Archive for August, 2013

Freedom’s Just Another Word

Sometimes, when one encounters a headline, it is best to just ruminate upon it, for a time, before clicking through.

Such was True, yesterday, i p freelywhen I came across the headline “New Freedom Woman Urinates On Neighbor’s Couch.”

This, to me—it was nothing but fascinating.

What, I wondered, is a “New Freedom Woman?”

Is she, perhaps, part of some new movement, in which urinating on the couches of neighbors is considered a “new freedom”?

Then, when I clicked on the thing, I in the first paragraphs discovered that “New Freedom” is the name of a town in Pennsylvania.

In re the power of naming, I nodded: yes, of course, one would have to expect, that a town named “New Freedom,” would feature such events as neighbors showing up to urinate on your couch.

But then I got deeper into the thing, and realized it was all just another Stupid Drink Trick.

An intoxicated woman urinated on a New Freedom man’s couch Saturday night as he was waiting for police to arrive and remove her from his home, charging documents state.

Kimberly Ann Crosier-Crowley, 55, of the first block of John Randolph Drive, New Freedom, faces charges of trespass, criminal mischief, disorderly conduct, public drunkenness and loitering and prowling at night, documents state.

Southern Regional Police said that at 11:25 p.m., Jon Pizzurro, who lives nearby Crosier-Crowley on John Randolph Drive, called them to say she was intoxicated and would not leave his home.

“While waiting for police to arrive, the woman [Crosier-Crowley] then urinated on his couch in his living room,” documents state.

When police arrived, Crosier-Crowley ran away. Police caught up to a stumbling, pants-less Crosier-Crowley and asked her how much she had had to drink, to which she answered, “nothing,” documents state.

As officers tried to handcuff her, she resisted, and said she wanted to go home. When they asked her name, she said, “I think my name is Kim Crowley,” documents state.

Officers said they could smell a strong odor of alcohol coming from Crosier-Crowley, documents state.

Police then talked with Crosier-Crowley’s husband, Jeff Crowley, who said his wife had been drinking alcohol inside their home and then walked outside.

Jeff Crowley let police inside their home, where they could see “many opened containers of beer throughout the kitchen,” documents state.

Police asked him if his wife had any medical conditions.

“He stated that she was just an alcoholic,” documents state.

Here in criminal-law world, about 85% of the cases that come our way are, in one form or another, some sort of Stupid Drunk Trick.

There exists also the legion of Stupid Drunk Tricks that I have engaged in, in my own life.

See? Sometimes it’s best, to just rest in the headline.

With the wanton, willing, fiery and fierce New Freedom Women. Spraying urine across the couches of the land. As some sort of Statement.

Star Struck

It Burns

Someone I Know, she works with a woman who draws a paycheck for pretty much nothing more than babbling ceaselessly, senselessly, uncontrollably; occasionally spinning her head round 360 degrees; now and then erupting into Tourette’s-like cursing at all and sundry.

This woman, she is like Linda Blair in The Exorcist. Except she does not koolprojectile-vomit green bile, or plunge a crucifix in and out of her vagina. At least not publicly.

With Halloween coming on, I suggested to the Someone I Know that she festoon her office with this wonderment, identified by the descriptive-dullards at eBay as “Halloween Animated Exorcist Spinning Head Linda Blair Sounds Decoration Prop,” and presented to you-all there in the image to the right. The thing, its “head rotates 360 degrees, the eyes light up and the mouth moves,” it “plays (6) audio tracks and the Exorcist theme from the movie,” and “spoken phrases include ‘it burns’; ‘keep away, the sow is mine’; and ‘I can’t sleep, my bed is shaking.'”

But the Someone I Know, she demurred, reasoning that bringing the outre object into the office—it would just encourage her coworker, to further rotate her head, and spew stupidness across the land.

Oh well. I tried.

Tonight, I am trying again.

Having witnessed this day Secretary of State John Kerry—he of the once and future “how do you ask a man to be the last man to die for a mistake?”—rotate his head and spit green bile and slide a crucifix in and out of his urethra, as he ululated screamingly about Bad Chemicals in Syria.

Even as Foreign Policy printed a timely piece about how, back in the day, the United States of Reaganoids were only too happy to assist Iraq, in hosing down brown people, with chemical agents.

Even as the US was blearily emerging from a week which witnessed the conclusion of a dizzying confluence of legal proceedings in re one of the more recent American imperial adventurings in “how do you ask a man to be the last man to die for a mistake?”

