story.

Already, these projects have caused erosion, landslides and dust storms. Rivers have been entirely blocked or polluted, and forests, farmland and wildlife habitats have been lost. And that’s just the leveling part of this equation. A whole new set of problems emerges once building on the new land starts. In Yan’an, much of the soil being excavated from the mountains to fill in the valley is loess, a fine silty soil that doesn’t hold up well when wet. Building on that? Not the best choice.

This is stupidity beyond even folly. And it is already over.

We say everything comes back. And you cannot divert the river from the riverbed. We say every act has its consequences. That this place has been shaped by the river, and that the shape of this place tells the river where to go.

We say every act comes back on itself. There are consequences. You cannot cut the trees from the mountainside without a flood. That if the trees grew on that hillside there would be no flood. And you cannot divert this river. We say look how the water flows from this place and returns to us as rainfall, everything returns, we say, and one thing follows another, there are limits, we say, on what can be done and everything moves. We are all a part of this motion, we say, and the way of the river is sacred, and this grove of trees is sacred, and we ourselves, we tell you, are sacred.

Mississippi Burping

Abraham Lincoln was a son of a bitch,
his ass ran over with a seven-year itch
his fist beat his dick like a blacksmith’s hammer
while his asshole whistled the Star-Spangled Banner

—Shelby Foote, reciting a popular Mississippi ditty

On Memorial Day 2005, George II stood atop 260,000 dead men and told us the day was sent to commemorate American lives ended in Iraq, to “honor them by completing the mission for which they gave their lives; by defeating the terrorists.”

Over on the radio, talk-show host Rick Roberts opined that Memorial Day represented the antithesis of his bete noir: immigration.

Neither man deemed it worthy to note that Memorial Day was intended to honor the dead of the Civil War. George II, in his remarks, mentioned yeehawnot once that war, though the site of his speech, Arlington National Cemetery, consists of land owned prior to the Civil War by Robert E. Lee, land that, once Lee turned traitor, was confiscated by the US government, then purposefully sown with corpses so as to render it uninhabitable by Lee or his descendants. Roberts didn’t manage to mention the Civil War, either—perhaps because more than 500,000 immigrants served in the Civil War, constituting some 25% of the Union Army.

In contrast to George II and Mr. Rick, white folk living in our southern states understand the nature and meaning of Memorial Day. Which is why they don’t much like to celebrate it.

In his distressing tome Confederates in the Attic, journalist Tony Horwitz finds himself in Vicksburg, Mississippi on a Memorial Day in the mid-1990s. In that town, Horwitz found, there were two American Legion posts: one white, one black.

The white Legionnaires refused to involve themselves in Memorial Day. “‘You do Memorial Day,’” they informed the black post, “‘and we’ll do Veteran’s Day.’” Every year the black post would invite the white Legionnaires to attend a Memorial Day wreath-laying ceremony; every year the white Legionnaires declined to attend. The black post had to pay for black marching bands to come in from out of state; there were always “reasons” why the local school band could not participate.

“They said, ‘School got out a few days ago and the uniforms have been washed and put away,’” Horwitz was told. “Well, we can wash them again. The cleaners aren’t rong negrowsleaving town. But that’s their excuse. There’s a Miss Mississippi pageant in July. I bet you the school band comes out for that.”

May 28, 1996 saw a massive community turnout in Vicksburg for the passing of the Olympics Torch on its way to the games in Atlanta. Bands from all the local schools and military installations participated. But for the Vicksburg Memorial Day ceremony two days later, these bands were unavailable. As the local Army Engineers for two years refused to fire the traditional twenty-one gun salute at the Memorial Day ceremony, claiming it could not afford the ammunition.

White folk in Vicksburg remain so wedded to the Lost Cause that many don’t even acknowledge the Fourth of July. Shelby Foote recalls that in the 1930s “there was a family from Ohio in town, God knows why, and on July Fourth they drove their car up on the levee and spread a blanket and had a picnic. They didn’t set the brakes on the car and it ran down into the Mississippi River and everyone said, ‘It served them right for celebrating the Fourth of July.’”

So renowned was Vicksburg’s resistance to celebrating July 4 that Dwight Eisenhower was dispatched to the community in 1947, charged with convincing the town’s white citizens to rejoin the Union. His visit had little effect. At the end of the 20th Century, there were still no July 4th fireworks in Vicksburg. To the white Vicksburger, July 4 remains a day of mourning: the anniversary of the 1863 day the city capitulated to the Union.

In Vicksburg, as elsewhere in the south, the preferred holiday is Confederate Memorial Day, a day in which the celebrant wallows in remembrance of the righteousness of the Cause. Reflecting the fact that it is utterly hopeless to expect in this country any sort of accurate collective memory of the true “reasons” why George II annihilated Iraq, Alabama Governor Bob Riley was in 2005 convinced by Lost Causists to excise from his annual Confederate Memorial Day proclamation a paragraph “that said slavery was a cause of the [Civil] War.”

