Archive for March, 2014

Each Feather, It Falls From Skin

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.

You say:

Blueness, he was just up there camping in the hills, because scary campingit 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.

You say:

And they murdered him after they escalated the situation. After he agreed to surrender.

You say:

He was just camping.

You say:

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.

You say:

Fucking shot him down.

You say:

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
low

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?

And so, some bored whole beings, decided—yeah, hot damn, let’s maybe, like, funincarnate into individual corporeal containers.

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.

The purpose behind all this earthly suffering is that we want to be the one soul, like we yesused to be, but we also want to feel it individually.

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

What It Is

Not Finished

yet will I sing
bonny boys
bonny mad boys
bedlam boys are bonny

for they all go bare
and they live in the air
and they want no drink nor money

i went to pluto’s kitchen
to break my fast one morning
and there i got souls piping hot
that on the spit were turning

bonny boys
bonny mad boys
bedlam boys are bonny

for they all go bare
and they live in the air
and they want no drink nor money

Finished

“This wilderness has destroy me,” Clam de Paty mumbled. He felt too tired, too sad even to make his English precise. What he had mumbled was the truth: the American wilderness had destroyed him. He did not want to walk across it—not even one more mile. He did not want to write about its mountain men, its savages, its grizzly bears, its le endmountains. He had come to America a famous man, a veteran of the Grande Armee, a man who had won medals; was he not the most famous journalist in the most civilized country in the world? Yet now, thanks to his bosses—always greedy for new information—he was destroyed, broken, finished, ended, afflicted with a numb despair. True, they had found a good spring, had drunk their fill, had bathed many times, had rested. And yet, all around, the wilderness still yawned. Sante Fe was still hundreds of miles away. The nice young Monsieur Charbonneau could talk to him all he wanted about how easy the rest of the trip would be compared to what had already been endured, but young Monsieur Charbonneau was missing one big point: Clam de Paty no longer cared. The wilderness had finished him.

—Larry McMurtry, By Sorrow’s River

Sitting Still Moving Still Staring Outlooking

Heart’s Broke Eating Dripping

Wherever He Goes The People All Complain

Fred Phelps

sadRabbi Nahum said no man was beyond redemption.

He said redemption was established before the creation of the world itself, that’s how important redemption is.

No one can take it away.

The Noahs Have Always Been Assholes

“Noah was an asshole.”

“Why Noah?” Arkady asked. This holewas a new indictment.

“He didn’t argue.”

“Noah should have argued?”

Yakov explained, “Abraham argues with God not to kill everyone in Sodom and Gomorrah. Moses pleads with God not to kill worshippers of the golden calf. But God tells Noah to build a boat because He’s going to flood the entire world, and what does Noah say? Not a word.”

“Not a word,” said Bobby, “and saves the minimum. What a bastard.”

Martin Cruz Smith, Wolves Eat Dogs

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.

Inventions

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 truecrossed 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.

So this Illinois farmer Joe guy: he’s a figment. Joyce had it right. It is just too perfect: that a nun i'm sorryinvented barbed wire. So I am going with that. It is Reality.

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.

The internet, of course, was invented by insane people who sought a means by which serial killers in nuclear missile silos could continue to communicate with one another after they had let loose their missiles and incinerated the whole of the globe.
Tom Robbins intuited that “human beings were realinvented by water as a device for transporting itself from one place to another.”
In Sirens of Titan Kurt Vonnegut revealed that the whole of human history was invented and controlled by beings of the planet Tralfamadore, subtly but firmly arranging things so that eventually a small metallic object, something like a can opener, would unknowingly and naturally be brought, in the fullness of time, from Earth to Titan, moon of Saturn, and there would replace a disabled part in the grounded spaceship of a Titan-marooned Tralfamadorian ambassador, allowing this Tralfamadorian-being to then continue his mission into the great wide open, charged with transporting, from one end of the universe to the other, a message that read, simply:
Greetings.
If there is one thing that we know, in the all and every of this universe, it is this: this story, vouchsafed to us by Vonnegut, is Absolutely True.

I Hear You Moan

Chris Christie—let’s face it—weighs in at about 400 meaty beaty big & bouncy pounds.

We know from Einstein that mass—and 400 pounds is a lotta mass—can fuck, sometimes seriously, with both space and time.

And so we know that when the fat man screamed till his lips bled that all New Jersey/New  York roads must be closed that might in any way be connected with any Traitor that did not support his meaty beaty big & bouncyness swallowing whole gargantuan a second gubernatorial term, he ripped with his massive mass a massive hole in space/time.

He in this way became Responsible for much of what now recently Puzzles people.