Wherein first Chelsea Manning received 35 years, for telling the truth; though, telling, wasn’t it, that what it isthere was an acquittal, on the charge involving the release of the war-crime video of an airstrike on Afghan civilians.

Then the driven-mad Fort Hood psychiatrist, who would rather mass-kill, than be deployed to Afghanistan, convicted on something like eleventy-billion murder and attempted-murder charges.

Finally, there was the hoorah, he who cut a deal whereby he would escape the death penalty by saying “I’m sorry” for shooting up an Afghan village. Apparently, this man, he was “bummed,” he was “stressed,” about “personal problems.” News to me, and to many, that murdering Afghans is a recognized outlet for relieving stress and ameliorating bummedness.

Meanwhile Sean Klannity, there on the radio, was yammering today, in re Syria, about “therapeutic bombing.”

At first, I assumed he was joking. I mean, I know the language is going straight to Hell. But there must be some limits. No one could seriously employ a term like “therapeutic bombing.”

But no. I was wrong. Klannity, he is on it, and he is for it.

I shut him off. For there is no such thing as “therapeutic bombing.” Not in my universe.
So I’m thinking: maybe there should be a variation on the Linda Blair-head thing.
Where, instead of her whirling round and burbling things like “leave her alone, the sow is mine,” or “I can’t sleep, my bed is shaking,” one could have a hate-radio or politician head, that spins round, and round, and round, and meanwhile upchucks bile like “we must therapeutically bomb to protect the homeland!,” “travel internationally only when wrapped in plastic and sealed with duct-tape!” or “danger! danger! scary brown people!”
Just a thought.
Here in the brave new world.

Space Balls

In the sewers of London, there are 15-ton “fatbergs.”

Massive congealed clots of rotting fat.

“Created,” it is said, “by people pouring fatberg singin' in the dead of nightcooking oils down the drain and flushing sanitary products.”

And consisting of “rotting food, faeces and sanitary wipes.”


Many, are the fatbergs.

To dissolve but one of them, requires “workmen us[ing] a high-pressure jet of water to blast away the massive blockage over ten nights.”

This says something, about the current state of anglo civilization.

Perhaps it is too soon, to know exactly what. Is said.

But, whatever, it is, that is said: I don’t think that it is Good.

Meanwhile, Science Men are having an organism, because they succeeded in rendering a Da Vinci Mona Lisa that is 30 microns in width.

Or, put more simply, so small that it is totally and extremely beyond the boundaries of sight, of the human eye.

So why? Why did they do this?

Who is going to look at it? This invisible Lisa?


But they don’t Care. The Science Men. About the Why.

For they are Science Men. They will do whatever it is they Can. Regardless of whether there is a Reason. Or a Why.

Like Enrico Fermi. Who, before the first atomic bomb went off, there in New Mexico, calculated there was a good chance said bomb would ignite the atmosphere.

The only Question, to him, was whether it would ignite just the fermilocal atmosphere, or that of the entire planet.

Whether those who breathed would die “just” locally, or whether every breathing creature, planet-wide, would breathe their last, everywhere.

He took bets. Fermi. On the Question.

I believe that the fatbergs and the micron-Lisa can be combined in a way that will do humans Good.

For I propose that a 15-ton “fatberg” be extracted from the bowels of the London deep, then be imprinted with trillions of tiny Mona Lisa reproductions, then be shot out into space.

So that passing aliens, when they gaze upon the rotting microns, can get a sense, of what humans are all about.

So let it fester, blindly. So let it be done.

Imagine My Surprise

Human Touch

Bruce Springsteen, growing up, he wanted to be, among other people, Willy DeVille.

But that is never going to happen.

Here is DeVille.

Springsteen, he is simply not in that league. And, bully for him. One reason tbruce_springsteen_and_patti_scialfa_picwhy: Springsteen, he is actually alive at age 60. Whereas DeVille never made it.

Springsteen grew up in New Jersey. He was a geek, and a greaser, and a nobody.

In high school, they laughed at him, and considered him stupid.

He was dirty and greasy and he played a guitar and he sang.

All the sleek shiny sinuous blonde girls, they snickered at the sight of him.

Springsteen, playing the guitar, and singing, proceeded to, because that’s how the universe wanted it, earn eleventy-billion dollars.

Sleek shiny sinuous blond girls, they now thought him, well, maybe, not so bad.