The ongoing southernization of America further requires that rebs, though they deeply despise the day, actually be credited with the founding of Memorial Day. A tale is spun in which two Mississippi war widows decide in 1866 to place flowers upon the graves of fallen soldiers, American and secessionist alike. But the notion that this mythical act marked the flowering of Memorial Day is, in truth, a lie.

A word about Shelby Foote. Amid the fawning coverage of Foote following Ken Burns’ The Civil War, it was little noted that this southern historian admired as “a fine man” the slave trader and terrorist Nathan Bedford Forrest, described the Ku Klux Klan as “very akin” to the French Resistance, considered emancipation “a sin,” and damned modern blacks for behaving “somewhere between ape and man.”

Yeehaw. March on a road of bones. Same as it ever was.

All The Other Kids

Shake The Tree

Yada Yada Yada, Blah Blah Blah

Madness

Madness

Madness

Gold That Never Was

Gleai Foar Feih

A Manhattan court stenographer was fired after reportedly typing: “I hate my job, I hate my job” instead of recording criminal trial dialogue. Daniel Kochanski’s actions apparently also included simply hitting random keys . . . .

Huffington Post

“I would prefer not to.”

—”Bartleby, The Scrivener,” Herman Melville

Horp jeem klob torm ahai vortyuoip. Klimoid shui shishl kleet.

Harko glorg plipplip ohuio flerd groidflee ambo iu tord plitklood. Af og kluet. Agonon, ablebi—fortyu ambo terb shuishy fun fun funadalt glog-glog—pluuub chim tord!

“Orglieop norg ardog bannub,” kleuio frad af og klerd. “Dor agk fordelyk agoyu tert-ter.”

“Heamblow ferkmard glorb ahio iou sipl-sipl,” kord og af gleeb tortmla. “Chingalo naturlick roaden marchen bonen.”

Agoober dern-a-ler-den-dern, squeelinlikeapiggin panathema grandeochunder!

Hork! Hork! Gort lork ahiou whoiu hcduwe[yfiq[YIYFIO plert.

Pleebyuoir. Ghjkuiop. Frigih!

Know

wrong

she don’t lie 
she don’t lie 
she don’t lie: ukraine

anyone who had a heart
they wouldn’t turn around and break it
and anyone who’s ever played a part
they wouldn’t turn around and hate it

they say: ukraine
sweet ukraine
oh: ukraine
sweet ukraine

We are all drowning in filth. When I talk to anyone or read the writings of anyone who has any axe to grind, I feel that intellectual honesty and balanced judgement have simply disappeared from the face of the earth. Everyone’s thought is forensic, everyone is simply putting a “case” with deliberate suppression of his opponent’s point of view, and, what is more, with complete insensitiveness to any sufferings except those of himself and his friends. The Indian nationalist is sunken in self pity and hatred of Britain and utterly indifferent to the miseries of China, the English pacifist works himself up into frenzies about concentration camps in the Isle of same as it ever wasMan and forgets about those in Germany etc. etc. One notices this in the case of people one disagrees with, such as Fascists or pacifists, but in fact everyone is the same, at least everyone who has definite opinions. Everyone is dishonest, and everyone is utterly heartless towards people who are outside the immediate range of his own interests and sympathies. What is most striking of all is the way sympathy can be turned on or off like a tap according to political expediency. All the pinks, or most of them, who flung themselves to and fro in their rage against Nazi atrocities before the war, forgot all about these atrocities and obviously lost their sympathy with the Jews etc as soon as the war began to bore them. Ditto with people who hated Russia like poison up to 22 June 1941 and then suddenly forgot about the purges, the GPU etc the moment Russia came into the war. I am not thinking of lying for political ends, but of actual changes in subjective feeling.

—George Orwell, April 27, 1942

i’ve been runnin’
from side to side
now i know for sure
that both sides lie

they’re going wild
the call came in
early morning predawn, then
the followers of chaos:
out of control

they’re numbering the monkeys
the monkeys and the monkeys
the followers of chaos:
out of control

the call came in to party central
meeting of the green and simple
try to tell us something we don’t know

they’re meeting at the monument
the call came in: the monument
to liberty and honor under the honor roll

disturbance at the heron house
a stampede at the monument
to liberty and honor under the honor roll

a gathering of grunts and greens
cogs and grunts and hirelings
a meeting of a mean idea to hold

feeding time has come and gone
they’ll lose their heart and head for home
try to tell us something we don’t know

we don’t know

we don’t know

know

know

know

know

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 Cross

‘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.

Gethsemane

Jesus On The Storm

Into The Great Weird Open

Bible Study

from the book of Genesis

8:1 And the ark bobbed on the face of the waters, for a fuck of a long time. And Noah, he was sore A-Thirst. For though the N-man had dutifully brought aboard the boat, two by two, every ant and chigger and screwworm that did inhabit the earth, he had forgotten, in his haste, to secure any booze.

2: And so Noah, seriously Jonesing, and drank it allfacing the Wrath of the DTs, sent forth a raven, saying unto him, “Bring me back a bottle. Try and get gin. It hits.”

