Sunday, November 17, 2013
The mildness of this type of analysis helps to explain the word with regard to standard journalistic practices: ANAL-isis. This is a disease that fails to include any form of certitude in blaming those who have the power for not having used it to aid or protect their own constituents, not to mention as in the case of China and Warren Buffet, Peabody and the greedy clowns of Wyoming with their 2 mile coal trains destined to Bellingham and Shanghai, and of course the Koch Bros, who want to saturate the world with CO2 as thick as they possibly can. Can we at least pay attention to this absurd phenomena? it is obvious that greed plays, and pays it's part, but more than that is this latent unmentionable RACISM...that becomes even more strident when one learns that Daddy Kock was the founder of the John Birch Society, the last descendent of the Ku Klux Klan...or are we afraid of lawsuits when we mention these supportive arguments.
TO A CONSPIRACY THEORY!
If this had happened anywhere WHITE there would have been immediate electrolysis machines sent in, and steak dinners from the Outback, gift packs from Macy's for perfume to cover up the (temporary) stench. one chopper per family. gift cards for Big Macs made on food trucks, in competition with Wndy's and Burger kings like KFC...and free Kock Coke for everyone making over 100,000 a year.
Let's take statistical look. Name the areas of weather disasters for black or brown peoples: Haiti, Sri Lanka, Aceh, Philippines, Bengla Desh, Somalia, the entire Sahel, Central America, including Honduras, Belize, NOLA, Rockaway Beach NY, droughts in S. India, floods in Pakistan, as well as coincident(?) economic damage in all places not white, like the inner cities of America, including untoward lies and stress in Japan and China. China is the master of Dead Zones, having killed all their rivers and almost all the fish in the China Sea.
There is more. But let's think a bit here. We know or should have heard that most famines are man-made and man remedial. We know the rich white nations are stealing the resources of the 3rd or brown world, as always, and will leave nothing to support the masses who are being ripped off. The leaders of those poor benighted nations, not "developing," are criminals, but at least they're our criminals.
WE, the white citizens of this tired old planet are simply bad Samaritans.
And not to be trusted--that's for sure.
Sunday, July 28, 2013
poem for a cell phone
poem for a bad neck
for jessica, who is always in good spirits!
turn over! yeah.
sleep on the other side.
get a new pillow
if you got one now, burn it!
quit golf. drink jack black...again.
wake up every 2 hours and put yourself on the other side.
be like Condi, never look BACK!
walk softly, but keep it even.
sleep in the van.
get a puppy.
(or a monkey)
play on the slide.
play on the side
try breast strokes. [ask first]
go down. y'know how!
do not be shy.
do not eat fish anymore.
no shrimp either.
no ocean crawlers,
no late night stallers,
no conglomerate ballers
no duck no oysters no clams
no sea gulls. sea gulls eat garbage and fish.
drop yer cat off in Vegas and see if it finds you again.
if it does,
put your neck on the cat.
wrap the cat around your neck.
use vanilla rub body heat, at Rainbow and helath stores near you.
no needles! use accupressure!
forget real pressure: life is fake.
sit up straight or don't sit up at all.
lie down a lot.
try thinking in total silence.
talk to the birds.
do not look up! it scares them.
you big lug.
don't eat them.
no bacon no butter no beer,
no back up no bailout no bench!
keep on keepin on
when ya do stop ,
start up >>>>>>
do it now and do it later.
[it just wasn't good enough]
it's never good enough
poems are never done.
so don't get excited.
getting excited is one of those changes
we who would change the world have to make. so...
life is starting over.
go see 20 feet away...and, this is the end.
yer neck will get better
Saturday, June 15, 2013
CHAPTER 1 THE VAN
"Inside. We must look inside," said the policia.
He spoke softly from the cliff's edge, looking down at the wreck.
His partner, who (did not answer, was merely wondering again--for the
millionth time--how it happened in life that great wealth piled up in some quarters
and in others did not.
