Tuesday, September 22, 2009

IL FAUT CONFRONTER LES IDEES VAGUES AVEC DES IMAGES CLAIRES! Instead of mindless chatter and rants about action we need to take it! But we need to be educated on it
first. We need to understand the problem on a rational but realistic level. A revolution is not a beautiful melody. It cannot flow with nature like a calm river. It cannot be understood by a simple glance. One must decide a coarse of action or be dragged down the river with no say in the matter, leaving "fate" to the powers that be. Politics are the beginning of a practical revolutionary action. One cannot assume that if they were to just go with the flow that the river would take them to a place they want to be. The river has it's own intentions. We should take advantage of our ability to choose our paths while we still can before the river chooses for us.

Monday, September 14, 2009

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

I know life is hard...

but we will get there some day!

Monday, July 27, 2009

jon circa the future

Invisible digital wire
wrapped around my brain
tried to conquer who I am
was deep in my conscious and lied
held deep rooted until I said:
"The person you have reached is not a working person. He has been changed and is temporarily connected. Please log yourself out."

Saturday, July 11, 2009

"A heart filled reaction to dissatisfaction" he says.
I agree.

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

rhetorical answer

The hardest part is letting go. No one wants to and it just makes so much sense to hold on! It goes against all subjective logic. "One must believe in something!" One must have a path or a guiding star, right?

Caught by an intense and unfamiliar feeling, I grabbed my bike and rode north. Past broken car windows, past abandoned houses, past an entire block of hair salons, past friends houses, past the enemies houses, past bureaucratized educators and past houses too large to not have slaves, or maids and landscapers as is the PC term. Past my past, future, and many parallel universes where I could have stayed home and created this whole experience in my head. Fucking hell it was hot but that was the idea.

I had to be on a high peak of a mountain looking down at trees over a vast landscape. I had seen in many dreams and many scenes of friends of henry chinasky sing his same old song, praise be that drunken poet. The feeling tore at my nerve endings and every internal breathing mechanism my body contained. The image was so vivid I sometimes would feel as if I was there already and without stopping, riding at full speed off of the peak.

I don't know where I ended up. The surrounding area reminded me of a time in my childhood when I ran so deep into the woods that I no longer remembered how to get back to the safety of my suburban domicile. It was the first time I remember feeling both fucked completely and alive at the same time. It was beautiful.

As my legs found the best place to stop, I had forgotten the point of my journey. Why did I leave the confines of formal logic and "common sense"? Was it something external guiding my path? Allah? Hoffman? Adorno? Byrd? Was it the human condition itself or was it some capitalist plot set on a fleeting bit of "control", praise be yet again. Was it anything at all?

I hid my bike, locked to a tree, from the prying eyes of any state pig that may happen to be stalking the back roads for speeding loose women so that they may live out their tragic but still very acceptable and bourgeois fantasies. It was very dark and there was no way I was expected to remember a flash light in my manic escape. By my amazement I did remember a pen and paper though. That and the bike lock are now instinct. I continue through the pitch black woods with only the image in my head of my destination. Lost. Fucked. Happy. Progressive.

Up and up past animals who were confused but seemingly indifferent to my cause. I can see patches of sky through the trees up ahead. Stars shine through that are impossible to see even on the clearest of nights on the roof of my building in the city. The clearing is finally up ahead. I made it somehow. The peak only mildly resembles my vision but fuck it, life isn't an exact science. C'est la vie. This will do. The image instilled in my head is probably just a movie still anyway.

I step on to the rock and slip. Of course. It's dark and I don't know shit about my surroundings. Pissed at my obliviousness. Afraid of the imminent pain coming to me. Hanging off of a drop that might not kill me but definitely would hurt immensely. The future, praise be. The pain, praise be. The hardest part about hanging there is the realization of having to let go. As my fingers slipped from the rock I understood why I was there. To let go. No more praise. No fear. No longer elevating unworthy individuals, as if any are that at all. No Monuments. Kill yr idols. Fuck the police and the intellectual all the same. Fuck hanging on to nothing, I was there to just fall.

Thursday, July 2, 2009

unfinished until i can think of more

A good friend once wrote "Turn up the brutality and turn down the content, it helps us sleep". I would say this is more relevant now more than when it was written 10 or so years ago.