So Springsteen married one. A sleek shiny sinuous blond girl. A model. Julianne Phillips. In awe, he married her. He, from a world of geek and grease. A woman considered, in his culture, physically perfect. She, a woman emblematic, of what he never dreamed he might ever attain.

But: alas: a mistake. Which Springsteen, less than two years later, began to confess—because confession is what he then did, in his art—in his album Tunnel Of Love.

One of the songs on the album, “Human Touch”—among the backup singers for the tune: Patti Scalfia.

Scalfia grew up in New Jersey. She was a geek, and a greaser, and a nobody.

In school, they laughed at her, and considered her stupid.

She was dirty and greasy and she played a guitar and she sang.

All the swaggering dillweed jockbrained boys, they snickered at the sight of her.

Springsteen and Scalfia: they belonged together.

Eventually, even they figured that out.

On the Tunnel Of Love tour, that was it for the Springsteen/Phillips marriage.

Eventually, even Ms. Phillips, was apprised of this fact.

Springsteen and Scalfia, each night, sang those “Human Touch” lines, looking into each other’s eyes. Their eyes the words written for.

Below is hardly the best version of “Human Touch” available on the intertubes. But it is the most exact. At least for what I want to extract from it.

Which is that these people—Springsteen and Scalfia—are deeply, intextricably in love. And more than 20 years on. Still, even, with sexual fire. All that evident from 0:05 to 0:30. He, there, displays that he knows he is a man, blessed to be with this woman. And she lets us know, that she also knows, that he is so blessed.

And there is more. Later in the song. But you get to find, and feel, that, for yourself.

As for the Platonic version of the song, that might be this:

yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
allllll right

so you been broken and you been hurt
show me somebody who ain’t
yeah i know i ain’t nobody’s bargain
but hell: a little touch-up, and a little paint

you might need something to hold on to
when all the answers they don’t amount to much
somebody that you can just talk to
and a little of that human touch

i just want to feel you in my arms
and share a little of that human touch
share a little of that human touch
feel a little of that human touch and
feel a little of that human touch
share a little of that human touch, and now
feel a little of that human touch
give me a little of that human touch, and yes
give me a little of that human touch


SI, Lo Hare, Mi Unica

Hello: We’re Washed Out: Eyes Be Closed

Coney Island

everybody’s sayin’ that
hell’s the hippest way to go
well i don’t think so
gonna take a look around it though

—Joni Mitchell, “Blue”

In describing the arc of her songwriting, Joni Mitchell not so long ago said:

My first four albums covered the usual youth problems—looking for love in all the wrong places—while the next five are basically about being in your 30s. Things start losing their profundity; in middle-late age, you enter a tragedian period, realizing that the human animal isn’t changing for the better.

I don’t know: maybe there’s something wrong with me. Because though I guess I too am moving through middle-late age, I think better of people, places, and things than I did when I was younger.

When I was younger, I thought that all would become all right in my lifetime. And I had a tendency to become distraught, at every signal that it might not.

Now I know that won’t happen, all becoming all right in my lifetime. But I know now better what life was like for those who came before, as compared to what it is like for those who are here now. Because I have been afforded the luxury of traveling widely, in space and time, through history.

And I see movement. I see an arc. I see that it is long, so very long, but I see that nonetheless it indeed bends that way, towards all becoming all right. Someday.

Not in my lifetime, of course.


Sign Of A Local Nigger Unravelin’

Michelangelo was a sculptor. That’s all of who he was. The rich rat bastards, they kept paying him for paintings—he didn’t want to paint, but painting was where the money was. So, he painted.

A sculptor—what he really was—involved selecting and regarding a block of marble. Seeing what it was meant to be. Knowing the interior. The finished let the slaveglowing being. Then, having to go, through time and effort and time, the tiresome endless work, of bringing out what was already there. The already happened.



Chip. Chip. Chip.

In the last decades of his life, Michelangelo approached marble, chipped away for a time, then stood back, saying he was finished.

No one, at the time, could see how he could possibly say that he was the least bit finished.

To this day, people do not understand what he meant. By “finished.”

His, here, is an avenue of art, that no one, over the past umpteen-hundred years, has pursued. Because it appears to be nothing but “unfinished.” Like, maybe, probably, he just gave up.

Bollocks. This is the man who had already used chisel and stone to depict the most precise and divine representations of human beings in the entire history of sculpture. Before, or since.

So, when he moved elsewhere, people should have paid attention.

But they didn’t. And they still don’t.