The one who had spoken continued to ponder the possibility of passengers
--surely the tumble down would have killed anyone within. As they
wondered and pondered--it was a long climb down--the timeless pulse
of the ocean, and the sudden collapse of a wheel, combined to loosen the
broken van from its setting in the rocks below. It slipped over on its
side into the water of the Sea of Cortez. It rocked gently back and forth
with the action of the waves, trapped and bruised, while the two cops silently watched.
From a high spot on a powdery road not far away, a pair of indios
coolly observed the scene. Descended from those who were once the world's
greatest long-distance runners, these ones, whose genes remembered, even
if their memories could not, out-running, out-lasting really, a band of
Apaches on horseback across barren desert--no desert is barren--to deliver
mouthfuls of water as evidence of their warrior-hood....
These ones considered how this van, this home, smashed upon the lap of
the sea, might best be saved and put to use. These ones saw the van as
shelter for doe-eyed, dusty brown innocents who would be forced by the chill of winter coming to sleep in a pile together under grimy blankets
because the sticks and the mud and the tarpaper do not keep out the wind
the way a metal car would.
These two brown, wiry men stood silently and watched. Then, without
comment, under the phlegmatic watch of pelicans perusing the shore from
ancient flight patterns, they trudged off toward the bus
and another day
Later, from one of several police vehicles attracted to the scene with roof lights flashing cosmetically as if there was someone to warn and something to warn them of,
two of the greener rookies make the arduous climb down the cliff to discover that the van is vacant. They find no broken corpses, no bodies tossed out on the way down, no signs of
violence or skid marks from the brakes being applied on the surface above.
There remains one item of peculiar interest. A clue, perhaps.
An old shot-gun lying in the grass where the van had gone over.
It points out to sea as if purposely laid.
Meanwhile, out on the highway some seven kilometers to the east, a lone early-morning hitch-hiker with backpack begs a ride. The ride he catches is headed south, but to this young man direction does not matter.
As he climbs into the truck a thirty year old ex-school bus passes by,
no longer the familiar yellow, blue-gray now,
crying out (from faded letters on its dusty flank):
"Minas de Sal de Sonora S.A.”
Sonora Salt Mines.
Within the bus two of the miners, indios, note the hitch-hiker with flat acceptance.
"Este," says one.
"Si, por supuesto,” nods the other. They concur without more being said. Of course.
It was gringo.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
…system is da problem.
We cudda had it all,
But we could never get enough.
We clothed ourselves with
The Pelts of Torture.
The warmer we made our bodies,
The colder we became inside.
We always took “No!” for an answer
from corpo-rat un-persons, systemic immortals that could not say yes…
Humans are the canaries in their own
coal mine. We have run out of songbirds
We’ve been dancing on our tomb.
We’ve been decorating all the coffins…
for the living.
You cannot change da system from within because da system is da problem:
They are like the doctors in the death camps:
Saving the babies only for them to be
We are mosh pit bulls dancing in our crypt…as if celebrating…
the Dis-Inheritance of the Meek.
We are nothing more than a big fat Banana
Republic…with a more sophisticated style of corruption.
We believe in our Economics as if they were religions. Yet religions are political. Whereas, Real Politik is the economy, stupid! And has become a business.
Evil is live spelled backwards:
Our money is an illusion, yet we believe money is the god of all things.
Our constant growth is Gaia’s cancer.
Dead Zones define the oceans, our fields, and our brains.
Fields of Grass can kill you. Arugula is the new Geiger counter.
A class war takes up our attention, but it is not as advertized—right and left have merged in an attack of Medieval Memorium, Promulgating their Undead Past upon our Unborn Future.
The Occupy movement is a passive placement within the unjust laws of the land. It is the current powerful counter-attack by a self-ruling, cooperative, irregular, and poetic right brain gauche against the linear right hand thuggery of rule by Greed….