Sitting in the semi dark under a single flickering tungsten bulb in a suburban "car port", although when I think of port I usually think of Sailors, Sean and I talked about the upcoming election. He said Mitt Romney would win with this slogan "AdMITT it or quit it!" or something like that. The logic behind it, I thought, was pretty flawless. Who turns down a good slogan these days? Surely not the fine citizens of the suburbs of the central nervous system of the Man himself. No, they crave it like the fiends who stumble out of the 1722 at 5:30....last call. It's funny how much we're the same in spite of our differences.

I was not in complete agreement though. I was sure Obama would win. In my deepest southern drawl, being the most representative of the encompassing area, I said," Nawh you see, we'd be jah stupid to pick a woman over a darkie! At least thamurrfuckers got a dick!". Besides, I'm sure Charlemane is tired, Walter, lets give one of those cute sesame street things a try. By the way, when you Google image search Charlemane, the first thing that comes up is a cancerous rectal tumor. The irony of that has it's own gravitational pull.

Friday, June 26, 2009

Secret Speech

Everyone is an object
Ginsberg tells me everything is holy
holy shit holy orgasm holy Anatole France's moustache
High at work is holy

Walking up Calvert or Fayette, all the way up, having done that a few times has opened my eyes but not in the cliche' american "damn dude poor people exist!?" type way. It was more like realizing you had been stabbed in a gun fight.

Everyone is an object indeed but some vastly more than others. Others spend their slow reality looking into 3rd story windows at crazed youth banging on drums like cavemen in the most primitive manner or stumbling around in a junked haze like an android realizing he can do everything a human can, only better.
More productive.

Yet others still walk about, noose on neck, blood in wallet, interventionism in briefcase. Knowing well those who walk among them but denying any commonality. This is due to an apparent lack of reflection. Seriously. Who has the time for that anymore?

"...severance from reflection costs speculation itself dear enough."
Quick, look around the room to see if anyone sees you stopping but not to look. You have to be able to look without looking. To me this sounds like the bourgeoisie took the chinese proverb a bit too literally.

What happened to a left? Where is Bernadine Dohrn or lucy looking at the stars for the first time and seeing nothing but ourselves? Where is "It is ourselves we are defending"? Where is 1968? What happened to Bring the War Home? It is not a question of whether we lost or not. We indeed lost.

I'll tell you a story. "John Wayne stands aboard the USS Pax Americana and looks over the port of Alexandroupoli and says to himself 'finally'." Do you know what I mean? This is what I am scared of. Not even because it's me who is being invaded. I am a conscious objector gear in the android. I fear there will be nowhere left to run to. No base to fall back on and plan for a new plan of action to relate to the ever changing times.

We don't have the funds necessary to stage a revolution. It's also not friendly enough to sell at wall mart. To you, ma'am or sir I say this: When the young derelict who breaks into your home to steal your mass produced dvd player made in east brownpeopleistan hits you in the back of your head with his pistol remember this, Turn off the light at the end of the space tunnel. It may be your only chance!

This may be a bit of despair but pessimism is similar to realism and thoughtism and orgism and artism and life the ism and that holy fuck Ginsberg and especially Chris and Mike Taylor. The ruling class crisis brings us together in lit joint in dark alley in deep silence in seeing while looking as well. To you I say "sauve qui peut".

Friday, June 19, 2009

How many blogs do you have?

open ended
free range
free market
put this

in better context please
we're not here for the show
tell us when this is done.
For we don't see forests or trees
and now we don't know where to go
because in the end it looks like North Korea won.

At first glance you see a way out
A quick look to the right
a long look to the left.
Ah, there is that underlying doubt
There is what was obviously in sight
what MSNBC calls "defense" we call theft.

Fuck just going green
we need a more organic intellectual
A little more Gramsci and a little less quota.
Even as Madeline enters the scene
the mood really gets conceptual
and we are indeed the "Children of Marx and Coca-Cola".

since 1882

Der club of Gore
an airy crash of symbol
a horn of Le Sony'r
a dark figure
fear of ruling class ideology
flickering screen tells little
who is to trust?
who isn't to blame?
let's blame the future...
...because no one is better at cleaning up our messes.