3: And the raven, he flew high, and he flew low, and finally he did Find a bottle, floating upon the waters. He drew forth the cork, and then he tasted of the liquor, to make sure it was Fit for the irascible jonesing Noah. But lo, yea verily, when the taste was completed, not a drop in the bottle remained.

4: And the raven flew, unsteadily, back to the ark, and there slurred and hiccupped to Noah, “Sorry, boss; no booze be about.”

5: And Noah, as one drunk knows another, knew that the raven had partaken of the Stinking Waters, and his Wrath, it knew no bounds, was without measure; yea, verily, not even in cubits.

6: And, in his Anger, the N-Man sent forth his Hand, and with it he grabbed a squid, and, mightily Squeezing it, spewed squid ink all over the raven. And that is why the raven, formerly white, is Black unto this day.

7: And Noah stalked wrathfully through the bilge-waters swamping the ark, until he came unto the Dove. And then, unto the dove, he screamed, till his lips bled: “Bring me some fuckin’ booze, goddamit!”

8: And the dove, she was sore Afraid. For Noah was holding a gun to the head of the dove’s mate. And Noah, God’s anointed, was Shrieking: “I am an American! And if I do not soon splash booze down my gullet, the dove gets it!”

9: And the dove, she flew high, and she flew low, until she Came upon, on the face of the waters, a little airline-size bottle of vodka. Trembling, she took the bottle into her beak, and flew back with it to the ark.

10: There, Noah, still holding the barrel of his .44 to the different-one dove’s Head, grabbed with his other hand the airline bottle, unscrewed the top, and then Poured the contents down his throat.

11: “Glory be!”, Noah then said unto the Lord. “Liquor!”

12: Just then, the ark bumped into land. And so the endless Voyage, yea verily, it was over.

13: And then the Lord said unto Noah, “All your trials, No-Man, be over. And now I shall place into the sky, a boozebow, as a sign that never again shall I deprive a man of liquor.”

14: And Noah fell to his knees and slaughterwept, offering hosannas to the Lord, and glory unto Him, in the highest.

15: And so, to this day, whenever a man has ballooned himself with liquor, yea verily, unto a BA of .23 of so, he beholds, passing across what remains of his Vision, one or more boozebows, these a sign that the Lord has promised that never again shall he drown the world’s booze supply beneath the Waters.

16: And that the trembling dove, she brought back to Noah the first airline bottle of Vodka, this is why she was Permitted to remain white, and stands to this day as a Symbol of Peace, and Goodness, and Loveliness; and why every year, commencing on September 1, Americans go out with their Firearms, and blast the doves out of the Sky. And then pluck them, and Eat them.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

9:1 And it came to pass that as soon as the ark struck Land, Noah, he did kick open the door, and then splash out into the still receding surf, his hands Flapping crazily at his sides, a-search for the nearest 7-11.

2: And Noah did enter a 7-11, and there came upon a case of Liquor, and this he took back with him. Where, in the shadow of the ark, he hastily pitched a tent. And then crawled inside it. And there, within its confines, he proceeded to Down the bottles of liquor, two by two.

3: And Noah became totally shit-faced. And he did pass out into drunken slumber, his robe in such disarray that his pee-pee hung out.

4: And Ham, Noah’s son, he was bitterly splashing through the receding waters, realizing, belatedly, that the Lord had drowned all the women in the world, and that therefore his own pee-pee was Useless as tits on a boar hog, and would forever be employed at naught but passing water.

5: And Ham came upon his Father, besotted, oopsasleep in his tent, and Ham muttered, “Look at the old sot. He passed out with his frickin’ pee-pee exposed.”

6: And Ham went unto his brothers, and said, “Come look at this. The drunken old goat is in his booze-wallow snoring away with his pee-pee hanging out.”

7: But Ham’s brothers, they were Afraid of the pee-pee, and so they walked backward, like in a film spooled wrong, into the Tent, and there they Heaved a blanket over Noah’s drunken old shriveled pee-pee.

8: And one or more of the brothers, they did Rat Out brother Ham to Noah, saying, “Father, Ham saw your pee-pee. And he told us to look at it too.”

9: And Noah, he was Drunkenly filled with Wrath. And so, for the crime of Unauthorized Pee-Pee Viewing, Noah did pronounce a Curse.

10: But Noah, he was so fucking drunk, that he pronounced the Curse on Ham’s son, Canaan, rather than on Ham himself. Maybe because, when you’re really drunk, it’s harder to enunciate “Ham,” than simply slur “Canaan.”

11: And it came to pass that Nimrods invented first Christianity, and then Islam. And that psychotic yeehaw mouthbreathers among them hallucinated that this “curse of Noah” had enveloped Ham in black skin, and Decreed that he and his—black people—serve as slaves, until the End of days.

12: And the psychotic yeehaw mouthbreathers saw that it was Good. ‘Cause from it they made a lot of money.

13: And, yea verily, in pursuit of money, it later came to pass that it was determined that a film of Noah would Be “boffo box office.”

