gonna be his moon
jimmymankind © 07/07
She knew she wasn’t ever gonna be his moon.
‘cause the things he did to her were dumber than a loon.
He’d promise her the worl’,
then she’d find him
chattin’ up some other grrl.
He’d tell her he’d be goin’ down...town
and she’d see him in the mall.
(You could tell he wasn’t that enthrall’d.)
And she’d hear...he’d been seen
rubbing faces with some...ditzy human bein’,
blond...
While Jojo languored cooked up
instead of hooked up
somewhere on the softer side of
On...
You here, me...it’s the hold-on
grrrl, you, me, the good man at your side.
These bright wondrous days are for when we love.
Life–y’all–boils down to a few salient days:
the ones when we are love.
You who make me laugh.
You here, me.
The rest be chaff.
Yesterday afternoon
I was sitting/in my car/in the safeway/Sparkling lot
Listening to the snooze upon the radio.
My car’s burnin’ oil just like the nation
(tryin’ to stay ahead of China and Big Oil’s constipation.)
And I’m Thinking,
angry. romantic, and dangerously lost ! ,
of Starting up
Some sort of "Don’t Tread On Me"
to make the Boss man even more angry.
Like me:
romantic, and dangerously lost.
He be some kinda foo’! Man!
He turn my brown ass blue.
now:
She knew she wasn’t ever gonna be his moon.
Because the things he did to her were dumber than a loon.
He promise her the whirl,
then she find him in the mall
chattin’ up some other grrrl.
He tell her he be goin’ down...town
and how he got aroun’.
She hear he been seen
rubbing faces
with some ditzy free for all
Latina human bean-a.
While Jojo languored all cooked up
curled
and broke-up
like some defunct...
Concertina.
No where she’d be seen.
It was a day for the audacity of hopes
I had the newspaper open to the Sun.
Cuppa coffee on the dash–this was some kinda fun.
I was counting the dead as best I could,
Until the numbers turned to oatmeal
In my head. Or vice versa.
I dug into the billions wasted, stolen, lost...out upon the sea...under desert rocks...
...in bad peephole’s pockettes.
Burnt. Manured somewhere. Or forgotten like squirrels lose nuts.
I got all confused.
That led me to a-dreamin’ ‘bout the more manageable simple number
of wars per century, and if ours was not the worst of all the bad...
ones viewed from this late perspective,
from this point of human evo- devo- or our reso-solution.
On sun-dried killing fields where there was only one army
not at home
whose jones was blowing
up no one’s
homes Or homes unknown,
So that was not a war...exactly. (If you don’t know who you killin’.)
Like unintended murders have unintended consequences w/o intent
–these gloves fit all sizes.
When my eye caught something all weird and fluttery ‘cross the street
high up on the tarry old telephone pole–slash–dead tree:
y’all be darned if they wasn’t a couple a coupling
California Blue Jays up there high above it all,
Kali-forni-cating’ they (dumb little) brains out.
"Omigod! Omigod!" she seemed to squawk,
squashed down upon their/her polestand. "Omigawd!"
As her old man pounded, "Uhnt. Uhnt-uhnt!"
And–finally, "Uhnt...! Squawk. Caw!"
Just like any man would sound if smaller,
and with wings in feather.
One more Spring.
Oh. Joy,
I thought:
High hopes.
You here, me...it’s the hold-on,
grrrl, you, me, the good man at your side.
This bright or gray, illuminated day, when we love.
Life boils down to a few salient witnessings:
the ones when we are love.
You here, me.
The rest be chaff.
High hopes.
–omtatsat–
Monday, March 29, 2010
red spot t-shirt
© jimmy.mankind@gmail.com 08/06
"Haight and Fillmore. Pick up."
"1-8-7."
"8-7, check."
I was driving up Haight with just a twenty to my night;
It wasn’t late but my hand was pretty tight.
Suddenly a fresh-faced blond kid, maybe twenty-some,
held up a shaky arm and signaled me to come.
He stood too long in one place for me to tell.
(There is a ritual for catchin’ cabs, y’all.)
Suddenly he reeled back into the pole,
Leaned there uncertain, not like he would chill.
He wore a pair of jeans, the uni of the night,
and a white t-shirt that looked a bit too bright...in the flourescent blue-white light.
I raised my hands to him, in the universal, Well, what?
When at that moment he sat. He just went phump!
He slid down his back along the pole.
His grrrl friend screamed at me, "Please don’t go!"
She tossed her head up, down, to and fro,
Jumpin’ at my door and jerkin’ towards her beau.
While his face turned into some angelic kinda glow,
Her screams rose as if I was something slow,
but I’d pulled over, opened up the door, all set to go.
It was he who wasn’t movin’, seemed somewhat outa flow.
When she tried to lift ‘im I could see the whole
Of a tiny spot of red to the left of center
Below the patch where ciggies go.
It started out real small like that and then began to grow.
His head fell over, the wet spot spread and white went red.
I hit the mike and screamed, "I think he’s dead!"
