sleeping through storms…

“waiting for a reason to move”

perched above an afternoon
self-motivated as a coma patient
with much the same attitude.
everything waits on the arrival
of short term lightning-in-a-bottle;
what we need is the cosmic guarantor
to make good the promises so
freely given. even storm-laden
august afternoons know that.

instead just more silent acceptance
& serenity prayers both ack-
knowledge easy borne truth of
timely dis-intervention. when i
was asked to take it all on faith,
i smiled my best smile but
my answer didn’t change.

—————————————–

In honor of deities & starvation. Starting with an easy one does not bode well for those of us waiting for answers to even bigger, more complicated questions. I wish I was hungry enough to eat a burrito. Those kind of things.

fawktard… (part 2)

“what can you do?”

i went to monticello,
hearing somebody
say i should speak to
jeff. he’s long dead,
or maybe i was just late to
the party. took the tour
anyway so i could stare
at his dumbwaiter &
think back to the time
we weren’t quite as
fucked as we are now.

i wonder how much
longer until one of those
Historic Moments In
Human History comes
along & sweeps
everything away.

denninger has
the math down to a
science; with jeff dead,
bruce stealing mr. joad &
a lack of jacksons
(wait a while, my guess is
there’ll be plenty.)
who knows what comes
after the bankster
holdup?

no worries though;
we’re all fine.
just repeat after me.
heavy sour is the same
as light sweet,
politicians care about
the citizenry,
Jefferson County Alabama
loves JP Morgan,
& all’s going according
to plan & under
control.

let’s stare into a mirror,
think back to a time
we weren’t quite so…

fucked.

———————–

Dedicated to Phil Ochs. Was it ‘Ringing of the Revolution’ or ‘Rehearsals for Retirement’? All I know is ‘I Ain’t Marchin’ Anymore.’ When the wave hits here, what then? Obvious answers are always the bloodiest.

gasoline alley…

“paint thinner revolution on gasoline alley”

nobody is coming to
help. complaints don’t reach
government sanctioned office ears;
if he didn’t burn he damn sure
would’ve starved. dead is
dead atf.

Faida stalks
her beat knowing damn well
there’ll be no succor for those
unorganized demons of hunger
& thirst. petty tyrants are
everywhere lately; she wields
a truncheon like a champ.
(imagine for a minute she
was pms’ing on 12/17. let it never
be said real revolution
doesn’t begin in the womb.)

all the same, nobody knows
if it really matters.
billyclubs get swung. be a
waste to forever argue
good from less good.

in a few weeks most of the
planet was screaming for mercy,
a few kilo-calories & a future
for the blastocysts waiting on
their turn to burn down or up
or to one side or the other.
repetitious cellular division bears
the mark of soon-to-arrive children;
what can you hope for
if the food all tastes like burnt skin
& fat & blood while the water is
paint thinner?

i was driving toward the beach on
my own trip
when the man finally left here
somewhere else. i’m told
scorch marks still adorn local court-
house steps though different faces
occupy government offices. another
martyr paid in full & again got
nothing he wanted. written off;
i think it’s in the job description.

i didn’t know the man & now i
never will. i know he took more
shit than he could live with but
how lucky was the man that he
didn’t? dead is dead.
now he’s known from Sidi Bouzid
all the way down gasoline alley
to Washington, DC where
the IMF boys & WTO girls make
mama so proud burning
incense to cover the smell.

————————————————-

Inspired by M. Bouazizi. You got the shit end of the stick in life. All things considered, I suppose it was an odd meeting; maybe that’s what happens when we cross paths in the one dimension that doesn’t rely on geography for proximity. (Though in fairness there are nine others of the M-Theory folk are to be believed. Fuck it; this isn’t about physics, it’s about biology. And physics.)

globalization easily explained…

“reversion to the mean”

in the clouds masculine
explosions rattle
once dusted mountains
amidst the groan of a green
town splayed onto the
outskirts of the middle
of nowhere. land eroded by
winds of the colonial breath
wait on lightning from a
creation dream to start
the story over. nothing will
change but we’re thinkin’
more of the same will
be much better next time.

we like our delusions to
be the size of our cocks,
which are obviously bigger
& spit more goo than
those other guys. after
rebuilding everything already
waiting to be destroyed
my cock says we can
knock it right back down
again. could it really
be that simple? i
don’t see why not.