14: And so the Lords of film finance, they did Say, “For Noah, we will type-castingget Russell Crowe: he is a rampaging Australian who is frequently as drunk as Noah. Also, half the women on the planet have crawled into Crowe’s tent and there viewed his pee-pee. It will be type-casting.”

15: And when the film was completed, the psychotic yeehaw mouthbreather Christians and Muslims, they wandered the Land, weeping and shrieking and rending their garments and even, yea verily, exploding their heads. Because not once in the film is the word “God” uttered. And to these Nimrods, this was anathema.

16: Because these Nimrods, psychotic and yeehaw and mouthbreather as they are, did not Understand that the film’s director, Darren Aronofksy, is Jewish, and thereby forbidden from inscribing the full name of God, much less in a film script, lest he risk fire, brimstone, plague, frogs, locusts, blood-rivers . . . or even waking up in a tent, from out of a booze coma, to find people staring at his pee-pee.

Scrotum Displays Penis

As is now well known, at least to readers of red, Turtle Scrotum, titular head of the Confederate States of America, is the result of a hideous Dr. Moreau-like experiment in which some demented doctor sought to cross a human with both a turtle and a diseased and swollen scrotum.

Turtle Scrotum is a de-evolved yeehaw so terminally demented and depraved that the very idea that black people exist on this planet gives him the scrotum penis gunhives. And so, from the moment that the black man entered the White House, Turtle Scrotum has devoted every fiber of his malformed and mutant being to frustrating the president’s every effort, unto determining that if the black man says “Jesus is Lord,” the Scrotum will then vow: “I stand with Satan.”

But, alas for the Scrotum, the de-evolution of that diseased and useless appendix known as the Republican Party, it is proceeding at such a rapid pace that, now, it is no longer enough, in order to please the knuckledragging faithful, who have never once touched the monolith, to but hate and frustrate the black man. Now, it is necessary to want to kill him.

And so, last week, the Scrotum strode on stage at the annual convocation of CPAC—this outfit the primary reason why extraterrestrials have placed this planet off-limits—bearing a rifle. To let the ur-people know that, yea, verily, he was prepared, now, to actually shoot the black man.

It was required of the Scrotum to so declare himself after Rick Perry, a person who would be noted as the dumbest man on the planet if not for the fact that he is a farm animal, the result of a failed Moreau experiment to cross a man with a steer, whose brain contains a supermassive mini-black hole that swallows not only all rational thought but even light, had earlier jacked off those assembled by declaring it is “time for a black hole headlittle rebellion.” Meaning: “A ni**er is in the White House. And so it’s time to resume, with arms, the Civil War. And slap that rat bastard back into slave-chains, where he belongs.”

And so the Scrotum, to keep up with the farm animals, drug his gun on to the stage, raised it above his head, and screeched: “The gun is good! The penis is evil!”

For, you see, as soon as a human male lays hand on a firearm, he becomes an agent of Thanatos. He is no longer of the body of Eros. He has amputated his penis. His new penis, it is a killing machine.

Poor Turtle Scrotum. His shameless penis-displaying attempt to keep up with the farm animals, it will do him no good. For, in his attempt to retain his US senate seat, he is going to be beaten like a gong. Where it appears that even Ashley Judd, or a raccoon, can send him down to defeat.

The people of Kentucky, you see, two years ago elected to send to the Senate Pawnd Rawl—the second coming of Pawn Rawl, noted slave-owner and Hebrew-fearer, doyen of Occupy Womb Street, whose singular goal in life is to ram his hands up every vagina in the land—a man who has the letters KKK tattooed on his chest, and who has actually publicly stated that he wants to use drones to kill black people coming out of liquor stores.

Not even the people of Kentucky, no matter how much meth they shoot up both arms before slapping raccoon corpses over their fences and then engaging in wild-eyed sexual congress where they demand that one another squeal like a pig, are comfortable with seating in the Senate two creatures who predate Cro-Magnon Man. With Pawnd Rawl already in there—and there has yet to be a definitive classification of his species; all that is known is that it is jaw-droppingly primitive—they feel compelled to elect to that second Senate seat someone who at least acknowledges the Age of Enlightenment, or even the wheel.

So, the Scrotum, he’s over.

This site revealed to the world that the 2012 Republican presidential primary season was owned and controlled by extraterrestrials, who assembled as candidates a stone-mad motley crew of pseudo-humans, just for laughs, to be fucking with us.

Apparently these beings had so much fun, that in 2016 they’re going to do it again. Because the 2016 Republican presidential field, smoke a bowlfrom all indications, is going to out-froot-loop the previous pork-pie.