"I mean," I said. "Mayday! This kid gone red!"
"Corner of Haight and Steiner, send the man!"
"The kid’s been shot! He barely understands."
"Don’t worry ‘bout findin’ us. Here they come!"
Two gangs, I spose, incitin’ fightin’ without bendin’.
Ran by cross the street and veered toward downtown’s ending.
We’ll need an ambulance, two shots a ‘drenalin,
This could be the bitter pill.
He’s twenty-some, looks real ill.
Grrrlie’s screaming at me.
Her boy can’t talk.
I said, "Just hold his hand. Tell ‘im how you feel.
If he can’t hear you, I think it’s time to kneel.
They’ll be here ‘fore we could lift him up."
She turned to him–and stared–her mouth all stuck
Big red spot from clavicle to down to where he opened
She dreamed of one more chance...with any luck.
But that dream faded as the EMTs arrived.
Seconds later cops strolled ‘round to find that he was not alive.
The big red spot now filled his shirt.
His Grrrl all covered with his dryin’ stain.
Sobbin’. Lookin’ up at me like she’d been hurt.
I nodded her way. Through all her pain.
I tried to say...something any...
Way. Then the bulls walked in between. Asked, who are you?
I called it in. I called for you. So don’t play me to diss. I’m the ride he missed.
There came a squawk from my machine:
"1-8-7! You OK?"
"Yeah...," I heard me say, as I reached back to close the door. "Haight and Steiner, no ride here. 1-8-7. Free and clear."
–omtatsat–
© jimmy.mankind@gmail.com 08/06
"Haight and Fillmore. Pick up."
"1-8-7."
"8-7, check."
I was driving up Haight with just a twenty to my night;
It wasn’t late but my hand was pretty tight.
Suddenly a fresh-faced blond kid, maybe twenty-some,
held up a shaky arm and signaled me to come.
He stood too long in one place for me to tell.
(There is a ritual for catchin’ cabs, y’all.)
Suddenly he reeled back into the pole,
Leaned there uncertain, not like he would chill.
He wore a pair of jeans, the uni of the night,
and a white t-shirt that looked a bit too bright...in the flourescent blue-white light.
I raised my hands to him, in the universal, Well, what?
When at that moment he sat. He just went phump!
He slid down his back along the pole.
His grrrl friend screamed at me, "Please don’t go!"
She tossed her head up, down, to and fro,
Jumpin’ at my door and jerkin’ towards her beau.
While his face turned into some angelic kinda glow,
Her screams rose as if I was something slow,
but I’d pulled over, opened up the door, all set to go.
It was he who wasn’t movin’, seemed somewhat outa flow.
When she tried to lift ‘im I could see the whole
Of a tiny spot of red to the left of center
Below the patch where ciggies go.
It started out real small like that and then began to grow.
His head fell over, the wet spot spread and white went red.
I hit the mike and screamed, "I think he’s dead!"
"I mean," I said. "Mayday! This kid gone red!"
"Corner of Haight and Steiner, send the man!"
"The kid’s been shot! He barely understands."
"Don’t worry ‘bout findin’ us. Here they come!"
Two gangs, I spose, incitin’ fightin’ without bendin’.
Ran by cross the street and veered toward downtown’s ending.
We’ll need an ambulance, two shots a ‘drenalin,
This could be the bitter pill.
He’s twenty-some, looks real ill.
Grrrlie’s screaming at me.
Her boy can’t talk.
I said, "Just hold his hand. Tell ‘im how you feel.
If he can’t hear you, I think it’s time to kneel.
They’ll be here ‘fore we could lift him up."
She turned to him–and stared–her mouth all stuck
Big red spot from clavicle to down to where he opened
She dreamed of one more chance...with any luck.
But that dream faded as the EMTs arrived.
Seconds later cops strolled ‘round to find that he was not alive.
The big red spot now filled his shirt.
His Grrrl all covered with his dryin’ stain.
Sobbin’. Lookin’ up at me like she’d been hurt.
I nodded her way. Through all her pain.
I tried to say...something any...
Way. Then the bulls walked in between. Asked, who are you?
I called it in. I called for you. So don’t play me to diss. I’m the ride he missed.
There came a squawk from my machine:
"1-8-7! You OK?"
"Yeah...," I heard me say, as I reached back to close the door. "Haight and Steiner, no ride here. 1-8-7. Free and clear."
–omtatsat–
Thursday, March 4, 2010
fry pans or hot head, cold feet
fry pans or
hot head, cold feet
(c) jimmy.mankind@gmail.com
everyone wants to win; nobody wants to work up a sweat.
everybody wants to know the ANSWER; nobody wants to read a book.
everyone wants to go to heaven; nobody wants to die.
everyone wants to be free, and yet, is repulsed by politics:
whereas, refusing to get into politics assures politics will get into you.
So. It’s not so surprising to watch the eyes glaze-over when 911 comes up.
I went to a Thanksgiving Dinner Party the other night, and the hostess comes out of the kitchen bearing a really great tray of oeurs d’oeurves.