———————————————

Inspired by Michael Ruppert & the documentary ‘Collapse.’ If you haven’t seen it, check it out. Well worth the time.

cry now & get it out of the way…

“don’t cry”

it could be
72 hours ’till
an AAR nobody
will see. every
one is say
ing what was said
jumbled around &
walked into walls.
those are the
lucky ones.

sound without pictures;
a nice fat man on
BBC said all’s well
& nobody asked
why refugee camps
only get built when
everyone is doing
so well.

this isn’t slow
fanaticism at the
spur of the moment
& if you really
wanna know;
there’s nothing
to know, do,
or think. you
can watch on tv.
bullets won’t be
stopped by hands
thousands of miles
away when there’s
so much flesh to
bleed out here.

i hated truncheons
’til i learned about
Kalashnikov dynastics.
marshland uprisings
ending in slaughter &
refugee crises
ending in slaughter &
desperate poverty
ending in slaughter &
endless incursions
ending in slaughter.

i will comfort you
when you need to cry.
i will comfort you
with everything i have
down to hands,
heart & blood.

hopelessness can
make a vicious brew
mixed with a lil’ hunger.
of course, these days
you can buy trigger
fingers at 33 cents
on the dollar.

we’ll learn to eat
trigger finger stew.
it might mean more
than the blood sausage
we’re all about to be
served.

i will comfort you
when you need to cry.
i will remind you
to save the tears;
there’s little clean
water & you’re
gonna be thirsty
later.

i will comfort you
when you need to cry.
i will comfort you
with everything i have.

—————————

Lunacy to think that Malthus wasn’t wrong, just early, right? Well, right now all you theists could start backing up what you say about love thy neighbor. So I’m sure there is a good reason innocent people need to get gunned down for another week of meetings and vague pronouncements of no meaning. I’m sure that comforts the wounded & the families of the dead. This is a sick display of humanity. Just sick, without excuse.

what are we doing here?.?.?.

“justified pessimism”

license granted to operate
as the usual entropy courses
through all the places it
isn’t supposed to go. hasty
judgment moving so fast before
anyone else knew the game is
up. now everything is working
with a rebuilt starter but i heard
nothing’ll ever break, so we’re
gonna be okay. everyone gives up
yet keeps going absent any
noticeable change.

mulligans are hard to come by
& cost a fortune; even then it’s
impossible to tell if it’s a do-
over or more theatrics. slicked
back cynics would read with a
gamblers eye news of the moment,
dictators, killers, thieves, rapists.
nothing new under the sun.
knowing all is still in good time
with nothing to change the
basic gameplan that shoulda been
tossed years ago.

wanna make love until the end
of time? wanna smash windows
into sand? how else are beaches
gonna get made? wanna run
until there’s nowhere left to run
toward or should we just do it
here? questions are for the
postmortem. easier facts easily
deluded until meaning is another
untended grave without anyone
to dance, spit, piss, shit or
fuck in remembrance.

is this a revolution? i see it on tv.

—————————————-

The boys from the home office want me to reiterate my hope that just once, someone will take the keys away from the disgruntled insane dictator prior to killing his own people. If not now, when? What the fuck does ‘Never Again’ really mean anyway? Oh, that’s right… not supposed to ask that question…

seven billion…

“seven billion”

spirited & futile gesticulation;
actions on the low-odd explanations;
runs heavy with those greedy punters.
would give you a headache (or a nose
bleed) tryin’ to make sense of the
chaotically innervated prices. it’s all
one portugese bond sale. works well
until it doesn’t.

funny to think about how noise pollution
works the same way no matter where
it occurs. (who thinks cassandra just came?)
machine guns all speak the same language,
even if targets do not. (so do fires, mudslides,
floods & hurricanes. in america, so do
bridge & mine collapses, though only from
time-to-time on specific days.) hard to know
where the line really is between starvation &
intense debate ’bout ‘what mighta been.‘

at least it’s vaguely predictable; the real
mystery lies in whatever comes next. if
we hit eight as rapidly as we hit seven
(don’t worry; we won’t. worry about
the second part.) it’ll be a fuckin’
miracle. there’s not much future livin’
in the past these days but it’s too expensive
to live in the now. that’s why charlie darwin
is a miracle worker; that we’re not evolving
fast enough isn’t his fault.

seven billion not so long ago. what’re
the punters sayin’ ’bout eight?

——————————–

Inspired by the recent National Geographic as well as the morning jaunt through the news. See, this is why I don’t write politics…. usually.