The “unfinished” Michelangelo pictured above is called “Awakening Slave.” From the title alone, it should be obvious, to anyone employing brain cells, that it is absolutely right, that the slave is unable to fully emerge from the marble. Michelangelo’s choice, here, was absolutely right.

He said that the marble spoke to him. And, when it said, stop carving, he stopped.

True artists don’t listen to the bullshit. They listen to the art.

Writing is like regarding a block of marble. The task is to chip away the bullshit, the effluvia, the waste, revealing, relating, only what is.

That is why, when I was 16, and first regarded the “unfinished” sculptures of Michelangelo, I knew exactly what they were about. He had gone beyond the mere perfection of form. To regarding, and representing, perfection attempting to emerge, yet held back, by the muck.

Now that I am older, I see a second reason why he went with the “unfinished.” Because, for decades, he’d put it all out there, in the way that they wanted to see it. Yet, they still didn’t get it. So: fuck ’em. Go with the quantum. The finished/unfinished. The way it really is.

So, uh, this piece, that follows, I had grand finished plans for the thing, some weeks ago, when I wanted to both Snowden, and Zimmerman. I was first concerned about those in my karass so hurt by the Zimmerman verdict. And, next, those, also in my karass, so wounded by the Snowden revelations. Unfortunately, I don’t think I ever got around to serving, in what I have here written, completely, either. Much less both. The piece is unfinished. But I’ve decided to put it out there anyway. In hopes people can regard what is there, and see also into the marble. To what was meant to be. To what is.

(for robin and denise and amazing and adept and time and sephius and conk and tree and trayvon and sooth and seeta and ms. turn-up-your-radio and my pooldar anacaona and she-be-hawaiian-feet and the far rambling planet and all whose skins and souls burn 24/7 with the lies of this nation . . . . ) 

The Snowden uproar has been driven mostly by white people.

In garment-rending frenzy, that maybe government folks, are ear-trumpeting their phone conversations, goggle-eyeing their email.

Like, checking them.

People of color have, generally, been less exercised. Because, from when they first become conscious in this country, in this culture, people of color naturally assume they are being allchecked. Watched. Listened to. Tracked. As a condition of their very lives. Because, everything about their lives, about their history, teaches them that they are.

(The exception was when the Bolivian president’s homeward-bound plane was forced to the ground: people of color, then, particularly south of the border, they for sure, then uproared, over that. Because it was, so humiliatingly, typical of their lives, their history. To wit: white people won’t believe them. Will naturally assume them of involvement in nefariousness. Will physically roust them. Whenever they feel like it. Even if the rousted is the president of a sovereign nation.

(So let it be written. So let it be done.

(Same as it ever was.)

What people of color in this country would like, it is something more basic than freedom from a government-snout snorting about in their email.

What they would like, is a guarantee of physical safety.

That, maybe, they can feel free, to, oh, say, walk to the store, and back again, without getting shot.

And what the Zimmerman verdict tells them is that, once again, this—this is a forlorn hope.

Because what the Zimmerman verdict tells people of color is: no, really, they can’t—still “not yet”—walk to the store and back, without fear of being shot.

And white people, they have no idea, what that means.

To live, day in, day out, every day, like that.

Knowing they might be killed. For just walking the streets.

As they continue to squeal. The white people. About a snout. Maybe in their email.

I received, in the wake of the Zimmerman verdict, an email from a person of color, who has succumbed to despair.

Says she:

A lot of what I came up believing, spouted ad nauseam by Jose Marti and Rev Dr. King? I am doubting any of it now. I don’t believe for a New York minute we shall overcome, or “not too long.” This seems like the weakest pabulum and fairy tale imaginable. It’s open season on people of color.

What can I say to her?



En Sus Brazos


Edward Snowden has successfully exited the land of Zimmermanning.

Where, if you shoot and kill a black bombs awaychild, you walk. Just pick up your gun, and start roaming around Texas.

But, if you show people some papers, you can get 136 years.

Where all the black hats, they wuvs them some NSA.

And out in Aspen, all the security big wheels are rarin’ to roll into Genocide Nation v2.0.

[Retired CENTCOM chief General James] Mattis, the gruff 40-year Marine veteran who once volunteered his opinion that “it’s fun to shoot some people,” outlined the challenge ahead. The “war on terror” that began on 9/11 has no discernible end, he said, likening it to the “the constant skirmishing between [the US cavalry] and the Indians” during the genocidal Indian Wars of the 19th century.

“The skirmishing will go on likely for a generation,” Mattis declared.


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When I Worked

August 2013