Archive for February, 2014

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.

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Real

snow nik looks

Eddie Harris Is My Name

tryin’ to make it real
compared to what

Philip Seymour Hoffman, the other day, he died.

And all the eager scoured-brain skull-lickers, they are all, now, over all and every tube, telling us just how awfully, awfully Wrong, it was, the way, that he died.

He died, apparently, with a needle in his arm. Shooting heroin.

So. Striving. He was. Yassa yassa massa massa. For: the great wide open.

But why, cry the ur-humans, who these days are the all and every of “the press,” though they are knuckledraggers who have never even once gazed upon the monolith . . . why, would ol’ Phil, why would he knock hisself off, even inadvertently, with the ol’ Big Horse?

They do crocodile-weep, these ur-people: faux-crying what they never would say when he was alive—that he was perhaps the finest, most sensitive actor, of his generation.

And in this, they do answer their own question.

Phil, he was, with the needle in his arm, to try to bring the sweet peak understanding surcease release, to both body and mind, just, just, just:

tryin’ to make it real
compared to what


When I Worked

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