Already there is the aforementioned brainless black-hole light-sucking farm animal Mr. Perry. And Rawl II, who will leap up from the lectern to wildly ejaculate drones at Negroes, whenever a debate gets slow. Also signed on is Ted Cruz, more a dingo than a human; a creature that not only lacks a brain, but has also had all the bones sucked out of his face. Then there is Sarah Palin, the demonic creation of some unknown nimrod who fashioned a golem from a disused Barbie doll and a quart of fermented moose semen. Here for another go-round is Rick Santorum, the 4th Century Don Quixote tilting at pleasure; a freaking grub in a skin-suit. No doubt his fellow insect, Newt Gingrich, a bedbug in a skin-suit, will not be able to resist the notion of bloating—and perhaps bursting—on stage. The meth monkey will, again, melt all our minds.

And so on.

The horror. The horror.

One cretin who will not be running for president is Turtle Scrotum. No matter how many peni he hoists above his head.

His day, it is done.

The Loser

Darth Cheney: jeebus: he’s pretty much a cartoon character these days, isn’t he? No longer really recognizable, much less acceptable, as an actual human being. He is simply fiction, and, I’m pretty sure, always has been. Somebody—fucking with us—just made the shit up. And then rolled it into Reality.

For what he really is, is Simon Legree, whuppin’ on them Negroes; Snidely he be loserWhiplash, tying Little Nell to the tracks; some ur-version of Ebenezer Scrooge, one that Dickens ultimately abandoned, papers fed to the fire, because he was way too creepy and Wrong for anyone, for even a moment, to Believe.

This we Know, most recently, because, when the black man announced some modest proposed reductions to the US death industry—which has grown swollen to the size of a thousand-million Harkonnens—Darth ran utterly wild, all over the land, preaching and screeching that the black man thereby means to rain down upon the nation Doom and Destruction.

“This really is over the top,” Darth Legree thundered. “It does enormous long-term damage to our military.”

“He would much rather spend the money on food stamps,” Ebenezer Cheney chundered, “than he would on a strong military.”

And this is wrong . . . exactly how?

Food stamps feed people. Who would otherwise go hungry. They are implements of Eros.

The military is about killing people and breaking things. It is the apotheosis of Thanatos.

Weird. That this planet is still so primitive, that anyone, at all, would, ever, take seriously, a being who asserts that resources should be dedicated to death, rather than life.

Oh well. Darth is over, of course. He, and his, are like those soldiers in combat who, running, are shot and killed, but their legs continue to carry them on, sometimes for quite a number of paces, before they look down, and notice that they are dead.

Darth is an agent of Thanatos. And therefore The Loser.

Because Eros, always, is ascendant over Thanatos. This is the one thing I know. Always has been, is now, always will be. Else life would not continue. Though it has. And does. And will.

Sweet Jane

standin’ on the corner
suitcase in my hand

jack’s in his corset and jane’s in her vest, baby
me, i’m in a rocknroll band

ridin’ a stutz bear cat
those were different times
the poets studied sweet reedrules of verse
the ladies rolled their eyes

you know they’re sayin’: 

ukraine
ah, sweet jane
sweet ukraine

I dream a lot.

Yeah. Well. Obviously.

But, I mean, I also dream, when I’m asleep.

Like, this afternoon, I awoke—like any cat, I sleep, and wake, all through the day, and all through the night—from a dream where I was at Lou Reed’s house.

Lou was there; there in his house. In the age and incarnation of the photo featured there just above. Settled; serene. Aged: experienced: passed. Beyond all the bullshit. In the clear.

There, in his house, Lou, he slung over his shoulder a guitar, and, naturally, effortlessly, clear as pure water, played for hisself, me just there hearing, “Sweet Jane.”

Then, he unslung the guitar. And passed it to me. So I could give it a try.

I commenced to fumbling with the strings. Trying to get it right.

Eventually, I hit, more or less correctly, the first couple chords (and in “Sweet Jane” there are really only two chords). And so began feeling a little better about myself.

Then I noticed Lou had settled himself into an easy chair. Had turned on a TV (and the sound was pretty dern loud). And was eating something like popcorn.

I felt kinda forlorn. Left behind.

I was playing his song. But he was paying me no mind.

I pass through these dreams, and they pass through me. But generally I have no idea what they might mean.

Sometimes I pass some crippled day-time gibbering verbal accounting of these dreams on to the wise—and these wise are always women—and, sometimes, through them, the light, it do shine.

For instance, in re the above-referenced Lou Reed dream, after I had cripple-jabbered it onto her, AvoMayor, she did say:

i think that is a perfect Lou Reed dream. How many times do you think he played Sweet Jane in the course of his career?? But he’s retired and trying to just relax now, so he has given it to you..

Use it wisely : ) No pressure or anything………

and jack he is a banker
and  jane she is a clerk
and both them save their moneys, honeys
all when they come home from work

sittin’ there by the fire
radio does play
a little classical music from
march of the wooden soldiers

you can hear jack say:
he says: sweet ukraine
ah now baby: sweet ukraine
ah: sweet ukraine

Ukraine is a little tiny baby country.

Appearing, under that name, within those borders, but in the afterbirth of the Russian Revolution of 1917.

During which Lenin & Co., in a new and dusky shiny Red way, carved out, and named, various territories that, for the most part, 2001_tool_smhad been subsumed, some decades, and even centuries, before, into the Russian Empire.