As she sets it on the table she announces pleadingly, "Tonight let’s all promise not to talk about sex, religion, or politics. OK?"
I quickly blurted my agreement, smiling, "Yea! Sports!" And some of the looser guys cheered.
"No! Not sports either!" she cried, returning to her kitchen.
Hey. What else is there to talk about in America? Music? I’d rather just listen to it. Art? Who knows anything...? Lit? Who reads? Science? Yeah, how about chemistry? Like what’s cadmium doing in our landfills and hence, water tables?! Or what about the amount of lead in our nation’s meth supply? What is coltan for?
"BPA in baby bottles!" shouted a skinny blond I hadn’t met, yet, and whom we all wanted to take home. So we all stared...the guys wondering if, and even the girls, whatever they wonder. "I mean," she pursued her thought languorously like a wide river rolling past Natchez, "It might be a cause of autism."
"Hey!" I shouted toward the kitchen. "In Seattle they measure the air for silt levels wafting over from China’s Badain Jaran and Tengger Deserts, or whatever...want some Gobi in that souffle? Anyone? The air is yellow from nano-particulate. Worse than smoking cause it won’t leave your lungs!"
Omigod! I’m making myself sick.
"Stop it! Jimmy!" she screams from the kitchen.
"Hey, chemistry is good things brought to meth!" I went, one time too many.
"Oh. God!" our hostess uttered at the point of exasperation.
"That’s religion, dearie!" I countered.
Then she dropped some lid or pan on the floor and I backed off. In soto voce I offered up this one: the melting point of structural steel is 2900 degrees versus the combustion temp of kerosene, or jet fuel, is only 1450. Duh....and it makes one wonder how the buildings fell. Is alllllll...i'm sayin'.
I went on: "If petroleum could melt steel, the City of Pittsburgh would’ve been in Texas. And Cheney ran NORAD that day," I added. "Drop a bowling brawl fromthe roof and see if it doesn’t hit the sidewalk after the building does!"
"Shut UP!"
"Why all the secrecy?’ I wondered out loud. "They could’ve let everyone go down there and look around after the steel stopped melting. I mean we had to wait a month for it to cool, just to send it to China and India?!"
Jimmy! If you wreck my party...!
"Just because they repressed the evidence, don’t mean they didn’t do it. Ha! There was enough circumstantial evidence buried in there to hang a black man in Texas!"
Jimmy, if you wreck my party...!
If you wreck my country...!
"That does it!" She squawked.
"One question: what happened at 8:36 AM on 9-11? And Where? Anyone have the answer?"
Huh! Went someone. The buildings didn’t collapse until after 9...
So....?
Yeah?!
Two jet airliners were in the same exact spot! Guess which ones!
So what?
Huh!?
Dig it.
Yer crazy.
How could you be so fucking stupid?!
You’re a glazed donut, you sheeple!
Fuck off!
Fascist.
Go to hell!
Die, fascisti...!
Great party...!
Another grand banging from the kitchen. Something smashes. Two of the girls jump up. Then, blocking them at door, this...
"JIMMY! I want you to leave my house. Please Go!"
"Well. Happy Thanks-f-ing-giving."
"Go!"
"Well. There’s no red-skinned naive-american indigenous people here anyway...just dupes. Great, I get booted from a dupe party.
I left. Stormin'.
I went to a Chinese market. Almost all the way across town. I was so riled up. It just happened to be the only thing open. I bought all the iron skillets they had. I charged it. It cost me 128 dollars.
You bettah off.
He helped me carry them out to the car. I needed a plastic tank and or I mean a five gallon paint can. Make that a pail. He had one. No, two. OK.
The Chinese man thanked me repeatedly–I thought for what I was about to do–me, the patriot. But he was thinking he’d made money this day! Now he could return to his own home, to his chiding wife, head up. I had just verified his whole existence.
I went to a gas station. Filled up every thing I had that could carry gas, including the car. More credit. I bought a hose for syphoning. Used.
I raced back to my ex-friends’ house. They were eating dinner. Talking about anything they wanted except sex, religion, politics, shopping, sports, environmental issues, drug addiction, war (a subset of politics), and I guess, 911, [as well as the insidious perversion of woman's lib.] They were drinking and having fun. They were laughing like Mad Nazis around 1937, and I, paranoid, imagined I was one of the jokes.
I began stacking the frying pans on the sidewalk in front of the house.
5-10-15-20-30-40 pans high. [At 3" each that would be about 120 inches, so maybe only 30 high. All I know is no one noticed and my arms grew tired.] All the once-strong good ol’ US Steel from the WTC, I’m thinking, now laced throughout these iron pans, and maybe some (un)depleted uranium waste product also...it was all I could find here in this town of West Coast Thanks For Us-ers. Of all days. Maybe it went into syringes, or stainless pots, or desk chairs, eye glass hinges...bomb shells....
I filled the frying pans with the gasoline (careful not to let my fucking cigarette drop into the mix as i flipped it downwind.).
