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.

Back in the day, there in our Black Kos ghetto, there at The Great White, we, of the few, used to hold forth, on and about the necessity of the black man, as the first black president, behaving as did Jackie Robinson, as the first black man in baseball.

Show no anger. Show no rage. Show, basically, no emotion at all. Remain, at all times, calm. Cool. Collected.

Cheek-turning.

Not step-and-fetching it, exactly. But not getting all up in the face, and furious, either.

These things remain true.

What does not remain true, is that anyone can any longer easily twin the black man as president, with the black man as baseball player.

Unless, as baseball player, Mr. J. Robinson oversaw a program in which officious data-gathering probes were permanently inserted into the rectums of all his fellow players. Black and white. As well as brown, yellow, red, and whatever freakin’ color might be any alien who freefell, through the stratosphere, onto this alarming area of the earth.

The man, the black man, has been captured by the machine.

The black man who is president. Not the black man who played baseball.

And, to me, it doesn’t matter worth a damn, whether the black man was groomed from birth in some Illuminati/Kenyan/Lizard-People plot to always assume the presidency; whether he was somewhere later down the line smugly and serenely oyster-fingered by omnipotent omniscient worldwide riht it isplutocrats; or whether he blunderbutted, initially naively, and then of his own free well, into becoming, publicly, a screaming, gaping asshole.

Technological humanity, it is such a bellowing belching fuckup, that extraterrestrials are fighting each other, to get as far away from the planet as possible.

Because no one later wants to be held responsible, before some intergalactic tribunal, for in any way overseeing a place where 50% of the humans still cook by open-air wood fires, while 0.01% wander around with shit eating their grins, as they glass their googled eyes with spy-cams, that allow them to access the all and every, of every person they pass by.

The current amusingness of this planet is that the machines seem to be running triumphant and amok, even as they are already over.

The machines are the terminal bad dead-end that began when ur-humans decided—I believe at the urging of dogs—to abandon the hunter-gatherer life, and go in for settling down. First in agriculture. Which, in the event, and inevitably, led to cities, money, nations, jobs, machines, guns, insanity.

All of which are about to pass away.

And it’s going to be a good passing. For humans need none of these things. Cities. Money. Nations. Jobs. Machines. Guns. Insanity.

Because they, the humans, have their minds. And: better: their spirits. Their souls.

My colleague and I, we used to joke about the two most avid Cortez-the-Killer would-be space explorers, there on The Great White, people who wanted to spread the sickness of current-day machine-man Terra into outer space—these be G2geek, and Troubadour.

Joke that they would, indeed, succeed in avidly worming their way into the little space-capsules, seeking to therein reach the great wide open.

But, by the time they actually reached it, the great wide open, and awoke from their suspended zombie animation, they would be greeted by all us else.

Who—surprise, surprise—would have reached the same place. Long before. Without bodies.

That is Reality.

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

Already happened.

The black man got up there and basically said that the serial killers of the NSA—and never forget that the NSA is a branch of the Pentagon, the alpha and omega of serial killers—pretty much have to suck up all information from all and every, in order to make sure all and every are “safe.”

This is horseshit of the first water.

We know this because the serial killers have always sucked up all information, from all and every, and it’s never made a single American human any one bit more damn safe.

We know this because, back in the day, the day even of the 1940s-50s, the serial killers of the NSA sucked into their maw every telegram sent to or from the American nation. But not once did this claws-dragging-across-the-ocean-floor dragnet ever upbubble, timely, some Knowledge, of some Threat, that was then Acted Upon.

We know this because, in the days preceding the attack of 9/11, in 2001, imbecilic soon-to-be hijackers discussed, openly, over the phone, what it was they intended, but days later, to do.

But because the serial killers of the NSA were busy recording all and every, of all and every, of all and every conversation, over all and every, all over this world, and because it employed but a munchkin number of people conversant in the relevant languages, these conversations were not downloaded, recorded, and translated.

Until days after the twin towers had crumbled, into dust.

It’s all dust.

The black man. The serial killers. The machines. The US of A.

he came dancing across the water
dancing across the water
he came dancing across the water

dancing across the water
dancing across the water
dancing across the water

he came dancing across the water

It’s all over now.

Everyone is beyond all this shit.

There are no nations.

And therefore no need or reason or justification for one “nation” to spy on another.

And as a “nation” is but an amalgamation of the people in it, any “nation,” that then ruthlessly spies upon those people who make it what it is, a nation: well, that nation, it cannot live with its shame. In the world of the medieval Japanese, it must needs commit seppuku.