What is today, in these 24/7 times, causing ape-men to foam, from sea to shining to sea, rattling all and every saber, over “Ukraine,” is about a dirt-patch that, for most of recorded history, for about 500 years, was part of Poland.

People, these days, because it is nearly against the law to know history, do not understand that long before these was any Russian Empire—or even any Russia—Poland, like a colossus, did bestride, all and every, of its nearby earth.

But then, in the course of things, like all empires, Poland waxed, and waned, and, eventually, crumbled into dust.

Until it was no more.

Until there became no Poland.

Until, in the late 18th Century, Poland actually ceased to exist. What was once “Poland,” was divided between Russia, Prussia (read: crazed Germans), and the doomed Habsburgs of Austria.

After WWI, to punish the Austrians and Germans, who had been defeated, and the Russians, who had gone wild and gone Commie, the allied powers decided “Poland” should be reconstituted.

They also Made a new and different-one nation, out of what was once Poland, known as “Ukraine.”

Which was, quickly, and in the course of things, absorbed into the nascent Soviet Union.

This “Ukraine,” it yoked together a “western” stretch of people on soil that had, for millennia, yearned towards the west, and an “eastern” stretch of people on soil that had, for millennia, yearned towards the east.

Everybody, west or east, who ever wanted to grow shit, has always liked “Ukraine”—and lots. Because it features deep fertile soil, unmatched, anywhere on the planet, except in California’s central valley. Deep, unbelievably rich topsoil, 20 feet deep.

Of course, these days, the soil, that everybody for millennia has fought so over,  is all ruint. Because, there in Ukraine, in 1986, the Chernobyl nuclear reactor erupted, and scarred not only the near and far, but all the planet.

There were forty-one official deaths from the accident, and half a million unofficial.

An honest list would reach to the moon.

some people like to go out dancin’
then there’s other people, baby,  they gotta work
—you better watch me now—

there’s some evil mothers
they’ll just tell you that life’s just made out of dirt
that pretty women baby wrongthey never really faint
and villains always blink their eyes
that children are the only ones who blush
and that life—LIFE—that life is just to die

but i want to tell you somethin’:

Bobby Hoffman and Yakov stood in the middle of the road facing a security wall decked with shiny coils of wire. Each man wore a yarmulke and a tasselled shawl. Arkady couldn’t make out what they were saying, though they rocked back and forth to its rhythm.

Beyond the wall was another wire-draped wall and, fifty meters farther on, the sarcophagus, as stained and massive as a windowless cathedral. Dim security lamps glowed here and there. A crane and a chimney stack towered over the sarcophagus, but compared to it, they were insignificant. The sarcophagus was apart, alone, alive.

Arkady didn’t need to use his dosimeter; he felt his hair rise.

The chanting wasn’t loud enough to carry far. Bobby’s voice was whispery. Yakov’s was deep and worn, and Arkady recognized the Kaddish, the prayer for the dead. Their voices overlapped, separated, joined again. Standing outside the corrupted shell of a nuclear disaster, rocking back and forth like human metronomes and intoning the same verses over and over, “Ose sholom himromov hu yaase sholom.” When they finished the prayer, they simply began again.

Arkady moved into their line of vision. Each step brought the sarcophagus closer, too, as if it had been waiting for the right hour to leap the wall, a hard sight to face without a prayer. Yakov acknowledged Arkady with the briefest nod, to say not to worry, that he and Bobby were fine. Bobby clutched a list of names that Arkady could see because of a rising moon that spilled over the station yard. The list looked long. Arkady remembered Eva saying that a complete list would reach the moon.

I loathe that I feel I have to step-by-step. I just want to play the chords.

Russia, the one place it has warm water, the one place it can sail its boats, is on the Black Sea. And the one place it can access that sea, is through the Crimea. Little strait. Through which the Russians can sail, and sail and sail, from the sea of Azov, to the sea of Black, and then into the Mediterranean. Where it can feel, at last, like it is a Real nation.

Russia, astrologically, is a Scorpio. Which means, at root, it believes that all and every are always out to get it.  Whether that is true or no.

Just sayin’.

Crimea. The Mongols swept into all and everywhere beginning in the 12th Century: no one, anywhere (except the Vietnamese), could stop them.

Centuries later, the last Mongol Khanate to be made to retreat was that in the Crimea, which was absorbed into the avidly advancing Russian Empire, only round about 1800.

Not that these mongols went into the great good night: they retreated into the mountains, and from there fought the stop this nowRussians, and, in the course of things, the Soviets.

Some of them, during WWII, allied themselves with the Germans.

And so, WWII concluded, Stalin decreed it was right and meet to export the entire population of the Crimea, to Central Asia.

When he was done, not a native inhabitant remained.

Stalin—heh—that’s just the way he be. A stone cold killer. With one hand on a vodka bottle. And another on a List.

I these days am only amused by those who burrow deep into dark and dank and-all-and-every all-encompassing theories. Where all is forever explained. By some nefarious puppet-stringing total control over everything.