Carefully pouring, more and more easily I poured: as the lifting becomes higher, the load becomes lighter. Or me stronger, under the spell of my rising revolutionary zeal. Soon the volatile liquid filled all the pans. Up over my head. Here, a couple more!
All filled with more jet fuel, proportionately, than the Twin Towers 1 and 2, and on every floor, but not any on Building #7, remember! And if this doesn’t do it!? I squealed in my excitement...viva Zapata!
I ran up and rang the doorbell. I knocked ten times.
I yelled. I yelled, "Fire!" Someone finally came to the door. I screamed, "My head is on fire!" Actually, there is going to be a fire!
I ran down the stairs before anyone could figure out they ought to stop me.
I yelled, "LOOK! You'll see...!"
And I tossed the match about 1/5th of the way from the top, right where the jets hit the towers more or less exactly. Only in MY tower experiment the whole thing went up like Jonah’s Ladder! WHOOSH! It went.
Up over the power lines and way past the phone polling interview telecom lines that made Lynn Forester rich and famous in semi-cryptic FISA-justice the entire stack exploding in a grand sigh, sucking all the Oxygen offa da street for miles around just like a mini-Daisy Cutter bomb would.
Cough, cough, I went. I can’t breathe!
in mute resistence
to all the liars
and all the psuedo-analysts
and corrupted sycophants
and the lying fraudulent fascists of Amerika, Inc.
And in front of the glazed-eyed don’t wannabe involved non-thinker sheeples i used to call friends...oh god...what sublime aloneness i was feeling in my satori bliss moment...in...
the NEO NAZI WAR MACHINE NEW Weird DISORDER.
My frying pans held: 30-plus weak-sister precursors to steel, mere iron, just like Nietzsche, Heidegger, Strauss, were precursors to Hitler, and he, maybe more accurately, Mussolini and his cheap, Slutty g.f. Carlotta Petracci, were precursors to Wolfowitz (and his chp. S. g.f., who got him fired from the WTO), Perle, Kissinger, Friedman, Harriman, Cheney, Bushes I and II, Hannatty, Limbaugh, Baker, condi "legs" rice, the Rothschilds, shoops! don't kill me! Kill us all!
Stoically ironically steely-eyed, standing beside my own burning man the burning Bush of un-melted metal lightness and brightness in the Tower of Truth that I’d built--just slapped together--in front of one and all. I yelled out to the populace, "Wake up! Wake up, Viet-nam! Iron does not melt under flaming jet fuel! Come witness the TRUTH!"
A curtain moved ever so slightly in a window across the street. One eye added to the witness pool. A phone picked up faster than if i was ms genovese screaming for her life.
30 frying pans strong. Holding in mute infernal evidence another inconvenient truth we got to deal with....
Mute evidence unmoved and unshaken by this paltry heat of 1450 degrees just like science would have it.
On Thanksgiving Day, 2008. Seven years is never too late...
While the oil-based plastic coating of the communication lines above dripped all over my antique Plymough Valiant with a goup I’d never wash off even if I could.
"How did you know?" someone asked. (I think it was the skinny blond.)
I read a lot, I said. Staring at the fire. And I began to believe the fire would have been even hotter where they really go, on the stove. Over flaming natural gas, sometimes all day...never melting in mute service to knowledge. Steel pots simmering stews for hours around the world. I thought of: Mere iron gratings of the millions of stoves over natural gas, and jet engines made of steel, steel branding irons; conversely, perversely raw steel being melted by chemical actions in the Bessemer process. All the fires that went out too soon (in skyscrapers) and somehow didn’t let us know that steel don’t burn, or melt, by any plasticky burning of mere carbon...all the losses we have incurred for not knowing that...not to mention the loss of spunk. The demise of American Don't Tread on ME! vs. the crying shame of sheepleness.
What a dumb waste.
Of our trust...and our senses.
"C’mon, baby. Let’s waltz," I said to my Valiant. "Our work here is done."
Someone grabbed my arm.
Wait a sec. I’ll get my purse, she said.
My name’s Sheri, BTW....
And the fire on the sidewalk slowly died...for another one risin’ in the heart.
"Where are we going?" she asked in admirable amiable wondrous-ness.
And I said, "Wherever you want. Thankyouverymuch."
–omtatsat–ok?
hot head, cold feet
(c) jimmy.mankind@gmail.com
everyone wants to win; nobody wants to work up a sweat.
everybody wants to know the ANSWER; nobody wants to read a book.
everyone wants to go to heaven; nobody wants to die.
everyone wants to be free, and yet, is repulsed by politics:
whereas, refusing to get into politics assures politics will get into you.
So. It’s not so surprising to watch the eyes glaze-over when 911 comes up.
I went to a Thanksgiving Dinner Party the other night, and the hostess comes out of the kitchen bearing a really great tray of oeurs d’oeurves.
As she sets it on the table she announces pleadingly, "Tonight let’s all promise not to talk about sex, religion, or politics. OK?"
