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.

I know life is hard...

but we will get there some day!

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."

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

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.

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.

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".

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".