It was on a street north of bourgeois boutiques and stores that sell things that didn't even exist 10 years ago where a man walked up to me and accosted me about where I was going. I would have walked on with a confused look until I noticed the bottle of whiskey in his hand. We had some common ground. This was no 4.99 dollar bottle of vodka or gin. This was the drink of the American despite it not being from here originally.
This dreary old man who was beat well beyond his years asks about work. He tells me of his youth. He tells me of the war.
I say to him, "I hate my job" to which he replies: "the job, as a position to be filled and a role to be played, defines a priori the future of an abstract but awaited man. Our social class defined who we were whether we wanted it to or not. It became our social being and this being is nothing other than the unity of the day to day functions to be fulfilled."
I asked him why he used the past tense and what he was doing now. His only reply was that he figured out he was already dead and had been dead since birth. "A dead soul" I replied to which he says "The soul is not real but the heart was. It's now been replaced by inefficient copper gears prone to rust and breakage.

Monday, June 15, 2009

persian revolution

Dreary day dreary day
Swaying, Swimming, Swagger...
They toss the poor old man out on the curb.
"Alls Is sayin' is.....Ain't that Nat King Cole?
Must have wandered into the wrong door.
Saw him stumble out of a foreign film only labeled as Moscow
on the marquee.
"Moscow? Eugh. Ruskies!"
Drunk at mid day.
A weary traveler in a forest of red velvet ropes and stuffy
bourgeois types, "Oh me I've never SEEN such a sight!"
But their stares reflect back from this mirrored mass of
Olde English and, hopefully a flask of bourbon.

This reflections created by his aura feels like it came from
years of service in all forms and from fighting many a battle.
Conflict of the armed type. Charlie most likely.

This antiquated entity stumbles back to the bar and asks, "Gat ah Bud?!"
and, would you believe some kid says to him," Hey old man, maybe you've already had plenty".

The dirty figure arches his back out of it's hunch
and explains to the whole room:
"I believe that a man can always make something out of what is made of him. This is the limit I would today accord to freedom: The small movement which makes of a totally conditioned social being someone who does not render back completely what his conditioning has given him."

He turns to the door and says "Yr all a bunch of damn fools. And yr too damned conservative." Facing the street, he sees the newly paved road as the heavens with bright stars shooting at different speeds towards one direction.

Monday, May 11, 2009

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

it's us vs the world.
you and I vs the squares.
You're my Bernardine Dohrn.

Friday, April 24, 2009

back and to the left

I envision that I would see her while I'm siting, tearing paper, staring out door. See her walk up, put her hands on the glass and smile. Her smile warms me up like the sun to a man swimming in the arctic while I sit in the frigid lobby. After staring in disbelief, I stand up, walk to the door, open it and we embrace. The distance now but illusion. Time now forgotten by her comforting presence. I feel as if I would have known she would have been coming before hand, the moment would lose all impact. It's chaotic nature is it's alluring beauty. Surprise is anarchy and anyone who denies it is lying to themselves. We crave chaos but trying to deny ourselves of it like some strange religious repentance for natural human characteristics. Romanticism is dead but the realism of chaos to me is a far greater love. I just want to kiss her. Have her grab me with extreme desire and longing and just be in that space in time forever.

drums blare over my thoughts

once, a boy, who had a stern realism that even the coldest of economists would cringe at, felt it was time for a new approach. He voiced the song of radical subjectivity. Nothing is true, Everything is permissible. Chaos is life and a life that refuses containment or structure.
Fear is life.
Love is life.
Wrong is life.
is life.
is life.
is life.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009


When someone dies, everyone asked about the deceased has nothing but sweet and positive things to say about them. "...was a real family man." "... had a true sense of community and duty to his fellow man." Every time this is the case. Any article in the paper is filled with praise of the former. But, if every person who dies and gets a write up in the paper as "...someone who would go out of their way to help anyone out.", then why is this world in the shape that it is in? Is it sympathy for the dead or are we just lying to ourselves? Not every person who has died has been a "good" or even acceptable human. The sad state of human affairs currently is enough proof of that. If a racist gang member gets shot or the head of a failed bank that screwed over millions of people out of billions of dollars commits suicide, they should get a more realistic write up. "...was a decent neighbor but really obsessed with his possessions.", "...was in and out of jail for beating his wife", or "...never really talked to anyone much. He would do things for the community but you could tell it was just because it was good p.r. for his company.". Maybe once we stop lying to ourselves about the dead, we can find the truth in living.