I quickly blurted my agreement, smiling, "Yea! Sports!" And some of the looser guys cheered.
"No! Not sports either!" she cried, returning to her kitchen.
Hey. What else is there to talk about in America? Music? I’d rather just listen to it. Art? Who knows anything...? Lit? Who reads? Science? Yeah, how about chemistry? Like what’s cadmium doing in our landfills and hence, water tables?! Or what about the amount of lead in our nation’s meth supply? What is coltan for?
"BPA in baby bottles!" shouted a skinny blond I hadn’t met, yet, and whom we all wanted to take home. So we all stared...the guys wondering if, and even the girls, whatever they wonder. "I mean," she pursued her thought languorously like a wide river rolling past Natchez, "It might be a cause of autism."
"Hey!" I shouted toward the kitchen. "In Seattle they measure the air for silt levels wafting over from China’s Badain Jaran and Tengger Deserts, or whatever...want some Gobi in that souffle? Anyone? The air is yellow from nano-particulate. Worse than smoking cause it won’t leave your lungs!"
Omigod! I’m making myself sick.
"Stop it! Jimmy!" she screams from the kitchen.
"Hey, chemistry is good things brought to meth!" I went, one time too many.
"Oh. God!" our hostess uttered at the point of exasperation.
"That’s religion, dearie!" I countered.
Then she dropped some lid or pan on the floor and I backed off. In soto voce I offered up this one: the melting point of structural steel is 2900 degrees versus the combustion temp of kerosene, or jet fuel, is only 1450. Duh....and it makes one wonder how the buildings fell. Is alllllll...i'm sayin'.
I went on: "If petroleum could melt steel, the City of Pittsburgh would’ve been in Texas. And Cheney ran NORAD that day," I added. "Drop a bowling brawl fromthe roof and see if it doesn’t hit the sidewalk after the building does!"
"Shut UP!"
"Why all the secrecy?’ I wondered out loud. "They could’ve let everyone go down there and look around after the steel stopped melting. I mean we had to wait a month for it to cool, just to send it to China and India?!"
Jimmy! If you wreck my party...!
"Just because they repressed the evidence, don’t mean they didn’t do it. Ha! There was enough circumstantial evidence buried in there to hang a black man in Texas!"
Jimmy, if you wreck my party...!
If you wreck my country...!
"That does it!" She squawked.
"One question: what happened at 8:36 AM on 9-11? And Where? Anyone have the answer?"
Huh! Went someone. The buildings didn’t collapse until after 9...
So....?
Yeah?!
Two jet airliners were in the same exact spot! Guess which ones!
So what?
Huh!?
Dig it.
Yer crazy.
How could you be so fucking stupid?!
You’re a glazed donut, you sheeple!
Fuck off!
Fascist.
Go to hell!
Die, fascisti...!
Great party...!
Another grand banging from the kitchen. Something smashes. Two of the girls jump up. Then, blocking them at door, this...
"JIMMY! I want you to leave my house. Please Go!"
"Well. Happy Thanks-f-ing-giving."
"Go!"
"Well. There’s no red-skinned naive-american indigenous people here anyway...just dupes. Great, I get booted from a dupe party.
I left. Stormin'.
I went to a Chinese market. Almost all the way across town. I was so riled up. It just happened to be the only thing open. I bought all the iron skillets they had. I charged it. It cost me 128 dollars.
You bettah off.
He helped me carry them out to the car. I needed a plastic tank and or I mean a five gallon paint can. Make that a pail. He had one. No, two. OK.
The Chinese man thanked me repeatedly–I thought for what I was about to do–me, the patriot. But he was thinking he’d made money this day! Now he could return to his own home, to his chiding wife, head up. I had just verified his whole existence.
I went to a gas station. Filled up every thing I had that could carry gas, including the car. More credit. I bought a hose for syphoning. Used.
I raced back to my ex-friends’ house. They were eating dinner. Talking about anything they wanted except sex, religion, politics, shopping, sports, environmental issues, drug addiction, war (a subset of politics), and I guess, 911, [as well as the insidious perversion of woman's lib.] They were drinking and having fun. They were laughing like Mad Nazis around 1937, and I, paranoid, imagined I was one of the jokes.
I began stacking the frying pans on the sidewalk in front of the house.
5-10-15-20-30-40 pans high. [At 3" each that would be about 120 inches, so maybe only 30 high. All I know is no one noticed and my arms grew tired.] All the once-strong good ol’ US Steel from the WTC, I’m thinking, now laced throughout these iron pans, and maybe some (un)depleted uranium waste product also...it was all I could find here in this town of West Coast Thanks For Us-ers. Of all days. Maybe it went into syringes, or stainless pots, or desk chairs, eye glass hinges...bomb shells....
I filled the frying pans with the gasoline (careful not to let my fucking cigarette drop into the mix as i flipped it downwind.).