You cannot work for Change within da System because…
da system is da problem
Until now, anarchy has always been the province of Finance, Oil, and the War Machine. Now it also belongs to any MBA, CIA, and any Type-A, straight-A, anal compulsive, A-hole Alpha Dawg
[not ashamed to kill] Aligned Against
the rest of us…
They want us to have a Cause to cramp our style, confining discussions to their chosen issues to lock debate into the adversarial rationalizations of da system attempting to create compromise, even if rarely achieved, whereas constant trials at compromise only compromise the Truth.
In this way LIES GAIN parity with Truth.
[Imagine negotiating the definition of fraud: When, quote, “it can’t be fraud, if we didn’t know we were lying,” is our leaders’ salient defense.]
No one could have imagined them turning planes into missiles…we have to look forward not back, sayeth the prosecutor….
You cannot work for Change within da System because…
I SHOT THE CHOPPER email@example.com revised May 2011, Feb 2013
There’s a chopper--down on Monterey!--
over my house. I mean, my block. It’s been there over an hour.
What the hell?
Is this the Takeover? Cable hooks to the shackle train?
They gonna pull us outa our beds?!
Why here, in our lousy Sunnyside barrio?
There a creep out there?
What’s so bad it’s worth a stinkin’ chopper floating over-bed
…for an hour…at three in the morning!
Do I go with the creep or the chopper? Creep’s not keepin’ me up.
Hell, I know what HE wants: money to take care of an itch.
He’s lookin’ for a little touch:
Someone for his lovin’ spoonful.
Sweatin’, skipping over them fences.
[if only his grrrl knew
what we men go through
for a taste.]
Maybe i’ll toss ‘im a gun. I’m out a fifty by lyin’ here anyway.
Half awake all day, tomorrow’s shot.
Pull him inside. Take ‘im downtown.
Say, hey! Here’s a massage girl: Go ahead!
Take the pressure off.
So... What’s the back story? Whose side am I on?
Don’t want no burglar runnin’ ‘round. No rapist
goin’ by Mom’s….
Don’t nobody know what the chopper wants either....
Chopper making big noises outside my window….
chopper making rounds…down on Mount-Her-Rey.
They say weird Uncle Billy went out to play again today.
Chopper working overtime down on Monterey.
Weird Uncle Billy never had no say.
Chopper shines the spotlight on da house where he was born.
Crack head Mom who lives alone, dyspeptic, likes to knit,
a bit forlorn.
I tell to Mary, I cun’t sleep with sunrise comin’ two hours
away all day.
Weird Uncle Billy never had a play. What he ever say?
Chopper makin’ rounds down on Mount-her Ray!
Weird Uncle Billy’d already gone. I call Ma.
She out, thru her machine, she say.
jimmy gets up mad as hell…!
grabs his rabbit .22 and let that baby fly.
Whacked a spotlight just for show
down on Monterey. Put another in the rotor
just ‘fore break oh day! Ohoooo…?
I shot the chopper, but I didn’t shoot the fighter plane
I shot the chopper, and I didn’t use a Tomahawk
I shot the chopper, but I did not shoot no A-16.
Put it down where it can’t go
It went down on Monterey…
Crash landed in the center divide. Out came the pilots cops and one flat-top CIA
Man, they jumped to miss the blades, OK?
Made it do a cartwheel down the parkway down on Monterey
that divides los mojos del Sur “tray-say” and ricos de la Nortay O-fay,
[protectin’ the unborn poor from the edicts of the undead rich]
norteno from sureno, yin from yang, queenies from da gangs.
OJ badboys copping cans and this clinky bag lady we call Tang
On the night-hound barrio westbound down from soul,
down on good ol’ mouth-her-ray.
I shot the Blackhawk, but I did not shoot no Cherokee.
I shot the chopper, but I did not shoot at Aerosmith.
I shot the chopper, but I did not shoot Geronimo.
Shot da stinkin’ white night-light out,
Put the .22 back in cleaned n' cold n' in sight out.