Sunday, March 15, 2009


we fly all around
we wander and we wonder
"where is the lunar landscape of my distressed soul?"
"where are it's deep valleys and expansive craters?"
"where are it's barren landscape devoid of color and life?"
Where aren't...
who knows.
Among the sea of red white a blue
among the vanguards and the trotskites
among the "virtuous" or "just"
among the powerful and oblivious
among the obvious

maybe it's every time i look into her eyes and float in that sea of darkness.
Damn girl that shit is deep like an ocean.
Maybe you'd be cuter if I shot you in the face.
Your body could fall down from the fifth floor
in black and white
as a soft but dark melody is played on piano two floors below
just low enough to be in the background but impactful enough to film

after all this, we wonder if we even knew what it was we are searching for.
can't even get a wage from the bottom of the barrel in this town
why look?
Well I know. Praise be Mummu, the awoken.
You just have to pull the cosmic trigger
right to the forhead

Friday, February 6, 2009

Let's beat up the Poor! - Charles Baudelaire ("Assommons les pauvres!")

For fifteen days I was confined to my room, and I was surrounded by the sort of books that were fashionable then (this was sixteen or seventeen years ago)--I mean to say those books in which is treated the art of making people happy, wise, and rich in twenty-four hours. I had, then, digested,--I should say, swallowed whole,--all the lucubrations of all of these entrepreneurs of public happiness,--of those who council all of the poor to make themselves slaves, and of those who persuade them that are all unthroned kings. You won't be surprised to learn that I was in a state of mind close to dizziness or stupefaction.
It seemed to me only that I felt, confined in the depths of my intellect, the obscure seed of an idea superior to all the old wives' tales collected in the encyclopedia that I had recently read through. Bit it was only the idea of an idea, something infinitely vague.
And I went out with a great thirst. For a passionate taste for bad reading engenders a proportional need for fresh air and refreshments.
As I was about to enter a cabaret, a beggar held out his cap to me, with one of those unforgettable gazes that would cause thrones to tumble, if spirit could move matter, and if the eye of a hypnotist could make grapes ripen.
At the same time, I heard a voice whispering in my ear, a voice that I well recognized: it was that of the good Angel, or good Devil, who accompanies me everywhere. Since Socrates had his good Demon, why shouldn't I have my good Angel, and why shouldn't I have the honor, like Socrates, of obtaining my own certificate of insanity, signed by the subtle Lelut and the well-advised Baillarge?
There is a difference between Socrates' Demon and my own, and that is that Socrates' only appeared to him to forbid, warn,m and prevent, whereas mine deigns to offer council, suggest, and persuade. Poor Socrates only had a prohibitive Demon; mine is a great affirmer, mine is a Demon of action, a Demon of combat.
Now, his voice whispered this: "He alone is equal to another who proves it, and he alone is worthy of liberty who knows how to conquer it."
I immediately leaped upon the beggar. With a single punch I gave him a black eye, which became in a second as big as a ball. I tore one of my nails breaking two of his teeth, and since I didn't feel strong enough--having been born delicate and being little practiced in boxing--to beat this old man to death quickly, I seized him with one hand by the collar of his jacket and with the other I grabbed his throat, and I began to bang his head against the wall vigorously. I must admit that I had previously inspected the area with a quick glance and that I had verified that i would find myself, in this deserted suburb, out of the reach of any police officer for a fairly long period of time.
Having then knocked down this weakened sexagenarian with a kick in the back, energetic enough to have broken his shoulder-blades, I seized a big tree limb that was lying on the ground and I beat him with it with the obstinate energy of a cook who wants to tenderize a steak.
Suddenly,--Oh delight of the philosopher who verifies the excellence of this theory!--I saw that ancient carcass turn, stand up with an energy that I would never have expected to find in so singularly broken-down a machine, and, with a look of hatred that seemed to me a good omen, the decrepit ruffian threw himself upon me, blackened both of my eyes, broke four of my teeth, and with the same tree branch beat me to a bloody pulp. Through my energetic medicine, I had returned to him his pride and his life...
Then I made him numerous signs to let him understand that I considered the discussion ended, and getting up with all of the satisfaction of a Stoic philosopher, I said to him: "Sir, you are my equal! Do me the honor of sharing my purse with me; and remember, if you are really a philanthropist, that you must apply to all of your brothers, when they ask you for alms, the theory that I had the sorrow of testing out on your back."
He swore to me that he had understood my theory, and that he would obey my advice.