Carefully pouring, more and more easily I poured: as the lifting becomes higher, the load becomes lighter. Or me stronger, under the spell of my rising revolutionary zeal. Soon the volatile liquid filled all the pans. Up over my head. Here, a couple more!
All filled with more jet fuel, proportionately, than the Twin Towers 1 and 2, and on every floor, but not any on Building #7, remember! And if this doesn’t do it!? I squealed in my excitement...viva Zapata!
I ran up and rang the doorbell. I knocked ten times.
I yelled. I yelled, "Fire!" Someone finally came to the door. I screamed, "My head is on fire!" Actually, there is going to be a fire!
I ran down the stairs before anyone could figure out they ought to stop me.
I yelled, "LOOK! You'll see...!"
And I tossed the match about 1/5th of the way from the top, right where the jets hit the towers more or less exactly. Only in MY tower experiment the whole thing went up like Jonah’s Ladder! WHOOSH! It went.
Up over the power lines and way past the phone polling interview telecom lines that made Lynn Forester rich and famous in semi-cryptic FISA-justice the entire stack exploding in a grand sigh, sucking all the Oxygen offa da street for miles around just like a mini-Daisy Cutter bomb would.
Cough, cough, I went. I can’t breathe!
in mute resistence
to all the liars
and all the psuedo-analysts
and corrupted sycophants
and the lying fraudulent fascists of Amerika, Inc.
And in front of the glazed-eyed don’t wannabe involved non-thinker sheeples i used to call friends...oh god...what sublime aloneness i was feeling in my satori bliss moment...in...
the NEO NAZI WAR MACHINE NEW Weird DISORDER.
My frying pans held: 30-plus weak-sister precursors to steel, mere iron, just like Nietzsche, Heidegger, Strauss, were precursors to Hitler, and he, maybe more accurately, Mussolini and his cheap, Slutty g.f. Carlotta Petracci, were precursors to Wolfowitz (and his chp. S. g.f., who got him fired from the WTO), Perle, Kissinger, Friedman, Harriman, Cheney, Bushes I and II, Hannatty, Limbaugh, Baker, condi "legs" rice, the Rothschilds, shoops! don't kill me! Kill us all!
Stoically ironically steely-eyed, standing beside my own burning man the burning Bush of un-melted metal lightness and brightness in the Tower of Truth that I’d built--just slapped together--in front of one and all. I yelled out to the populace, "Wake up! Wake up, Viet-nam! Iron does not melt under flaming jet fuel! Come witness the TRUTH!"
A curtain moved ever so slightly in a window across the street. One eye added to the witness pool. A phone picked up faster than if i was ms genovese screaming for her life.
30 frying pans strong. Holding in mute infernal evidence another inconvenient truth we got to deal with....
Mute evidence unmoved and unshaken by this paltry heat of 1450 degrees just like science would have it.
On Thanksgiving Day, 2008. Seven years is never too late...
While the oil-based plastic coating of the communication lines above dripped all over my antique Plymough Valiant with a goup I’d never wash off even if I could.
"How did you know?" someone asked. (I think it was the skinny blond.)
I read a lot, I said. Staring at the fire. And I began to believe the fire would have been even hotter where they really go, on the stove. Over flaming natural gas, sometimes all day...never melting in mute service to knowledge. Steel pots simmering stews for hours around the world. I thought of: Mere iron gratings of the millions of stoves over natural gas, and jet engines made of steel, steel branding irons; conversely, perversely raw steel being melted by chemical actions in the Bessemer process. All the fires that went out too soon (in skyscrapers) and somehow didn’t let us know that steel don’t burn, or melt, by any plasticky burning of mere carbon...all the losses we have incurred for not knowing that...not to mention the loss of spunk. The demise of American Don't Tread on ME! vs. the crying shame of sheepleness.
What a dumb waste.
Of our trust...and our senses.
"C’mon, baby. Let’s waltz," I said to my Valiant. "Our work here is done."
Someone grabbed my arm.
Wait a sec. I’ll get my purse, she said.
My name’s Sheri, BTW....
And the fire on the sidewalk slowly died...for another one risin’ in the heart.
"Where are we going?" she asked in admirable amiable wondrous-ness.
And I said, "Wherever you want. Thankyouverymuch."
–omtatsat–ok?
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
jimmy.mankind: gulag master
From jimmy to all gulag masters:
Everything is impermanent. impertinent, and either older or raw.
Nothing has intrinsic or inherent reality. love doesn't abother with such distinctions.
All emotions are painful (including love.) all feelings are variations of pain (unless you like it.)
Enlightenment is beyond concept or understanding by the intellect.
Too bad some intelligent lad had to say that. I just about had this life figured out.
These are the Four Seals as taught by the Prince Siddhartha after he became the Buddha - or the Awakened.
Of course, this all depends on what your definition of "IS" is.
We think we know what we know. We have suspicions about what we don't know. We don't know what we need to know. And we now know what we didn't know we know now. Which is:
Do not drink any more aspartame, Donald.
Everything is impermanent. impertinent, and either older or raw.