The current ferment over Ukraine is a perfect example of how it is not so black/white, from however one approaches black/white, as it may seem.

Russia will never give up Crimea. That is the only place its Navy may flow from a warm-water port.

Crimea was part of Russia. Until 1954. When, Khrushchev gifted the Crimea to Ukraine. Why? Because Khrushchev was Ukrainian. He wanted to reward the homeboys. Against all logic. Against all history. But what did that matter? He did it. Because he could.

That’s all there is. There isn’t anymore. Except, again, I’ve wasted my time. I should, really, only have inscribed, these final eight lines. All the rest, in the long view, is either masturbation, or waste.

anyone who had a heart
they wouldn’t turn around and break it
and anyone who’s ever played a part
they wouldn’t turn around and hate it

they say: jane
sweet jane
oh: ukraine
sweet ukraine

Soviet

I understand that in this universe there recently concluded an “Olympics.”

A “Winter Olympics.”

In my universe, there has never been any such thing.

For, when, in my universe, the Olympics resumed, round about 1900 CE or so, after a 1600-year or so absence, the event was parttysited solely and forever in Greece.

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.

But maybe s/he who does awaynot “win,” in the event, wins more.

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.

Heigh-ho.

Nobody home.

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 putin fucksuniverse 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.

Already happened.

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.

Sign Of A Local Nigger Unravelin’

Once upon a time, there on the deeply sad, old-and-in-the-way mercy-preserve for crippled, doddering, withered, sick, ancient, and/or feeble white people—known round these parts as The Great White—there was a foam-at-the-mouth, blind pigprojectile-vomiting, glow-in-the-dark racist, who called hisself Uberbah.

Among this man’s many manifest manifold sins, included his inability to inscribe a comment without upchucking either the term “weak tea,” or “hand-waving.”

Well, as it is said, “even a blind pig can find an acorn every once in a while.”

And so, tonight, Uberbah, I bow to you. In all your nightriding, white-hooded, glory.

Because, having heard, and turned round and round in my mind’s hands, like a rubik’s cube of the operative universe, the black man’s speech, in re the serial killers of the NSA, I conclude, but four words.

Weak tea.

Hand-waving.

furthur=>

Big Darkness, Soon Come

The Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, once upon a time, he served as governor of the spice planet, Arrakis.

But never did he figure out the sandworms.

And so he lost the ring.

When things, there on Arrakis, got very, very dark for him, the pb_harvesterbaron, he stage-managed his own supposed “death”—stabbed and poisoned (so the tale, to this day is told) by his own toddler grand-daughter.

Though, in truth, the baron really escaped hisself, slinking aboard a nearby space-freighter. Which whisked him off Arrakis. And transported him to this here planet. To rudely dump him in New Jersey.

A fate, many would say, actually worse, than death.

The baron, ever adaptable and ambitious, did, in the course of things, emerge from the fetid swamplands of New Jersey. As Chris “Meaty, Beaty, Big, And Bouncy” Christie.

Under which rubric he eventually—through bubble, bubble, toil, and trouble—managed to get himself elected governor of the state.

Next, the baron transformed into Captain LapBand. A persona with which he expected to attain the presidency of the United States. So he could preside over—and jeebus knows why he’d wanna—the further crumbling of a terminally failed nation-state.

But now, in recent days, has come a Problem. The baron has become confronted with Horrors unseen since those dark Arrakis days when the sandworms came a-flowing through the Shield Wall.

For—yea, verily—it has been j’accused, that he, Captain LapBand, and/or his people, deliberately snarled into four-day stasis chaos, traffic on the George Washington Bridge. The busiest, and therefore most insane, bridge, into the busiest, and therefore most insane, city in all North America—New York City.

And all but to punish the mayor of a tiny New Jersey burg. Who wouldn’t endorse the LapBand for re-election to the governorship.

A mayor sprung from long-ago Atreides loins: the same Atreides with which the baron did long-ago war, there on Arrakis.

Confucius, it is said, that once upon a time, he did say: “Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.”

And this is why, today, earthmovers, from all over the nation, are steaming avidly to New Jersey. There to dig, somewhere in the stinking poisoned superfund sites which comprise the vast majority of that state, a vast christie must go undergroundand yawning pit, capacious enough in which to lay the bursting bloating remains, of Captain LapBand.

For when you tip the scales at roughly 400 pounds, and you exclusively travel hither and yon in a stretch limo flanked by domestic serial killers on motorbikes with sirens, who blast any and all traffic out of your way, it is daylight madness to get caught lifting your chubby sausage-like fingers to intentionally and terminally fuck with the way mere mortals get about in their automobiles.

For everyone who has ever once been sentenced to living in a city has experienced the Warp 10 impotence and rage of being stuck in a traffic jam.

And, since cities are currently nearing maddened frenzied colony-collapse—see the already-happened non-fiction tome City, which traces the blessed death of cities—said cities are more crowded than ever before.