From time to time, I work as a PI. And, from time to time, there what it isis an international case. And, from time to time, in such a case, we reach a dead-end.

That is when we go see the “retired” French intelligence op. Who has a very nice house. In the south of France. In the midst of a vineyard.

Twenty years or so ago, this man stopped communicating, in any meaningful way, over the telephone. And through the mails. And via fax. And over the intertubes.

If you want to reach him, you do so in a way I am not going to here disclose.

Then, when you meet with him, it is face to face, in a stroll through the vineyard.

As with the people of Osama, you can NSA-vacuum up the anal canals of everybody who ever sniffed a tube. And still know not a whit of what this man is doing. Much less thinking. Feeling. Being.

My colleague, she awakened me to cameras. Naive, I didn’t think there were any around me. I now know better.

When, each day, I cross the street to the feed store, I am tracked, I now know, via cameras, through the rear lot.

Once inside the place, however, I am free.

When I leave the feed-people, I cross the street. To the pastry store—no cameras—where I might get a cinnamon roll. Then, next door—I, practicing my Spanish, he, his English; in a camera-less hole-in-the-wall—to maybe purchase a taco. I then walk another block, to the muffler store. Camera. But then veer right, and descend a hill. And, suddenly, I am out of town. And, with that, out of Reality.  Out of what the NSA considers the World. I am in wilderness. I have ducked under the trees. I am free as the stars. A jay is screeching at me in furious ecstasy. There are mushrooms at my feet. The breeze, caressingly, pushes me along. My lover: she will soon meet me here. I am free. As Ken do sayThere is no winter here. No dark. No despair. 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.

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8 Responses to “Sign Of A Local Nigger Unravelin’”


  1. 1 Miep January 19, 2014 at 5:59 pm

    I agree that the death culture is already dead, in the same sense that the guns are gone.

    But the death throes are ugly.

    I like the idea of people who can’t be spied on, almost as much as I like the idea of people who never officially exist.

    • 2 bluenred January 23, 2014 at 12:14 am

      The picture of the people in the vineyard offers more way truly forward than has ever been offered in the entire screaming scrabbling frothing foaming history of all the many jack-a-limp “lefty” blogs.

      Oh well.

      • 3 Miep January 23, 2014 at 12:45 am

        I hope you are well, too, blueness.

        I’ve been watching “Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman” episodes on YouTube, which are even better than they were when I saw them as a child.

        • 4 bluenred January 23, 2014 at 1:05 am

          I am nowhere near well. How can one be “well,” on this planet?

          With respect, I always considered Mary Hartman kitsch.

          1977, the last of the two brief years of Mary, was, to me, the year of Cross Of Iron. In which, I agreed, with Orson Welles, that it was the finest anti-war film, ever made.

          But probably this is mostly just that I am a boy. And you are a girl.

          • 5 Miep January 23, 2014 at 1:20 am

            I like Mary Hartman because it’s across the board irreverant. No one is spared. That kind of satire appeals to me, and it’s rare in my experience to see it so well done.

            I am not well either, but I had a pleasant conversation last evening with a few bravely optimistic people on robertscribbler’s blog, which left me feeling moderately better.

          • 6 Miep January 23, 2014 at 2:31 am

            Also, that thing about your being a boy and my being a girl? You really shouldn’t let that sort of thing get to you. Biological sex has reproductive repercussions, otherwise we are all just being ourselves or role playing in some manner.

            I’ve always had a penchant for men who experiment with performing femininity, and women who do the same with performing masculinity. It’s all about breaching the crap constructs about what men or women “should” be.

  2. 7 Miep January 20, 2014 at 12:17 am

    And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
    And what did you hear, my darling young one?
    I heard the sound of a thunder that roared out a warnin’
    I heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world
    I heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin’
    I heard ten thousand whisperin’ and nobody listenin’
    I heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin’
    Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter
    Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley
    And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
    And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

  3. 8 Miep January 23, 2014 at 2:47 am

    Wrote you a poem:

    Haiku For Blueness

    It’s difficult to
    Write you a haiku beyond
    Saying thanks a lot

    Because you don’t much
    Show yourself beyond a point
    And still are so kind.

    You demonstrate your
    Life in various small ways
    You get your voice heard.

    Some years now I have
    Made your acquaintanceship
    Thanks a lot for that.

    I remember talking
    To you on a troll diary
    We agreed it was fun.

    I didn’t know you well
    Then, but I remember well
    Your contemplation.

    We have quarreled, true
    That was silly, no need there
    Internets bring problems.

    Your spirit is good
    Thanks for still speaking to me
    I take naught granted.


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