Nothing has intrinsic or inherent reality. love doesn't abother with such distinctions.
All emotions are painful (including love.) all feelings are variations of pain (unless you like it.)
Enlightenment is beyond concept or understanding by the intellect.
Too bad some intelligent lad had to say that. I just about had this life figured out.
These are the Four Seals as taught by the Prince Siddhartha after he became the Buddha - or the Awakened.
Of course, this all depends on what your definition of "IS" is.
We think we know what we know. We have suspicions about what we don't know. We don't know what we need to know. And we now know what we didn't know we know now. Which is:
Do not drink any more aspartame, Donald.
solid dare is he.
No bacon, no bullets, no butter, no beer.
No backup, no bail-out, no bitchin', no bench.
just: jimmymankind.blogspot.com
The Best Of My Life
these days are love
these days are blue
This is when we feel deeply: what's wrong with that?
this is where the march of life has taken us.
this is when we know we know.
this is where know-how pitches in
for sure.
this is when love surrounds us
in its purest form
this is where each word and hug and howyafeelin' ?
really means it.
this is whew! the next hill looms!
and that last one! whew-ee!
this is truly Now!
i like to think with substance all stored up for our use,
i like to think with the track records we have set,
and prior displays of courage
to remind us
how strong and competent we are...
Today is the first day for the best of my life.
i'm working free of me.
Written by: jimmy.mankind@ gmail.com
(c) 02/10
No backup, no bail-out, no bitchin', no bench.
just: jimmymankind.blogspot.com
The Best Of My Life
these days are love
these days are blue
This is when we feel deeply: what's wrong with that?
this is where the march of life has taken us.
this is when we know we know.
this is where know-how pitches in
for sure.
this is when love surrounds us
in its purest form
this is where each word and hug and howyafeelin' ?
really means it.
this is whew! the next hill looms!
and that last one! whew-ee!
this is truly Now!
i like to think with substance all stored up for our use,
i like to think with the track records we have set,
and prior displays of courage
to remind us
how strong and competent we are...
Today is the first day for the best of my life.
i'm working free of me.
Written by: jimmy.mankind@ gmail.com
(c) 02/10
Sunday, February 28, 2010
238
238
© 2/10 by jimmy.mankind@gmail.com
...if your poem is going to be so short, the substance of your subject has to be:
Pithy Denser.
Like those 2 hundred and thirty-8 electrons packed into your molecular rhythm ‘round
that potent nuclei baked into your yellow cake,
You must pack your works and verks and verbs into a sphere–the most doable shape for constancy and efficacy of size and the nature of things–you can pack it with your hands. And it will spin forever, unlike a tortilla. That’s why Suns are round and all their itty-bitty pets, the planets, are balls they left strewn around the floor of 3-dimensional space so-to-speak.
[remembeRrrr, THERE ARE NO SQUARE PLANETS. YOU THE WRITER IS ALL(YAH)WAYS GOD ALLAHTIMEBUDDHA POTENT TIGHT N HOT.]
Packed even more tightly, under performance pressure, is your Nobel Peace Prize nitro-glycerine think paint–non-Gaian–over that the Nobel Dyno-mites, ageless, silvery, shiney dust mites for the Millenium.
I’d be eclectic and dyslectic if I didn’t say, Pick a City.
For mad max effect. Flip the switch and drop it in the water like a toaster, boaster.
Gods do not play around the donut, they drop it in the hole. Oh, yes they do, but only by incident. Gods are incident prone, ms Living Proof.
Da Russians never wood-ah bombed Chicago/Gary/Hammond In Diana (ohhhhh...) They wood-ah aimed at Lago Michicano, cue fade, the fog ensued for comport, e.z...wood-ah spared US (Morgan) Steel before he sold it off to China, for future exploitations. Remember full employment was their cause. Even Orange Krush-shiv–benevolent violent megalo- altruistic sonic splatterer believed in verk. Imagined gud ol’ Russian boys on ev’ry corner (a hunnert years later) passing out piroshkis to the warped survivors. Wood we ev had rock n roll or something like a dirge in short skirts in short stints? Wood dat’ev poisoned Who Dat Down Der? Say...do you have any gauze? I’m peelin’ in da South Side. But a little rain washes away the stench of bodies...
...is dat succinct enuff for sumpin’, muffin?
238 answers to your question:
whereas we cudda blown da top offa der Mt. Fuji, but we dint want ta ruin der future postcards.
Quiant and outmoded as that
j oy o f coo king
seems
now
in
Nagasaki
pop.
[Tight, see? Like a metaphoric tourniquet around their neck.]
But who said "short and sweet’ was better?
Not on our livesies!
You can fasten that to other sheeple, Little Boy!
We don’t care what we breathe! and here comes China.
droneon.
–jimmy.
[when it’s short it’s gotta be cogent pithy nitty gritty somequick lil ditty the right size n speed for any City.]
Then it’s over.
© 2/10 by jimmy.mankind@gmail.com
...if your poem is going to be so short, the substance of your subject has to be:
Pithy Denser.