As they scratch their heads in befuddlement, the people . . . well, the fat man, he but splashes, frustrated, impotent, in the tub . . . .

Let’s take a for instance, of what the fat man has wrought.

Malaysia Flight 370. Where do it be gone?

It went clean out of this universe. Sucked through a ripple opened via the space/time rupture of the fat man.

It may still be flying on. That plane. Out there, in some other universe somewhere.

Or, as I earlier suggested: in my universe, it landed, gently, just across the street.

Then there is Ukraine.

The fat man’s bodaciously lardalicious buttocks struck the earth of that nation, and thundered it into pieces.

Already the people of Crimea have retrieved and clung to a wild hair, and remembered that from 1917-1954 the Crimea was part of Russia: until Nikita Khrushchev—himself Ukrainian—gifted the place to Ukraine. A little present for the homeboys. Now, thanks to the fat man’s buttquake, the Crimeans have joyfully returned to the Russian bosom.

Next, Ukraine itself may soon, at last, naturally, split into its two organic halves—one facing east, one facing west.

Ukraine: the land itself has been populated by humans for 44,000 years. But not until 1990 did it become an independent country. With borders, like the borders of so many nations on this planet, completely wrong and ridiculous and out of whack. Created by drunk and deluded and disturbed individuals drawing lines on maps that had nothing to do with the Realities of the people “on the ground.”

Western Ukraine has for centuries crawled across cut glass to be of the people of the Pope.

Eastern Ukraine has for the same centuries crossed its bosom to kiss the beard of the Patriarch.

It is a stitched-together country; it is doomed; it is Fail.

And this is sad. Because, once upon a time, Ukraine offered some of the richest agricultural soil in the world. Until: Chernobyl: the nuke rain did fall. And because, once upon a time, Ukraine offered some of the most beautiful free and feisty women in the world. Until grinding poverty sucked so many of the nation’s x-chromes into the international forced sex trade.

But what the hey. Probably it’s good that the fat man fucked with his lard-butt all of space/time, and thereby broke loose Ukraine.

Had to happen some time.

And with this piece we re-learn that is easy to explain, in one neat little package, all and recent every, when once one has drifted loose, from the moorings of “sanity.”

As St. Jerome did say:

once in a while you can get shown the light
in the strangest of places
if you look at it right

the more that you give
the more it will take
to the thin line beyond which
you really can’t fake

As for the fat man. He himself has always said he’s always just wanted to be Bruce Springsteen. That, then, is what he should have done. Never ever ventured into such a false and fatal poisonous swamp as “politics.” Kept, instead, always, his eyes on the prize.

she’s the one . . . .

Anything Twice

Love Is My Badge

well i told you that the light go up and down
notice how the wheel go round
and you better pick yourself up off the ground

before they pull the curtain down
yes before they pull the curtain down

Krzysztof Kieślowski synthesized the finest Western art of the previous 9000 years, and subsumed it into his Trois Couleurs trilogy: BleuBlancRouge.
These films are the apotheosis of cinema; of all of Western art. No one has even remotely approached this place. Kieslowski was as out front as William Blake.
To give you an indication of his power, Kieslowski’s 1988 feature A Short Film About Killing is credited with quickly ending the death penalty in the director’s native Poland.
Though that was not his intention. He was just making a film. Of what is.
He followed A Short Film About Killing with a film called A Short Film About Love. Which is credited with invigorating a flagging Shakti and Shiva.
Kieslowski was only 55, and was at work on another trilogy—inspired by Dante’s Divine Comedy, to include HeavenHell, and Purgatory—when, in March of 1996, he went into a hospital. Where doctors killed him.
When the doctors killed Kieslowski, only the screenplay for Heaven was completed.
Six years after Kieslowksi’s death, Tom Twyker brought that script to the screen. And the film he made of it, it is sad. Because Twyker tried to do his best, but he could not. Kieslowski is there. In every frame. And so we can see, what he would have seen, and made. That Twyker could not.
Because some have it. But some have it more. And some have it, unto jewels.
But let’s talk about the end of Heaven. Where we have two star-crossed lovers. Who have reached, though the logic of the narrative, the inevitable life-erasing Wild Bunch/Thelma and Louise denouement.
Except Kieslowski wrote them boarding a helicopter. And then rising, straight up, into the sky.
Straight up, impossibly, they continue to rise.
To, literally, heaven.
They make it. Away. Into the great wide open.

Life, as they say, imitates art. And so that is what has happened to Malaysia Airlines flight MH370. Life. Art. That plane has flown straight up to heaven.

