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.