I shot the chopper that was floatin’ over Monterey
t'was makin’ nosey noisey rounds down Monterey.
I hear it was part Sikorski and parts you don’t wanna know.
Some corpo-empire bought out by who know who.
Eastern Euro trash, who somehow y’all know YOU.
Pinochet playboys. Outa werk afrikaaner cops.
showin' our cowboys how to pull out all da stops.
Out come the pilot, cops, and DEA and one more flat-top CIA.
Manly dudes, but dazed, unfazed, dey jumped to miss the blades, Ho-KAY?!
Kids: mostly boys and grrrlie femma nazis darted for their
abandonated Kalashnikovs or was dey only Alpha-Kays?
belts of ammo. someone yanked a mylar vest.
a pistol, big ol’ Eastwood ‘86.
I shot the chopper doin’ rounds on Mount-her-ray
the night weird Uncle Billy he ran out to play.
The lights swept o’er our bedroom, Mary,
was gettin’ pretty scared [but I was plenty hard]
the night I shot that chopper goin’ down on mount her, ray.
Is this is...jus' da beginning......kinda rough out der, it shouldn't make me hot...
...better den viagra. Mary’s gotta her arms out wide.
She praisin’ god for wakin’ her…fo’another ride...
We’re doing god’s werk down on Mount.her.Rey
Better get this done ‘fore the door caves in, I say.
I shot the chopper, but I did not shoot the fighter plane.
I shot the chopper. I can’t say I hurt a soul.
I shot the chopper, but I did not shoot Geronimo.
I shot the Blackhawk, but I did not shoot the Cherokee.
I shot the chopper, but I didn’t shoot that Apache.
I shot the chopper, but did not shoot no Chiricahua
I shot the chopper, but did not shoot one Arapaho.
I shot the chopper, but I didn’t shoot the Navajo.
I shot the chopper, but I didn’t shoot the Kiowa.
I shot the chopper, but I did not shoot the Seminole.
I shot the chopper, but I didn’t shoot no Chippywa.
I shot the chopper, but I did not shoot the Sioux y’know.
I shot the chopper, but I didn’t shoot no Viet-namese.
I shot the chopper, but I did not bomb the Philippines.
I shot the chopper, but I didn’t shoot at Lebanese.
I shot the chopper, but I did not shoot in Tripoli.
I shot the chopper, but my gun won’t fire in Mejico.
And no one ever shot at me…in JalisCo.
Now you see me, then I go.
I stopped the shoppers, but I did not foreclose the shopping mall.
I wish I’d shot the bankers; it weren’t me brought da ‘conomee to stall.
I fragged the Captain, but i didn’t aim at Captain Jack.
I let them kill Lumumba, but it was an accident…, cuz he was black...and i was whack.
i did not shoot Allende, nor did I shoot the Kennedys.
I did not drop Torrijos, Arbenz, nor Mossadecq.
I shot at PCP, and crack, and smack, but i did not shoot at MLK.
Getting’ kinda rough out der, wonder why it makes me hot...
...better den viagra. An’ Mary gotta her arms out wide.
I’m feelin’ mighty macho, and Mary got her legs up high.
Wrapped aroun’ my head…this good reason to not be dead.
Better get this over with before the door comes in on the fly…
and I can’t get me out of bed.
I shot the chopper so they’d let ol’ Uncle Billy go
I shot da chopper,
But I never shot Geronimo.*
No one ever shot Geronimo.
I don’ know where he go,
no one ever shot Geronimo.
I did not shoot Geronimo.
No one ever shot Geronimo
He go where he wanna go.
No one ever shot Geronimo.
They called ObL Geronimo, and no one ever shot Geronimo
When a pair a troopers jump from planes they shout, “Geronimo!”
I shot da chopper, but…no one ever shot Geronimo.
*Geronimo was the code name for the assassination of Osama bin Laden. 2012 in Abbottabad, Pakistan