I told you that the machines are over.  That even as it appears they are uber-triumphant, their day is done.

We have over the past several months, here in the US of A, been in a panty-ripping scream-till-your-lips-bleed frenzy over knock-kneed Anglo-American units seeking to suck up every communication from one human being to another, here there and everywhere on this planet.

And in this they try, the Anglo-American units, and in this they are wrong, but in this they are Clouseaus.

For, according to the latest wisdom, flight MH370 flew through the spy-net of not only the US of A, but also of the Chinese, the Thais, the Vietnamese, the Indians, the Malaysians, the Indonesians. And who knows how many other Toms, Dicks, and Harrys. With none of these people, having the faintest clue, as to where do be de plane.

They think, the techno-people, they have all the planet covered. Not a damn thing can occur, anywhere, without them snuffling up an anal probe, telling them all and every.

Flight 370 is, to these people, a big middle finger. You, it says, don’t know shit. You don’t know where I go. Much less do you know something really important. Like where the time goes.

Meanwhile, one of the more recent newsy emissions has been that Flight 370 was flown hell and gone, for who knows what reason, to an “undisclosed location.” Where, it was darkly mumbled, the plane would be vouchsafed, until its New Masters determined what best mischief it might be flown into.

My first impulse was to snark and snort about Darth Cheney hijacking the plane, since it is well-known that the Darthster spent most of his vice-presidency in an “undisclosed location.”

But then I realized: it was me.

Because I live in an undisclosed location.

With an identity undisclosed.

And therefore, in my universe, it was my responsibility, to bring these people home.

And so: here they are. In my universe, Flight 360 landed in the field there across the street. Between the feed store, and the lube shop. It was kind of a tight fit, but the pilot made it. Spooked the crows, and scattered the squirrels, true, but in a few days those people will be alright.

Meanwhile, all the passengers, the crew, there on board, they are all alright. In my universe, they are all alright.

They will be phoning home soon.

I am feeding them. For those who need it, I am providing a place to sleep.

One man aboard, Zhang Jin Quan, is a calligrapher. Calligraphy: this has always fascinated me. He is showing me how it is done. He speaks only Chinese. I speak only English. But we understand each other perfectly.

For years I listened to Eric Clapton perform “Badge,” and I thought that at the climax of the tune, every time, that he, and his, joyously chanted: “love is my badge.”

Then, one day, I chanced to look upon the intertubes. And discovered, definitively, that, always, he and his were always but asking: “where is my badge?”

No.

In my universe, Eric Clapton sings, all and every, and every time, “love is my badge.”

In my universe, all the people aboard Flight 360 are perfectly safe. They are here with me. They will come home to you. And soon.

They went up to heaven, true. Just like in Heaven. But then they came back down. To here. To where it is safe.

Reality is what we make of it.

And so, in reality, love is my badge. And the people of Flight 360 are okay. And 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.

Quaresma

In these here “modern” days, mainline Catholics, they be thinkin’ that, for Lent, they need to “give up,” for de Lord, something like a “vice.”

Like. Say. Typically. These days. Drink. Drugs. Fucking.

Or, if they be not lucky enough to count such thingsthe horror the horror among their “vices,” some vanilla substitute. Like—and I kid you not—Oreos.

Such horseshit.

I know this to be horseshit, from communion with Jesuits, and with the Irish. Who—pace silent peasant women lighting candles before Mary; and these women of the true faith, glory be onto the highest, they never do of such things speak—are as Catholic as Catholic do get.

And what these people do say is that Lenting ain’t got nothing to do with no “vices.”

That, instead, in Lent, the believer should strive to eschew that which serves to separate s/he from god. (Understanding, always, that god, is, in fact, s/he.) What might make the soul feel so cold and alone. Under the Milky Way, tonight.

Drink, drugs, fucking—even Oreos—these are not always separators from the divine.

Indeed, such pursuits can actually quite often bring one closer, to oneness with creation.

If they do not: really, it’s just because u r doing it wrong.

That’s all.

Ruminating, this pre-Lenten season, on what I myself to do cling, that most separates me from the divine, I divined that what I must needs most cast, in Lent, to the wind, is this: sanity.

Two reason for this.

First, the lord of the Catholic hosts, he is himself, mad as a hatter.

A deity who—to give just one well-known example— demanded that a 600-year-old man build a boat and then populate it two-by-two with every creature on earth (except the unicorn), because he was so appalled by his own creation he decided to drown ALL the shit under massive muddy waters . . . saving only a slim seed-hoard of all the animals, plus 600-year-old lifetime lazy drunk Noah, and his family.