And, thus, more Americans, than ever before, are thereby daily beset, by said traffic-jam impotence and rage.

Because we have not yet reached. The blessed place. Where the de-evolved colony of the scrambled-brain city collapses.

Where let it be written. Where let it be done.

I’ll try to keep this particular tangent down to the below seven-paragraph minimum.

To wit: the bridge that Captain LapBand fucked, the George Washington, the busiest bridge in the nation, it feeds into the howling fetid terminal insanity-vector known as New York City.

When white people arrived on this continent, not that many years ago, the NYC area was home to some 15,000 native people, the Lanape.

So sorry, but that, then, provably, is the maximum number of humans that the land can support.

The other 8 million or so folks currently living there—they’ll just have to move.

But that’s okay. They’ll sunnily be better off elsewhere. The certifiably crazed and unbelievably twisted mad-scientist BF Skinner experiment of NYC: it’s just over.

So let it go.

To settle, with Captain LapBand, into the grave.

So anyway. Human Americans, sitting there in their cars, in a traffic jam, hearing that the Harkonnen human-zeppelin intentionally let them stew for four days in non-moving traffic—they will pound their fists through their horns, and loudly vow, with spittle spewing from their lips, blood vengeance.

Americans, they will put up with a lot. Slavering murder, random bomb-rain, unsane wars, sniffing through the underpants of their intertubes, literal vaginal and anal probes.

But—jeebus christie—don’t fuck with their cars.

A guy who, like the baron, needs one or more cement-reinforced dollys, to move him merely from this vehicle to that, he simply cannot afford to be seen to slow, even an iota, any of them, his, ‘Mericans, moving mobile.

‘Less he wants to be lynched.

Though, it is true, considering the baron’s poundage, said lynching would probably require at least three, and possibly four, ropes. And, no doubt, moving his blubbery carcass, out of state.

Because I don’t think New Jersey, it, any longer, grows, anywhere, a tree, strong and sturdy enough, to bear his burdensome weight.

Too bad for you, baron: still too suffused with Arrakis-think. For this is ‘Merica. Where all, must always be free, to go, unfettered and free, mobile.

Captain LapBand’s bumbling sausage-fingered thumbs-down on all the vehicular traffic burbling up from the town of the cursed Atreides-spawn: it reminds me of the 1994 foam-flecked frenzy over the “House banking scandal.”

That is when it was learned that legislators in the United States House of Representatives could blissfully and recurrently avail themselves of the round-heeled services of a special House “bank,” one that allowed them to bounce, oh say, 200 or 300 checks a year, for which they would not be expected to pay any penalty fees, checks they could pay off two or three or four years down the line.

Americans, en masse, when once this became news, went insane.

Back in that day, you could turn on your television, at any hour of the day or the night, and see brown South American people who, right before your very eyes, were being viciously and maniacally tortured, killed, and raped, by US serial killers. But all the foam that did fleck from North American lips, it concerned but the fact that their congresscritter had a bank, that would do for him, what a bank wouldn’t do for the Normal North American.

See, the Normal North American, the bank gives s/he, no mercy. And the Normal North American, deals with said merciless bank, every day.

And then, for a Normal North American, to see a congresscritter, lying naked, upon a perfumed couch, being suckled and serviced, by such a very same bank: this made the Normal North American—yea verily—want to Stab, and Shoot.

And the result of this, was that 77 serving members of the House of Representatives were thrown out on their rears. And, as consequence, the Publicans took control of the House. For the first time in 40 years.

And it’s basically been their place, ever since. Unto the dawn of today. When the House of Representatives is dominated by pre-monolith retroverts who would outlaw the human orgasm, and command that all publicly laugh, whenever any poor person dies.

I guess it’s too bad about the baron, really. At heart, he’s just a Jersey fat boy. Who, like just about every Jersey boy of his era—fat or no—wanted nothing more than to be Bruce Springsteen.

And, in this, Barack Obama, shrewdly, gifted the Cap’n. Giving Bruce onto Cap’n Fatband; as close as the Cap’n’ll will ever get, to Bruce.

For when the Cap’n agreed to snuggle up close to the president, in exchange for aid for Hurricane Sandy, The Bruce, The Boss, thereby agreed to come into the presence, of the Cap’n.

And, so it was written, and then it was done. The Bruce, and the Cap’n, they did speak. And, then, they did—yea, verily—embrace.

That, now, it is clear, will stand as the highlight of Meaty, Beaty, Big And Bouncy’s, very life.

He could, then, have settled.

But he did not. He tried to strive higher.

No go.

Too much time spent on Arrakis, my fat not-friend. You never sufficiently absorbed, the human touch.

For a human, a real human, a feeling human, s/he doesn’t let another human, sit, stewing, sweating, swearing, in an unmoving vehicle. For four days. For no Real reason.

But you: you did that.

And so: you’re done.

You’re over.

You’re finished.

You’re gone.

Just think. Baron. Of what you might have had.

Oh well. Too bad. All over now.

Never Again


When I Worked

July 2014
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