Like those 2 hundred and thirty-8 electrons packed into your molecular rhythm ‘round
that potent nuclei baked into your yellow cake,
You must pack your works and verks and verbs into a sphere–the most doable shape for constancy and efficacy of size and the nature of things–you can pack it with your hands. And it will spin forever, unlike a tortilla. That’s why Suns are round and all their itty-bitty pets, the planets, are balls they left strewn around the floor of 3-dimensional space so-to-speak.
[remembeRrrr, THERE ARE NO SQUARE PLANETS. YOU THE WRITER IS ALL(YAH)WAYS GOD ALLAHTIMEBUDDHA POTENT TIGHT N HOT.]
Packed even more tightly, under performance pressure, is your Nobel Peace Prize nitro-glycerine think paint–non-Gaian–over that the Nobel Dyno-mites, ageless, silvery, shiney dust mites for the Millenium.
I’d be eclectic and dyslectic if I didn’t say, Pick a City.
For mad max effect. Flip the switch and drop it in the water like a toaster, boaster.
Gods do not play around the donut, they drop it in the hole. Oh, yes they do, but only by incident. Gods are incident prone, ms Living Proof.
Da Russians never wood-ah bombed Chicago/Gary/Hammond In Diana (ohhhhh...) They wood-ah aimed at Lago Michicano, cue fade, the fog ensued for comport, e.z...wood-ah spared US (Morgan) Steel before he sold it off to China, for future exploitations. Remember full employment was their cause. Even Orange Krush-shiv–benevolent violent megalo- altruistic sonic splatterer believed in verk. Imagined gud ol’ Russian boys on ev’ry corner (a hunnert years later) passing out piroshkis to the warped survivors. Wood we ev had rock n roll or something like a dirge in short skirts in short stints? Wood dat’ev poisoned Who Dat Down Der? Say...do you have any gauze? I’m peelin’ in da South Side. But a little rain washes away the stench of bodies...
...is dat succinct enuff for sumpin’, muffin?
238 answers to your question:
whereas we cudda blown da top offa der Mt. Fuji, but we dint want ta ruin der future postcards.
Quiant and outmoded as that
j oy o f coo king
seems
now
in
Nagasaki
pop.
[Tight, see? Like a metaphoric tourniquet around their neck.]
But who said "short and sweet’ was better?
Not on our livesies!
You can fasten that to other sheeple, Little Boy!
We don’t care what we breathe! and here comes China.
droneon.
–jimmy.
[when it’s short it’s gotta be cogent pithy nitty gritty somequick lil ditty the right size n speed for any City.]
Then it’s over.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Pubic option the excuse for no option?
The "option" we need and should be talking about is the "private" option.
The whole, the base should be the public option as in what we really want.
The public option is still only a vague term for a weak cop-out on the universal single payer thang. We have to reverse the context: universal heath care shall include a PRIVATE option for those who are sure they want to pay through the nose to some avaricious health INSURANCE corp for the right to be turned down when they are sick. that will always be their option. let birds of a feather go flock themselves together. the rest of us will have our medicene as we like it: with no denial between us and our doctors (who we can put through medical school for free from now on...if we will simply quit starting wars all over the place.)
To get started:
We could just lower the age qualification for medicare to fetus and be done with it like every other major, not minor, nation of the world. Costa Rica has better health care than we do...Canada seems to, and, for sure, France does, and Sweden, Finland, UK, Germany...but not all are alike. Japan has universal HC. Talk about Africa, China, India, nothing.
But hey! We COULD give every american the same health care as our soldiers IF we pulled them out of our current misadventures. It's the old story of swords vs. syringes, soldiers vs. surgeons.
One thing more: if some believe that private insurance is better, that choice could remain an option.
So why don't we create universal public health care with a private option?
(c) j.mankind 2/2-10 and thanks)
The whole, the base should be the public option as in what we really want.
The public option is still only a vague term for a weak cop-out on the universal single payer thang. We have to reverse the context: universal heath care shall include a PRIVATE option for those who are sure they want to pay through the nose to some avaricious health INSURANCE corp for the right to be turned down when they are sick. that will always be their option. let birds of a feather go flock themselves together. the rest of us will have our medicene as we like it: with no denial between us and our doctors (who we can put through medical school for free from now on...if we will simply quit starting wars all over the place.)
To get started:
We could just lower the age qualification for medicare to fetus and be done with it like every other major, not minor, nation of the world. Costa Rica has better health care than we do...Canada seems to, and, for sure, France does, and Sweden, Finland, UK, Germany...but not all are alike. Japan has universal HC. Talk about Africa, China, India, nothing.
But hey! We COULD give every american the same health care as our soldiers IF we pulled them out of our current misadventures. It's the old story of swords vs. syringes, soldiers vs. surgeons.
One thing more: if some believe that private insurance is better, that choice could remain an option.
So why don't we create universal public health care with a private option?
(c) j.mankind 2/2-10 and thanks)
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