Noah then, once the watery holocaust had at last receded, proving himself such the righteous dude that as soon as the boat docked, he got himself royally pissed and then passed out in his tent with his penis exposed, said penis then viewed by his children, causing such a massive freak-out that one of his kids actually turned black. And ran screaming, blackened, cursed, let's gointo another land. Which, for 6900 years or so, was cited as Reason why it was OK to slap black people into chains.

If anything has ever been nutbag on the storm, it is this.

And you’re gonna say that a dude like that can be understood if one is sane?

“No way,” as Pike Bishop did say, when he at last understood there was no other way, no way at all, but to deliberately walk directly into the maelstrom. “No way at all.”

Second, all the best people, have had flipped lids, when they best appreciated the divine.

From Lew Welch, to William Blake. From the pilgrim to Mt. Hood, to the sacrifice of Odd Man Out. From bending all worlds, and all reality, to save the time-missed lover, to, with same, saving all prayer.

As Johnny Rotten, sorta did say: “i want to be/of their sanity.”

So, for the 44 days of Roman Catholic Lent, I plan to go insane. Like I always do.

Maybe this time it will take.

And another thing. There has become this stunted tradition that, during Lent, one, if one is Catholicing, is not supposed to play or hear “Gloria In Excelsis Is Deo.”

Mountainous horseshit.

“Gloria,” in truth, is to be sung, and heard, all of the day, and all of the night. Every day of the year.

For. Truth be told. Always and forever. “God,” he is not a he. God is, in Reality, Goddess. “He,” is a she. And her name is

and she comes around here
just about midnight
and she make me feel so good
make me feel alright

gloria in excelsis deo
gloria in excelsis deo

i want to shout it every night
i want to shout it every day

gloria in excelsis deo
gloria in excelsis deo

she make me feel so good
make me feel alright

and her name is

Trimmed And Burning

Calling All Angels

What I Know About Ukraine

In 1193 there was established a hunting lodge. At a spot that later grew into the village of Chornobyl. A village that more than 700 years later would be said to exist within a country called Ukraine.

“Chornobyl” is the Ukrainian word for “wormwood”—combining42 chornyi, or black, with byllia, or grass blades.

The literal meaning, then, is “black grass.”

In 1986, Chornobyl became truly black grass. When a nuclear power plant situated there literally blew its top. And rendered the area uninhabitable for a thousand years.

Chornobyl for many years was home to a thriving Jewish community. The 17th Century Hasidic rabbi and Kabbalist mystic Menahem Nahum lived and taught in Chornobyl. This is among what he said:

Rabbi Nahum said no man was beyond redemption. He said redemption was established before the creation of the world itself, that’s how important redemption is. No one can take it away.

—Despite the pogrom during the Russian Civil War, when rightist counter-revolutionaries gathered together the Jews of Chornobyl, packed them onto boats, steered them out into the Pripyat River, scuttled the boats, and then shot anyone who tried to swim for shore.

—Despite the fact that Boris Brasol, one of the leaders of the killers who shot the Jews upon the water, later emigrated to the US, where he was responsible for the first American edition of the notorious anti-semitic forgery The Protocols of the Elders of Zion. Through this, Brasol came to the attention of automaker Henry Ford, who gave him a job on his Dearborn Independent; Brasol collaborated with Ford on the latter’s own despicable anti-semitic tract, The International Jew. That is a book that found favor with the forming Adolph Hitler, whose government later bought vehicles and parts from the Ford Motor Company, even after Germany was at war with Europe. When Hitler’s troops came to occupy Chornobyl, they exterminated those Jews remaining in the region. Every one.

Rabbi Nahum said no man was beyond redemption. He said redemption was established before the creation of the world itself, that’s how important redemption is. No one can take it away.

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.

Mother Knows Best

Being in the country in the vacation time not many years since, at Lindley in Leicestershire, my father’s house, I first observed this amulet of a what it isspider in a nut-shell lapped in silk, etc., so applied for an ague by my mother; whom although I knew to have excellent skill in chirurgery, sore eyes, aches, etc., and such experimental medicines, as all the country where she dwelt can witness, to have done many famous and good cures upon divers poor folks, that were otherwise destitute of help, yet, among all other experiments, this methought was most absurd and ridiculous, I could see no warrant for it. Quid aranea cum febre? [What has a spider to do with fever?] For what antipathy? till at length, rambling amongst authors (as often I do), I found this very medicine in Dioscorides, approved by Matthiolus, repeated by Aldrovandus; I began to have a better opinion of it, and give more credit to amulets, when I saw it in some parties answer to experience.

—Robert Burton, The Anatomy Of Melancholy

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

The Glory


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